Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Prologue

Standing over the bloody body of the fallen Dragon Highlord Verminaard, the aurak draconian, Dray-yan, saw his destiny flare before him.

The brilliant flash hit him with the force of a comet falling from the sky, burning his blood and sending a tingling sensation throughout his scaly body down to his clawed fingers. After the initial burst, a cascade of more ideas followed, showering down on him. His entire plan formed in seconds.

Dray-yan whipped off his ornate cloak and dropped it over the body of the Dragon Highlord, hiding the corpse and the large pool of blood beneath it from view. The aurak draconian was panicked, or so it must appear to those watching. Shouting furiously for help, he grabbed several baaz (draconians of lowly stature, notable for their obtuse gullibility) and ordered them to fetch a litter.

“Make haste! Lord Verminaard is grievously wounded! We must carry Lord Verminaard to his chambers! Swiftly! Swiftly, before his lordship succumbs to his wounds.” Fortunately for Dray-yan, the situation inside the fortress of Pax Tharkas was chaotic: escaping slaves, two red dragons battling each other, the sudden thunderous fall of tons of rocks blocking the pass and crushing a vast number of soldiers. No one was paying any attention to the fallen Highlord being carried inside the fortress or to the aurak who was accompanying him. When Verminaard’s corpse was safely inside his chambers, Dray-yan shut the doors, posted the baaz draconians who had carried the litter outside as guards, and gave orders that no one was to enter.

Dray-yan then helped himself to a bottle of Verminaard’s finest wine and sat down at Verminaard’s desk and began to go through Verminaard’s secret papers. What Dray-yan read intrigued and impressed him. He sipped the wine, studied the situation, and went over his plans in his mind. Occasionally someone would come to the door demanding orders. Dray-yan would shout that his lordship was not to be disturbed. Hours passed and then, when night had fallen, Dray-yan opened the door a crack.

“Tell Commander Grag that he is wanted in Lord Verminaard’s chambers.” It took some time before the large bozak commander arrived. During the interval, Dray-yan pondered whether or not to take Grag into his confidence. His instinct was to trust no one, particularly a draconian Dray-yan considered inferior to himself. Dray-yan was forced to concede, however, that he could not do this alone. He was going to need help, and though he held Grag in disdain, he had to admit that Grag was not as stupid or incompetent as most other bozaks Dray-yan had encountered. Grag was, in fact, quite intelligent, an excellent military commander. If Grag had been in charge of Pax Tharkas instead of that muscle-bound, muscleheaded human Verminaard, there would have been no slave uprising. This disaster would have never happened.

Unfortunately, no one would have even considered putting Grag in command of humans, who believed that the “lizard-men,” with their shining scales, wings, and tails, were bred for killing and nothing else. Draconians were incapable of rational thought, unfit for any type of leadership role in the Dark Queen’s army. Dray-yan knew Takhisis herself believed this, and he secretly despised his goddess for it.

He would show her. Draconians would prove themselves to her. If he succeeded, he might well be the next Dragon Highlord.

One clawed step at a time, however.

“Commander Grag,” announced one of the baaz.

The door opened, and Grag walked inside. The bozak stood well over six feet in height, and his large wings made him appear far taller. He had bronze scales covered by minimal armor, for he relied on his scales and tough hide to protect him. His scales at the moment were smeared with dirt and dust and streaked with blood. He was obviously exhausted. His long tail swept slowly from side to side. His lips were tightly pressed over his fangs. His yellow eyes narrowed as they stared hard at Dray-yan.

“What do you want?” Grag demanded churlishly. He waved a claw. “It had better be important. I’m needed out there.” Then he caught sight of the figure on the bed. “I heard his lordship was wounded. Are you treating him?”

Grag neither liked nor trusted the aurak, as Dray-yan well knew. Bozak draconians were bred to be warriors. Like auraks, bozaks were granted magical spells by their Queen, but bozak magic was martial in nature and not nearly as powerful as that of the auraks. In personality, the large and burly bozaks tended to be open, forthright, blunt, and to the point.

Auraks, by contrast, were not intended to fight battles. Tall and slender, they were secretive by nature, sly and subtle, their magic extremely powerful.

Aurak and bozak draconians had been raised to hate and mistrust each other by humans who feared they would otherwise become too powerful—or at least that’s what Dray-yan had come to believe.

“His lordship is grievously wounded,” said Dray-yan, loudly for the benefit of the baaz, who were probably eavesdropping, “but I am praying to Her Dark Majesty and there is every hope he will recover. Please come in, Commander, and shut the door behind you.” Grag hesitated then did as he was told.

“Make certain that door is shut and bolted,” Dray-yan added. “Now, come here.” Dray-yan motioned Grag to Verminaard’s bedside.

Grag looked down then looked back up.

“He’s not wounded,” said Grag. “He’s dead.”

“Yes, he is,” said Dray-yan dispassionately.

“Then why tell me he’s alive?”

“I wasn’t telling you so much as I was telling the baaz guards.”

“What slime you auraks are,” Grag sneered. “You have to twist everything—”

“The point is,” said Dray-yan, “we’re the only two who know he’s dead. Grag stared, puzzled.

“Let me make this clear, Commander,” Dray-yan said. “We—you and I—are the only two beings in this world who know that Lord Verminaard is no more. Even those baaz who carried his lordship inside this room think he still lives.”

“I still don’t see your point—”

“Verminaard is dead. There is no Highlord, no one in command of the Red Dragonarmy,” said Dray-yan.

Grag shrugged then said bitterly, “Once Emperor Ariakas finds out Verminaard is dead, another human will be sent to take over. It’s only a matter of time.”

“You and I both know that would be a mistake,” said Dray-yan. “You and I both know there are others who are better qualified.”

Grag looked at Dray-yan and the bozak’s yellow eyes flickered. “Who did you have in mind?”

“The two of us,” said Dray-yan.

“Us?” Grag repeated with a curl of his lip.

“Yes, us,” said Dray-yan coolly. “I know very little of military tactics and strategies. I would leave all that up to your wise expertise.”

Grag’s eyes flickered again, this time with amusement at the aurak’s attempt at flattery. He glanced back at the corpse. “So I am to command the Red Dragonarmy, while you are doing… what?”

“I will be Lord Verminaard,” said the aurak.

Grag turned to ask Dray-yan what in the Abyss he meant by that last remark, only to find Lord Verminaard standing beside him. His lordship, in all his hulking glory, stood glaring at Grag.

“Well, what do you think, Commander?” Dray-yan asked in a perfect imitation of Verminaard’s deep, rasping voice.

The illusion cast by the aurak was so perfect, so compelling, that Grag glanced involuntarily back at the corpse to reassure himself the human was, indeed, truly dead. When he looked back, Dray-yan was himself once more—golden scales, small wings, stubby tail, pretentious arrogance and all.

“How would this work?” Grag asked, still not trusting the aurak.

“You and I will determine our course of action. We make plans for the disposition of the armies, prosecute the battles, etc. I would, of course, defer to you in such matters,” Dray-yan added smoothly.

Grag grunted.

“I issue the commands and take his lordship’s place whenever he needs to be seen in public.” Grag thought this over. “We put out the word that Verminaard was wounded but that, with the Dark Queen’s blessing, he’s recovering. Meanwhile you act in his place, relaying his commands from his ‘sick bed’.”

“Within a short time,” Dray-yan said, “with the Dark Queen’s blessing his lordship will be fit enough to resume his normal duties.”

Grag was intrigued. “It just might work.” He regarded Dray-yan with grudging admiration Dray-yan didn’t notice. “Our biggest problem will be disposing of the body.” He cast a scathing glance at the corpse. “There was such a lot of him.”

Lord Verminaard had been an enormous human—standing nearly seven feet tall, big-boned, fleshy, and heavily muscled.

“The mines,” suggested Grag. “Dump the body in a mine shaft and then bring down the shaft on top of it.”

“The mines are outside the fortress walls. How do we smuggle out the body?”

“You auraks can walk through air, or so I’ve heard,” Grag replied. “You should have no trouble carrying the body out of here unseen.”

“We walk the halls of magic, of time and space,” said Dray-yan reprovingly. “I could carry the bastard, I suppose, though he weighs a ton. Still, one must make sacrifices for the cause. I’ll dispose of him tonight. Now, tell me what’s going on in the fortress. Have the escaped slaves been recaptured?”

“No,” said Grag, adding bluntly, “and they won’t be. Both Pyros and Flamestrike are dead. The fool dragons killed each other. The triggering of the defense mechanism caused the boulders to clog the pass, effectively blocking our troops who are now trapped on other side.”

“You could send the forces we have here after the slaves,” suggested Dray-yan.

“Most of my men lie buried under the rock fall,” said Grag grimly. “That’s where I was when you summoned me—trying to dig them out. It would take days, maybe weeks of work even if we had the manpower, which we don’t.”

Grag shook his head. “We need dragons to help us; that would make a difference. There are eight red dragons assigned to this army, but I have no idea where they are—Qualinesti, maybe, or Abanasinia:”

“I can find out.” Dray-yan jerked a claw at the piles of papers that lay scattered about on the desk. “I’ll summon them in the name of Lord Verminaard.”

“The dragons won’t take orders from the likes of us,” Grag pointed out. “Dragons despise us, even those who are on our side, fighting for the same cause. The reds would just as soon fry us as not. Your Verminaard illusion had better be able to fool them. Either that or…” He paused, thoughtful.

“Or?” Dray-yan asked worriedly. The aurak was confident his illusion would fool humans and other draconians. He was not all that certain about dragons.

“We could ask Her Dark Majesty for help. The dragons would obey her, if not us.”

“True,” Dray-yan conceded. “Unfortunately, our queen’s opinion of us is almost as low as that of her dragons.”

“I have some ideas.” Grag was starting to grow enthusiastic. “Ideas about how dragons and draconians can work together in ways that humans cannot. I could speak to Her Majesty, if you like. I think that once I explain—”

“You do that!” said Dray-yan hastily, glad to be relieved of this burden. Bozak were known for their devotion to the goddess. If Takhisis would listen to anyone, it would be Grag.

Dray-yan went back to the original topic under discussion. “So the humans escaped. How did that happen?”

“My men tried to stop them,” Grag said defensively. He felt he was being blamed. “There were too few of us. This fortress is undermanned. I repeatedly requested more troops, but his lordship said they were needed elsewhere. Some human warriors, led by an accursed Solamnic knight and an elven female, held off my forces, while other humans ransacked the supply room and hauled off whatever they could lay their hands on in stolen wagons. I had to let them go. I didn’t have enough men to send after them.”

“The humans have to travel south, a route that will take them into the Kharolis mountains. With winter coming on, they will need to find shelter and food. How many got away?”

“About eight hundred. Those who worked in the mines. Men, women, children.”

“Ah, they have children with them.” Dray-yan was pleased. “That will slow them down. We can take our time, Commander, pursue them at our leisure.”

“What about the mines? The army needs steel. The emperor will be upset if the mines close.”

“I have some thoughts on that. As to the humans—”

“Unfortunately, they have leaders now,” Grag complained. “Intelligent leaders, not like those doddering old idiots, the Seekers. The same leaders who planned the slave revolt and fought and killed his lordship.”

“That was luck, not skill,” Dray-yan said dismissively. “I saw those so-called leaders of yours—a half-breed elf, a sickly mage, and a barbarian savage. The others are even less worthy of note. I don’t think we need worry overmuch about them.”

“We have to pursue the humans,” Grag insisted. “We have to find them and bring them back here, not only to work in the mines. There is something about them that is vitally important to Her Dark Majesty. She has ordered me to go after them.”

“I know what that is,” said Dray-yan triumphantly. “Verminaard has it in his notes. She fears they might dig up some moldy old artifact, a hammer or something. I forget what it is called.” Grag shook his head. He had no interest in artifacts.

“We will go after them, Grag, I promise you,” Dray-yan said. “We will bring back the men to work in the mines. We won’t bother with the women and children. They only cause trouble. We’ll simply dispose of them—”

“Don’t dispose of all the women,” Grag said with a leer. “My men need some amusement—” Dray-yan grimaced. He found the unnatural lust some draconians had for human females disgusting.

“In the meantime, there are other more important events happening in the world, events that could have a significant impact on the war and on us.”

Dray-yan poured Grag a glass of wine, sat him down at the table, and shoved forward a stack of papers.

“Look through these. Take special note of a place labeled, ‘Thorbardin’…”

Chapter 1 The coughing spell. Hot tea. Chickens aren’t eagles.

Wearily, Raistlin Majere wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the dirt floor of the pitch dark cave and tried to go to sleep. Almost immediately, he began coughing. He hoped this would be a brief spasm, as some were, and would soon end, but the tight, constricted feeling in his chest did not abate. Rather, the cough grew worse. He sat upright, struggling to breathe, a taste of iron in his mouth. Fumbling for a handkerchief, he pressed it to his lips. He could not see in the utter darkness of the smallish cave, but he had no need to see. He knew quite well when he removed the cloth it would be stained with red.

Raistlin was a young man in his early twenties, yet he felt sometimes as if he had lived a hundred years and that each of those years had taken its toll on him. The shattering of his health had happened in a matter of moments during the dread Test in the Tower of High Sorcery. He’d gone into that test a young man, physically weak, perhaps, but relatively healthy. He’d emerged an old one—his health irretrievably impaired—not even the gods could heal him; his brownish red hair gone white, his skin turned glistening gold; his vision cursed.

The mundane were horrified. A test that left a young man crippled was not a test at all, they said. It was sadistic torture. The wise wizards knew better. Magic is a powerful force, a gift of the gods of magic, and with such a force comes a powerful responsibility. In the past, this power had been misused. Wizards had once come perilously close to destroying the world. The gods of magic had intervened, establishing rules and laws for the use of magic, and now only those mortals capable of handling such responsibility were permitted to wield it.

All mages who wanted to advance in their profession were required to take a test given to them by the wizards high in the Order. To ensure that every wizard who went into this test was serious about the art, the Orders of High Sorcery decreed that each wizard must be willing to bet his or her life on the outcome. Failure meant death. Even success did not come without sacrifice. The test was designed to teach the mage something about himself.

Raistlin had learned a great deal about himself, more than he wanted to know. He had committed a terrible act in that Tower, an act from which part of him recoiled in horror, yet there was another part of him that knew quite well he would do the same again. The act had not been real, though it had seemed quite real to him at the time. The test consisted of dropping the mage into a world of illusion. The choices he made in this world would affect him the rest of his life—might even end up costing him his life.

The terrible deed Raistlin had committed involved his twin brother, Caramon, who had been a horrified witness to it. The two never spoke of what had happened, but the knowledge was always there, casting its shadow over them.

The Test in the Tower is designed to help the mage learn more about his strengths and his weaknesses in order for him to improve himself. Thus, the punishment. Thus, the rewards. The punishment had been severe in Raistlin’s case—his health wrecked, his vision cursed. He had emerged from the Test with pupils the shape of hourglasses. To teach him humility and compassion, he saw the passage of time speeded up. Whatever he looked upon, be it fair maiden or a newly picked apple, withered with age as he gazed at it.

