“Nice, cheerful place,” Tanis muttered into his beard, staring at it grimly. Smoke rolled around them, blotting out the sight of the trees. The half-elf tried not to think about what was happening in the city. He’d already caught a glimpse of the Temple of Paladine in flames.
“You know, of course,” he yelled, grabbing hold of Caramon’s shoulder as the two stood on the edge of the courtyard of the citadel, “there’s every possibility Tasslehoff is going to crash right into that thing!”
“We’ve come this far,” Caramon said softly. “The gods are with us.”
Tanis blinked, wondering if he’d heard right. “That doesn’t sound like the old jovial Caramon,” he said with a grin.
“That Caramon’s dead, Tanis,” Caramon replied flatly, his eyes on the approaching Tower.
Tanis’s grin softened to a sigh. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say, putting a clumsy hand on Caramon’s shoulder.
Caramon looked at him, his eyes bright and clear. “No, Tanis,” he said. “Par-Salian told me, when he sent me back in time, that I was going back to ‘save a soul. Nothing more. Nothing less.’ ” Caramon smiled sadly. “I thought he meant Raistlin’s soul. I see now he didn’t. He meant my own.” The big man’s body tensed. “C’mon,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “We’re close enough to jump for it.”
A balcony that encircled the top of Tower appeared beneath them, dimly seen through the swirling smoke. Looking down, Tanis felt his stomach shrivel. Although he knew it was impossible, it seemed that the Tower itself was lurching around beneath him, while he was standing perfectly still. It had looked so huge, as they were nearing it. Now, he might have been planning to leap out of a vallenwood to land upon the roof of a child’s toy castle.
To make matters worse, the citadel continued to fly closer and closer to the Tower. The blood-red tips of the black minarets that topped it danced in Tanis’s vision as the citadel lurched back and forth and bobbed up and down.
“Jump!” shouted Caramon, hurling himself into space.
An eddy of smoke swirled past Tanis, blinding him. The citadel was still moving. Suddenly, a huge, black rock column loomed right before him. It was either jump or be squashed. Frantically, Tanis jumped, hearing a horrible crunching and grinding sound right above him. He was falling into nothingness, the smoke swirled about him, and then he had one split second to brace himself as the stones of the Death Walk materialized beneath his feet.
He landed with a jarring thud that shook every bone in his body and left him stunned and breathless. He had just sense enough to roll over onto his stomach, covering his head with his arms as showers of rock tumbled down around him.
Caramon was on his feet, roaring, “North! Due north!”
Very, very faintly, Tanis thought he heard a shrill voice screaming from the citadel above, “North! North! North! We’ve got to head off straight north!”
The grinding, crunching sound ceased. Raising his head cautiously, Tanis saw, through a ripple in the smoke, the flying citadel drifting off on its new tack, wobbling slightly, and heading straight for the palace of Lord Amothus.
“You all right?” Caramon helped Tanis to his feet.
“Yeah,” said the half-elf shakily. He wiped blood from his mouth. “Bit my tongue. Damn, that hurts!”
“The only way down is over here,” Caramon said, leading the way around the Death Walk. They came to an archway carved into the black stone of the Tower. A small wooden door stood closed and barred.
“There’ll probably be guards,” Tanis pointed out as Caramon, backing off, prepared to hurl his weight against the door.
“Yeah,” the big man grunted. Making a short run, he threw himself forward, smashing into the door. It shivered and creaked, wood splintered along the iron bars, but it held. Rubbing his shoulder, Caramon backed off. Eyeing the door, concentrating all his strength and effort on it, he crashed into it once again. This time, it gave with a shattering boom, carrying Caramon with it.
Hurrying inside, peering around in the smoke-filled darkness, Tanis found Caramon lying on the floor, surrounded by shards of wood. The half-elf started to reach a hand down to his friend when he stopped, staring.
“Name of the Abyss!” he swore, his breath catching in his throat.
Hurriedly, Caramon got to his feet. “Yeah,” he said warily. “I’ve run into these before.”
Two pairs of disembodied eyes, glowing white with an eerie, cold light, floated before them.
