Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (43 page)

Raistlin understood Tanis’s plan as clearly as if he and the half-elf had spent years working on it. In a sense, perhaps they had. The two of them had always been close in a way none of their friends had ever understood. Darkness speaking to dark, perhaps.

And what of Takhisis? Did the Queen know that the half-elf, shaved clean of the beard that had once hidden his shame, climbed the stairs toward destiny, prepared to sacrifice his life for the sake of others? Did she know that in the heart of her darkness, down in
her dungeons, a kender and a barmaid and a warrior were grimly prepared to do the same? Did Takhisis realize that the wizard wearing the black robes that marked his allegiance to self-serving ambition would be ready to sacrifice his life for the freedom to walk whatever path he chose?

Raistlin raised his hand. The words to the spell he had memorized the night before blazed in his mind like the words he’d written in blood on the lambskin.

Tanis climbed the stairs, his hand clutching his sword’s hilt. Raistlin recognized the sword. Alhana Starbreeze had given it to Tanis in Silvanesti. The sword was Wyrmsbane, the mate to the sword Tanis had received from the dead elf king Kith-Kanan in Pax Tharkas. Raistlin remembered that the weapon was magical, though he could not remember at that moment what magic the sword possessed.

It didn’t matter. The sword’s magic would not be powerful enough to pierce the magical field generated by the Crown of Power. When his sword struck that field, the blast would blow him apart. Ariakas would remain safe behind the shield; not so much as a splatter of blood smearing his gleaming armor.

Tanis reached the top of the stairs, and he started to draw his sword. He was nervous; his hands shook.

Ariakas stood up from the throne, planting his powerful legs and crossing his bulging arms over his chest. He was not looking at Tanis. He was staring across the hall at Kitiara, who had her own arms crossed and was staring defiantly back. Multicolored light flared from the crown and shimmered around Ariakas, making it seem as though he were being guarded by a shield of rainbows.

Tanis slid his sword from the sheath and, at the sound, Ariakas’s attention snapped back to the half-elf. He looked down his nose at him, sneered at him, trying to intimidate him. Tanis didn’t notice. He was staring at the crown, his eyes wide with dismay. He had just realized his plan to kill Ariakas must fail.

Raistlin’s spell burned on his lips; the magic burned in his blood. He had no time for Tanis’s eternal wavering.

“Strike, Tanis!” Raistlin urged. “Do not fear the magic! I will aid you!”

Tanis looked startled and he glanced toward the direction of the sound that he must have heard more with his heart than with his ears, for Raistlin had spoken softly.

Ariakas was starting to grow impatient. A man of action, he was bored with the ceremony. He considered the council meeting a waste of time that could be spent more profitably pursuing the war. He gave a snarl and made a peremptory gesture, indicating Tanis was to swear his fealty and get on with it.

Still, Tanis hesitated.

“Strike, Tanis! Swiftly!” Raistlin urged.

Tanis stared straight at Raistlin, but whether he could see him or not, whether he would act or not, Raistlin could not tell. Tanis started to lay the sword down on the floor; then, resolve hardening his expression, he shifted his stance and aimed a blow at Ariakas.

Raistlin and Caramon had often fought together, combining sorcery and steel. As Tanis’s sword arm started to rise, Raistlin cast his spell.

“Bentuk-nir daya sihir, colang semua pesona dalam. Perubahan ke sihir-nir!”
Raistlin cried and, drawing a rune in the air, he hurled the spell at Ariakas.

The magic flowed through Raistlin and burst from him, crackling out of his fingertips, blazing through the air. The magic struck the rainbow shield, dispelling it. Tanis’s sword met no obstacle. Wyrmsbane pierced Ariakas’s black, dragon-scale breastplate, sliced through flesh and muscle and bone, and sank deep into his chest.

Ariakas roared, more in astonishment than in pain. The agony of dying and the terrible knowledge that he was dying would come to him with his next and final breath. Raistlin did not linger to see the end. He did not care who would win the Crown of Power. For the moment, the Dark Queen was intent upon the struggle. He had to make good his escape.