Yet the rewards were worth it. Raistlin had power now, power that astonished, awed, and frightened those who knew the young mage best. Par-Salian, head of the Conclave, had given Raistlin the Staff of Magius, a rare and valuable artifact. Even as he bent double coughing, Raistlin put out his hand to touch the staff. Its presence was comforting, reassuring. His suffering was worth it. The magical staff had been crafted by Magius, one of the most gifted mages who had ever lived. Raistlin had owned the staff for several years now, and he still did not know the full extent of the staff’s powers.

He coughed again, the cough tearing at him, rending flesh and bone. The only remedy for one of these spasms was a special herbal tea. The tea should be drunk hot for best effect. The cave that was his current home had no fire pit, no means to warm the water. Raistlin would have to leave the warmth of his blanket and go out into the night in search of hot water.

Ordinarily, Caramon would have been on hand to fetch the water and brew the tea. Caramon was not here, however. Hale and healthy, big of heart and body, generous of spirit, Raistlin’s twin was somewhere out there in the night, capering light-heartedly with the other guests at the wedding of Riverwind and Goldmoon.

The hour was late—well after midnight. Raistlin could still hear the laughter and music from the celebration. He was angry with Caramon for abandoning him, going off to make merry with some girl—Tika Waylan most likely—leaving his ill twin to fend for himself.

Half suffocated, Raistlin tried to stand and almost collapsed. He grabbed hold of a chair, eased himself into it and crumpled over, laying his head on the rickety table Caramon had cobbled together from a packing crate.

“Raistlin?” cried a cheerful voice from outside. “Are you asleep? I have a question I need to ask you!”

“Tas!” Raistlin tried to call out the kender’s name, but another spasm of coughing interrupted him.

“Oh, good,” the cheery voice went on, hearing the coughing, “you’re still awake.” Tas—short for Tasslehoff—Burrfoot bounded into the cave.

The kender had been told repeatedly that, in polite society, one always knocked on the door (or, in this instance, the lattice-work screen of branches that covered the cave entrance) and waited to be invited inside before one entered. Tas had difficulty adapting to this custom, which was not the norm in kender society, where doors are shut against inclement weather and marauding bugbears (and sometimes not even the bugbears, if they are interesting bugbears). When Tas remembered to knock at all, he generally did so simultaneous with entering if the occupant was lucky. Otherwise, he entered first and then remembered to knock, which is what he did on this occasion.

Tas lifted the screen and slipped nimbly inside, bringing with him light flaring from a lantern.

“Hullo, Raistlin,” said Tas. He came to stand beside the young mage and thrust both a grubby hand and the lantern into Raistlin’s face. “What kind of a feather is this?” Kender are a diminutive race said to be distantly related to dwarves (by everyone except the dwarves). Kender are fearless, intensely curious, fond of bright-colored clothing, leather pouches, and collecting interesting objects to put in those pouches. Kender are a race of optimists and sadly a race that tends to be a bit light-fingered. To call a kender a thief is misnomer. Kender never mean to steal. They borrow, always with the best intentions of returning what they’ve picked up. It is hard to persuade a closed-minded person to understand this, however, particularly when he finds the kender’s hand in his purse.

Tasslehoff was representative of his race. He stood somewhere near four feet in height, depending on how high his topknot of hair was on any particular day. Tas was quite proud of his topknot and often decorated it as he’d done tonight, having adorned it with several red maple leaves. He faced Raistlin with a grin on his face, his slightly slanted eyes shining and his pointed ears quivering with excitement.

Raistlin glared at Tasslehoff with as much fury as he could muster, given that he was blinded by the sudden light and choking to death. He reached out his own hand and seized hold of the kender’s wrist and squeezed.

“Hot water!” Raistlin gasped. “Tea!”

“Tea?” said Tas, just catching the last word. “No, thanks, I just ate.” Raistlin coughed into the handkerchief. It came away from his lips stained red with blood. He glared at Tas again and this time the kender caught on.

“Oh, you want the tea! The tea Caramon always makes for your cough. Caramon’s not here to make it, and you can’t make it, because you’re coughing. Which means…” Tas hesitated. He didn’t want to get this wrong.

Raistlin pointed a trembling hand at the empty mug on the table.

“You want me to fetch the water!” Tas jumped to his feet. “I won’t be gone a minute!” The kender dashed outside, leaving the screen of branches open so that cold air blew in, causing Raistlin to shiver. He clutched the blanket around his shoulders and went into a another fit of coughing.

Tas was back in an instant.

“Forgot the mug.”

He grabbed the mug and ran off again.

“Shut the—” Raistlin tried, but he couldn’t manage to say it quickly enough. The kender was gone, the screen standing open.

Raistlin gazed out into the night. The sound of merriment was louder now. He could see firelight and the silhouettes of people dancing. The bride and groom, Riverwind and Goldmoon, would have gone to their wedding bed by now. They would be wrapped in each other’s arms; their love for each other, their trials, their sorrows and griefs, their long and dark journey together culminating in this moment of joy.

That’s all it will be, Raistlin thought—a moment—a spark that will flare for an instant then be stamped out by the doom that was fast approaching. He was the only one with the brains to see it. Even Tanis Half-Elven, who had more sense than most of this lot, had been lulled into a false sense of peace and security.

“The Queen of Darkness is not defeated,” Raistlin had told Tanis not so many hours ago.

“We may not have won the war,” Tanis had said in reply, “but we have won a major battle—” Raistlin had shaken his head at such stupidity.

“Do you see no hope?” Tanis had asked.

“Hope is the denial of reality,” Raistlin had said in return. “Hope is the carrot dangled before the draft horse to keep him plodding along in a vain attempt to reach it.”

He was rather proud of that imagery, and he smiled as he thought back on it. Another fit of coughing ended his smile and interrupted his thoughts. When he had recovered, he stared again out the door, trying to see the kender in the moonlight. Raistlin was leaning on a weak reed and he knew it. There was every possibility that the rattlebrained kender would get distracted by something and forget about him completely.

“In which case I’ll be dead by morning,” Raistlin muttered. His irritation at Caramon grew. His thoughts went back to his conversation with Tanis. “Are you saying we should just give up?” Tanis had asked him. “I’m saying we should remove the carrot and walk forward with our eyes open,” Raistlin had answered. “How will you fight the dragons, Tanis? For there will be more! More than you can imagine! Where now is Huma? Where now are the fabled dragonlances?” The half-elf had no answer. Tanis had been impressed with Raistlin’s remarks, though. He’d gone off to think about them, and now that this wedding was over, perhaps the people could be made to take a good hard look at the grim reality of their situation. Autumn was ending. The chill wind blowing into the door, coming from the mountains, presaged the winter months that lay ahead. Raistlin went into another fit of coughing. When he lifted his head, there was the kender.

“I’m back,” said Tasslehoff brightly and unnecessarily. “Sorry to be so slow, but I didn’t want to spill any.”

He gingerly set the steaming mug on the table and then looked about for the sack of herbs. Finding it lying nearby, he grabbed hold of it and yanked it open.

“Do I just dump this whole bag in here—”

Raistlin snatched the precious herbs away from the kender. Carefully, he shook out some of the leaves into the hot water and watched intently as they swirled about and then drifted to the bottom of the cup. When the color of the water had darkened and the pungent smell filled the air, Raistlin took the mug in his shaking hands and brought it to his lips.

The brew had been a gift from the archmage, Par-Salian—a gift to ease his guilty conscience, so Raistlin had always thought bitterly. The soothing concoction slid down Raistlin’s throat and almost immediately the spasms ceased. The smothering feeling, like cobwebs in his lungs, eased. He drew in a deep breath.

Tas wrinkled his nose. “That stuff smells like a gully dwarf picnic. Are you sure it makes you better?”

Raistlin sipped the tea, reveling in its warmth. “Now that you can talk,” Tas continued, “I have a question about this feather. Where did I put it—”

Tas began to search through the pockets of his jacket.

Raistlin eyed the kender coldly. “I am exhausted, and I would like to return to my bed, but I don’t suppose I will be able to get rid of you, will I?”

“I did fetch the hot water for you,” Tas reminded him. He suddenly looked worried. “My feather’s not here.”

Raistlin sighed deeply as he watched the kender continue to rummage through his pockets decorated with gold braiding “borrowed” from a ceremonial cloak the kender had come across somewhere. Not finding what he sought, Tas rummaged through the pockets of his loose-fitting trousers and then started in on his boots. Raistlin lacked the strength, or he would have thrown the kender out bodily.

“It’s this new jacket,” Tas complained. “I never know where to find things.” He had discarded the clothes he had been wearing for an entirely new set, collected over the past few weeks from the leavings and cast-offs of the refugees from Pax Tharkas in whose company they were now traveling.

The refugees had been slaves, forced to work in the iron mines for the Dragon Highlord Verminaard. The Highlord had been killed in an uprising led by Raistlin and his friends. They had freed the slaves and fled with them into the mountainous region south of the city of Pax Tharkas. Though it was hard to believe, this annoying kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had been one of the heroes of that uprising. He and the elderly and befuddled wizard, who called himself by the grandiose name of Fizban the Fabulous, had inadvertently triggered a mechanism that sent hundreds of tons of boulders dropping down into a mountain pass, blocking the draconian army on the other side of the pass from entering Pax Tharkas to put down the uprising. Verminaard had died at the hands of Tanis and Sturm Brightblade. The magical sword of the legendary elven king, Kith-Kanan, and the hereditary sword of the Solamnic knight, Sturm Brightblade, pierced the Highlord’s armor and stabbed deep into the man’s body. Up above them, two red dragons fought and two red dragons died, their blood falling like horrible rain upon the terrified observers.

Tanis and the others had acted quickly to take charge of the chaotic situation. Some of the slaves had wanted to take out their revenge against the monstrous draconians who had been their masters. Knowing their only hope for survival lay in flight, Tanis, Sturm, and Elistan had persuaded the men and women that they had a god-given opportunity to escape, taking their families to safety.

Tanis had organized work parties. The women and children had gathered what supplies they could find. They loaded up wagons used to carry ore from the mines with food, blankets, tools—whatever they thought would be needed on their trek to freedom.

The dwarf, Flint Fireforge, had been born and raised in these mountains, and he led Plainsmen scouts, who had been among the slaves, on a expedition south to find a safe haven for the refugees. They had discovered a valley nestled between the Kharolis peaks. The tops of the mountains were already white with snow, but the valley far below was still lush and green, the leaves barely touched by the reds and golds of autumn. There was game in abundance. The valley was crisscrossed with clear streams, and the foothills were honey-combed with caves that could be used for dwellings, food storage, and refuge in case of attack.

In those early days, the refugees expected at any moment to be set upon by dragons, pursued by the foul dragon-men known as draconians, and they might well have been pursued, for the draconian army was quite capable of scaling the pass leading into the valley. It had been (astonishingly) Raistlin’s twin, Caramon, who had come up with the idea of blocking the pass by causing an avalanche.

It had been Raistlin’s magic—a devastating lightning spell he had learned from a night-blue spellbook he had acquired in the sunken city of Xak Tsaroth—that had produced the thunder clap that had shaken loose mounds of snow and sent heavy boulders cascading into the pass. More snow had fallen on top of that, fallen for days and nights, so that the pass was soon choked with it. No creature—not even the winged and claw-footed lizard-men—could now enter the valley. Days for the refugees had passed in peaceful tranquility, and the people relaxed. The red and gold leaves fell to the ground and turned brown. The memory of the dragons and the terror of their captivity receded. Safe, snug, and secure, the refugees talked about spending the winter here, planning to continue their journey south in the spring. They spoke of building permanent shelters. They talked of dismantling the wagons and using the wood for crude huts, or building dwellings out of rock and sod to keep them warm when the chill rain and snows of winter would eventually come to the valley.

Raistlin’s lip curled in a sneer of contempt.

“I’m going to bed,” he said.

“Found it!” cried Tasslehoff, remembering at the last moment that he’d stuck the feather in a safe place—his brown topknot of hair.

Tasslehoff plucked the feather from his topknot and held it out in the palm of his hand. He held it carefully, as if it were a precious jewel, and regarded it with awe.

Raistlin regarded the feather with disdain. “It’s a chicken feather,” he stated. He rose to his feet, gathered his long red robes around his wasted body, and returned to his straw pallet spread out on the dirt floor.

“Ah, I thought so,” said Tasslehoff, softly.

“Close the door on your way out,” Raistlin ordered. Lying down on the pallet, he wrapped himself in his blanket and closed his eyes. He was sinking into slumber when a hand, shaking his shoulder, brought him back awake.

“What?” Raistlin snapped.

“This is very important,” Tas said solemnly, bending over Raistlin and breathing garlic from dinner into the mage’s face. “Can chickens fly?”

Raistlin shut his eyes. Maybe this was a bad dream.

“I know they have wings,” Tas continued, “and I know roosters can flap to the top of the chicken coop so they can crow when the sun comes up, but what I’m wondering is if can chickens fly way up high, like eagles? Because, you see, this feather floated down from the sky and I looked up, but I didn’t see any passing chickens, and then I realized that I’d never seen chickens fly—”

“Get out!” Raistlin snarled, and he reached for the Staff of Magius that lay near his bed. “Or so help me I will—”

“—turn me into a hop toad and feed me to a snake. Yes, I know.” Tas sighed and stood up.

“About the chickens—”

Raistlin knew the kender would never leave him alone, not even with the threat of being turned into a toad, which Raistlin lacked the strength to do anyway.

“Chickens are not eagles. They cannot fly,” said Raistlin.

“Thank you!” said Tasslehoff joyously. “I knew it! Chickens aren’t eagles!” He flung aside the screen, leaving it wide open, and forgetting his lantern, which shone right in Raistlin’s eyes. Raistlin was just starting to drift off, when Tas’s shrill voice jolted him again to wakefulness.

“Caramon! There you are!” Tas shouted. “Guess what? Chickens aren’t eagles. They can’t fly! Raistlin said so. There’s hope, Caramon! Your brother is wrong. Not about the chickens, but about the hope. This feather is a sign! Fizban cast a magic spell he called featherfall to save us when we were falling off the chain and we were supposed to fall like feathers, but instead the only thing that fell were feathers—chicken feathers. The feathers saved me, though not Fizban.” Tas’s voice trailed off into a snuffle as he thought of his sadly deceased friend.

“Have you been pestering Raist?” Caramon demanded.

“No, I’ve been helping him!” Tas said proudly. “Raistlin was choking to death, like he does, you know. He was coughing up blood! I saved him. I ran to get the water that he uses to make that horrible smelling stuff he drinks. He’s better now, so you don’t have to fret. Hey, Caramon, don’t you want to hear about the chickens—”

Caramon didn’t. Raistlin heard his twin’s large boots clomp hastily over the ground, running toward the hut.

“Raist!” Caramon cried anxiously. “Are you all right?”

“No thanks to you,” Raistlin muttered. He hunched deeper into his blanket, kept his eyes closed. He could see Caramon well enough without looking at him.

Big, muscular, broad-shouldered, broad-smiling, genial, good-looking, his brother was everybody’s friend, all the girls’ darling.

“I was left to the tender mercies of a kender,” Raistlin told him, “while you were out playing slap and tickle with the buxom Tika.”

