Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  “I’ll bet the dragon’s never talked to a kender either!” The dwarf snorted. “You realize, you hare-brain, that we’re probably going to die. Tanis knows, I could tell by his voice.”

  Tas paused, clinging to the ladder while Sturm slowly pushed on the grating. “You know, Flint,” the kender said seriously, “my people don’t fear death. In a way, we look forward to it, the last big adventure. But I think I’d feel badly about leaving this life. I’d miss my things”—he patted his pouches—“and my maps, and you and Tanis. Unless,” he added brightly, “we all go to the same place when we die.”

  Flint had a sudden vision of the happy-go-lucky kender lying cold and dead. He felt a lump of pain in his chest and was thankful for the concealing darkness. Clearing his throat, he said huskily, “If you think I’m going to share my afterlife with a bunch of kender, you’re crazier than Raistlin. Come on!”

  Sturm carefully lifted the grating and shoved it to one side. It scraped over the floor, causing him to grit his teeth. He heaved himself up easily. Turning, he bent down to help Caramon who was having trouble squeezing his body and his clanking arsenal through the shaft.

  “In the name of Istar, be quiet!” Sturm hissed.

  “I’m trying,” Caramon muttered, finally climbing over the edge. Sturm gave his hand to Goldmoon. Last came Tas, delighted that nobody had done anything exciting in his absence.

  “We’ve got to have light,” Sturm said.

  “Light?” replied a voice as cold and dark as winter midnight. “Yes, let us have light.”

  The darkness fled instantly. The companions saw they were in a huge domed chamber that soared hundreds of feet into the air. Cold gray light filtered into the room through a crack in the ceiling, shining on a large altar in the center of the circular room. On the floor surrounding the altar were masses of jewels, coins, and other treasures of the dead city. The jewels did not gleam. The gold did not glitter. The dim light illuminated nothing, nothing except a black dragon perched on top of the pedestal like some huge beast of prey.

  “Feeling betrayed?” the dragon asked in conversational tones.

  “The mage betrayed us! Where is he? Serving you?” Sturm cried fiercely, drawing his sword and taking a step forward.

  “Stand back, foul Knight of Solamnia. Stand back or your magic-user will use his magic no more!” The dragon snaked her great neck down and stared at them with gleaming red eyes. Then, slowly and delicately, she lifted one clawed foot. Lying beneath it, on the pedestal, was Raistlin.

  “Raist!” Caramon roared and lunged for the altar.

  “Stop, fool!” the dragon hissed. She rested one pointed claw lightly on the mage’s abdomen. With a great effort, Raistlin moved his head to look at his brother with his strange golden eyes. He made a weak gesture and Caramon halted. Tanis saw something move on the floor beneath the altar. It was Bupu, huddled among the riches, too afraid even to whimper. The Staff of Magius lay next to her.

  “Move one step closer and I will impale this shriveled human upon the altar with my claw.”

  Caramon’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. “Let him go!” he shouted. “Your fight is with me.”

  “My fight is with none of you,” the dragon said, lazily moving its wings. Raistlin flinched as the dragon’s clawed foot shifted slightly, teasingly, digging her claw into his flesh. The mage’s metallic skin glistened with sweat. He drew a deep, ragged breath. “Don’t even twitch, mage,” the dragon sneered. “We speak the same language, remember? One word of a spell and your friends’ carcasses will be used to feed the gully dwarves!”

  Raistlin’s eyes closed as in exhaustion. But Tanis could see the mage’s hands clench and unclench, and he knew Raistlin was preparing one final spell. It would be his last—by the time he cast it the dragon would kill him. But it might give Riverwind a chance to reach the Disks and get out alive with Goldmoon. Tanis edged toward the Plainsman.

  “As I was saying,” the dragon continued smoothly. “I do not choose to fight any of you. How you have escaped my wrath so far, I do not understand. Still, you are here. And you return to me that which was stolen. Yes, Lady of Que-shu, I see you hold the blue crystal staff. Bring it to me.”

  Tanis hissed one word to Goldmoon—“Stall!” But, looking at her cool marble face, he wondered if she heard him or if she even heard the dragon. She seemed to be listening to other words, other voices.

