“Tanis, that elf—” Flint blinked groggily, then asked “What hit me?”
“That big guy, under the table!” Tas said pointing.
Tanis stood up and looked at the elf Flint indicated. “Gilthanas?”
The elf stared at him. “Tanthalas,” he said coldly. “I would never have recognized you. That beard—”
Horns blew again, this time closer.
“Great Reorx!” The dwarf groaned, staggering to his feet. “We’ve got to get out of here! Come on! Out the back!”
“There is no back!” Tika cried wildly, still hanging onto the skillet.
“No,” said a voice at the door. “There is no back. You are my prisoners.”
A blaze of torchlight flared into the room. The companions shielded their eyes, making out the forms of hobgoblins behind a squat figure in the doorway. The companions could hear the sounds of flapping feet outside, then what seemed like a hundred goblins stared into the windows and peered in through the door. The hobgoblins inside the bar that were still alive or conscious picked themselves up and drew their weapons, regarding the companions hungrily.
“Sturm, don’t be a fool!” Tanis cried, catching hold of the knight as he prepared to charge into the seething mass of goblins slowly forming a ring of steel around them. “We surrender,” the half-elf called out.
Sturm glared at the half-elf in anger, and for a moment Tanis thought he might disobey.
“Please, Sturm,” Tanis said quietly. “Trust me. This is not our time to die.”
Sturm hesitated, glanced around at the goblins crowding inside the Inn. They stood back, fearful of his sword and his skill, but he knew they would charge in a rush if he made the slightest move. “It is not our time to die.” What odd words. Why had Tanis said them? Did a man ever have a “time to die”? If so, Sturm realized, this wasn’t it—not if he could help it. There was no glory dying in an inn, trampled by stinking, flapping goblin feet.
Seeing the knight put his weapon away, the figure at the door decided it was safe to enter, surrounded as he was by a hundred or so loyal troops. The companions saw the gray, mottled skin and red, squinting pig eyes of Fewmaster Toede.
Tasslehoff gulped and moved quickly to stand beside Tanis. “Surely he won’t recognize us,” Tas whispered. “It was dusk when they stopped us, asking about the staff.”
Apparently Toede did not recognize them. A lot had happened in a week’s time and the Fewmaster had important things stuffed in a mind already overloaded. His red eyes focused on the knight’s emblems beneath Sturm’s cloak. “More refugee scum from Solamnia,” Toede remarked.
“Yes,” Tanis lied quickly. He doubted if Toede knew of the destruction of Xak Tsaroth. He thought it highly unlikely that this fewmaster would know anything about the Disks of Mishakal. But Lord Verminaard knew of the Disks and he would soon learn of the dragon’s death. Even a gully dwarf could add that one up. No one must know they came out of the east. “We have journeyed long days from the north. We did not intend to cause trouble. These draconians started it—”
“Yes, yes,” Toede said impatiently. “I’ve heard this before.” His squinty eyes suddenly narrowed. “Hey, you!” he shouted, pointing at Raistlin. “What are you doing, skulking back there? Fetch him, lads!” The Fewmaster took a nervous step behind the door, watching Raistlin warily. Several goblins charged back, overturning benches and tables to reach the frail young man. Caramon rumbled deep in his chest. Tanis gestured to the warrior, warning him to remain calm.
“On yer feet!” one of the goblins snarled, prodding at Raistlin with a spear.
Raistlin stood slowly and carefully gathered his pouches. As he reached for his staff, the goblin grabbed hold of the mage’s thin shoulder.
“Touch me not!” Raistlin hissed, drawing back. “I am magi!”
The goblin hesitated and glanced back at Toede.
“Take him!” yelled the Fewmaster, moving behind a very large goblin. “Bring him here with the others. If every man wearing red robes was a magician, this country’d be overrun with rabbits! If he won’t come peaceably, stick him!”
“Maybe I’ll stick him anyway,” the goblin croaked. The creature held the tip of its spear up to the mage’s throat, gurgling with laughter.
Again Tanis held back Caramon. “Your brother can take care of himself,” he whispered swiftly.