“Don’t talk about her like that, Raist,” said Caramon, and there was a harsh edge to his generally cheerful voice. “Tika’s a nice girl. We were dancing. That’s all.” Raistlin grunted.

Caramon stood there shuffling his big feet, then said remorsefully, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to fix your tea. I didn’t realize it was so late. Can I—Can I get you anything? Do something for you?”

“You can stop talking, shut what passes for a door, and douse that blasted light!”

“Yeah, Raist. Sure.” Caramon picked up the lattice-work branch screen and set it back into place. He blew out the candle inside the lantern and undressed in the darkness.

Caramon tried to be quiet, but the big man—a muscular and healthy contrast to his weaker twin—stumbled into the table, knocked over a chair, and once, to judge by the sound of swearing, bumped his head on the cavern wall while groping about in the dark, trying to find his mattress.

Raistlin grit his teeth and waited in seething silence until Caramon finally settled down. His brother was soon snoring, and Raistlin, who had been so weary, lay wide awake, unable to sleep. He stared into the darkness, not blinded by it as his twin and all the rest of them. His eyes were open to what lived inside.

“Chicken feathers!” he muttered scathingly and began to cough again.

Chapter 2 Dawn of a New Day. The longing for home.

Tanis Half-Elven woke with a hangover, and he hadn’t even been drinking. His hangover came not from spending the night in jollity, dancing, and drinking too much ale. It came from lying awake half the night worrying.

Tanis had left the wedding early last night. The celebratory spirit grated on his soul. The loud music made him wince and glance uneasily over his shoulder, fearful that they were revealing themselves to their enemies. He longed to tell the musicians, banging and tooting on their crude instruments, not to play so loudly. There were eyes watching from the darkness, ears listening. Eventually he had sought out Raistlin, finding the company of the dark-souled, cynical mage more in keeping with his own dark and pessimistic feelings.

Tanis had paid for it, too. When he had finally fallen asleep, he dreamed of horses and carrots, dreamed he was that draft horse, plodding round and round in a never-ending circle, seeking vainly for the carrot he could never quite reach.

“First, the carrot is a blue crystal staff,” he said resentfully, rubbing his aching forehead. “We have to save the staff from falling into the wrong hands. We do and then we’re told this is not good enough. We have to travel to Xak Tsaroth to find the god’s greatest gift—the sacred Disks of Mishakal, only to discover that we can’t read them. We have to seek out the person who can, and all the while, we are being dragged deeper and deeper into this war—a war none of knew was even going on!”

“Yes, you did,” growled a largish lump, barely visible in the half-light of dawn that was slipping through the blankets covering the opening of the cave. “You had traveled enough, seen enough, heard enough to know war was brewing. You just wouldn’t admit it.”

“I’m sorry, Flint,” said Tanis. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t realize I was talking out loud.”

“That’s a sign of madness, you know,” the dwarf grumbled. “Talking to yourself. You shouldn’t make a habit of it. Now go back to sleep before you wake the kender.”

Tanis glanced over at another lump on the opposite side of the cave that was not so much a cave as a hole scooped out of the mountain. Tas had been relegated to a far corner by Flint, who’d been grumpily opposed to sharing his cave with the kender anyway. Tanis needed to keep an eye on Tas, however, and had finally persuaded the dwarf to allow the kender to share their dwelling.

“I think I could shout and not wake him,” said Tanis, smiling.

The kender slept the peaceful and innocent sleep of dogs and children. Much like a dog, Tas twitched and whiffled in his sleep, his small fingers wiggling as if even in his dreams he was examining all sorts of curious and wondrous things. Tas’s precious pouches, containing his treasure trove of “borrowed” items, lay scattered around him. He was using one as a pillow. Tanis made a mental note to go through those pouches sometime today when Tas was off on one of his excursions. Tanis regularly searched the kender’s possessions, looking for objects people had “misplaced” or “dropped.” Tanis would return said objects to their owners, who would receive them in a huff and tell him he really should do something about the kender’s pilfering. Since kender had been pilfering since the day the Graygem’s passing had created them (if you believed the old legends), there wasn’t much Tanis could do to stop it, short of taking the kender to the top of the mountain and shoving him off, which was Flint’s preferred solution to the problem.

Tanis crawled out from beneath his blanket, and moving as quietly as he could, he left the hut. He had an important decision to make today, and if he remained in his bed, trying to go back to sleep, he would only toss and turn restlessly thinking about it, risking another outraged protest from Flint. Despite the chill of the morning—and winter was definitely in the air—Tanis decided to go wash the thought of carrots out of his mind with a plunge in the stream. His cavern was just one of many that pocked the mountainside. The refugees of Pax Tharkas were not the first people to dwell in these caves. Pictures painted on the walls of some gave indications that ancient folk had lived here before. The pictures depicted hunters with bows and arrows and animals that resembled deer yet had long pointed horns, not antlers. And in some there were creatures with wings. Enormous creatures breathing fire from their mouths. Dragons. He stood for a moment on the ledge in front of his cave, gazing down at floor of the valley spread out before him. He could not see the stream; the valley was shrouded with a low-lying mist rising off the water. The sun lit the sky, but it had not yet risen over the mountains. The valley remained nestled in its foggy blanket, as though as loathe to wake up as the old dwarf. A beautiful place, Tanis thought to himself, climbing down from the rocks onto the wet grass in the misty half-light, heading toward the tree-lined stream.

The red leaves of the maple and the gold of the walnut and oak trees were a brilliant contrast to the dark green of the pines, as the gray rock of the mountains was a contrast to the stark white, new-fallen snows. He could see tracks of game animals on the muddy trail leading to the stream. Nuts lay on the ground, and fruit hung glistening from the vines.

“We could shelter in this valley though the winter months,” Tanis said, doing his thinking aloud. He slipped and slid down the bank until he came to the edge of the deep, swift-flowing water.

“What harm would there be in that?” he asked his reflection.

The face that looked up at him grinned in answer. He had elven blood in him, but one would never know by looking. Laurana accused him of hiding it. Well, maybe he did. It made life easier. Tanis scratched at the beard that no elf could grow. Long hair covered his slightly pointed ears. His body did not have the slender delicacy of the elven form but the bulk of humans. Stripping off his leather tunic, breeches, and boots, Tanis waded into the stream, dispersing his reflection in ripples, gasping at the shock of the cold water. He splashed water onto his chest and neck. Then, holding his breath, he braved himself for a plunge. He came up huffing and blowing water from his nose and mouth, grinning widely at the tingling sensation that spread throughout his body. Already he felt better.

After all, why shouldn’t they stay here?

“The mountains protect us from the chill winds. We have food enough to see us through the winter, if we are careful.” Tanis splashed water into the air, like a kid at play. “We are safe from our enemies—”

“For how long?”

Tanis had thought himself alone, and he nearly leaped out of the water in shock at hearing another voice.

“Riverwind!” Tanis exclaimed, turning around and spotting the tall man standing on the bank.

“You scared me out of six years of my life!”

“Since you are half elven with a life-span of several hundred years, six of those years is not much to worry about,” Riverwind remarked.

Tanis looked searchingly at the Plainsman. Riverwind had never met or even seen anyone of elven blood until he had encountered Tanis, and though Tanis was half elf and half human, Riverwind found him wholly alien. There had been occasions between the two when such a remark about Tanis’s race would have been meant as an insult.

Tanis saw a smile warm in the Plainsman’s brown eyes, however, and he smiled in return. He and Riverwind had gone through too much together for the old prejudices to remain. The fire of dragons had burned up mistrust and hatred. Tears of joy and of sorrow had washed away the ashes.

Tanis climbed out of the water. He used his leather tunic to dry himself then sat down beside Riverwind, shivering in the cold air. The sun, beaming through a gap in the mountains, burned away the mist and soon warmed him.

Tanis eyed Riverwind in concern that was half-mocking and half-serious. “What is the bridegroom doing up so early on his wedding morn? I did not expect to see you or Goldmoon for several days.”

Riverwind gazed out over the water. The sun shone full on his face. The Plainsman was a man who kept himself to himself. His innermost feelings and thoughts were his alone, personal and private, not to be shared with anyone. His dark visage was normally set in an expressionless mask, and so it was today, but Tanis could see radiance shining from beneath.

“My joy was too great to be contained within rock walls,” said Riverwind softly. “I had to come outside to share it with the earth and the wind, the water and the sun. Even now, the wide, vast world feels too small to hold it.”

Tanis had to look away. He was glad for Riverwind, also envious, and he didn’t want the envy to show. Tanis found himself longing for such love and joy himself. The irony was that he could have it. All he had to do was banish the memory of curly dark hair, flashing dark eyes, and a charming, crooked smile.

As if reading his thoughts, Riverwind said, “I wish the same for you, my friend. Perhaps you and Laurana…”

His voice trailed off.

Tanis shook his head and changed the subject.

“We have that meeting today with Elistan and the Seekers. I want you and your people to attend. We have to decide what to do, whether we stay here or leave.”

Riverwind nodded but said nothing.

“I know this is bad timing,” Tanis added ruefully. “If ever there was a joy-killer, it’s Hederick the High Theocrat, but we have to make a decision quickly, before the snows come.”

“From what you were saying, you have already decided we should stay,” said Riverwind. “Is that wise? We are still very close to Pax Tharkas and the dragonarmies.”

“True,” said Tanis, “but the pass between here and Pax Tharkas is blocked by rocks and snow. The dragonarmy has better things to do than chase after us. They’re conquering nations. We’re a ragtag bunch of former slaves—”

“—who escaped them, giving them a black eye.” Riverwind turned his penetrating gaze full on Tanis. “The enemy must come after us. If the people they conquer hear that others threw off their manacles and walked free, they will begin to believe they can also overthrow their masters. The armies of the Dark Queen will come after us. Maybe not soon, but they will come.” Tanis knew he was right. He knew Raistlin and his analogy about the carrot was right. Staying here was dangerous. Every day that passed could be bringing their enemies closer. He didn’t want to admit it. Tanis Half-Elven had traveled the world for five years, searching for himself. He thought he’d found himself, only to discover on his return that he wasn’t who he’d thought he was.

He would have liked to have spent some time—even just a little while—in a quiet place he could call home, a place where he could think, figure out some things. A cave shared with an irascible old dwarf and a pilfering and sometimes highly annoying kender wasn’t Tanis’s ideal home, but—compared to the road—it seemed very attractive.

“That is good reasoning, my friend, but Hederick will say that it is not the true reason you want to leave,” Tanis pointed out. “You and your people want to go back to your homeland. You want to return to the Plains of Dust.”

“We want to reclaim what is ours,” said Riverwind, “what was taken from us.”

“There is nothing left,” said Tanis gently, thinking of the burned-out village of Que-shu.

“We are left,” said Riverwind.

Tanis shivered. The sun had ducked behind a cloud, and he was chilled. He had long feared that this was Riverwind’s intent.

“So you and your people plan to strike out on your own.”

“We have not yet decided,” said Riverwind, “but that is the direction our thinking is tending.”

“Look, Riverwind,” said Tanis. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but your Plainsmen have been an immense help to us. These people are not accustomed to living like this. Before they were slaves, they were shopkeepers and merchants, farmers and cobblers. They came from cities like Haven and Solace and a host of other towns and villages around Abanasinia. They’ve never had to live off the land. They don’t know how.”

“And for centuries, these city-dwellers have looked down on us,” said Riverwind. “They call us barbarians, savages.”

And you call me a half-elf, Tanis thought, but did not say aloud. Instead he said, “When we were all of us prisoners, you put all the old hatreds and misunderstandings aside. We worked together to help each other escape. Why dredge that up now?”

“Because others brought it up first,” Riverwind said harshly.

“Hederick,” said Tanis, sighing. “The man’s an ass, plain and simple. You know that; although, it’s because he’s an ass that we met you and Goldmoon.”

Riverwind smiled at the memory. “True,” he said, his voice softening. “I have not forgotten.”

“Hederick falls into the fire. Goldmoon’s blue crystal staff heals him, and all he can do is yell that she is a witch, and he sticks his hand back into the fire, then he runs off and calls the guards. That’s the sort of lunk-head he is. You can’t pay any attention to what he says.”

“Others do pay attention, my friend.”

“I know,” Tanis said gloomily. He picked up a handful of small rocks, began tossing them one-by-one into the water.

“We have done our part,” Riverwind continued. “We helped scout out the land to find this valley. We showed your shopkeepers how to transform caves into dwellings. We taught them to track and bring down game, to set out snares and traps. We showed them which berries to eat and which were poisonous. Goldmoon, my wife,”—this was the first time he’d used that word and he spoke it with gentle pride—“heals their sick.”

“They are grateful, though they don’t say it. You and your people might be able to make it safely through the mountains and back to your homeland before the worst of the winter sets in, but you know as well as I do that it’s risky. I wish you would stay with us. I have this feeling in my gut that we should all keep together.

“I know we can’t stay here,” Tanis added with a sigh. “I know it’s dangerous.” He hesitated before he went on, knowing how his proposal would be received. Then, like diving into cold water, he plunged ahead.

“I’m sure if we could find the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin—”

“Thorbardin! The mountain fastness of the dwarves?” Riverwind scowled. “I won’t consider it.”

“Think about it. Hidden deep below ground, the dwarven kingdom would be a perfect refuge for our people. We could remain there during the winter, safe beneath the mountain. Not even dragon eyes could find us—”

“We would also be safe buried in a tomb!” Riverwind stated caustically. “My people will not go to Thorbardin. We will go nowhere near dwarves. We will scout out our own path. After all, we have no children with us to slow us up.”

His face was shadowed. The children of the Plainsmen had all perished in the dragonarmy’s attack on their villages.

“You have Elistan with you now,” Riverwind went on. “He is a cleric of Paladine. He can heal the sick in Goldmoon’s absence and teach your people of the return of the gods. My people and I want to go home. Can’t you understand that?”

Tanis thought of his home in Solace. He wondered if his house was still standing, if it had survived the dragonarmy’s assault. He liked to think it was. Though he had not been in his house for five years, knowing it was there, waiting to receive him, was a comfort.

“Yes,” he answered. “I can understand.”

“We have not yet made a final decision,” said Riverwind, seeing his friend downcast. “Some of our people believe like you that there is safety in numbers, that we should remain together.”

“Your wife among them,” said Goldmoon, walking up behind them.

Riverwind rose to his feet, turning to meet his new bride as she came to him in the dawn. Goldmoon had always been beautiful. Her long silver-gold hair—the color that was so rare among her people—had always glistened in the morning half-light. She had always worn the soft and supple leather skins of her people with a grace and elegance that would have been envied by the fine ladies of Palanthas. This morning, she made beauty seem a paltry and inadequate word to describe her. The mists seemed to part for her, the shadows lift.

“You were not worried about me, were you?” Riverwind asked, with a trace of unease.

“No, my husband,” said Goldmoon, and she lingered lovingly over the word. “I knew where to find you.” She glanced upward into the blue heavens. “I knew you would be out beneath the skies. Out here, where you can breathe.”

He took her hands and they greeted each other by touching cheeks. The Plainsmen believed their love for each other should be expressed only in private.

“I claim the privilege of kissing the bride,” said Tanis.

“You claimed that privilege last night,” Riverwind protested, smiling.

