Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (33 page)

“You should look outside,” said Antimodes gravely. “See for yourselves. And witness this.” He lifted his hand, pointed a finger and spoke words of magic.
“Sula vigis dolibix!”

“Are you mad?” Par-Salian cried, alarmed, expecting to see fiery traces burst from his friend’s hands. But nothing happened. The words to the spell fell to the floor like dead leaves.

Antimodes sighed. “The last time that spell failed me, my friend, I was sixteen years old and thinking about a girl, not my magic.”

“Par-Salian!” Ladonna called in a shaking voice. “You must see this!”

She was leaning on the window ledge, perilously close to falling out, her back arched, her head craned to stare into the heavens. “The stars shine. The night is cloudless. But …”

She turned toward him, her face pale. “The moons are gone!”

“And so is The Forest of Wayreth,” Justarius reported grimly, gazing out past Ladonna’s shoulder.

“We have lost the magic!” a woman wailed from the hall. Her terrified cry threw everyone into a panic.

“Are you witless gully dwarves to behave so?” Par-Salian thundered. “Everyone, go to your rooms. We must keep calm, figure out what is going on. Monitors, I want the halls cleared at once.”

The shouting ceased, but people continued to mill around aimlessly. Antimodes set the example by leaving for his chambers and taking friends and pupils with him. He glanced back at Par-Salian, who shook his head and sighed.

The Monitors in their red robes began moving through the crowd, urging people to do as the head of the Conclave decreed. Par-Salian waited in the doorway until he saw the hall starting to clear. Most would not go to their rooms. They would flock to the common areas to speculate and work themselves into a frenzy.

Par-Salian shut the door and turned to face his fellows, who were both standing at the window, gazing searchingly into the heavens in the desperate hope that they were mistaken. Perhaps an errant cloud had drifted across the moons, or they had miscalculated the time and the moons were late rising. But the evidence of the vanished forest
was horrifying and could not be denied.

As Par-Salian gazed across the bleak and barren landscape of treeless, rolling hills, he tried to cast a spell, a simple cantrip. He knew the moment he spoke the words, which came out as gibberish, that the magic would fail.

“What do we do?” Ladonna asked in hollow tones.

“We must pray to the gods—”

“They will not answer you,” said a voice from the darkness.

A wizard dressed in black robes stood in the center of the room.

“Who are you?” Par-Salian demanded.

The wizard drew back his hood. Golden skin glistened in the firelight. Eyes with pupils the shape of hourglasses regarded them dispassionately.

“Raistlin Majere,” said Justarius, his tone harsh.

Raistlin inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“This is your doing!” Ladonna said angrily.

Raistlin gave a sardonic smile. “While I find it flattering that you think I have the power to make the moons disappear, madam, I must disabuse you of that notion. I did not cause the moons to vanish. Nor did I take away the magic. What you fear is true. Your magic is gone. The gods of the moons have been rendered impotent.”

“Then how did you travel here, if not by magic?” Par-Salian said, glowering.

Raistlin bowed to him. “An astute observation, Master of the Conclave. I said
your
magic was gone.
My
magic is not.” “And where does
your
magic come from, then?” “My god. My Queen,” Raistlin said quietly, “Takhisis.” “Traitor!” Ladonna cried.

She took hold of one of the pendants she wore around her neck and tore a piece of fur from her collar.
“Ast kiranann kair Gardurm …”
She faltered, then began again.
“Ast kianann kair—”

“Useless,” Justarius said bitterly.

“I am not the traitor,” said Raistlin. “I am not the one who betrayed your plot to enter the temple and seal the Foundation Stone to the Dark Queen. If it were not for me, you would all be dead now. The Nightlord and his pilgrims are there now, waiting for you.”

“Who was it, then?” Ladonna demanded, glowering.

“The walls have ears,” said Raistlin softly.

Ladonna crossed her arms over her chest and began to restlessly pace the room. Justarius remained by the window, staring out into the night.

“Did you come here to gloat over us?” Par-Salian asked abruptly.

Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. “You chose me as your ‘sword,’ Master of the Conclave. And all know that a sword cuts both ways. If your sword has caused you to bleed, that is your own fault. But to answer your question, sir, no, I did not come here to gloat.”