  “Obey me.” The dragon lowered her head menacingly. “Obey me or the mage dies. And after him—the knight. And then the half-elf. And so on—one after the other, until you, Lady of Que-shu, are the last survivor. Then you will bring me the staff and you will beg me to be merciful.”

  Goldmoon bowed her head in submission. Gently pushing Riverwind away with her hand, she turned to Tanis and clasped the half-elf in a loving embrace. “Farewell, my friend,” she said loudly, laying her cheek against his. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I know what I must do. I am going to take the staff to the dragon and—”

  “No!” Tanis said fiercely. “It won’t matter. The dragon intends to kill us anyway.”

  “Listen to me!” Goldmoon’s nails dug into Tanis’s arm. “Stay with Riverwind, Tanis. Do not let him try to stop me.”

  “And if I tried to stop you?” Tanis asked gently, holding Goldmoon close in his arms.

  “You won’t,” she said with a sweet, sad smile. “You know that each of us has a destiny to fulfill, as the Forestmaster said. Riverwind will need you. Farewell, my friend.”

  Goldmoon stepped back, her clear blue eyes on Riverwind as though she would memorize every detail to keep with her throughout eternity. Realizing she was saying good-bye, he started to go to her.

  “Riverwind,” Tanis said softly. “Trust her. She trusted you, all those years. She waited while you fought the battles. Now it is you who must wait. This is her battle.”

  Riverwind trembled, then stood still. Tanis could see the veins swell in his neck, his jaw muscles clench. The half-elf gripped the Plainsman’s arm. The tall man didn’t even look at him. His eyes were on Goldmoon.

  “What is this delay?” the dragon asked. “I grow bored. Come forward.”

  Goldmoon turned away from Riverwind. She walked past Flint and Tasslehoff. The dwarf bowed his head. Tas watched wide-eyed and solemn. Somehow this wasn’t as exciting as he had imagined. For the first time in his life, the kender felt small and helpless and alone. It was a horrible, unpleasant feeling, and he thought death might be preferable.

  Goldmoon stopped near Caramon, put her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said to the big warrior, who was staring at his brother in agony, “he’ll be all right.” Caramon choked and nodded. And then Goldmoon neared Sturm. Suddenly, as if the horror of the dragon was too overwhelming, she slumped forward. The knight caught her and held her.

  “Come with me, Sturm,” Goldmoon whispered as he put his arm around her. “You must vow to do as I command, no matter what happens. Vow on your honor as a knight of Solamnia.”

  Sturm hesitated. Goldmoon’s eyes, calm and clear, met his. “Vow,” she demanded, “or I go alone.”

  “I vow, lady,” he said reverently. “I will obey.”

  Goldmoon sighed thankfully. “Walk with me. Make no threatening gesture.”

  Together the barbarian woman of the Plains and the knight walked toward the dragon.

  Raistlin lay beneath the dragon’s claw, his eyes closed, preparing himself mentally for the spell that would be his last. But the words to the spell would not form out of the turmoil in his mind. He fought to regain control.

  I am wasting myself—and for what? Raistlin wondered bitterly. To get these fools out of the mess they got themselves into. They will not attack for fear of hurting me—even though they fear and despise me. It makes no sense—just as my sacrifice makes no sense. Why am I dying for them when I deserve to live more than they?

  It is not for them you do this, a voice answered him. Raistlin started, trying to concentrate, to catch hold of the voi
ce. It was a real voice, a familiar voice, but he couldn’t remember whose it was or where he had heard it. All he knew was that it spoke to him in moments of great stress. The closer to death he came, the louder was the voice.

  It is not for them that you make this sacrifice, the voice repeated. It is because you cannot bear defeat! Nothing has ever defeated you, not even death itself.…

  Raistlin drew a deep breath and relaxed. He did not understand the words completely, just as he could not remember the voice. But now the spell came easily to his mind. “Astol arakhkh um—” he murmured, feeling the magic begin to course through his frail body. Then another voice broke his concentration and this voice was a living voice speaking to his mind. He opened his eyes, turned his head slowly, and stared into the chamber at his companions.