“I will likely go on claiming it for the rest of my life,” said Tanis. He kissed Goldmoon on the cheek.

The sun flared out from behind the mountain peak, as though to expressly admire Goldmoon, causing her silver hair to flame in its light.

“With such beauty in the world, how can there be evil?” Tanis asked. Goldmoon laughed. “Perhaps to make me look better by contrast,” she said, teasing. “You were speaking of serious subjects before I interrupted you,” she added more somberly.

“Riverwind thinks you and your people should head off on your own, travel eastward toward the plains. He says you want to remain with us.”

“That is true,” said Goldmoon complacently. “I would like to remain with you and the others. I believe that I am needed, but my vote is just one among our people. If my husband and the others decide we should leave, then we will leave.”

Tanis glanced from one to the other. He didn’t quite know how to say this, so he decided just to come out with it.

“Excuse me for asking,” he said awkwardly, “but what happened to Chieftain’s Daughter?” Goldmoon laughed again, laughed long and merrily, and even Riverwind smiled. Tanis did not see the joke. When he’d first met the two, Goldmoon was Chieftain’s Daughter and Riverwind, a humble shepherd, was her subject. True, they loved each other dearly, and it had often seemed to Tanis that Goldmoon would have been willing to put aside the responsibility of leadership, but Riverwind stubbornly refused to let her. He had insisted on being subservient, forcing her to make decisions. Placed in that position, she had done so.

“I don’t get it,” Tanis said.

“Chieftain’s Daughter gave her final command last night,” Goldmoon explained. During the marriage ceremony, Riverwind had knelt before her, since she was his ruler, but Goldmoon had bidden her husband rise, indicating the two were wed as equals.

“I am Goldmoon of the Plains,” she said. “Cleric of Mishakal. Priestess of the Que-shu.”

“Who will be Chieftain of the Que-shu?” Tanis asked. “There are survivors from your tribe among the other Plainsmen. Will they accept Riverwind as their chieftain? He has proven himself to be a strong leader.”

Goldmoon looked at Riverwind. He did not meet her gaze. He deliberately kept his eyes fixed on the bubbling stream. His lips tightened.

“The Que-shu have long memories,” Goldmoon said at last, seeing her husband would not speak.

“They know that my father did not accept Riverwind as my husband and ordered him stoned to death. They know that, but for the miracle of the blue crystal staff, Riverwind and I would have both perished.”

“So they won’t accept him as Chieftain, even though they look to him for guidance.”

“The Que-shu do,” said Goldmoon, “but they are not the only people here. There are some from the Que-Kiri, and they were once our bitter enemies. Our tribes met on the field of battle many times.”

Tanis muttered a few words in elven.

“I won’t ask you to translate that, my friend,” said Goldmoon with a sad smile. “I know, and my people know, the truth of the tale about the two wolves that turned on each other and the lion who ate them both. It is not easy for people to overcome hatred that was born in them.”

“You and Riverwind have done so,” said Tanis.

“We still have trouble,” Goldmoon admitted, “but we know where to go when we need help.” She touched the medallion she wore around her neck, the medallion that was the goddess’s gift and an emblem of her faith.

“Maybe I’m being selfish,” Tanis said quietly. “Maybe I don’t want to say good-bye.”

“We will not speak of goodbye,” said Goldmoon firmly, “not on this day of joy—our first day as a married couple.”

She reached for her husband’s hand. Their fingers entwined, she and Riverwind walked back toward their dwelling, leaving Tanis alone by the stream.

It might be a day of joy for them, but he had the feeling it was going to be a day of aggravation and contention for him.

As if to prove him right, Tasslehoff Burrfoot burst out of the woods, running as fast as his short legs would carry him, an irate miller in hot pursuit.

“You don’t understand!” Tas was yelling over his shoulder, “I was trying to put it back!”

Chapter 3 Dissension. Letting go. From bad to worse.

The meeting of the refugees started every bit as badly as Tanis had expected. They held the meeting in a grove of trees near the stream, for there was no cave large enough to hold eight hundred men, women, and children. The refugees had chosen representatives to speak for them, but they didn’t intend to let those people speak unobserved. Thus almost everyone in the small community attended the meeting, standing on the outskirts where they could see, hear and speak up if they felt like it. Not an ideal situation, Tanis thought, for any delegates who might have been persuaded to change their thinking by reasoned argument would be forced to stand their ground because they were under the watchful eyes of those who had selected them. The Plainsmen arrived in a body, for they had not been able to agree on a delegate—a bad sign. Riverwind was grimmer and more morose than usual. Goldmoon stood at his side, her face flushed with anger. Members of the Que-shu tribe stood apart from those of the Que-Kiri. None of the Plainsmen mingled with the other former slaves but regarded the main body of refugees with a suspicion that was whole-heartedly returned.

The refugees were also divided. Elistan came with his group of followers. Hederick arrived with his. Tanis and his friends formed yet another group.

Tanis looked around the assembly, where people were eying each other askance. Only last night, they were all dancing and singing together. So much for Goldmoon’s day of joy. Tanis looked to Elistan to start the proceedings. A former member of the Theocracy of Seekers himself, Elistan had been one of the few members of that group to actually use his power to help people. He had been the only one of them to stand up against Dragon Highlord Verminaard, warning the others that they were wrong to believe the Highlord’s promises—promises that turned out to be lies and eventually landed them in the iron mines of Pax Tharkas. Though a prisoner himself, Elistan had continued to defy Verminaard and had nearly paid for his rebellion with his life. Already suffering from a wasting disease, he had been tortured by Verminaard in an effort to force him to worship the Dark Queen.

Elistan had been dying when he had met Goldmoon. She had secretly entered Pax Tharkas in company with Tanis and the other companions in a bold endeavor to free the slaves. Seeing Elistan, weak as he was, continue to work tirelessly to help the people, Goldmoon was drawn to him. She was able to heal him through the power of Mishakal, and Elistan knew that at last his life-long search had ended. He had found the true gods.

Elistan was able to read and translate the cryptic Disks of Mishakal. Elistan used the disks to teach them of the ancient gods of Krynn who, if they were remembered at all, were remembered only in legend. He told the people of Paladine, God of Light, and leader of the other gods of Light. He told them of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, and of those gods who dwelt in the shadows. He spoke of Gilean of the Book, the God of the Scales of Balance, who, with the other Gods of Neutrality, kept the scales from tipping one way or the other, as had happened during the Age of Might, bringing about the catastrophe known as the Cataclysm that had forever changed the face of the world.

Although only in his forties, Elistan appeared older. The white robes of a Revered Son of Paladine hung on this thin frame. His recent illness, though cured, had left its mark on him. So, too, had his new-found faith. He was no longer troubled by doubts, no longer searching. His eyes were bright with intelligence and laughter. Children ran straight to his arms. People admired him and loved him, and more than a few had already accepted his teachings and were now followers of the gods.

Hederick the High Theocrat was not among them. In the absence of true gods, Hederick had devised some gods of his own. These Seeker gods had done well by Hederick, providing him with a good living, if they had done little for anyone else. Hederick had abandoned his gods when Verminaard came along, succumbing to the Highlord’s blandishments and lies, ending up in the dungeons of Pax Tharkas.

Hederick had prudently taken no part in the uprising, for he thought it had little chance of success. When, to his amazement, the slaves were victorious, he was quick enough to switch sides and take advantage of the freedom others had won for him. He had always been jealous and mistrustful of Elistan and he was secretly incensed that the man was now able to perform “miracles.” Hederick did not believe in these miracles. He did not believe in these new gods. He was biding his time, waiting for Elistan to be exposed as a charlatan. Meanwhile, because Hederick was loud and ingratiating and said what everyone wanted to hear, he’d manage to win over large numbers to his way of thinking.

Tanis hoped Elistan’s wise counsel would prevail this day, convincing the refugees that they were not safe here. Unfortunately, before Elistan had a chance to speak, Hederick raised his arms.

“My dear friends,” began the High Theocrat in well-oiled tones, “we have come together today to discuss issues important to us all.”

Tanis sighed and looked at Elistan, who stood behind the High Theocrat with the rest of the Seekers. Elistan caught Tanis’s glance. He shrugged and smiled ruefully. Hederick was still the leader of the people. He had a right to address them first.

“There are those among us who have been talking of leaving this valley,” Hederick was saying.

“This valley—that is safe, teeming with game, sheltered from the winter winds, hidden from our enemies—”

“We are not hidden,” Tanis muttered, recalling Riverwind’s words to himself only that morning. Tanis stood with his friends, apart from the main body, leaning his back against a fir tree. “Why doesn’t Elistan speak up, remind him of that? Elistan should say something, do something—instead of just standing there.”

“On the contrary,” said Laurana, who was beside him. “Elistan is doing exactly right. He will allow Hederick to have his say, then Elistan will be able to answer all that Hederick is saying.” Tanis glanced at her. Laurana was not even listening to Hederick. Her gaze was fixed on Elistan. Her eyes, almond-shaped and bluer than the clear, cobalt sky, glowed with admiration; her voice warmed when she spoke of him. Tanis felt a twinge of jealousy. Some might say that Elistan was old enough to be Laurana’s father, but in truth the beautiful elven maiden was far older than the human male. Laurana appeared to be a maid in her early twenties, as young as her friend, Tika Waylan, when, in fact, Laurana could have been Tika’s great-grandmother.

I have no right to be jealous, Tanis reminded himself. I’m the one who ended our relationship. I’m in love with another woman myself, or at least, I think I might be in love with her. I should be glad Laurana has found someone else.

All very logical arguments, and yet Tanis found himself saying, “You and Elistan have certainly been spending a lot of time together.”

Laurana turned to him. Her blue eyes were chill as the water in the stream. “What do you mean by that remark?” she asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Tanis returned, astonished at her sudden anger. “I didn’t mean anything—”

“Indeed we have been spending time together,” Laurana continued. “I was a diplomat for many years in my father’s court, where, as you well know, every sentence must be carefully considered lest it cause someone offense. A single word given the wrong intonation could bring about a feud that might last for centuries. I offered Elistan advice on one or two small matters, and he was grateful. Now he seeks out my counsel. He does not consider me a child!”

“Laurana, I didn’t mean—”

She walked off, her shoulders stiff. Even angry and offended, she moved with a flowing grace that put the slender branches of willows to shame and caused Tanis’s heart to stand still in awe when he looked at her.

Many watched Laurana as she walked past. Daughter of the Speaker of the Suns, ruler of the Qualinesti elves, she was the first elf maiden some of these humans had ever seen, and they never tired of gazing at her. Her beauty was exotic, alien, seemed almost ethereal. Her eyes were luminous blue, her hair a golden shower. Her voice was musical and low, her touch gentle. This radiant, stunning woman could have been his. Tanis could have been as happy as Riverwind and Goldmoon.

“You must like the taste of shoe leather,” Flint remarked, his voice low. “Your foot is in your mouth often enough these days.”

“She took it the wrong way,” Tanis said, annoyed.

“You said it the wrong way,” Flint retorted. “Laurana’s not the little girl who fell in love with a playmate, Tanis. She’s grown up. She’s a woman with a woman’s heart to give, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I noticed,” said Tanis, “and I still maintain that breaking our engagement was the right thing to do—for her sake, not mine.”

“If you believe that, then let her go.”

“I’m not holding onto her,” Tanis returned heatedly.

He’d spoken too loudly. Eyes turned his way, including the almond-shaped eyes of Laurana’s brother, Gilthanas. Hederick heard him too and paused, offended.

“Do you have something to say, Half-Elven?” Hederick asked reproachfully.

“Oh, Tanis, now you’re in trouble!” Caramon sniggered.

Feeling like an errant school boy who has been called to the front of the class, Tanis mumbled something in apology and retreated back into the shadows. Everyone smiled knowingly, then turned back to listen to Hederick’s speech, except Gilthanas, who regarded Tanis with stern disapproval.

Once, many years ago, Gilthanas had been Tanis’s friend. Then Tanis had made the mistake of falling in love with Laurana, and that had ended his friendship with her brother. To make matters worse, Tanis had recently suspected and even accused Gilthanas of being a spy. Tanis had been proven wrong, and he’d made an apology, but Gilthanas found it hard to forgive the fact that Tanis had suspected him capable of such a crime. Tanis wondered irritably if there were any additional means by which he could make his life more complicated.

Then Sturm Brightblade walked to him, and Tanis smiled and relaxed. Thank goodness for Sturm. The Solamnic knight, intent on the politics of the situation, was oblivious to all else.

“Are you listening to this great idiot?” Sturm demanded. “The man talks about building houses in this valley. Even a town hall! Apparently he has forgotten that only weeks before we were fleeing for our lives.”

“I’m listening,” said Tanis, “and so are they, more’s the pity.” Many in the crowd were smiling and murmuring assent. Hederick’s word-picture of a cozy winter spent in this peaceful place was an attractive one. Tanis felt a twinge of remorse. He’d been thinking much the same himself. Perhaps it was his talk with Raistlin last night or his talk with Riverwind this morning, but Tanis was growing increasingly uneasy. The valley seemed no longer a place of peace and beauty. He felt trapped here. Thinking of Raistlin, he looked over at the mage to see his reaction.

Raistlin sat upon a blanket spread for him on the ground by his brother. He cradled his magical staff in his arms. His gaze was abstracted, turned inward. He did not appear to be listening. Hederick closed by saying that when spring came, the refugees would continue their journey to Tarsis, the city by the sea, where they would find a ship to take them far from this war-torn land.

“Some place where humans can reside in peace,” Hederick concluded, laying emphasis on that word. “Some place far from those sorts of people known to cause trouble and strife in the world.”

“What sorts of people is he talking about?” Tas asked, interested.

“Elves,” said Tanis, scratching his beard.

“Dwarves,” growled Flint.

“And kender,” said Caramon, giving Tas’s topknot a playful tweak that made the kender yelp. Hederick glanced in their direction and pursed his lips in disapproval, then looked out upon the audience as much as to say, “See what I mean?”

With that, he retired to great applause.

“What a short memory he has,” Sturm remarked. He smoothed the long mustaches that were the hallmark of a Solamnic knight and Sturm’s pride, along with his father’s sword and armor, the only legacy his father had left him. “Elves and a dwarf helped save his miserable life!”

“And a kender!” Tas added indignantly.

“Maybe Elistan will remind him of that,” Tanis said, as the Revered Son of Paladine stepped forward.

“The gods of good hold back the darkness,” Elistan stated, “as they hold back the snows that must soon blanket this valley, but winter will come and so too will the forces of evil.” Hederick interrupted him.

“If, as you say, Revered Son, your god, Paladine, and the other gods of Light have protected us in the past, can’t we be assured that they will continue to protect us in the future?” the High Theocrat asked.

“The gods have helped us, that is true,” said Elistan, “and they will continue to help us, but we must do our part. We are not babes in arms, whose every need has to be met by the parents. We are grown men and women. We have free will, a gift given to us by the gods. We have the ability to make choices—”

“And we choose to remain here in this valley,” said Hederick. This drew a laugh and applause.