He jabbed a finger toward the window. “The Forest of Wayreth is gone. This moment, a death knight called Soth and his undead warriors are riding toward this Tower. Nothing stands in their way. And when they get here, nothing will stop them from tearing down these walls and slaughtering everyone inside.”

“Solinari save us!” Par-Salian murmured.

“Solinari fights to save himself,” said Raistlin. “Takhisis brought new gods to this world, Gods of the Gray, she calls them. She plans to depose our gods and seize control of the magic, which she will then dole out to her favorites. Such as myself.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Justarius harshly.

“Believe your eyes, then,” said Raistlin. “How are you going to fight Lord Soth? His magic is potent, and it does not come from the moons. It springs from the curse the gods cast upon him. He can blast holes in these walls with a gesture of his hand. He can summon corpses from their graves. He has only to speak a single word, and people will drop dead. The terror of his coming is so great that even the bravest will not be able to withstand it. You will cower behind these walls, waiting to die. Praying to die.”

“Not all of us,” said Justarius grimly.

“You might as well, sir,” Raistlin scoffed. “Where are your swords and shields and axes? Where are your mighty warriors to defend you? Without your magic, you cannot defend yourselves. You have your little knives, that is true, but they will barely cut through butter!”

“You, obviously, have the answer,” said Par-Salian. “Otherwise you would not have come.”

“I do, Master of the Conclave. I can summon help.”

“And if you work for Takhisis, why should you? And why should we trust you?” Ladonna asked.

“Because, madam, you have no choice,” replied Raistlin. “I can save you … but it will cost you.”

“Of course!” Justarius said bitterly. He turned to Par-Salian. “Whatever the price, it is too high. I would sooner take my chances with this death knight.”

“If it were our lives alone, I would be inclined to agree with you,” said Par-Salian ruefully. “But we have hundreds in our care, from our pupils to some of the best and most talented wizards in all of Ansalon. We cannot condemn them to death because of hurt pride.” He turned to Raistlin. “What is your price?”

Raistlin was silent a moment; then he said quietly, “I have chosen to walk my own road, free of constraints. All I ask, Masters, is that you allow me to continue to walk it. The Conclave will take no action against me either now or in the future. You will not send wizards to try to kill me or trap me or lecture me. You will let me to go my way, and I will help you remain alive so that you may go yours.”

Par-Salian’s brows came together. “You imply by this that our magic will come back, that the gods of magic will return. How is that possible?”

“That is my concern,” said Raistlin. “Are we agreed?” “No. There is too much we do not know,” said Ladonna. “I agree with her,” said Justarius.

Raistlin stood calmly, his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robes. “Look out the window. You will see an army of undead soldiers wearing charred and blackened armor marked with a rose. Flames devour their flesh as the warriors ride. Their faces wither in the holy fire that endlessly consumes them. They carry death, and Death leads them. Soth will shatter the walls of this Tower with a touch. His army will ride through the melted rock, and your pupils and your friends and colleagues will be helpless to withstand him. Blood will flow in rivers down the corridors—”

“Enough!” Par-Salian cried, shaken. He looked at the others. “I ask you both plainly: Can we fight this death knight without our magic?”

Ladonna had gone deathly pale. Her lips set in a tight, straight line, she sank down in a chair.

Justarius looked defiant at first; then, his face haggard, he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “I am from Palanthas,” he said. “I have heard tales of Lord Soth, and if a tenth of them are true, it would be perilous to fight him even if we had our magic. Without … we do not stand a chance.”

“Mark my words, if we make this bargain with Majere, we will live to regret it,” Ladonna said.

“But at least you will live,” murmured Raistlin.

He drew from his belt a small leather pouch and dumped the contents onto the floor. Marbles of all colors rolled out onto the soft carpeting. Ladonna, staring at them, gave an incredulous laugh.

“He is making fools of us,” she said.

Par-Salian was not so sure. He watched Raistlin’s long, slender fingers, delicate and sensitive, sort through the marbles until he found the one he sought. He lifted the marble and held it in the palm of his hand and began to chant.

The marble grew in size until it filled the palm of Raistlin’s hand. Colors swirled and shimmered inside the crystal globe. Par-Salian, looking in, saw reptilian eyes, looking out.

“A dragon orb!” he said, amazed.