“Don’t let them touch you,” Caramon warned in a low voice. “They drain the life from your body.”
The eyes floated nearer.
Hurriedly Caramon stepped in front of Tanis, facing the eyes. “I am Caramon Majere, brother of Fistandantilus,” he said softly. “You know me. You have seen me before, in times long past.”
The eyes halted, Tanis could feel their chill scrutiny. Slowly, he lifted his arm. The cold light of the guardian’s eyes was reflected in the silver bracelet.
“I am a friend of your master’s, Dalamar,” he said, trying to keep his voice firm. “He gave me this bracelet.” Tanis felt, suddenly, a cold grip on his arm. He gasped in pain that seemed to bore straight to his heart. Staggering, he almost fell. Caramon caught hold of him.
“The bracelet’s gone!” Tanis said through clenched teeth.
“Dalamar!” Caramon yelled, his voice booming and echoing through the chamber. “Dalamar! It is Caramon! Raistlin’s brother! I’ve got to get into the Portal! I can stop him! Call off the guardians, Dalamar!”
“Perhaps it’s too late,” Tanis said, staring at the pallid eyes, which stared back at them. “Maybe Kit got here first. Perhaps he’s dead.…”
“Then so are we,” Caramon said softly.
CHAPTER
6
amn you, Kitiara!” Dalamar gagged in pain. Staggering backward, he pressed his hand against his side, feeling his own blood flow warm through his fingers.
There was no smile of elation on Kitiara’s face. Rather, there was a look of fear, for she saw that the stroke that should have killed had missed. Why? she asked herself in fury. She had slain a hundred men that way! Why should she miss now? Dropping her knife, she drew her sword, lunging forward in the same motion.
The sword whistled with the force of her stroke, but it struck against a solid wall. Sparks crackled as the metal connected with the magical shield Dalamar had conjured up around him, and a paralyzing shock sizzled from the blade, through the handle, and up her arm. The sword fell from her nerveless hand. Gripping her arm, the astonished Kitiara stumbled to her knees.
Dalamar had time to recover from the shock of his wound. The defensive spells he had cast had been reflexive, a result of years of training. He had not really even needed to think about them. But now he stared grimly at the woman on the floor before him, who was reaching for her sword with her left hand, even as she flexed the right, trying to regain feeling in it.
The battle had just begun.
Like a cat, Kitiara twisted to her feet, her eyes burning with battle rage and the almost sexual lust that consumed her when fighting. Dalamar had seen that look in someone’s eyes before—in Raistlin’s, when he was lost in the ecstasy of his magic. The dark elf swallowed a choking sensation in his throat and tried to banish the pain and fear from his mind, seeking to concentrate only on his spells.
“Don’t make me kill you, Kitiara,” he said, playing for time, feeling himself grow stronger every moment. He had to conserve that strength! It would avail him little to stop Kitiara, only to die at her brother’s hands.
His first thought was to call for the guardians. But he rejected that. She had won past them once, probably using the nightjewel. Falling backward before the Dragon Highlord, Dalamar edged his way nearer the stone desk, where lay his magical devices. From the corner of his eye, he caught the gleam of gold—a magical wand. His timing must be precise, he would have to dispel the magical shield to use the wand against Kit. And he saw in Kitiara’s e
yes that she knew this. She was waiting for him to drop the shield, biding her time.
“You have been deceived, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly, hoping to distract her.
“By you!” She sneered. Lifting a silver, branched candlestand, she hurled it at Dalamar. It bounced harmlessly off the magical shield to fall at his feet. A curl of smoke rose from the carpet, but the small fire died almost instantly, drowned in the melting candlewax.
“By Lord Soth,” Dalamar said.
“Hah!” Kitiara laughed, hurling a glass beaker against the magical shield. It broke into a thousand, glittering shards. Another candlestand followed. Kitiara had fought magic-users before. She knew how to defeat them. Her missiles were not intended to hurt, only to weaken the mage, force him to spend his strength maintaining the shield, make him think twice about lowering it.