Flint nudged Tanis with his elbow. “Look there,” he said urgently, pointing. The Plainsmen were leaving. They had turned their backs on the speakers and on their fellow refugees and were walking out of the grove. Riverwind and Goldmoon remained, seemingly reluctant to leave, but then, with a shake of his head, Riverwind walked off. He said something to Goldmoon, but she did not immediately follow him. She sent her searching gaze through the crowd until she found Tanis.

Goldmoon looked at him long, and he saw in her sad smile an apology. Then, she, too, turned her back and went to be with her husband. Both left to join their people.

By now, everyone in the crowd was watching the Plainsmen depart. Some cried, “Good riddance,” but others stated that it was a shame to let them leave in anger. Elistan tried to say something, but the clamor in the crowd drowned him out. Hederick stood in the background, smiling contentedly.

Raistlin was at Tanis’s elbow, plucking at his sleeve. Tanis could smell the fragrance of dried rose petals emanating from the young mage’s pouch of spell components that he wore on a belt around his waist. Tanis could also smell the scent of decay that lingered about Raistlin, a scent the sweet perfume of roses could never quite mask. Rose petals were not the only spell components the mage carried. Some were far less pleasant.

“Something is wrong,” Raistlin said urgently. “Don’t you feel it?” He gave a sudden hiss. His hand seized hold of Tanis’s arm, the long, slender fingers digging painfully into Tanis’s flesh.

“Raistlin,” said Tanis irritably, “this is no time for—”

“Hush!” Raistlin raised his head, as though listening. “Where is the kender? Quickly! I need him!”

“You do?” Tasslehoff cried, amazed. “Excuse me,” he added importantly, stepping on Flint’s toes. “I have to get by. Raistlin needs me—”

“You have the sharpest eyes among us,” said Raistlin, grasping hold of the kender. “Look into the sky! Swiftly. What do you see?”

Tas did as he was told, craning his neck and peering up into the sky, nearly tumbling over backward in the process.

“I see a white cloud that looks like a rabbit. There, do you see it, Caramon? It has long ears and a puffy tail and—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Raistlin snarled, giving Tas a shake that snapped his head back. “Keep looking!”

“It might help if I knew what I was looking for,” Tas pointed out meekly.

“That mage shivers my skin,” said Flint, scowling and rubbing his arms.

“It’s not him,” said Tanis. “I feel it, too. Sturm!” he called, looking about for the knight. Sturm had been standing in the shadows of an oak, keeping himself apart from the others, especially Raistlin. The serious-minded knight, who lived by the code, Est Sularas est Mithos, “My honor is my life,” had grown up with Raistlin and his brother, and though Sturm liked Caramon, the knight had never liked nor trusted his twin.

“I sense it as well,” Sturm said.

An uneasy silence had fallen over the crowd. People turned this way and that, searching for the cause of the pricklings of fear that tingled in their arms and raised goose bumps on their flesh. The Plainspeople had halted and were gazing skyward. Riverwind had his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“This reminds me of something!” Tanis said suddenly.

“Xak Tsaroth,” Sturm murmured.

“There!” Tasslehoff cried, pointing. “A dragon!”

It flew far above them, so high that the huge monster was reduced in size to a child’s toy—a deadly toy. As the people watched in terror, the dragon dipped its wings and began to descend, winding downward in slow, lazy circles. The morning sun flashed off red scales and shone through the thin membrane of red wings. The fear that is part of a dragon’s arsenal swept over the crowd. Primal fear from a memory of time’s beginning. Deep-rooted fear that wrung the heart and made the soul shudder.

“Run!” Hederick shrieked. “Run for your lives!”

Tanis understood the terror. He felt the desire to flee, to run anywhere and nowhere in a desperate, panicked need to escape the horror, but he could see that running was the last thing they should do. Most of the people were standing beneath the trees, concealed from the dragon’s sight by the overspreading branches.

“Don’t move!” he managed to shout, though he had to struggle to breathe through the suffocating fear. “If no one moves, the dragon might not see us—”

“Too late,” said Sturm. He gazed upward at the beast. “The dragon has seen all there is to see, and so has the rider.”

The dragon had flown closer to them. They could all see the rider accoutered in heavy armor and a helm decorated with horns. The rider sat at his ease in a specially designed saddle on the dragon’s back, between the wings.

Pandemonium broke out. Some people went racing for the caves. Others collapsed weeping and shivering, onto the grass.

Tanis couldn’t move. He could not take his eyes from the rider. The man was huge with muscular arms that were bare, despite the cold. His helm covered his face, yet Tanis had no trouble recognizing him.

“Verminaard!” Tanis gasped, forcing out the name through clenched teeth.

“That’s impossible!” Sturm said. “He’s dead!”

“Look for yourself!” Tanis returned.

“He was dead, I tell you,” Sturm insisted, yet he sounded shaken. “No man could survive such wounds!”

“Well, this one did, apparently,” Flint said grimly.

“Remember that he himself was a powerful cleric, serving an all powerful goddess,” said Raistlin. “Takhisis might well have restored him to life.”

Someone barreled straight into Tanis, nearly knocking him down. The person shoved Tanis aside and kept on running.

Panic had seized hold of nearly everyone. People went haring off in every direction. Women screamed, men shouted, and children wailed. The dragon flew lower and lower.

“They’ve all gone mad!” Caramon shouted, trying to make himself heard above the chaos.

“Someone has to do something!”

“Someone is,” said Tanis.

Elistan stood firm, his hand on the medallion of faith he wore around his neck. Surrounding him were twenty of his followers and they were pale but composed, listening carefully to Elistan’s instructions. Laurana was among these. She seemed to sense Tanis’s gaze, for she turned her head and flashed him a quick, cool glance. Then she and the other followers of Paladine went among the crowd, taking firm hold of those who were in hysterics and ministering to those who had fallen or been knocked down or trampled.

The Plainsmen were also taking action against the dragon. They stood with bows and arrows ready. The dragon was still too far away for a good shot, but the archers were prepared in case the beast should try to harm those on the ground. Riverwind was giving orders. Standing beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, was Gilthanas. The elf had his bow and arrow aimed and ready. Tanis had not thought to bring his bow, but he wore his sword, the magical sword of the elven king, Kith-Kanan. He drew his weapon, thinking, as he did so that it would do little good against the enormous red dragon. Caramon had his sword drawn. Raistlin’s eyes were closed. He was chanting softly to himself, readying a magical spell. Flint had his battle-axe in his hand. Tasslehoff drew his own small sword that he had named Rabbitslayer, following Caramon’s remark that the small blade would be useful only if Tas were attacked by a ferocious rabbit. Tas claimed the dagger was magic, but thus far the only magic Tanis had seen was the fact that the scatter-brained kender had not yet managed to lose it.

Armed and ready for a battle they could not hope to win, the companions stood waiting in the shadow of the trees for the dragon to start the slaughter.

The Dragon Highlord, mounted on the red’s back, raised his arm in a mocking salute. Even from this distance, they could hear his deep voice rumbling orders to the dragon. The red gave an easy flap of its massive wings and sailed upward. It soared over the heads of the archers, who loosed off a volley of arrows. Almost all found their mark, but none did any damage. Striking the dragon’s scales, the arrows clattered off, falling to the ground. The Dragon Highlord extended his hand and pointed straight at the grove.

The dragon let out its breath in a gust of fire. The trees exploded into flames. A wave of scorching heat swept over Tanis and the rest. Thick black smoke choked the air. Sturm caught hold of Tasslehoff, who was staring at the dragon in open-mouthed excitement, and hoisted the kender off his feet and flung him over his shoulder. Caramon and Raistlin were already running for safety, as was Flint. Tanis peered into the smoke to see if anyone was trapped inside the burning grove.

The trees burned fiercely. Blazing branches fell down all around him. The thick smoke stung his eyes, choking him. The heat from the raging fire was causing his skin to blister. If people were still in there, they were doomed.

Tanis wondered grimly if Verminaard planned to set fire to the entire valley, but apparently the Dragon Highlord was content with simply terrifying them. The dragon lifted its head and flapped its wings and soared into the sky, flying with ponderous grace up and over the mountains. Dragon and rider were soon lost to sight.

The grove of oak, maple, and fir burned white hot, belching smoke that rolled into the sky and hung on the still air above what had once been a peaceful valley, a safe haven.

Chapter 4 Flint tells a tale. Sturm recalls a legend.

For several hours following the dragon’s attack, all was chaos. Families had lost track of each other during the mad stampede; children separated from their parents, husbands from their wives. Tanis and his friends worked to calm everyone, shepherding them back up into the caves where they would be safe if the dragon should come again. Goldmoon and the other clerics of Mishakal treated the frightened and the wounded. Elistan helped to restore calm and order, and by afternoon, all of the lost had been found; families were back together again. No one had died, which Tanis held to be a miracle.

He called a meeting for that night to discuss the dire emergency and this time he set the rules. No more public gatherings outdoors. The meeting was held in the largest cavern that could be found which was, of course, the cave that had been chosen by Hederick for his residence. The cave had a high ceiling with a natural chimney for ventilation that permitted the Theocrat to have a fire. This time, the meeting was limited to the delegates. Tanis had been adamant on that point, and even Hederick had grudgingly acceded to the wisdom of the half-elf’s arguments. From now on, no one was to venture outside the caves unless they had good reason.

The delegates crowded into the cave, occupying every available space. Tanis brought Sturm and Flint, telling the rest to remain in their dwellings. He had invited Raistlin, too, but the mage had not yet come. Caramon was under orders to keep Tasslehoff away, to chain the disruptive kender to a wall if he had to. Riverwind and Goldmoon represented the Plainsmen. The terrible revelation that Verminaard was still alive, and the fact that he had discovered their location, had caused the Plainspeople to rethink plans of setting out on their own. Elistan was here, with Laurana by his side.

Hederick, as usual, spoke first.

Tanis thought that Hederick would be the first one to advocate fleeing the valley. The half-elf was astonished to find that Hederick still insisted on remaining.

“If anything, this attack reinforces my argument that we should stay here in the valley where we are safe,” Hederick said. “Can you imagine the terrible tragedy that would have occurred if that dragon had caught us traipsing along some mountain trail with no cover, nowhere to run? The beast would have slaughtered us all! As it was, the Highlord realized that he was no match for us and flew off.”

“The Dragon Highlord did not come to attack us, High Theocrat,” said Sturm. “Lord Verminaard came to find us, and he succeeded. He now knows where we are.”

“What will he do about it?” Hederick asked, spreading his hands. His supporters, gathered around him, all sagely nodded their heads. “Nothing, that’s what. Because there’s nothing he can do! He cannot bring troops through the pass. If he returns with the dragon, we will simply remain in the caves. Not even Lord Verminaard can burn down this mountain!”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Tanis muttered.

He exchanged glances with Riverwind. Both of them remembered vividly the destruction of Riverwind’s village in Que-shu, the solid rock walls that had melted away like fresh churned butter.

Tanis glanced at Elistan, wondering when the Revered Son was going to speak. Tanis was starting to have serious doubts about Elistan and his gods of Light. Elistan had proclaimed that the Dragon Highlord had been killed with help from the gods, yet the evil Highlord was not dead. Tanis wanted very much to ask Elistan why the gods of light had not been able to prevent Verminaard from coming back from the dead. Now was not the time to question the Revered Son’s faith, however. The High Theocrat was looking for an opportunity to denounce these new gods and return to the Seeker gods he and his followers had been promoting to their own private advantage. Tanis guessed that Hederick and his bunch were already at work to undermine Elistan’s teachings. They didn’t need his help.

I’ll speak to Elistan in private, Tanis thought. Meanwhile, the Revered Son could at least give me his support, not just sit there in silence. If he’s as wise as Laurana claims, he’ll see that we can’t stay here.

“Our danger grows by the minute, good gentlefolk,” Sturm was saying, speaking to the assembly.

“Verminaard knows where we are. He did not seek us out for the sake of his health! He has a plan in mind, you may be sure of that. To do nothing is to doom us all to certain death.” One of the delegates, a woman named Maritta, rose to her feet. She was middle-aged, stout, and plain looking, but she was also a woman of courage and of sense who had played a valuable role in helping the refugees escape Pax Tharkas. She admired Elistan and had little use for Hederick. Clasping her hands over her midriff, she faced the High Theocrat.

“You, sir, claim that we will be safe from the dragon if we stay here, but the dragon is not our only enemy. Winter is another foe, just as deadly. What happens when our food supplies run low and the game has vanished? When the bitter cold and lack of proper food brings sickness and death to the elderly and the young?”

She rounded on Tanis. “And you, Half-Elven. You want us to leave. Very well, then. Where do we go? Answer me that! Would you have us set out with no destination in mind, to wind up lost in the wilderness or starving to death on some frozen mountainside?”

Before Tanis could answer, there was a blast of chill air. The elaborate screen of branches and animal hides that covered Hederick’s cavern rustled and was shoved aside. Torchlight flickered in the wind, the flames of the fire wavered. Everyone looked round to see who had arrived. Raistlin entered the meeting area. The mage wore his cowl pulled low over his head.

“It has started to snow,” he reported.

“Does he enjoy bringing bad news?” Sturm muttered.

“What’s he doing here?” Flint demanded.

“I asked him to come. I told him what time to be here,” Tanis said, irritated. “I wonder why he’s late!”

“So he could make a dramatic entrance,” said Sturm.

Raistlin walked over to stand near the fire. The mage moved slowly, taking his time, well aware that all eyes were on him, though few with any friendly feeling. He cared nothing about being universally disliked, however. Tanis thought that perhaps Raistlin even reveled in it.

“Don’t let me interrupt, Half-Elven,” Raistlin said, coughing softly. He held his hands over the blaze to warm himself. The firelight reflected eerily on his glistening golden skin. “You were about to say something regarding the dwarven kingdom.”

Tanis hadn’t said a word about this yet. He hadn’t been going to spring it on people in this abrupt fashion.

“I have been thinking we could find safe haven in the kingdom of Thorbardin—” he began reluctantly.

His proposal caused an outburst.

“Dwarves!” cried Hederick, frowning. “We’ll have nothing to do with dwarves!” His sentiment was loudly echoed by his supporters. Riverwind looked grim and shook his head.

“My people will not travel to Thorbardin.”

“Now see here, the lot of you,” said Maritta. “You guzzle dwarf spirits and you’re quick to take their money when dwarves come to your shops—”

“That doesn’t mean we have to live with them.” Hederick made a stiff and condescending bow to Flint. “Present company excepted, of course.”

Flint had nothing to say in return—a bad sign. Ordinarily he would have given the Theocrat the sharp edge of his tongue. As it was, the dwarf sat in silence, whittling on a piece of wood. Tanis gave an inward sigh. He had known all along that his biggest obstacle to his plan of traveling to the dwarven kingdom was going to be this stubborn old dwarf.

The argument raged. Tanis glanced at Raistlin, who stood by the fire, warming his hands, a slight smile on his thin lips. He tossed this fireball into our midst for a reason, Tanis thought. Raistlin has something in mind. What, I wonder?

“No one is even certain if there are still dwarves beneath the mountain,” stated Hederick. Flint stirred at that, but still said nothing.

“I have no objection to traveling to Thorbardin,” said Maritta, “but it is well known that the dwarves shut the gates to their kingdom three hundred years ago.”

“That is the truth,” said Flint, “and I say let their gates stay shut!” Startled silence fell. People stared at the dwarf in wonder.