Raistlin raised his hands, fingers spread, as though to surrender. Suddenly he spoke the words, “Kalith karan, tobaniskar!” and pointed his fingers at the goblin. Small, brightly glowing darts made of pure white light beamed from the mage’s fingertips, streaked through the air, and embedded themselves deep in the goblin’s chest. The creature fell over with a shriek and lay writhing on the floor.
As the smell of burning flesh and hair filled the room, other goblins sprang forward, howling in rage.
“Don’t kill him, you fools!” Toede yelled. The Fewmaster had backed clear out the door, keeping the big goblin in front of him as cover. “Lord Verminaard pays a handsome bounty for magic-users. But”—Toede was inspired—“the Lord does not pay a bounty for live kenders, only their tongues! Do that again, magician, and the kender dies!”
“What is the kender to me?” Raistlin snarled.
There was a long heartbeat of silence in the room. Tanis felt cold sweat chill him. Raistlin could certainly take care of himself! Damn the mage!
That was certainly not the answer Toede had expected either, and it left him not quite knowing what to do—especially since these big warriors still had their weapons. He looked almost pleadingly at Raistlin. The magician appeared to shrug.
“I will come peacefully,” Raistlin whispered, his golden eyes gleaming. “Just do not touch me.”
“No, of course not,” Toede muttered. “Bring him.”
The goblins, casting uneasy glances in the direction of the Fewmaster, allowed the mage to stand beside his brother.
“Is that everyone?” demanded Toede irritably. “Then take their weapons and their packs.”
Tanis, hoping to avoid more trouble, pulled his bow from his shoulder and laid it and his quiver on the soot-blackened floor of the Inn. Tasslehoff quickly laid down his hoopak; the dwarf—grumbling—added his battle-axe. The others followed Tanis’s lead, except Sturm, who stood, his arms folded across his chest, and—
“Please, let me keep my pack,” Goldmoon said. “I have no weapons in it, nothing of value to you. I swear!”
The companions turned to face her—each remembering the precious Disks she carried. A strained, tense silence fell. Riverwind stepped in front of Goldmoon. He had laid his bow down, but he still wore his sword, as did the knight.
Suddenly Raistlin intervened. The mage had laid down his staff, his pouches of spell components, and the precious bag that contained his spellbooks. He was not worried about these—spells of protection had been laid on the books; anyone other than their owner attempting to read them would go insane; and the Staff of Magius was quite capable of taking care of itself. Raistlin held out his hands toward Goldmoon.
“Give them the pack,” he said gently. “Otherwise they will kill us.”
“Listen to him, my dear,” called out Toede hastily. “He’s an intelligent man.”
“He’s a traitor!” cried Goldmoon, clutching the pack.
“Give them the pack,” Raistlin repeated hypnotically.
Goldmoon felt herself weakening, felt his strange power breaking her. “No!” She choked. “This is our hope—”
“It will be all right,” Raistlin whispered, staring intently into her clear blue eyes. “Remember the staff? Remember when I touched it?”
Goldmoon blinked. “Yes,” she murmured. “It shocked you—”
“Hush,” Raistlin warned swiftly. “Give them the pouch. Do not worry. All will be well. The gods protect their own.”
Goldmoon stared at the mage, then nodded reluctantly. Raistlin reached out his thin hands to take the pouch from her. Fewmaster Toede stared at it greedily,
wondering what was in it. He would find out, but not in front of all these goblins.
Finally there was only one person left who had not obeyed the command. Sturm stood unmoving, his face pale, his eyes glittering feverishly. He held his father’s ancient, two-handed sword tightly. Suddenly Sturm turned, shocked to feel Raistlin’s burning fingers on his arm.
“I will insure its safety,” the mage whispered.
“How?” the knight asked, withdrawing from Raistlin’s touch as from a poisonous snake.
“I do not explain my ways to you,” Raistlin hissed. “Trust me or not, as you choose.”
Sturm hesitated.
“This is ridiculous!” shrieked Toede. “Kill the knight! Kill them if they cause more trouble. I’m losing sleep!”
“Very well!” Sturm said in a strangled voice. Walking over, he reverently laid the sword down on the pile of weapons. Its ancient silver scabbard, decorated with the kingfisher and rose, gleamed in the light.
