The Magic Of Krynn (6 page)

Something like a smile ran over the lips of the thing's face. The head turned slowly away.

“Magus,” said the thing, “concern yourself not with the ring. Turn your pleasure to other
matters. You probe the reaches of unseen planes and manipulate the destiny of worlds.
Neither the ring nor its wearer will be your concern past the setting of the sun this day.”

There was a long silence during which neither monster nor summoner moved.

“That is not the answer I asked of you,” said the Magus.

For a time, there was no response from the thing. Then its heads chuckled heavily, and the
sound rolled across the room. “I have spoken,” it said, then vanished into the circle of
violet

light and darkness as if it had been a shadow. The Magus stood before the circle long
afterward, head bowed

in thought. Just as it occurred to Tasslehoff that he would have to breathe or explode,
the Magus turned and walked to a hidden door that closed quickly behind him.

Tasslehoff, bathed in sweat, leaned against the wall. If the Magus caught him now, he
would die. He looked down at the emerald ring and wondered how long he would be able to
hide before the Magus found him at last.

Twenty minutes later Tasslehoff arrived at another barred window, this one looking into a
musty library lit by candles on a tabletop. Struggling and gasping, the kender squeezed
through the bars and dropped onto a bookshelf, climbing down to the floor from there.

He wiped gray dust from his hands and looked around. Shadows flicked against the stone
walls. Towering shelves filled with browned volumes bound in exotic leathers and sealed
with glyphs surrounded him. As he looked at the tomes, his curiosity got the best of him
again.

He cautiously pulled a large volume from a stack on the table before him. A glance at the
cover confirmed that the writing was unreadable and probably magical in nature. He opened
the book, and ancient pages rustled and fell open in the

candlelight. Tasslehoff flipped the book shut with a gasp. Hesitantly,

he reached for another, hoping it was less loathsomely illustrated. To his relief, the
next book was written in the common tongue of the land and had no pictures at all.

“BEING A COMPENDIUM OF MYSTIC PROTECTIONS AND SORCEROUS INSCRIPTIONS FOR THE SUMMONING OF
CREATURES FROM THE DARK WORLDS,” he read aloud. The book appeared to be well used. A
thought occurred to him, and he flipped through the volume, his eyes running over the
pages in search of the name of the thing he had seen. At the end of the text was a list of
creatures one could summon, and the thing's name

was among them. Silently, he read the passage under the list of names,

absorbing every word of it. His hand grew cold and damp at the implications of the text.
Finished, he closed the book and returned it to the stack with care, arranging the other
volumes to disguise his prying.

“Well,” he said aloud, wiping his hands. Some of his confidence was returning, though
strained by the cir- cumstances. “Summoning is more dangerous than I thought. If the
wizard messes up, boot! Off he goes, taken away forever. Demons don't forgive . . .”

His eyes glazed slightly as he thought about some variations on this possibility.
Mentally, he crossed off the occupation of sorcerer from those he wished to leam more
about. This was better left to people like-

He heard a door, hidden by racks of books, open. Tasslehoff dropped to all fours and
crawled under the table.

The floor creaked. Thick robes rustled and fell silent. There was no sound for what seemed
like ages of time.

“Tasslehoff,” said a wavering voice. There was no reply. “You poor wretched puppy, you
cannot escape me.” The door

creaked and thumped shut. “You watched in the Room of Conjurations when I spoke with the
demon lord. I knew you were there. Come out now. No use hiding, Tasslehoff.”

Robes swished softly and slowly behind a bookcase. His eyes sparkling, Tasslehoff pressed
against a table leg.

“You're behind the bookcase, under the table.” The wavering voice hardened. “Come out.”

A long shadow, stepping from behind the shelves, appeared against a far wall.

“Tasslehoff.” The Magus raised his hand and pointed a finger.

Green light burst across the room. Tasslehoff fell back on the floor as the room blinked
out and a new one flashed in.

Now he was in the Room of Conjurations. He ran for a corner and tried to climb the wall.
Falling back, he ran for the doorway he hoped would be an exit.

The Magus stepped through that very doorway into the chamber. Tasslehoff stopped dead,
crouched and ready to jump in any direction.