“You’re not helping,” Tanis said in a low aside.

“You know my feelings,” Flint returned dourly. “I’ll not set one foot beneath the mountain! Even if we could find the gates, which we can’t. They’ve been lost for three hundred years.”

“So it is not safe to stay here, and we have no place to go. Where does that leave us?” Maritta asked.

“Here,” said Hederick.

Everyone began talking at once. The cave was rapidly heating up, what with the fire and so many warm bodies. Tanis was starting to sweat. He did not like confined spaces, did not like breathing the same air that had been breathed over and over by others. He was tempted to leave, and let everyone take care of themselves. The noise level grew, the din of the arguing reverberating off the rock walls. Then Raistlin gave a gentle cough.

“If I may speak,” he began in his soft, damaged voice, and a hush fell. “I know how to find the key to Thorbardin. The secret lies beneath Skullcap.”

Everyone stared at him in silence, not understanding what he meant, all except Flint. The dwarf’s face was grim, his jaw clenched. His breath came in grunts, and he whittled at the wood so hard the chips flew. He kept his eyes on his work.

“You have our attention, Raistlin,” said Tanis. “What is Skullcap? Where is it and what do you mean that the secret to Thorbardin lies beneath it.”

“I really know very little about the place,” Raistlin said. “Odd bits I’ve picked up in my studies over the years. Flint can tell us more—”

“Yes, but he won’t,” said Flint.

Raistlin opened his mouth to speak again, but he was interrupted. The screen door was once again swept aside, this time with ominous-sounding cracking noises, as though large hands were fumbling at it.

Caramon came blundering inside. “Tanis,” he said worriedly, “have you seen Raist? I can’t find—Oh! There you are.”

He glanced around at the assembly and flushed. “Beg pardon. I didn’t know—”

“What are you doing here, Brother?” Raistlin demanded.

Caramon looked sheepish. “It’s just—You were with me one minute and gone the next. I didn’t know where you went. I thought—”

“No, you didn’t,” Raistlin snapped. “You never think. You have no idea what the word means. I am not a child who dares not venture outdoors without holding my nursemaid’s hand! Who is minding the kender?”

“I… uh… tied him to a table leg…”

This produced a laugh. Raistlin cast a furious glance at his twin, and Caramon retreated to a shadowy corner.

“I’ll just… wait over here.”

“Flint,” said Tanis. “What is Skullcap? Do you know what he’s talking about?” Flint maintained his stubborn, angry silence.

Raistlin was also no longer inclined to speak. Twitching aside the skirts of his red robes, the mage sat down upon an overturned crate and drew his cowl up over his head.

“Raistlin, tell us what you meant—” Tanis said.

Raistlin shook his head. “It seems you are all more interested in laughing at my fool brother.”

“Let him sulk,” Sturm said, disgusted.

Flint flung down his knife and the piece of wood that was now little more than a splinter. The knife clattered on the stone floor of the cavern at his feet. Flint’s eyes, in their maze of wrinkles, blazed. His long beard quivered. The dwarf was short, of stocky build, with big-boned arms and wrists and the strong, capable hands of the master craftsman. He and Tanis had been friends for countless years, their friendship dating back to the half-elf’s unhappy youth. Flint’s voice was gruff and deep, seeming to rise up from the bones of the earth.

“I will tell you the story of Skullcap,” said Flint in fierce tones. “I’ll make it short and sweet. I am a hill dwarf, a Niedar, as my people are known, and proud to be one! Centuries ago, my people left the mountain home of Thorbardin. We chose to live in the world, not under it. We opened up trade with humans and elves. Goods flowed from out of the mountain through us to others. Because of us, our cousins, the mountain dwarves, prospered. Then came the Cataclysm.

“The fall of the fiery mountain on Krynn is generations removed from most of you humans but not from me. My own grandfather lived through it. He saw the rain of fire that fell from the heavens. He felt the earth heave and shake beneath his feet, saw the land split and crack. Our homes were destroyed. Our livelihood was ruined, for no crops would grow. The human cities lay in rubble, and the elves withdrew from the world in anger.

“Our children cried with hunger and shivered with the cold. Ogres, goblins, human thugs and robbers were on the march. They raided our lands, killing many of our people. We went to our cousins who lived beneath the mountain. We begged them to take us in, save us from starvation and the other evils that now stalked the land.”

Flint’s voice grew grim. “The High King, Duncan, slammed the door in our beards! He would not let us inside the mountain and he sent out an army to keep us at bay.

“Then there came among us an evil greater than any we had yet known. Sadly, we mistook that evil for our salvation. His name was Fistandantilus—”

Caramon made a sound, something like a gasp. Raistlin shot his twin a warning glance from beneath his cowl, and Caramon fell silent.

“Fistandantilus was a human wizard. He wore the black robes, and that should have been a warning to us, but our own hearts were black with hatred, and we didn’t question his motives. This Fistandantilus told us that we should be lying snug and safe beneath the mountain, with plenty to eat, and no fear of harm. Using powerful magic, he raised a mighty fortress near Thorbardin and then raised a mighty army of dwarves and humans and sent them to attack Thorbardin.

“The dwarves of Thorbardin left their mountain home and came to meet us in the valley. Long the battle raged, and many dwarves died on both sides. We were no match for our cousins, however. When it became clear that defeat was inevitable, Fistandantilus flew into a great rage. He swore that no dwarf would have his wondrous fortress. He used his magic to set off a blast that blew up the fortress and brought it down on top of him. The blast killed thousands of dwarves on both sides. The fortress collapsed, the ruins forming the shape of a skull, and that is how it came by its name—Skullcap.”

“Seeing this, the Neidar who survived took it as a sign. My people withdrew from the valley, carrying their dead with them. The mountain dwarves shut the gates of Thorbardin and sealed them, not that any of us would have set foot inside them anyway after that,” Flint added bitterly.

“Not if they had begged us! And we still won’t!”

He plunked down on the outcropping of rock he was using as a chair, picked up his knife, and thrust it into his belt.

“Could the key to Thorbardin lie in Skullcap?” Tanis asked.

Flint shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not likely anyone will ever know. The place is cursed.”

“Cursed! Bah!” Raistlin scoffed. “Skullcap is a ruined fortress, a pile of rubble, nothing more. Any ghosts that walk there do so only in the feeble minds of the ignorant.”

“Feeble minds, is it!” Flint returned. “I suppose we were all feebleminded in Darken Wood.”

“That was different,” Raistlin said coolly. “The only reason you think Skullcap is cursed is because it was built by an archmage, and all wizards are evil, according to you.”

“Now, Raistlin, calm down,” Tanis said. “None of us thinks that.”

“Some of us do,” Sturm muttered.

Elistan rose to his feet. “I believe I have a solution.”

Hederick opened his mouth, but Elistan forestalled him. “You have had your turn, High Theocrat. I ask that you be patient for a moment to listen to me.”

Hederick gave a sour smile. “Of course, Elistan. We all are eager to hear what you have to say.”

“Mistress Maritta has stated our dilemma quite clearly and concisely. We face danger if we stay and do nothing but even more danger if we rush off in haste without taking proper care or knowing where we are going. Here is what I propose.

“We send representatives south to seek out the dwarven kingdom to see if we can find the gate, and if we do, ask the dwarves for their aid.”

Flint snorted and opened his mouth. Tanis trod on his boot, and the dwarf kept quiet.

“If the dwarves are willing to shelter us,” Elistan continued, “we can make the journey to Thorbardin before the harshest months of winter set in. Such a journey should be undertaken immediately,” Elistan added gravely. “I agree with Tanis and the others that the danger we face here grows greater with every day that passes. That being said, despite the mage’s suggestion—” Elistan bowed to Raistlin—“I do not think there would be time to make a side trip to Skullcap.”

“You will think differently when you stand knocking on the side of a mountain that will not open,” Raistlin said, his eyes narrow slits.

Before Elistan could reply, Hederick spoke up.

“That is an excellent idea, Revered Son. I propose that we send Tanis Half-Elven on this expedition, along with his friend, the dwarf. Set a dwarf to catch a dwarf, I always say.” Hederick laughed at his little joke.

Tanis was amazed at this sudden acquiescence and immediately suspicious. He’d expected Hederick to take a firm stand against any suggestion of leaving and here he was forwarding the plan. Tanis glanced around the assembly to see what the others thought. Elistan shrugged, as though to say he didn’t understand either, but they should take advantage of the High Theocrat’s sudden shift in position to gain their objective. Riverwind was silent and impassive. He didn’t like the idea of going to Thorbardin. He and his people might still decide to set off on their own. That gave Tanis an idea.

“I agree to go,” said Tanis, “and Flint will go with me—”

“He will?” Flint reared up his head in astonishment.

“He will,” Tanis said, trodding again on the dwarf’s boot and saying quietly, “I’ll explain later.” He raised his voice. “In my absence, the High Theocrat and Elistan can handle the spiritual needs of the people. I propose that Riverwind of the Que-shu, take command of their safety.” Now it was Riverwind who looked astonished.

“An excellent idea,” said Elistan. “All of us witnessed Riverwind’s bravery in the battle at Pax Tharkas. Only today, we saw that he and his people overcame their terror of the dragon to attack the beast.”

Hederick was thinking so hard that Tanis could see the man’s thought process written on his face. First his brows came together and lips tightened. The High Theocrat wasn’t sure he liked the idea now, even though he himself had proposed that Tanis and Flint go to Thorbardin. The Theocrat was certain the half-elf must have some nefarious scheme to put Riverwind in charge. Hederick’s narrow-eyed gaze went to the Plainsman, went to the buckskin tunic and breeches, and then his face cleared. Riverwind was a savage, a bar-barian. Untaught, unschooled, he would be easy to manipulate—or so Hederick figured. Things could be worse. Tanis might have picked that insufferable Solamnic knight, Sturm Brightblade, to be the leader in his absence. Such were Hederick’s thoughts.

Tanis had almost chosen Sturm. The words had been on his lips, when he’d reconsidered. Not only did Tanis hope by this to persuade Riverwind and his people to stay, Tanis was convinced that Riverwind would be a better leader. Sturm saw everything as either black or white, nothing in shades of gray. He was too strict, unbending, unyielding. Riverwind was the better choice. The High Theocrat smiled expansively. “If the Plainsman will accept the task, I have no objection.”

Riverwind was about to reject it. Goldmoon put her hands over his arm and looked up at him. She said nothing in words, but he understood.

“I will think about it,” Riverwind said, after a pause.

Goldmoon smiled at him. He clasped her hands with his own. Hederick’s supporters gathered around him to discuss matters. Maritta joined Laurana and both began talking to Elistan. The meeting was breaking up.

“What is this about me going to Thorbardin?” Flint demanded. “I’ll not set foot beneath the mountain!”

“Later,” said Tanis.

Right now, he had to talk to Sturm, explain why he’d chosen Riverwind over the knight, when Sturm must feel that he was better qualified by education and lineage. Sturm was touchy about such things, easily offended.

Tanis made his way through the crowd. Flint was still going on about Thorbardin, dogging Tanis so closely that the dwarf kept tripping on Tanis’s heels. As he tried to avoid falling in the fire pit, Tanis drew near Hederick. The Theocrat had his back turned, talking to one of his cronies.

“There is no way out of this valley except over the mountains,” Hederick was explaining in a low voice. “It will take the half-elf and the dwarf weeks to make the crossing, and weeks more will pass while they search for this nonexistent dwarf kingdom. Thus we are rid of the meddlesome half-breed—”

Tanis walked on, his lips pressed tight. So that is Hederick’s reason for supporting the plan to go to Thorbardin. He gets rid of me.

Once I’m gone, he thinks he can walk over Elistan and Riverwind. I wouldn’t be so sure of that. All the same, Tanis wondered uneasily if Hederick was right. He and Flint might well spend weeks trying to cross the mountains.

“Don’t worry about what that windbag says, lad,” Flint said, his gruff voice sounding at Tanis’s elbow. “There’s a way.”

Tanis glanced down at his friend. “Does that mean you’ve had a change of heart?”

“No,” the dwarf retorted grimly. “It means I can tell you how to find the path.” Tanis shook his head. He’d talk the dwarf around. Right now, he was worried that he’d offended Sturm.

The knight stood near the fire, staring into the flames. He did not look offended. Indeed, he did not look as if he was aware of what was going on around him. Tanis spoke his name several times before Sturm heard him.

Sturm turned to him. The knight’s blue eyes glowed in the light. His face, generally set in stern and unbending lines, was animated and expressive.

“Your plan is brilliant, Tanis!” Sturm exclaimed. He grabbed Tanis’s hand and gripped it tight. Tanis regarded his friend in astonishment. “What plan?”

“Traveling to Thorbardin, of course. You can find it and bring it back.”

“Find what?” Tanis was growing more confused.

“The Hammer of Kharas! That is the real reason you’re going, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to Thorbardin to try to find safe haven for the refugees. I don’t know anything about a hammer—”

“Have you forgotten the legends?” Sturm asked, shocked. “We were speaking of it only the other night. The sacred and magical Hammer of Kharas—used to forge dragonlances!”

“Oh, yes, right. Dragonlances.”

Sturm, hearing his skeptical tone, regarded him in disappointment. “The dragonlance is the only weapon capable of felling a dragon, Tanis. We need them to fight the Dark Queen and her minions. You saw what happened when arrows struck that red beast. They bounced off! A dragonlance, on the other hand, is a weapon blessed by the gods. The great Huma used a dragonlance to defeat Takhisis—”

“I remember,” said Tanis hastily. “Hammer of Kharas. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You should remember. This is important, Tanis,” Sturm insisted, and he was grimly serious.

“Perhaps it’s the most important task you’ll undertake in your lifetime.”

“The lives of eight hundred people—”

Sturm brushed those aside with a wave of his hand. “The Hammer is the only chance we have to win this war, and it is in Thorbardin.” His grip on Tanis’s arm tightened. Tanis could feel him shaking with the intensity of his emotions. “You must ask the dwarves to lend it to us. You must!”

“I will, Sturm, I promise,” said Tanis, taken aback by his friend’s intensity. “Now, about Riverwind—”

But Sturm’s gaze had shifted. He was looking at Raistlin and Caramon.

Caramon was talking to his twin in low tones. The big man’s expression was troubled. Raistlin made an impatient gesture and then, leaning close, he said something to his twin.

“Raistlin is plotting something,” Sturm said, frowning. “I wonder what? Why did he bring up Skullcap?”

Tanis tried again. “In my absence, I named Riverwind as leader—”

“A good choice, Tanis,” said Sturm absently.

The twins ended their conversation. Raist was striding out of the cave, walking swiftly, with more energy than usual, leaving Caramon to stare unhappily after his brother. He shook his head and then he, too, left.

“Excuse me, Tanis,” said Sturm, and he hurried off.

“What was all that about?” Flint asked.

“Beats me. Do you know anything about this hammer?”

“Hammer, schmammer,” said Flint, glowering. “I’ll not set foot beneath the mountain.” Tanis sighed and was about to try to make good his own escape from the stifling cavern when he saw Riverwind and Goldmoon standing near the entrance. He felt that he owed them both an explanation.

