Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (32 page)

“It’s all coming to an end, Slith,” said Talent quietly. “The long night is almost over.”

Slith patted his purse. “I’m thinkin’ all hell’s going to break loose around here. I might just take this opportunity to retire from the military—again. Join up with some buddies of mine.”

“Build that city you’re always talking about,” said Talent.

Slith nodded. “Good luck to you, Talent. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Same here. Good luck to you.”

The two shook hand and claw. Slith saluted Talent, then turned in brisk military fashion on his heel, and marched back out the door. He cast a glance and a grin at Maelstrom, who winked in return.

Slith’s troops were disappointed when they heard they were not to burn down the Broken Shield, but cheered up immediately when he told them they were going to the Hairy Troll.

“Could be they’re serving bad dwarf spirits,” Slith said. “You’ll need to taste them to find out.”

“Where are you going, sir?” asked Glug.

“I’ll be along,” said Slith. “Take the boys and go on ahead. I’ll meet you there. Don’t drink all the dwarf spirits before I get there.”

Glug saluted and ran off. The squadron pounded eagerly behind him.

Slith stood in the streets, gazing at the temple that writhed in the distance. He lifted his clawed hand in farewell and turned and walked in the opposite direction.

“Good luck, Your Majesty,” he called out over his shoulder. “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

he Tower of Wayreth was the oldest Tower of High Sorcery in Ansalon, one of two Towers left standing, and the only Tower still in use. Built after the end of the Second Dragon War, the Tower of Wayneth rose out of a disaster. In those days, magic was wild and raw. A spell cast by three powerful wizards, intended to end a war, slipped from their control and devastated much of the world. The gods of magic realized that something must be done to keep magic and those who wielded it under control. Nuitari, Lunitari, and Solinari taught the discipline of magic to three wizards and sent them forth to establish the three Orders of High Sorcery, which would be ruled by a governing body known as a Conclave.

The wizards needed a central location, a place where students of magic could come learn the skills of their art, where the newly designed Test of High Sorcery could be administered, where artifacts could be created and stored, spells tested, books written and archived. It would also need to be a fortress and refuge, for many in
the world did not trust wizards and sought to do them harm.

The three wizards came together to construct the Tower of Wayreth. The Tower’s two spires, built atop a dome and enclosed by a triangular wall, were conjured out of silver mist, which slowly, over time, coalesced into stone. During that period, the Tower came under attack from a tribe of barbarians, who wanted to make it their own. The Tower and the wizards inside were saved by a black robe wizard who cast a spell that created a magical forest surrounding the Tower. The wizard died, but the enchanted Forest of Wayreth sprang up and drove away the barbarians. From that day forward, the forest’s magic hid the Tower and protected it from foes.

“You do not find the Tower of Wayreth,” the saying goes. “The Tower finds you.”

The Forest of Wayreth was kept busy finding a great many mages traveling to the Tower to celebrate the Night of the Eye. Generally, only wizards who had already taken the Test of High Sorcery or those coming to take the Test were permitted to enter the Tower. But a Night of the Eye was a rare and special occurrence, and on this occasion promising students, accompanied by their masters, were also admitted.

The Tower was filled with magic-users who had traveled from all parts of Ansalon. Every bed in every cell was occupied, with many more sleeping on blankets on the floor or setting up camp in the courtyard. The mood was celebratory. Old friends greeted each other with warm embraces and exchanged the latest news. Students wandered about in awe and excitement, losing themselves in the labyrinthine hallways and blundering by mistake into restricted areas. Familiars of all sorts roamed and flew, crept and crawled through the halls, always in danger of being trampled underfoot or flying into someone’s hair.

Some wizards were in the laboratories, hard at work preparing the ingredients for potions and other concoctions, ready to mix them when the power of the moons was most potent. Other wizards were holed up in the libraries, studying the spells they meant to cast that night. Black Robes and Red Robes rubbed shoulders with White Robes, everyone putting aside differences to talk magic, though occasionally arguments did break out, particularly in those turbulent times.

There were a few White Robes, for example, who were still bitter over the fact that the Black Robes had defected to Queen Takhisis. Those White Robes did not believe the Black Robes should be forgiven and took the opportunity to state their views. The Black Robes took offense, and shouting matches were the result. Such rows were quickly quelled by the Monitors, red robe wizards who were assigned to patrol the Tower, keep tempers in check, and make certain no untoward incidents marred the important night. For the most part, wizards of all three robes were glad to be united once again in their love of magic, even if they were united in nothing else.

There would be no meeting of the Conclave on that Night of the Eye, a break from tradition. Word was given out that the heads of the orders had decided to dispense with the meeting, which took time away from important work. Since the meeting was notable only for Par-Salian’s traditional Night-of-the-Eye speech, which was considered among the young wizards to be a snoozer, the news was greeted with applause.

Only a few, a very few, knew the true reason for the cancellation. The three heads of the orders were not going to be in the Tower of Wayreth this night. Ladonna, Par-Salian, and Justarius were planning to undertake a daring and dangerous mission to Neraka. Accompanying the three would be six bodyguards—strong, young wizards who had been spending the past several days equipping themselves with combat spells designed to repel almost any type of foe, living or undead, and spells of protection to cast upon themselves and their leaders.

As evening was falling, the other wizards were attending a sumptuous and lavish banquet, set up in the courtyard. Ladonna and Justarius and Par-Salian were locked in one of the Tower’s upper chambers, discussing their plans. They sat in the shadows, their faces indistinct, their eyes shining in the light of the fire. Seeing that the fire was dying and feeling the chill of the night air, Par-Salian rose to add another log.