But the powerful spell he had cast had weakened him. He stifled a cough in the sleeve of his robes and, grabbing the staff, ran along the bridge, heading back toward the antechamber. He had almost reached the entrance when a mass of draconian guards blocked his way.

“The foul assassin!” Raistlin gasped, gesturing. “A wizard. I tried to stop him—”

The draconian didn’t wait, but shoved Raistlin aside, slamming him back into the walls. Soldiers flowed around him, dashing down the bridge.

They would soon realize they had been duped, and they would be back. Raistlin, coughing, fumbled in his pouch and took out the dragon orb. He barely had breath enough left to chant the words.

The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of Caramon’s cell. The door was open. The cell was empty. A charred patch on the floor was all that remained of a bozak draconian. A pile of greasy ash denoted the demise of a baaz draconian. Caramon and Berem, Tika and Tas were gone. Raistlin heard guttural voices shouting that the prisoners had escaped.

But where had they gone?

Raistlin swore under his breath and looked around for some clue. At the end of the corridor, an iron door had been torn off its hinges.

Jasla was calling, and Berem had answered.

Raistlin leaned on the staff and drew in a ragged breath. He could breathe easier; his strength was returning. He was about to go in pursuit of Berem when a hand snaked out of the shadows. Cold fingers closed painfully over his wrist. Long nails scraped his skin and dug into his flesh.

“Not so fast, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

The voice was real and close, no longer in his head. Raistlin could feel the old man’s breath warm on his cheek. The breath came from a living body, not a live corpse.

The hand held him fast. The bony fingers with their long, yellowed nails tightened their grip. Raistlin could not see the face, for it was hidden in the shadows. He had no need to see it. He knew the face as well or better than he knew his own. In some ways, the face was his own.

“Only one of us can be the master,” said Fistandantilus.

The green bloodstone mottled with red striations glistened in the light of the Staff of Magius.

aistlin was caught completely off-guard. A second before, he had been triumphing in his victory over Ariakas, and between the space of one shuddering breath and another, he was held fast in the grip of his most implacable foe, a wizard Raistlin had duped and cheated and sought to destroy.

Raistlin stared, mesmerized, at the bloodstone pendant dangling from the bony hand. When Fistandantilus had been a living man, he had murdered countless young mages, sucking out their lives with the bloodstone and giving the life-force to himself.

In desperation, Raistlin cast the only spell that came to his terrified mind—an elementary spell, one of the first he had ever learned.
“Kair tangus miopiar!”

His hand flared with fire. Raistlin realized the moment he spoke that the spell would be useless against Fistandantilus. The magical flames could only harm the living. He was despairing, cursing himself, when, to his amazement, Fistandantilus snarled and snatched his hand away.

“You
are
flesh and blood!” Raistlin gasped, and he was heartened. He was fighting a live enemy, one that might be strong, but also one who could be killed.

Falling back, Raistlin clasped the Staff of Magius in both hands and raised it in front of him, using it as both shield and weapon. He remembered the times Caramon had insisted his twin learn to defend himself with the staff and how he had always tried to get out of it.

“I will soon be
your
flesh and
your
blood,” said Fistandantilus, his fleshless lips parting in a ghastly smile. “A reward from my Queen.”

“Your
Queen!” Raistlin almost laughed. “A Queen you plotted to overthrow.’

“All is forgiven between us,” said Fistandantilus. “On one condition—that I destroy you. Did you honestly think your actions, your plans, would escape my notice? In return for your demise, I will become you—or rather, your young body will house me.”

He cast a disparaging glance over Raistlin’s thin frame and sniffed. “Not the best body I have inhabited, but one that is powerful in magic. And with my knowledge and wisdom, you will become more powerful still. I hope that will be a final comfort to you in your last moments.”