“Ah, truly a beautiful weapon,” Toede said. He had a sudden vision of himself walking into audience with Lord Verminaard, the sword of a Solamnic knight hanging at his side. “Perhaps I should take that into custody myself. Bring it—”
Before he could finish, Raistlin stepped forward swiftly and knelt beside the pile of weapons. A bright flash of light sprang from the mage’s hand. Raistlin closed his eyes and began to murmur strange words, holding his outstretched hands above the weapons and packs.
“Stop him!” yelled Toede. But none dared.
Finally Raistlin ceased speaking and his head slumped forward. His brother hurried to help.
Raistlin stood. “Know this!” the mage said, his golden eyes staring around the common room. “I have cast a spell upon our belongings. Anyone who touches them will be slowly devoured by the great worm, Catyrpelius, who will rise from the Abyss and suck the blood from your veins until you are nothing more than a dried husk.”
“The great worm Catyrpelius!” breathed Tasslehoff, his eyes shining. “That’s incredible. I’ve never heard of—”
Tanis clapped his hand over the kender’s mouth.
The goblins backed away from the pile of weapons, which seemed to almost glow with a green aura.
“Get those weapons, somebody!” ordered Toede in a rage.
“You get ’em,” muttered a goblin.
No one moved. Toede was at a loss. Although he was not particularly imaginative, a vivid picture of the great worm, Catyrpelius, reared up in his mind. “Very well,” he muttered, “take the prisoners away! Load them into the cages. And bring those weapons, too, or you’ll wish that worm what’s-its-name was sucking your blood!” Toede stomped off angrily.
The goblins began to shove their prisoners toward the door, prodding them in the back with their swords. None, however, touched Raistlin.
“That’s a wonderful spell, Raist,” Caramon said in a low voice. “How effective is it? Could it—”
“It’s about as effective as your wit!” Raistlin whispered and held up his right hand. As Caramon saw the tell-tale black marks of flashpowder, he smiled grimly in sudden understanding.
Tanis was the last to leave the Inn. He cast a final look around. A single light swung from the ceiling. Tables were overturned, chairs broken. The beams of the ceiling were blackened from the fires, in some cases burned through completely. The windows were covered with greasy black soot.
“I almost wish I had died before I saw this.”
The last thing he heard as he left were two hobgoblin captains arguing heatedly about who was going to move the enchanted weapons.
3
The slave caravan.
A strange old magician.
The companions spent a chill, sleepless night, penned up in an iron-barred cage on wheels in the Solace Town Square. Three cages were chained to one of the posts driven into the ground around the clearing. The wooden posts were black from flame and heat, the bases scorched and splintered. No living thing grew in the clearing; even the rocks were black and melted.
When day dawned, they could see other prisoners in the other cages. The last slave caravan leaving Solace for Pax Tharkas, it was to be personally led by the Fewmaster himself, Toede having decided to take this opportunity to impress Lord Verminaard who was in residence at Pax Tharkas.
Caramon tried once, during the cover of night, to bend the bars of the cage and had to give up.
A cold mist arose in the early morning hours, hiding the ravaged town from the companions. Tanis glanced over at Goldmoon and Riverwind. Now I understand them, Tanis thought. Now I know the cold emptiness inside that hurts worse than any sword thrust. My home is gone.
He glanced over at Gilthanas, huddled in a corner. The elf had spoken to no one that night, excusing himself by begging that his head hurt and he was tired. But Tanis, who had kept watch all through the night, saw that Gilthanas did not sleep or even make a pretense of sleeping. He gnawed his lower lip and stared out into the darkness. The sight reminded Tanis that he had—if he chose to claim it—another place he could call home: Qualinesti.
No, Tanis thought, leaning against the bars, Qualinesti was never home. It was simply a place I lived.…
Fewmaster Toede emerged from the mist, rubbing his fat hands together and grinning widely as he regarded the slave caravan with pride. There may be a promotion here. A fine catch, considering pickings were drying up in this burned-out shell of a town. Lord Verminaard should be pleased, especially with this last batch. That large warrior, particularly—an excellent specimen. He could probably do the work of three men in the mines. The tall barbarian would do nicely, too. Probably have to kill the knight, though, the Solamnics were notoriously uncooperative. But Lord Verminaard will certainly enjoy the two females—very different, but both lovely. Toede himself had always been attracted to the red-haired barmaid, with her alluring green eyes, the low-cut white blouse purposefully revealing just enough of her lightly freckled skin to tantalize a man with thoughts of what lay beyond.