“Pleased you could join me,” said the Magus. “I must confess,” the Magus said, "that I
don't understand why

the ring you're wearing teleports you about as it does. You're at its mercy, yet it pulls
you out of my reach and keeps you safe. It's kept you alive for days and days, bringing
you to this castle to me. I don't understand it, and I know I don't like it."

Tasslehoff watched his opponent like a hawk. “I'm not dancing about it either,” he said.
“I'd rather be home in a tavern.”

“I don't doubt that,” the Magus retorted, walking slowly around the kender. The sorcerer
scratched at his cheek with a bony finger. “Circumstances, however, dictate otherwise. I
want to finish this now, before the sun sets. You're the first person ever to invade my
castle. You deserve a special fate.”

“You wouldn't want to be friends and let me go home, would you?” Tasslehoff asked faintly.

The Magus smiled, the skin pulling across his face like dry paper. “No,” he said.

Tasslehoff darted for the open door. The Magus gestured, and Tasslehoff slammed into the
door as it flew shut. Stunned, he found his nose wasn't broken, though his eyes streamed
tears.

Light arose behind him. Tasslehoff turned and saw that the firepots of the conjuring
circle were burning. A dark figure with arms stood before the circle, chanting in a low
voice.

Tasslehoff felt in his pockets for some last trick, something to pull him out of danger.
He found six feet of string, a silver piece with a hole in it, a sugar bun, a crystal
button, someone else's tinderbox, a bluejay feather, and a river pebble two inches across.
No miracles . . .

He beat and kicked the door until he ached. Thunder rattled his teeth; waves of cold and
heat washed over him.

When he heard the Magus call the name of the thing, he gave up. Setting his back to the
door, he turned to face the spectacle. If he couldn't escape, he could at least go out
like an explorer. He would have lived longer as a scribe, but this was better in a way.
Scribes lived such boring lives. That thought comforted him as the scaled shape of the
thing arose from the pit of violet lightning and darkness.

The thing's eyes glowed, one head fixed on Tassle hoff and the other on the Magus. “Twice
in one day, Magus?” questioned the thing, hissing. “You have company as well. Am I now a
circus exhibit?”

“Hear me!” the sorcerer shouted. "There stands an offering to you, a soul you may eat at
your leisure! I bind you with words and enchantments of power, under threat of eternal
torture and debasement, to take this kender to the Abyss with you until time is

no more! Take him away!" Tasslehoff's mind went blank. His fist, thrust into a pocket,

clenched the stone that he had collected some time ago and admired ever since because of
its smoothness. In an instant he snatched the stone out of his pocket and threw it.

The Magus gasped and staggered as the stone smacked the back of his skull. Stumbling, his
hands clutching his head, he stepped forward. A slippered foot scuffed over the pale
chalky lines that surrounded him.

The glowing runes and tracings on the floor went dark like a candle snuffed out. Silently
and easily, an oily tentacle reached for the Magus and caught his foot. The Magus screamed.

“Thousands of years ago,” said the thing, its voices trembling with peculiar emotion, “it
occurred to me that I would need a defense against those who abused my status as Prince of
Demons, those who would use me as a footstool on which to rest their pride. Some-day,
something would be needed to turn the odds in my favor should this ever happen.”

The thing's tentacle lifted the Magus high in the air, turning him around slowly as a man
would a mouse caught by the tail. “I devised many such defenses, but the one of which I am
most proud now is the ring you wear, kender.”

Tasslehoff glanced at the ring. The emerald was glowing faintly.

“The ring,” the thing continued, “only activates when I need its services. It defends the
wearer against death, though it may not make the wearer comfortable. By leaps and bounds
it teleports him to my vicinity. It prevents all attempts to remove it until the wearer
performs a boon for me, accomplishing what I most desire. You were my tool unknowing, but
most serviceable.”

Tasslehoff looked at the thing, his mouth dry with the realization of what he'd done.

“Take off the ring,” the thing's voices rasped, “and you will be teleported back to your
home. I have no more need of you.”

Tasslehoff carefully pulled the ring free from his left hand. As it left his finger, it
flashed a brilliant, fiery green and dropped to the floor. And in that same instant,
Tasslehoff was gone.

The heads of the thing roared with laughter. The Magus screamed, and screamed, and . . .