An hour-counting candle stood upon the mantelpiece, the unwavering flame slowly eating away the time until the three moons would move into alignment and the wizards could undertake the dangerous journey through time and space to the temple of the Dark Queen.

“Timing is critical,” said Ladonna. She was wearing fur-trimmed robes, pendants around her neck, and rings on her fingers. None of the jewels were for vain show. All of them were either magical or could be used as spell components. “Jasla’s spirit must be removed from the Foundation Stone with my necromancy spell first.”

She added, with a stern glance at Par-Salian, “This is only logical, my friend,” continuing an argument that had been ongoing between them for days. “If you raise your barriers to seal off the stone before I cast my spell, you will seal the girl’s spirit inside it.”

“My concern is what will become of Jasla’s soul,” said Par-Salian. “Her spirit is a good one, by your own account, Ladonna. I want assurances that you will set her free, not keep her a prisoner.”

“You must admit that finding out how the spirit managed to block Queen Takhisis would be extremely valuable information,” Ladonna said coldly. “I want merely to ask her some questions. You are outvoted. Justarius agrees with me.”

“It is a matter of the greater good,” Justarius said. He carried several scrolls thrust into his belt, as well as pouches of spell components.

Par-Salian shook his head, unconvinced.

“You can be present during the interrogation,” Ladonna conceded, though she did not sound pleased. “And you can see for yourself that I will set her free.”

“There. Are you satisfied? This argument is wasting precious time,” said Justarius.

“Very well,” said Par-Salian. “So long as I can be present. Ladonna will cast her spell first, remove Jasla’s spirit, and take it to a secure location. Justarius, you will then cast your spells to alter the nature of the Foundation Stone—”

“For all the good
that
will do,” Ladonna muttered.

Justarius bristled. “We have gone over this a hundred times …”

“And we will go over it a hundred more, if need be,” said Ladonna acerbically. “This is too important to undertake lightly.”

“She is right,” said Par-Salian. “Some who go to Neraka this night will not return. Each of us must be fully committed. State your reasoning.”

“Again?” Justarius asked, exasperated.

“Again,” said Par-Salian.

Justarius sighed. “The original stone, which was made of white marble, was blessed and sanctified by the gods. Takhisis cast her own ‘blessing’ upon it, in an attempt to corrupt it. But Par-Salian and I both agree that the stone is still pure at its heart, which is why Jasla’s spirit is able to find sanctuary there. If the corruption is removed and the stone can be returned to its original form and it is further protected with powerful spells of warding that Par-Salian will cast upon it, Takhisis will not be able to again pervert it.”

“And since her temple rests upon the Foundation Stone, if it is transformed, the temple will fall, forever sealing the Dark Queen inside the Abyss,” Par-Salian said.

Ladonna sat in silence. They were all silent, their expressions troubled. Each of them knew the arguments were desultory, meaningless, meant to avoid the subject that was uppermost in everyone’s mind. At last Ladonna was driven to speak what she knew they were all thinking.

“I have sought Nuitari’s blessing on this plan of ours. The god of the dark moon pays no heed to me. I do not believe I have offended him, but if I have—”

“It is not you, Ladonna. I have approached Solinari and with the same result,” said Par-Salian. “No response. You, my friend?”

Justarius shook his head. “Lunitari will not speak to me. And this is all the more troubling because the goddess enjoys chattering about even trivial matters. This plan of ours is the most dangerous undertaking any wizards have performed since the Sacred Three ended the Second Dragon War, and my goddess will not speak a word. Something is wrong.”

“Perhaps we should call this off,” said Par-Salian.

“Don’t be such an old woman!” Ladonna said scornfully.

“I am being practical. If the gods do not—”

“Hush!” Justarius said peremptorily, raising his hand. Shouts and cries could be heard coming from outside the door. “What is the cause of all this commotion?”

“A surfeit of elven wine,” said Par-Salian.

“That is not merry-making,” said Ladonna, alarmed. “It sounds more like a riot!”

The shouts grew louder, and the wizards could hear people running in panicked haste down the corridor. Someone started beating on their door, then others joined in, raining blows on the wood. The wizards began to call out for their leaders, some yelling for Par-Salian, others for Ladonna or Justarius.

Angry at such unseemly behavior, Par-Salian rose to his feet, stalked across the room and flung open the door. He was startled to find the hall was dark. The magical lights that generally illuminated all the passageways in the Tower had apparently failed. Seeing some in the crowd carrying candles or lanterns, Par-Salian felt a sense of foreboding.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded sternly, glowering at the crowd of wizards milling around in the hallway. “Cease this tumult at once!”

The wizards crowding the darkened hallway fell silent, but only for a moment.

“Tell him,” said one.

“Yes, tell him!” urged another.

“Tell me what?”

Several began to speak at once. Par-Salian quieted them with an impatient gesture and searched around in the darkness for someone to be the spokesperson.

“Antimodes!” Par-Salian said, sighting his friend. “Tell me what is going on.”

The crowd parted to allow Antimodes to make his way to the front. Antimodes was an older wizard, highly respected and well liked. He came from a well-to-do family and was wealthy in his own right. He was passionate about advancing the cause of magic in the world, and many young mages had benefited from his generosity. A businessman, Antimodes was known to be level-headed and practical, and at the sight of his face, which was pale, strained, Par-Salian felt his heart sink.

“Have you looked outside, my friend?” Antimodes asked. He spoke in a low voice, but the crowd was straining to hear. They immediately caught hold of his words and repeated them.

“Look outside! Yes, look outside!”

“Silence!” Par-Salian ordered, and again the crowd hushed,
though not completely. Many grumbled and muttered in a low, rumbling undercurrent of fear.