Par-Salian drew nearer, fascinated. He had read about the famed dragon orbs. Five orbs had been created during the Age of Dreams by mages of all three orders who had come together then, as they had come together in his day, to fight the Queen of Darkness. Two of the orbs had been kept at the ill-fated Towers of Losarcum and Daltigoth and had been destroyed in the explosions that had leveled those Towers.

One of the orbs had dropped out of knowledge, only to be discovered by Knights of Solamnia in the High Clerist’s Tower. The Golden General, Laurana, had used the orb to hold the Tower against an assault by evil dragons. That orb had been lost in the battle.

Another orb had been given for safe-keeping to the wizard Feal-Thas, who had kept it locked up in Icewall for many centuries. The orb’s strange and tragic journey had led to its destruction by a kender at the meeting of the Whitestone Council.

The orb Par-Salian looked at, the last one in existence, was controlled by Raistlin Majere. How was that possible? Par-Salian
was a powerful wizard, perhaps one of the most powerful ever to have lived, and he wondered if he would have the courage to lay his hands on the orb that could seize hold of a wizard’s mind and keep him enthralled, caught forever in a twisted, living nightmare, as it had done the wretched Lorac. The young mage, Raistlin Majere, had dared to do so, and he had succeeded in bending the orb to his will.

As Par-Salian gazed into the orb, both fascinated and repelled, he had his answer. He could see the figure of a man, an old, old man, barely skin and bones, more dead than alive. The old man’s fists were clenched in fury, he seemed to be shouting, screaming in rage, but his screams went unheard.

Par-Salian looked in amazement and awe at Raistlin, who gave a confirming nod.

“You are right, Master of the Conclave. The prisoner is Fistandantilus. I would tell you the story, but there is no time. You must all be quiet. Speak no word. Make no movement. Do not even breathe.”

Raistlin placed his hands upon the dragon orb. He cried out in pain as hands reached out from the orb and grasped hold of him. He closed his eyes and gasped.

“I command you, Viper, summon Cyan Bloodbane,” said Raistlin. His voice was a gasp. He shuddered, yet he kept his hands firmly on the orb.

“Bloodbane is a green dragon!” Ladonna said. “He lied! He means to kill us!”

“Hush!” Par-Salian ordered.

Raistlin was intent upon the orb, listening to an unheard voice, the voice of the orb, and apparently he did not like what it was saying.

“You cannot relax your guard!” he said angrily, speaking to the dragon within the orb. “You must not set him free!”

The hands of the orb tightened on Raistlin’s, and he gasped in pain from either the strengthening grip or the agony of the decision he was being asked to make.

“So be it,” Raistlin said at last. “Summon the dragon!”

Par-Salian, staring into the orb, saw the colors swirl wildly. The tiny figure of Fistandantilus disappeared. Raistlin grimaced, but he
kept his hands on the orb, concentrating his will on it, oblivious to what was happening around him.

“Ladonna, are you mad? Stop!” Justarius cried.

Ladonna paid no heed. Par-Salian saw a flash of steel and leaped at her. He managed to grab hold of her hand and tried to wrest away the knife. Ladonna turned on him, striking at him and slashing a bloody gash in his chest. Par-Salian staggered back, staring down at the red stain on his white robes.

Ladonna lunged at Raistlin. He paid no heed. The orb began to glow with a bright, green, gaseous radiance. Tendril-like mists swirled out from the orb and wrapped around Ladonna’s body. She screamed and writhed. The smell was noxious. Par-Salian covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Justarius began to gasp for air and stumbled to the window.

“Do not harm them, Viper,” Raistlin murmured.

The tendrils released their grip on Ladonna, who sagged back into a chair. Justarius was trying to catch his breath, staring out the window.

“Par-Salian,” Justarius said and pointed. Par-Salian looked out.

A dragon circled the Tower of High Sorcery, his massive body shining a sickly gray-green in the lambent light of a moonless sky.

he ancient green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, despised every being he had ever encountered in a life that spanned centuries. Mortal and immortal, dead and undead, gods and other dragons, he hated them all. Some, however, he hated more than others: elves, for one, and Solamnic Knights, for another. It had been a Solamnic Knight—one Huma Dragonsbane—who had ruined Cyan’s fun when, as a young dragon, he had taken part in the Second Dragon War.