Tasslehoff finished his drink and pushed it away. Across the tavern table, two old
friends, a man and woman, blinked as the thread of the tale snapped and drifted away.

“That,” said Kitiara with a shake of her head, "was the most

incredible story I've ever heard out of you, Tasslehoff.“ A grin slowly appeared on her
face. ”You've not lost your touch."

The kender sniffed, disappointment showing on his face. “I didn't think you'd believe me.”

“That was supposed to be true?” Sturm asked, staring at Tasslehoff. His eyes were bright
with amusement. “You actually mean to say you met a demon prince, helped destroy a wizard,
found and lost a magic ring, and crossed half a world?”

The kender nodded, a playful grin reflected on his face.

For a few seconds, the listeners made no response. The man and woman looked at each other
and then at the kender.

“Merciful gods, Tasslehoff,” the woman breathed, pushing her chair back. “You could make a
goblin believe rocks were valuable.” She rose to her feet, tossed a few coins on the
tabletop, and waved at kender and warrior. “I think I'll go on to bed with that one.”

Sturm groaned in mild embarrassment. Granted, the kender's tale was fantastic, but there
was no need to rub his nose in it. He turned back to Tasslehoff with a self-conscious
grin, meaning to apologize, and stopped.

Tasslehoff was looking after Kitiara with a strange, wistful gaze. His left hand rested on
the tabletop beside the half-melted candle. A pale band was visible around his ring
finger, wider than most rings would leave. The skin on either side of the band was scarred
and discolored, as if someone had tried to remove a ring once worn there.

Tasslehoff turned to Sturm, missing his gaze, and shrugged. “Well,” he said, “maybe it
wasn't much of a tale at that. It's about time to turn in, after all.” He smiled and
pushed his chair back. “See you tomorrow.”

Sturm half-waved his hand. The kender left him alone in the inn with his thoughts.

Dreams of Darkness, Dreams of Light Warren B. Smith

William Sweetwater was a short man - five-foot-three, one hundred and eighty pounds,
pig-faced, snout-nosed- and he was lost in a universe of nightmares. Eons ago, or so it
seemed, the neutral gray mist surrounded his body and drew him into the void. Groping,
stumbling, frightened of each step, he wan- dered through the mysterious fog.

Screams roared through the vapors. Harsh, intermittent,

guttural shouts blared out. He heard constant whispers in the mist, low murmurings that
were sly, insinuating, often obscene. At other times the mist echoed with the howl of
banshees, followed by the grisly noise of feral animals feeding on some bony substance.

An intuitive impulse caused William to stop and assess the nature of his situation. He
shivered in the swirling fog and tried to get a sense of direction.

Gradually, he discovered he was standing at the edge of a large, seething pit. He
stiffened like a carven stone idol, afraid to move. The mist parted, and his gaze focused
on a frothing mass of black slime.

The thick fluid was in a stage of fermentation. Dark, reptilian forms bubbled to the
surface. Their evil, grotesque shapes blocked his vision. They remained in his view for a
short time, then vanished as other forms rose to the surface.

The putrifying mixture seemed to engulf the universe. Entrails of odorous steam boiled up
from the surface. Images of angry faces were reflected off the sides of giant bubbles.
They were dark, resentful faces with eyes glittering with hatred.

A panorama of scenes and sounds assaulted his senses. Here, a disembodied leg stomped
endlessly on a bloody face. There, a man in a military uniform snatched an infant from a
lace-trimmed crib. The soldier slammed the baby against a stone wall. A band of ghouls
rose out of the slime and performed a macabre dance on the black surface. They sank back
into the percolating liquid as a tanged lizard wrapped itself around a screaming maiden.
An obscene altar flashed into view. A young man and a woman were tied spread-eagled on a
filth-strewn slab of stone. A dog-faced priest with minotaur horns raised a dagger to
pierce their hearts.

“. . . JUMP!”

“... You belong here! You're like us!” This voice was low, feminine, almost a motherly
whisper.

“. . . JUMP! JUMP!”

“... Everyone does it! You're no different,” rasped a deep, resonant voice.

“. . . JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” “... Roll us over in the slime,” sang a guttural chorus. He
wavered. A part of his being, some ancient reptilian gene, urged him to leap