  The voice came from the woman—barbarian princess of a dead tribe. Raistlin looked at Goldmoon as she walked toward him, leaning on Sturm’s arm. The words in her mind had touched Raistlin’s mind. He regarded the woman coldly, detachedly. His distorted vision had forever killed any physical desire the mage might have felt when he looked upon human flesh. He could not see the beauty that so captivated Tanis and his brother. His hourglass eyes saw her withering and dying. He felt no closeness, no compassion for her. He knew she pitied him—and he hated her for that—but she feared him as well. So why, then, was she speaking to him?

  She was telling him to wait.

  Raistlin understood. She knew what he intended and she was telling him it wasn’t necessary. She had been chosen. She was the one who was going to make the sacrifice.

  He watched Goldmoon with his strange golden eyes as she drew nearer and nearer, her own eyes on the dragon. He saw Sturm moving solemnly beside her, looking as ancient and noble as old Huma himself. What a perfect cat’s paw Sturm made, the ideal participant in Goldmoon’s sacrifice. But why had Riverwind allowed her to go? Couldn’t he see this coming? Raistlin glanced quickly at Riverwind. Ah, of course! The half-elf stood by his side, looking pained and grieved, dropping words of wisdom like blood, no doubt. The barbarian was becoming as gullible as Caramon. Raistlin flicked his eyes back to Goldmoon.

  She stood before the dragon now, her face pale with resolve. Next to her, Sturm appeared grave and tortured, gnawed by inner conflict. Goldmoon had probably extracted some vow of strict obedience which the knight was honor-bound to fulfill. Raistlin’s lip curled in a sneer.

  The dragon spoke and the mage tensed, ready for action. “Lay the staff down with the other remnants of mankind’s folly,” the dragon commanded Goldmoon, inclining her shining, scaled head toward the pile of treasure below the altar.

  Goldmoon, overcome with dragonfear, did not move. She could do nothing but stare at the monstrous creature, trembling. Sturm, next to her, searched the treasure trove with his eyes, looking for the Disks of Mishakal, fighting to control his fear of the dragon. Sturm had not known he could be this frightened of anything. He repeated the code, “Honor is Life,” over and over, and he knew it was pride alone that kept him from running away.

  Goldmoon saw Sturm’s hand shake, she saw the knight’s face glistening with sweat. Dear goddess, she cried in her soul, grant me courage! Then Sturm nudged her. She had to say something, she realized. She had been silent too long.

  “What will you give us in return for the miraculous staff?” Goldmoon asked, forcing herself to speak calmly, though her throat was parched and her tongue felt swollen.

  The dragon laughed—shrill, ugly laughter. “What will I give you?” The dragon snaked her head to stare at Goldmoon. “Nothing! Nothing at all. I do not deal with thieves. Still—” The dragon reared its head back, its red eyes closed to slits. Playfully she dug her claw into Raistlin’s flesh; the mage flinched, but he bore the pain without a murmur. The dragon removed the claw and held it just high enough so that they could all see the blood drip from it. “It is not inconceivable that Lord Verminaard—the Dragon Highmaster—may view favorably the fact that you surrender the staff. He may even be inclined to mercy—he is a cleric and they have strange values. But know this, Lady of Que-shu, Lord Verminaard does not need your friends. Give up the staff now and they will be spared. Force me to take it—and they will die. The mage first of all!”

  Goldmoon, her spirit seemingly broken, slumped in defeat. Sturm moved close to her, appearing to console her.

  “I have found the Disks,” he whispered harshly. He grasped her arm, feeling her shivering with fear. “Are you resolved on this course of action, my lady?” he asked softly.

  Goldmoon bowed her head. She was deathly pale but composed and calm. Tendrils of her fine silver-golden hair had escaped from the binding and fell around her face, hiding her expression from the dragon. Though she appeared defeated, she looked up at Sturm and smiled. There was both peace and sorrow in her smile, much like the smile on the marble goddess. She did not speak but Sturm had his answer. He bowed in submission.

  “May my courage be equal to yours, lady” he said. “I will not fail you.”

  “Farewell, knight. Tell Riverwind—” Goldmoon faltered, blinking her eyes as tears filled them. Fearing her resolve might yet break, she swallowed her words and turned to face the dragon as the voice of Mishakal filled her being, answering her prayer. Present the staff boldly! Goldmoon, imbued with an inner strength, raised the blue crystal staff.