“Why do you suppose you found Palanthas fortified?” Dalamar continued, backing up, creeping nearer the stone table. “Had you expected that? Soth told me your plans! He told me you were going to attack Palanthas to try to help your brother! ‘When Raistlin comes through the Portal, drawing the Dark Queen after him, Kitiara will be here to greet him like a loving sister!’ ”
Kitiara paused, her sword lowered a fraction of an inch. “Soth told you that?”
“Yes,” Dalamar said, sensing with relief her hesitation and confusion. The pain of his injury had eased somewhat. He ventured a glance down at the wound. His robes had stuck to it, forming a crude bandage. The bleeding had almost stopped.
“Why?” Kitiara raised her eyebrows mockingly. “Why would Soth betray me to you, dark elf?”
“Because he wants you, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly. “He wants you the only way he can have you.…”
A cold sliver of terror pierced Kitiara to her very soul. She remembered that odd edge in Soth’s hollow voice. She remembered it was he who had advised her to attack Palanthas. Her rage seeping from her, Kitiara shuddered, convulsed with chills. The wounds are poisoned she realized bitterly, seeing the long scratches upon her arms and legs, feeling again the icy claws of those who made them. Poison. Lord Soth. She couldn’t think. Glancing up dizzily, she saw Dalamar smile.
Angrily, she turned from him to conceal her emotions, to get hold of herself.
Keeping an eye on her, Dalamar moved nearer the stone table, his glance going to the wand he needed.
Kitiara let her shoulders slump, her head droop. She held the sword weakly in her right hand, balancing the blade with her left, feigning to be seriously hurt. All the while, she felt strength returning to her numb sword arm. Let him think he has won. I’ll hear him when he attacks. At the first magical word he utters, I’ll slice him in two! Her hand tightened on the sword hilt.
Listening carefully, she heard nothing. Only the soft rustle of black robes, the painful catch in the dark elf’s breath. Was it true, she wondered, about Lord Soth? If it were, did it matter? Kitiara found the thought rather amusing. Men had done more than that to gain her. She was still free. She would deal with Soth later. What Dalamar said about Raistlin intrigued her more. Could he, perhaps, win?
Would he bring the Dark Queen into this plane? The thought appalled Kitiara, appalled and frightened her. “I was useful to you once, wasn’t I, Dark Majesty?” she whispered. “Once, when you were weak and only a shadow upon this side of the glass. But when you are strong, what place will there be for me in this world? None! Because you hate me and you fear me even as I hate and fear you.
“As for my sniveling worm of a brother, there will be one waiting for him—Dalamar! You belong to your Shalafi body and soul! You’re the one who means to help, not hinder, him when he comes through the Portal! No, dear lover. I do not trust you! Dare not trust you!”
Dalamar saw Kitiara shiver, he saw the wounds upon her body turning a purplish blue. She was weakening, certainly. He had seen her face pale when he mentioned Soth, her eyes dilate for an instant with fear. Surely she must realize she had been betrayed. Surely she must now see her great folly. Not that it mattered, not now. He did not trust her, dare not trust her.…
Dalamar’s hand snaked backward. Grasping the wand, he swung it up, speaking the word of magic that diffused the magical shield guarding him. At that instant, Kitiara whirled around. Her sword grasped in both hands, she wielded it with all her strength. The blow would have severed Dalamar’s head from his neck, had he not twisted his body to use the wand.
As it was, the blade caught him across the back of the right shoulder, plunging deep into his flesh, shattering the shoulderblade, nearly slicing his arm off. He dropped the wand with a scream, but not before it had unleashed its magical power. Lightning forked, its sizzling blast striking Kitiara in the chest, knocking her writhing body backward, slamming her to the floor.
Dalamar slumped over the table, reeling from pain. Blood spurted rhythmically from his arm. He watched it dully, uncomprehending for an instant, then Raistlin’s lessons in anatomy returned. That was the heartblood pouring out. He would be dead within minutes. The ring of healing was on his right hand, his injured arm. Feebly reaching across with his left, he grasped the stone and spoke the simple word that activated the magic. Then he lost consciousness, his body slipping to the floor to lie in a pool of his own blood.
“Dalamar!” A voice called his name.