The Fewmaster’s reveries were interrupted by the sound of clashing steel and hoarse shouts floating eerily through the mist. The shouts grew louder and louder. Soon almost everyone in the slave caravan was awake and peering through the fog, trying to see.
Toede cast an uneasy glance at the prisoners and wished he’d kept a few more guards handy. The goblins, seeing the prisoners stir, jumped to their feet and trained their bows and arrows on the wagons.
“What is this?” Toede grumbled aloud. “Can’t those fools even take one prisoner without all this turmoil?”
Suddenly a cry bellowed above the noise. It was the cry of a man in torment and pain, but whose rage surpassed all else.
Gilthanas stood up, his face pale.
“I know that voice,” he said. “Theros Ironfeld. I feared this. He’s been helping elves escape ever since the slaughter. This Lord Verminaard has sworn to exterminate the elves”—Gilthanas watched Tanis’s reaction—“or didn’t you know?”
“No!” Tanis said, shocked. “I didn’t know. How could I?”
Gilthanas fell silent, studying Tanis for long moments. “Forgive me,” he said at last. “It appears I have misjudged you. I thought perhaps that was why you had grown the beard.”
“Never!” Tanis leaped up. “How dare you accuse me—”
“Tanis,” cautioned Sturm.
The half-elf turned to see the goblin guards crowding forward, their arrows trained at his heart. Raising his hands, he stepped back to his place just as a squadron of hobgoblins dragged a tall, powerfully built man into sight.
“I heard Theros had been betrayed,” Gilthanas said softly. “I returned to warn him. But for him, I never would have escaped Solace alive. I was supposed to meet him in the Inn last night. When he did not come, I was afraid—”
Fewmaster Toede threw open the door to the companions’ cage, yelling and gesturing for the hobgoblins to hurry their prisoner forward. The goblins kept the other prisoners covered while the hobgoblins threw The
ros into the cage.
Fewmaster Toede slammed the door shut quickly. “That’s it!” he yelled. “Hitch up the beasts. We’re moving out.”
Squads of goblins drove huge elk into the clearing and began hitching them to wagons. Their yelling and the confusion registered only in the back of Tanis’s mind. For the moment, his shocked attention was on the smith.
Theros Ironfeld lay unconscious on the straw-covered floor of the cage. Where his strong right arm should have been was a mangled stump. His arm had been hacked off, apparently by some blunt weapon, just below the shoulder. Blood poured from the terrible wound and pooled on the floor of the cage.
“Let that be a lesson to all those who help elves!” The Fewmaster peered in the cage, his red pig eyes squinching in their pouches of fat. “He won’t be forging anything ever again, unless it be a new arm! I, eh—” A huge elk lumbered into the Fewmaster, forcing him to scramble for his life.
Toede turned on the creature leading the elk. “Sestun! You oaf!” Toede knocked the smaller creature to the ground.
Tasslehoff stared down at the creature, thinking it was a very short goblin. Then he saw it was a gully dwarf dressed in a goblin’s armor. The gully dwarf picked himself up, shoved his oversized helm back, and glared after the Fewmaster, who was waddling up to the front of the caravan. Scowling, the gully dwarf began kicking mud in his direction. This apparently relieved his soul, for he soon quit and returned to prodding the slow elk into line.
“My faithful friend,” Gilthanas murmured, bending over Theros and taking the smith’s strong, black hand in his. “You have paid for your loyalty with your life.”
Theros looked at him with vacant eyes, clearly not hearing the elf’s voice. Gilthanas tried to stanch the dreadful wound, but blood continued to pump onto the floor of the cart. The smithy’s life was emptying before their eyes.
“No,” said Goldmoon, coming to kneel beside the smith. “He need not die. I am a healer.”
“Lady,” Gilthanas said impatiently, “there exists no healer on Krynn who could help this man. He has lost more blood than the dwarf has in his whole body! His lifebeat is so faint I can barely feel it. The kindest thing to do is let him die in peace without any of your barbarian rituals!”
Dragons of Autumn Twilight Page 31