“A fine snare you laid for me, Half-Elven,” Riverwind remarked. “I am caught in your trap and not even my wife will set me free.”

“You made a wise choice,” Goldmoon said.

Riverwind shook his head.

“1 need you, my friend,” said Tanis earnestly. “If I am to undertake this journey, I need to know that I have someone here I can trust. Hederick is a dunce who will plunge us into disaster if given half a chance. Elistan is a good man, but he knows nothing of battle. If Verminaard and his forces attack, the people can’t rely on prayers and platinum disks to save them.” Goldmoon looked grave. “Tanis, you should not speak lightly of such things.”

“I’m sorry, Goldmoon,” Tanis said as gently as he could, “but I don’t have time for sermons now. This is the hard truth, as I see it. If you and your tribesmen go off on your own, you abandon these people to their doom.”

Riverwind still looked doubtful, but Tanis could see the man was weakening. “I must discuss this with my people,” he said at last.

“Do that,” Tanis said. “I need your answer soon. Flint and I leave in the morning.”

“You leave in the morning!” Flint muttered.

“You will have my answer before you sleep,” Riverwind promised, and he and his wife departed, Goldmoon casting Tanis a troubled glance as she left.

He pushed open the lattice-work screen of branches, walked outside, and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. Snowflakes tingled cold on his skin. He stood a moment, breathing in the cold, pure air, then walked off along the path that led down the mountainside.

“Where are you going?” Flint demanded.

“To set Tasslehoff free. Unless he’s gnawed the leg off the table by now…”

“Leave him tied up,” Flint advised. “Less trouble for us all.” Snowflakes continued to drift down, but here and there Tanis could see stars through the clouds. The snow fall would not be heavy this night, just enough to whiten the ground, make tracking the deer easier for the hunters. Deer were getting scarcer and scarcer in the valley, more difficult to find.

“After we placate Tas,” Tanis continued, hearing the dwarf’s heavy boots thump behind him, “you and I have to pack. I want to leave as soon as it’s daylight.” The thumping came to a halt. The dwarf crossed his arms over his chest. He looked as if he intended to stand on that rock until he put down roots.

“I’m not going. I’ve told you, Tanis, I’ll not set foot—”

“—beneath the mountain. Yes, I heard you the first twenty times.” Tanis halted, turned to face the dwarf. “You know I can’t do this on my own, Flint. You know I need your help. I speak the dwarven tongue, and I suppose I understand dwarves about as much as any elf or human can, but I don’t understand them as well as one of their own.”

“I’m not one of their own!” Flint snarled. “I’m a hill dwarf—”

“Which means you’ll be the first hill dwarf to set foot beneath the mountain in three hundred years. You’ll make history, Flint. Have you thought of that? You might even be responsible for the unification of the dwarven nations! Then there’s this hammer. If you were to find this Hammer of Kharas and bring it back—”

“Hammer of Kharas! Some wild tale Sturm’s granny told him,” Flint scoffed. Tanis shrugged.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he said. “If you decide to stay, you’ll be the one who has to take charge of Tasslehoff.”

Flint sucked in a horrified breath. “You wouldn’t!”

“Who else can I trust? Caramon?”

Tanis resumed his walking. He heard behind him a muttering, a shuffling and the occasional huffing breath.

Then came the clump of heavy boots.

“I guess I’ll go,” Flint called out with ill grace. “You’ll never find the gate without me.”

“I wouldn’t stand a chance,” said Tanis.

He smiled to himself in the darkness as the snow fell in lazy circles around him.

Chapter 5 Raistlin’s Decree. Tika’s Ultimatum. Caramon Chooses.

Fistandantilus. Caramon knew that name. He had tensed when he heard his brother speak it and he remained tense during the remainder of the meeting, completely losing track of the discussion that followed. He was recalling another discussion with his twin in the ruined city of Xak Tsaroth.

Raistlin had told him that among the treasure in the dragon’s hoard in that accursed city was a magical spellbook of immense value. If they managed to defeat the dragon, Raistlin had ordered Caramon to search for this book and retrieve it for him.

“What does the book look like?” Caramon had asked.

“The pages are bone-white parchment bound in night-blue leather with runes of silver stamped on the front,” Raistlin had told him. “The book will feel deathly cold to the touch.”

“What do the runes say?” Caramon had been suspicious. He hadn’t liked the way Raistlin had described the book.

“You do not want to know…” Raistlin had smiled to himself, a secret smile.

“Whose book was it?”

Though Caramon was not a mage himself, he knew a great deal about the ways of mages from having been around his twin. A mage’s most valued possession was his book of magical spells compiled over a lifetime of work. Written in the language of magic, each spell was recorded in detail using the precise wording, with notations as to the proper pronunciation of each word, the precise inflections and intonations, what gestures should be used, and what components might be required.

“You have never heard of this wizard, my brother,” Raistlin had told Caramon after one of those strange lapses when he seemed to move inside himself, seemed to be searching for something lost, “yet he was one of the greatest who ever lived. His name was Fistandantilus.” Caramon had been reluctant to ask the next question, afraid of what he might hear in answer. Looking back, he realized now he’d known exactly what he was going to hear. He wished he’d kept silent.

“This Fistandantilus—did he wear the Black Robes?”

“Ask me no more!” Raistlin had been angry. “You are as bad as the others! How can any of you understand me?”

But Caramon had understood. He’d understood then. He understood now—or thought he did. Caramon waited until the assembly started to break up, then he approached his twin.

“Fistandantilus,” he said in a low voice, looking around to make certain they were not overheard.

“That’s the name of the evil wizard—the one whose spellbook you found—”

“Just because a mage wears the Black Robes does not make him evil,” Raistlin returned with an impatient gesture. “Why can you never get that through your thick skull?”

“Anyway,” said Caramon, not wanting to have this discussion again, for it left him feeling muddled and confused, “I’m glad Tanis and Flint decided not to go to that place, that Skullcap.”

“They are imbeciles, the lot of them!” Raistlin fumed. “Tanis might as well use the dwarf’s head to knock on the side of the mountain for all the good it will do any of them. They will never find the way inside Thorbardin. The secret lies in Skullcap!”

A fit of coughing over came Raistlin, and he had to stop talking.

“You’re getting all worked up,” Caramon said. “It’s not good for you.” Raistlin brought out his handkerchief, pressed it to his lips. He drew in a ragged breath, drew in another. The spasm eased. He laid his hand on his brother’s arm.

“Come with me, Caramon. We have much to do and little time in which to do it.”

“Raist—” Caramon could sometimes read his brother’s mind. He did so now, knew exactly what Raistlin intended. Caramon tried to protest, but his brother’s eyes narrowed alarmingly, and Caramon gulped back his words.

“I’m going back to our dwelling,” Raistlin said coldly. “Come or not, as you choose.” Raistlin left in haste. Caramon followed more slowly.

The mage was in such a hurry and his twin in such misery that neither of them noted Sturm, walking behind.

While the meeting was taking place, Tika Waylan was in the dwelling she shared with Laurana, trying to comb her tangled mass of red curls. Tika sat on a little stool Caramon had made for her. She worked by the light of a lantern, dragging the wooden comb through a strand of hair until it hit a knot. She would try to patiently tease the knotted mass of red apart, as Laurana had taught her, but Tika had very little patience. Eventually she would give the comb a yank, pulling out the knot and a fistful of her hair along with it.

The blanket that the young women had rigged to cover the entrance opened, letting in a blast of air and a flurry of snow. Laurana entered, carrying a lantern.

Tika looked up. “How was the meeting?”

Tika had been in awe of Laurana when she’d first met her in Qualinesti. The two could not have been more different. Laurana was the daughter of a king. Tika was the daughter of a part-time illusionist and full-time thief. Laurana was an elf, a princess.

Tika had run wild for much of her life. Taking to thieving herself, she’d afoul of the law. Otik Sandeth, owner of the Inn of the Last Home in Solace, had offered to adopt the orphan, giving her gainful employment as a bar maid.

The two differed in looks. Laurana was slender and willowy. Tika was buxom and robust. Laurana’s hair was golden, her skin white and rose. Tika’s hair was flame red, her face covered in freckles.

Tika knew quite well that she had her own kind of beauty, and she felt good about herself most times—when she wasn’t around Laurana. Laurana’s blonde hair made Tika’s seem that much redder by contrast, just as Laurana’s graceful figure made Tika feel that she was all hips and bosom.

“How did it go?” Tika asked, glad to lay down the comb. Her arm and shoulder ached and her scalp stung.

“As you might expect,” said Laurana, sighing. “There was lots of arguing. Hederick is a prize dolt—”

“You’re telling me!” Tika said crisply. “I was in the inn when he stuck his hand in the fire.”

“Just when it seemed that no one could agree, Elistan came up with a solution,” said Laurana, and her voice softened in admiration. “His plan is brilliant. They’ve all agreed to it, even Hederick. Elistan suggested that we send a delegation to the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin to see if we can find refuge there. Tanis volunteered to go, along with Flint.”

“Not Caramon?” asked Tika anxiously.

“No, just Flint and Tanis. Raistlin wanted them to go first to a place called Skullcap to find the secret way into the dwarven kingdom or something like that, but Flint said Skullcap was haunted, and Elistan said they didn’t have time to make the journey before winter set in. Raistlin seemed angry.”

“I’ll bet he did,” said Tika, shivering. “A haunted place named Skullcap would suit him just fine, and he’d drag Caramon along with him. Thank the gods they’re not going!”

“Even Hederick agreed that Elistan’s plan was a good one,” said Laurana.

“I guess wisdom comes with gray hair,” Tika remarked, picking up her comb again. “Though, of course, that didn’t work in Hederick’s case.”

“Elistan’s hair is not gray,” Laurana protested. “It’s silver. I think silver hair makes a man look distinguished.”

“Are you in love with Elistan?” Tika asked. She dug the comb into the mass of curls and began to tug.

Laurana winced at the sight. “Here, let me do that!”

Tika thankfully handed over the comb.

“You are too impatient,” said Laurana reprovingly. “You’re ruining your hair, and you have such beautiful hair. I envy you.”

“You do?” Tika was astonished. “I can’t think why! Your hair is so shimmery and golden!”

“And straight as a stick,” said Laurana ruefully. The comb, in her hands, gently teased each knot until it came loose. “As for Elistan, no, I’m not in love with him, but I do admire him and respect him. He’s been through so much pain and suffering. Such experiences would have made any other man bitter and cynical. They made Elistan more compassionate and understanding.”

“I know someone who thinks you’re in love with Elistan,” said Tika with an impish smile.

“Who do you mean?” Laurana asked, blushing.

“Tanis, of course,” said Tika archly. “He’s jealous.”

“That’s impossible!” Laurana gave the comb a sharper tug than usual. “Tanis doesn’t love me. He’s made that extremely clear. He’s in love with that human woman.”

“That bitch Kitiara!” Tika sniffed. “Pardon my language. As for Tanis, he doesn’t know his heart from his… well, I won’t say what, but you understand. It’s the same with all men.” Laurana was silent, and Tika twisted her head to glance up at her, to see if she was angry. Laurana’s face was mantled with a delicate flush, her eyes lowered. She kept combing, but she wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing.

Maybe she doesn’t understand, Tika realized suddenly. It seemed very odd to her that a woman who was a hundred years old knew less about the world and the ways of men than one who was only nineteen. Still, Laurana had lived all those years pampered and protected in her father’s palace in the middle of a forest. Small wonder she was naive.

“Do you really think Tanis is jealous?” Laurana asked, her blush deepening.

“Watch him sometime. He’s goes green as a goblin whenever he sees you and Elistan together.”

“He has no reason to think there is anything between us,” said Laurana. “I’ll speak to him.”

“You will do no such thing!” Tika turned so fast the comb caught in her hair and jerked out of Laurana’s hands. “Let him stew for awhile. Maybe it’ll put that wildcat Kit out of his mind.”

“But that would be lying, in a way,” Laurana protested, retrieving the comb.

“No, it isn’t,” Tika said. “Besides, what if it is? All’s fair in love and war, and the gods know that for us women, love is war. I wish there was someone around to make Caramon jealous.”

“Caramon loves you dearly, Tika,” said Laurana, smiling. “Anyone can see it by the way he looks at you.”

“I don’t want him to just stand there making great cow eyes at me! I want him to do something about it!”

“There’s Raistlin—” Laurana began.

“Don’t mention Raistlin to me!” Tika snapped. “Caramon’s more a slave than a brother, and one day he’ll wake up and find that out. Only by that time, it may be too late.” She held her head high. “Some of us may have moved on with our lives.”

There was no more conversation. Laurana was thinking over this new and unexpected revelation that Tanis might be jealous of her relationship with Elistan. That would certainly explain that remark he’d made to her today.

Tika sat on the stool Caramon had made for her and blinked back her tears—tears caused by the comb yanking on her hair…

Caramon lagged behind his brother as they made their way to their small cave. Caramon knew the signs, knew that Raistlin was plotting. His brother generally moved slowly, taking cautious steps, leaning on his staff or on his brother’s arm. Raistlin walked rapidly now, the crystal held by the gold dragon claw atop his staff casting a magical light to guide his way. His red robes swished around his ankles. He did not look around to see if Caramon was following. Raistlin knew he would be.

Arriving at the cave, Raistlin shoved aside the wooden screen and ducked inside. Caramon entered more slowly, pausing to adjust the screen in place for the night. Raistlin stopped him.

“No need,” he said. “You’re going out again.”

“Do you want me to fetch hot water for your tea?” Caramon asked.

“Am I coughing myself to death?” Raistlin demanded.

“No,” Caramon said.

“Then I do not need my tea.” Raistlin began to search among their belongings. He picked up a water skin and held it out to his brother.

“Go to the stream and fill this.”

“There’s water in the bucket—” Caramon began.

“If you want to carry water in a bucket with us on our journey, brother, then do so, by all means,” Raistlin said coldly. “Most people find a water skin to be more convenient.”

“What journey?” Caramon asked.

“The one we are undertaking in the morning,” Raistlin returned. He thrust the water skin at Caramon. “Here, take this!”

“Where are we going?” Caramon kept his hands at his sides.

“Oh, come, now, Caramon! Even you can’t be that stupid!” Raistlin flung the water skin at his brother’s feet. “Do as I say. We will make an early start, and I want to study my spells before I sleep. We’ll need food, too.”

Raistlin sat down in the only chair in the cave. He picked up his spellbook and opened it. After a moment, however, he shut that book and, reaching deep into his pouch, drew out another—the spellbook with the night-blue binding. He did not open it but held it in his hand.

“We’re going to Skullcap, aren’t we?” said Caramon.

Raistlin didn’t answer. He kept his hand on the closed book.

“You don’t even know where it is!” Caramon said.

Raistlin looked up at his brother. His golden eyes gleamed strangely in the staff’s magical light.

“That’s just it, Caramon,” he said softly. “I do know where it is. I know the location and I know how to reach it. I don’t know why…” His voice trailed off.

“Why what?” Caramon demanded, bewildered.

“Why I know… or how I know. It’s strange, as if I’ve been there before.” Caramon was unhappy. “Put that book away, Raist, and forget about this. The trip will be too hard for you. We can’t climb the mountain—”

“We don’t have to,” said Raistlin.