Drowsily, the dark elf stirred. Pain shot through his body. He moaned and fought to sink back into the darkness. But the voice shouted again. Memory returned, and with memory came fear.
Fear brought him to consciousness. He tried to sit up, but pain tore through him, nearly making him pass out again. He could hear the broken ends of bones crunching together, his right arm and hand hung limp and lifeless at his side. The ring had stopped the bleeding. He would live, but would it be only to die at the hands of his Shalafi?
“Dalamar!” the voice shouted again. “It’s Caramon!”
Dalamar sobbed in relief. Lifting his head—a move that required a supreme effort—he looked at the Portal. The dragon’s eyes glowed brighter still, the glow even seeming to spread along their necks. The void was definitely stirring now. He could feel a hot wind upon his cheek, or perhaps it was the fever in his body.
He heard a rustling in a shadowed corner across the room, and another fear gripped Dalamar. No! It was impossible she should be alive! Gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned his head. He could see her armored body, reflecting the glow of the dragon’s eyes. She lay still, unmoving in the shadows. He could smell the stench of burned flesh. But that sound …
Wearily, Dalamar shut his eyes. Darkness swirled in his head, threatening to drag him down. He could not rest yet! Fighting the pain, he forced himself to consciousness, wondering why Caramon didn’t come. He could hear him calling again. What was the matter? And then Dalamar remembered—the guardians! Of course, they would never let him pass!
“Guardians, hear my words and obey,” Dalamar began, concentrating his thoughts and energies, murmuring the words that would help Caramon pass the dread defenders of the Tower and enter the chamber.
Behind Dalamar, the dragon’s heads glowed brighter yet, while before him, in the shadowed corner, a hand reached into a blood-drenched belt and, with its dying strength, gripped the handle of a dagger.
“Caramon,” said Tanis softly, watching the eyes watching him, “we could leave. Go up the stairs again. Maybe there’s another way—”
“There isn’t. I’m not leaving,” Caramon said stubbornly.
“Name of the gods, Caramon! You can’t fight the damn things!”
“Dalamar!” Caramon called again desperately. “Dalamar, I—”
As suddenly as if they had been snuffed out, the glowing eyes vanished.
“They’re gone!” said Caramon, starting forward eagerly. But Tanis caught hold of him.
“A trick—”
“No,” Caramon drew him on. “You can sense them, even when they’re not visible. And I can’t sense them anymore. Can you?”
“I
sense something!” Tanis muttered.
“But it’s not them and it’s not concerned about us,” Caramon said, heading down the winding stairs of the top of the Tower at a run. Another door at the bottom of the steps stood open. Here, Caramon paused, peering inside the main part of the building cautiously.
It was dark inside, as dark as if light had not yet been created. The torches had been extinguished. No windows permitted even the smoke-clouded light from outside the Tower to seep into it. Tanis had a sudden vision of stepping into that darkness and vanishing forever, falling into the thick, devouring evil that permeated every rock and stone. Beside him, he could hear Caramon’s breathing quicken, and feel the big man’s body tense.
“Caramon—what’s out there?”
“Nothing’s out there. Just a long drop to the bottom. The center of the Tower’s hollow. There are stairs that run around the edge of the wall, rooms branch off from the stairs. I’m standing on a narrow landing now, if I remember right. The laboratory’s about two flights down from here.” Caramon’s voice broke. “We’ve got to go on! We’re losing time! He’s getting nearer!” Clutching at Tanis, he continued more calmly. “C’mon. Just keep close to the wall. This stairway leads down to the laboratory—”
“One false step in this blasted darkness and it won’t matter to us anymore what your brother does!” Tanis said. But he knew his words were useless. Blind as he was in the smothering endless night, he could almost see Caramon’s face tighten with resolve. He heard the big man take a shuffling step forward, trying to feel his way along the wall. With a sigh, Tanis prepared to follow.…
And then the eyes were back, staring at them.
Tanis reached for his sword—a stupid, futile gesture. But the eyes only continued to stare at them, and a voice spoke. “Come. This way.”
Test of the Twins: Legends, Volume Three (Dragonlance Legends) Page 25