Raistlin lashed out with the Staff of Magius, aiming a blow at the wizard’s hooded head. But he was not particularly skilled as a fighter, not like Caramon. His strike was clumsy and slow. Fistandantilus ducked. He caught hold of the staff, and jerked it out of Raistlin’s hands.

The staff’s magic crackled. Fistandantilus cried in rage and flung the staff halfway down the corridor. Raistlin heard the crystal globe crack as the staff struck the stone floor. The glow of magic dimmed.

Raistlin glanced back over his shoulder and marked where the staff lay. He fell back a step, his hand fumbling beneath his robes for the pouches that held the dragon orb and his spell components. Fistandantilus saw what he intended. He pointed at the pouches and spoke words of magic. Like iron to lodestone, the pouches flew out of Raistlin’s hands and into the hands of the old man.

“Bat dung and rose petals!” Fistandantilus cast the pouches disdainfully to the floor. “When I am you, you will have no need of such ingredients. The Master of Past and Present will craft
magnificent magic. Too bad you will not be there to see it.”

Fistandantilus extended his hands, fingers spread, and began to chant,
“Kalith karan, tobanis-kar…”

Raistlin recognized the spell and hurled himself to the floor. Blazing arrows of fire shot from the old man’s fingertips and sizzled over Raistlin’s head. The scorching heat burned his hair. The Staff of Magius lay just beyond reach. The crystal globe had cracked, but the magical light continued to shine and he saw, in its light, something sparkle.

He was about to try to make a grab for it when he heard footsteps behind him—Fistandantilus coming to finish him off. Raistlin gave a moan and tried to rise, only to collapse onto the floor again.

Fistandantilus laughed, amused at his struggles. “When I am in your body, Majere, I will hunt down and slay your imbecile brother, who is now trying to fight his way to the Foundation Stone. Caramon will think, in his final, despairing moments, that his beloved twin was his murderer. But then that’s nothing new to poor Caramon, is it? He’s already seen you kill him!”

Fistandantilus began chanting a spell. Raistlin did not recognize the words; he had no idea what the spell would do. Something horrible, that was certain. He moaned again and glanced surreptitiously behind him. When Fistandantilus was near, Raistlin lashed out with his feet, striking the old man in the shins and sending him crashing to the floor. The spell ended in a garbled cry and a thud.

Raistlin made a lunge and a grab for the small, sparkling object. His hand closed over the dragon orb, and he scrambled to his feet.

A trumpet blast echoed through the corridor.

Fistandantilus did not bother to rise. He sat on the floor, slapped his hands on his knees, and grinned up at him. “Some moron has tripped your spell trap.”

The old man gathered his black robes around him and pushed himself to his feet. He took a step toward Raistlin, who opened his palm. The dragon orb’s colors swirled and glowed, illuminating the corridor.

“Well, go ahead, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “You have the orb. Use it. Call upon the power of the dragons to smash me to a bloody pulp.”

Raistlin looked at the orb, at the colors swirling inside. His mouth twisted, and he looked away.

Fistandantilus smiled grimly. “You don’t dare use it. You are too weak. You fear the orb will take hold of you and you’ll end up a drooling idiot like poor Lorac.”

He lifted the bloodstone pendant. “I promise, Majere, I won’t let that happen. Your end will be swift, though not exactly painless. And now, much as I have enjoyed our little contest, my Queen needs my services elsewhere.”

Fistandantilus began to chant.

Raistlin closed his fist over the orb. The bright light welled out between his fingers: five rays, five different colors, slanting off in different directions. Raistlin raised his hand.

“Cease your spell-casting, old man, or I will hurl the orb to the floor. The orb is made of crystal. It can be broken.”

Fistandantilus frowned. His chanting ceased. He held up the bloodstone pendant and made a squeezing motion with his hand.

Raistlin’s heart quivered and bounded in his chest. He gasped, unable to breathe. Fistandantilus tightened his grip, and Raistlin’s heart stopped beating. He could not breathe. Black spots burst before his eyes, and he felt himself falling.