  “We do not choose to surrender!” Goldmoon shouted, her voice echoing throughout the chamber. Moving swiftly, before the startled dragon could react, Chieftain’s Daughter swung her staff one last time, striking the clawed foot poised above Raistlin.

  The staff made a low ringing sound as it struck the dragon—then it shattered. A burst of pure, radiant blue light beamed from the broken staff. The light grew brighter, spreading out in concentric waves, engulfing the dragon.

  Khisanth screamed in rage. The dragon was injured, terribly, mortally. She lashed out with her tail, flung her head about, and fought to escape the burning blue flame. She wanted nothing except to kill those that dared inflict such pain, but the intense blue fire relentlessly consumed her—as it consumed Goldmoon.

  The Chieftain’s Daughter had not dropped the staff when it shattered. She held on to the fragmented end, watching as the light grew, keeping it as close to the dragon as she could. When the blue light touched her hands she felt intense, burning pain. Staggering, she fell to her knees, still clutching the staff. She heard the dragon shrieking and roaring above her, then she could hear nothing but the ringing of the staff. The pain grew so horrible it was no longer a part of her, and she was overcome with a great weariness. I will sleep, she thought. I will sleep and when I waken, I will be where I truly belong.…

  Sturm saw the blue light slowly destroy the dragon, then it spread along the staff to Goldmoon. He heard the ringing sound grow louder and louder until it drowned out even the screams of the dying dragon. Sturm took a step toward Goldmoon, thinking to wrench the splintered staff from her hand and drag her clear of the deadly blue flame … but even as he approached, he knew he could not save her.

  Half-blinded by the light and deafened by the sound, the knight realized that it would take all his strength and courage to fulfill his oath—to retrieve the Disks. He tore his gaze from Goldmoon, whose face was twisted in agony and whose flesh was withering in the fire. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, he staggered toward the treasure pile where he had seen the Disks—hundreds of thin sheets of platinum bound together by a single ring through the top. Reaching down, he lifted them, amazed at their lightness. Then his heart almost stopped beating when a bloody hand reached up from the pile of treasure and grasped his wrist.

  “Help me!”

  He could not hear the voice so much as sense the thought. Grasping Raistlin’s hand, he pulled the mage to his feet. Blood was visible through the red of Raistlin’s robe, but he did not appear to be seriously injured—at least he could stand. But could he walk? Sturm needed help. He wondered where the others were; he couldn’t see them i
n the brilliance. Suddenly Caramon loomed up by his side, his armor gleaming in the blue flame.

  Raistlin clutched at him. “Help me find the spellbook!” he hissed.

  “Who cares about that?” Caramon roared, reaching for his brother. “I’ll get you out of here!”

  Raistlin’s mouth twisted so in fury and frustration that he could not speak. He dropped to his knees and began to search frantically through the pile of treasure. Caramon tried to draw him away, but Raistlin shoved him back with his frail hand.

  And still the ringing sound pierced their ears. Sturm felt tears of pain trickle down his cheeks. Suddenly something crashed to the floor in front of the knight. The chamber ceiling was collapsing! The entire building shook around them, the ringing sound causing the pillars to tremble and the walls to crack.

  Then the ringing died—and with it the dragon. Khisanth had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a pile of smoldering ash.

  Sturm gasped in relief but not for long. As soon as the ringing sound ended, he could hear the sounds of the palace caving in, the cracking of the ceiling and the thuds and explosive crashes as huge stone slabs struck the floor. Then, out of the dust and noise, Tanis appeared before him. Blood trickled from a cut on the half-elf’s cheek. Sturm grabbed his friend and pulled him to the altar as another chunk of ceiling plummeted near them.

  “The whole city is collapsing!” Sturm yelled. “How do we get out?”

  Tanis shook his head. “The only way I know is back the way we came, through that tunnel,” he shouted. He ducked as another piece of ceiling crashed onto the empty altar.

  “That’ll be a death trap! There must be another way!”

  “We’ll find it,” Tanis said firmly. He peered through the billowing dust. “Where are the others?” he asked. Then, turning, he saw Raistlin and Caramon. Tanis stared in horror and disgust at the mage scavenging among the treasure. Then he saw a small figure tugging Raistlin’s sleeve. Bupu! Tanis made a lunge for her, nearly scaring the gully dwarf witless. She shrank back against Raistlin with a startled scream.