“Even if the snow ends,” Caramon continued, “the trip will be cold, wet, and dangerous. What if that Verminaard comes again and catches us out in open?”

“He won’t, because we won’t be in the open.” Raistlin glared at his twin. “Quit arguing and go fill the water skin!”

Caramon shook his head. “No,” he said. “I won’t.”

Raistlin drew in a seething breath, then, suddenly, he let it out.

“My brother,” said Raistlin gently, “if we do not make this journey, Tanis and Flint will not find the gate, much less make their way inside the mountain.”

Caramon looked into his twin’s face. “Are you sure about that?”

“As sure as the death that awaits them, that awaits us all if they fail,” said Raistlin, his gaze unwavering.

Caramon heaved a deep sigh. Reaching down, he picked up the water skin and went back out into the snow-filled night.

Raistlin relaxed in his chair. He put aside the night-blue spellbook and opened up his own.

“What a simple soul you are, my brother,” he remarked in scathing tones.

As he left the cave, Caramon caught a glimpse of Sturm standing nearby. Caramon knew perfectly well why Sturm was here. He had seen the knight watching them. Sturm would never stoop to spying on his friends or his enemies, for that matter. Such a dishonorable act went against the Code and the Measure, the rigid guidelines by which a Solamnic knight lived his life. The Oath and the Measure said nothing about friendly persuasion, however. Sturm was here to waylay Caramon and “persuade” the truth out of him.

Caramon was hopeless at keeping secrets and worse still at lying. If he told Sturm that Raistlin was planning to go to Skullcap, Sturm would tell Tanis, and the gods alone knew what would come of it—a bitter argument at the least, a fatal breach between long-time friends at the worst. Caramon wished Sturm would just let the matter go.

A furious flurry of snow allowed him to conceal his movements, and he went the long way down the slope to the stream. The flurry ceased. The clouds parted, and the stars came out. Glancing back, he could see Sturm silhouetted in Solinari’s silver light, still roaming about outside the twins’ cave.

He’ll give up after awhile, Caramon reasoned, and go to bed.

Caramon didn’t like Raistlin’s plan to go to this haunted Skullcap place, but he trusted his twin and believed Raistlin’s argument that the journey was necessary to save lives. Caramon knew he was alone in his trust for his twin. Well, not quite. Tanis often turned to Raistlin for advice, and it was this knowledge more than his twin’s reasoning that had induced Caramon to finally go along with his twin’s scheme.

“Tanis would sanction our going, if he had time to think about it,” Caramon reasoned to himself.

“Everything’s happened so fast, that’s all, and Tanis has too much to worry about as it is.” As for how Raistlin knew where to find Skullcap and how he planned to get there, Caramon knew better than to ask, figuring he wouldn’t understand anyway. He had never understood his twin, not when they were little children and certainly not now. The terrible Test in the Tower of High Sorcery had forever changed his brother in ways that Caramon could not fathom. The Test had forever changed their relationship as well. The one secret Caramon kept was the secret he’d learned about his twin in the Tower. That secret was dark and appalling, and Caramon kept it mainly because he never let himself think about it.

Having safely avoided Sturm, Caramon lifted his head and breathed in the cool, crisp air. He felt better out in the open, away from all the voices. Here he could think. Caramon was not stupid, as some believed. Caramon liked to consider a problem from all angles, ruminate, mull it over, and this often gave him the appearance of being slow. He rarely shared his thoughts with others, fearing their mockery. No one had been more surprised than Caramon when his friends had lauded his idea of having Raistlin use his magic to create an avalanche to block the pass. Caramon felt so much better out here by himself that, when another flurry struck, he stuck out his tongue to catch the snowflakes, as he’d done when a child. Snow always made him feel like a kid again. If the snow fall had been deeper, he would have been tempted to lie down on his back, flap his arms and legs, and make a snowbird. The snow wasn’t deep enough yet, though, and didn’t look as if it would be. Stars glittered beneath the clouds.

Negotiating his way around an outcropping of rock, trying to keep his footing, Caramon nearly ran headlong into Tika.

“Caramon!” she said, pleased.

“Tika!” exclaimed Caramon, alarmed.

He felt like the warrior in the adage who had avoided the kobolds only to fall victim to goblins. He’d managed to evade Sturm’s questioning, but if there was one person in this world who could wrap him around her red curls and wheedle whatever she wanted out of him, it was Tika Waylan.

“What are you doing out in the night?” she asked.

Caramon held up the water skin. “Fetching water.”

He shuffled his big feet a moment then said abruptly, “I’ve got to go now!” and started to walk off.

“I’m going to the stream myself,” said Tika, catching up with him. “I’m afraid of getting lost in the snow.” She slid her hand through his arm. “I’m not afraid when I’m with you, though.” Caramon quivered from head to toe. He had once thought Tika Waylan the ugliest little girl he’d ever seen and the greatest nuisance ever born. He’d gone away for five years, doing mercenary work with his twin, and come back to find Tika the most attractive, wonderful woman he’d ever known, and he’d known quite a few.

Big, handsome, and brawny, with a cheerful smile and good-hearted nature, Caramon had never lacked female companionship. Girls liked him and he liked them. He’d indulged in numerous dalliances with countless women, spent more time snuggling in barn lofts and behind hay mounds than he could count. No woman had ever touched his heart, however. Not until Tika. And she hadn’t really touched his heart—his heart had jumped out of his chest to land plop at her feet.

He wanted to be a better person for her. He wanted to be smarter, braver, yet every time he was with her, he went all addled and befuddled, especially when she pressed her body up close against his, like she was now. Caramon recalled a talk he’d had with Goldmoon. The older woman had warned him that although Tika talked and acted like a worldly woman, she was, in truth, young and innocent. Caramon must not take advantage of her or he would hurt her deeply. Caramon was determined to keep himself under strict control, but this was very hard when Tika looked at him as she was looking at him now, with snow sparkling on her red curls and her cheeks rosy with the cold and her green eyes shining.

Caramon suddenly began to suspect that she not had been out here to go the stream. She had no bucket and she certainly wasn’t going to bathe. She was going to the stream because she wanted to be with him, and while this warmed him like spiced wine, the knowledge only added to his confusion.

They walked together in silence. Tika kept glancing at him, waiting for him to speak. He couldn’t think of anything to say, and then, of course, she said the worst thing possible.

“I hear your brother wanted to go off to some terrible fortress called Skullcap, but Tanis wouldn’t let him.” Tika shivered and pressed even closer to him. “I’m glad you’re not going.” Caramon mumbled something unintelligible and kept walking. His face burned. He probably had guilt written on his forehead in letters so large a gully dwarf could read them. He saw her glance at the water skin and saw her green eyes narrow. Caramon groaned inwardly.

Tika dropped his arm. She stepped back away from him to smite him with the full force of her red-haired fury.

“You’re going, aren’t you?!” she cried. “You’re going to that dreadful place that everyone knows is haunted!”

Caramon made a feeble protest. “It’s not haunted.”

He realized a split second later that he should have denied going at all, but he couldn’t think around her.

“Ah ha! You admit it! Flint says Skullcap’s haunted!” Tika returned. “He should know. He was born and raised around these parts. Does Tanis know you’re leaving?” She answered her own question. “Of course not. So you were going to go off and get yourself killed and never even say goodbye to me!”

Caramon had no idea where to begin to refute all these charges Finally, he said lamely, “I’m not going to get myself killed. Raist says—”

“Raist says!” Tika mimicked him. “Why is Raistlin going? Because it has something to do with that wizard, Fistanpoopus or whatever his name is. The one you told me about. The evil wizard who wore the Black Robes and whose wicked book Raistlin is carrying around with him. Laurana told me what Flint said about Skullcap. Only she didn’t know what I know and what you know—that Raistlin has some sort of strange connection to this dead wizard.”

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” Caramon asked fearfully. “You didn’t tell anyone?”

“No, I didn’t, but maybe I should.”

Tika faced him, head flung back, green eyes flaring. “If you love me, Caramon, you won’t go. You’ll tell that brother of yours that he can find someone else to risk his life for him and do his fetching and carrying and make his stupid tea!”

“I do love you, Tika,” said Caramon desperately, “but Raist is my brother. We’re all each of us has, and he says this is important. That the lives of all these people depend on it.”

“And you believe him!” Tika scoffed.

“Yes,” said Caramon with simple dignity. “I do.”

Tika’s eyes overflowed with tears, which spilled down her freckled cheeks. “I hope a ghost sucks your blood dry!” she sobbed angrily, and ran off.

“Tika!” Caramon called, heart-sick.

She did not look back but kept running, slipping and stumbling over the snow-slick rocks. Caramon wanted desperately to go after her, but he didn’t. For what could he say? He could not give her what she wanted. He could not give up his brother for her, no matter how much he adored her. Raistlin must always come first. Tika was strong. Raistlin was weak, fragile, feeble.

“He needs me,” Caramon said to himself. “He relies on me and depends on me. If I wasn’t there for him, he might die, just like when he was little. She doesn’t understand.” He continued heading for the stream in order to fill the water skin, even though now they wouldn’t be going. Tika would go straight to Tanis, then Tanis would go to Raistlin and forbid him to leave, and Raistlin would know Caramon had spilled the beans. If Caramon dawdled, perhaps his brother’s fury would have cooled by the time he got back.

Caramon doubted it, but there was always that chance.

Chapter 6 Sneaking Off. Eyes In The Sky. Laundry Day.

Caramon paused outside the cave to steel himself, then shoved aside the screen and went in.

“Raist, I’m sorry…” He halted. His twin was sound asleep, wrapped in his blanket, his hand resting on the staff that never left his side. The pack containing his spellbooks was by the entrance. Caramon’s pack was there, as well. All in readiness for an early departure. A wave of relief flooded through Caramon. Tika hadn’t told Tanis! Perhaps she did understand, after all! Moving as quietly as he could, Caramon deposited the full water skin on the floor, then stripped off his shirt, lay down, and his conscience clear, was almost immediately asleep.

His brother’s hand shaking him by the shoulder woke him. “Keep quiet!” Raistlin whispered.

“Make haste! I want to be away before anyone is stirring!”

“What about breakfast?” Caramon asked. Raistlin flashed him a disgusted glance.

“Well, I’m hungry,” Caramon said.

“We will eat on the road,” Raistlin returned.

Caramon sighed. Hefting the two packs and the water skin, he followed his brother out of the cave. The sky was black and glittering with stars. The air was cold and sharp, prickling the inside of the lungs. The snow had stopped during the night after dusting the ground. Clouds were massing over the mountains, however. There would be more snow before the day was out. Solinari, the silver moon, was a curved blade in the sky. Lunitari, the red moon, and Raistlin’s patron goddess of magic, was three-quarters full. Her red light cast eerie shadows on the snow. Raistlin looked up at the red moon and smiled.

“The goddess lights our way to dawn,” he said. “A good omen.” Caramon hoped his twin was right. Now that they were committed to this, Caramon wanted to get as far away from the others as fast as possible. Raistlin, fortunately, was having one of his good days. He hardly coughed at all. He moved nimbly and rapidly along the trail. They made good time, descending the mountainside to the valley floor and heading off to the southwest. Reaching a forested area, they walked among the trees and were soon out of sight of the encampment and any early risers.

Caramon was breathing easier when a rattle of armor and a clash of metal on metal caused him to drop the packs and reach for his sword. Raistlin’s hand went to his pouch of spell components. Sturm Brightblade stepped out from the red-tinged shadows of the tree branches. He stood in the path, blocking their way.

Raistlin shot Caramon a furious look.

“I didn’t tell him, Raist! Honest!” Caramon gabbled.

“Your brother said nothing to me, Raistlin,” Sturm confirmed, “so spare him your anger. As to how I found out, that was easy. I have known you for a good many years, long enough to realize that you will follow your own selfish pursuits without thought or care for others. I knew when you left the meeting last night that you intended to sneak off to Skullcap.”

“Then,” said Raistlin, glowering, “you should also know that you cannot stop me, so stand aside and permit me and my brother to pass.” He paused, then added, “For the sake of our friendship, I would not want to do you harm.”

Sturm’s hand went to his sword’s hilt, but he did not draw his weapon. His gaze flicked to Caramon, then back to his twin. “I have no quarrel with you risking your own life, Raistlin. Indeed, it is no secret that I think the world would be a better place if you were not in it, but there is no need for you to get your brother killed.”

“Caramon goes of his own choosing,” Raistlin returned, smiling a twisted smile at the knight’s candor. “Don’t you, my brother?”

“Raistlin says we have to go, Sturm,” Caramon told the knight. “He says Flint and Tanis won’t be able to find the gate to Thorbardin without the secret key that lies in Skullcap.”

“There are many important reasons why they should win their way into Thorbardin, aren’t there, Sturm Brightblade?” Raistlin said with a slight cough.

Sturm regarded Raistlin intently.

“I will let you go on one condition,” said Sturm. Releasing his grip on his sword, he stood to one side. “I’m coming with you.”

Caramon cringed, fearing Raistlin would fly into a rage.

Instead, Raistlin gave Sturm a strange, narrow-eyed look, then said quietly, “I have no objection to the knight’s accompanying us. Do you, my brother?”

“No,” said Caramon, astonished.

“In fact, he might actually be of some use to me.” Raistlin pushed past the knight and continued along the trail that led through the woods.

Sturm retrieved a sack that, by the clanging sounds emanating from it, held the bulk of his armor. The knight wore the breastplate with the rose and kingfisher, symbol of the Solamnic knighthood, and his helm. He carried the rest.

“Does Tanis know?” Caramon asked in a low voice, as Sturm joined him on the trail.

“He does. I shared with him my suspicion that Raistlin would go off on his own,” Sturm replied, positioning the sack more comfortably on his shoulder.

“Did… uh… Tika say anything to him?”

Sturm smiled. “So you told her, but did not tell Tanis?”

Caramon flushed deeply. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. Tika kind of cornered me. Is she very angry?” he asked wistfully.

Sturm didn’t answer. He smoothed his long mustaches, the knight’s way of avoiding an unpleasant discussion.

Caramon sighed and shook his head. “I’m surprised Tanis didn’t try to stop Raist.”

“He thinks there is something in what Raistlin claims, though he didn’t want to say so in front of Hederick. If we can find the key to the gates of Thorbardin and if we can find the gates in time, we are to bring word to him immediately.”

“How will we know where to find him?” Caramon asked. “He’s going trekking off over the mountains with Flint.”

Sturm shot Caramon a penetrating glance. “It’s interesting that Raistlin didn’t think to ask Tanis that, isn’t it? My guess is that he plans to seek out Thorbardin himself if he finds the key. What do you think he might be after in Skullcap?”

“I… I don’t know,” Caramon said, staring down at his boots tromping over the snow-rimed grass.

“I never thought about that.”

Sturm gave him a sharp look. “No,” he said quietly, “I don’t suppose you would.”

“Raist says we are going to help the people!” Caramon said defensively. Sturm grunted. Then he said in a low voice, “How does he know where he’s going? How does he know the way? Or are we wandering out here aimlessly?”

Caramon watched his twin walking confidently along the trail between the trees. The mage walked more slowly now, feeling his way along, sometimes tapping the ground with the butt of his staff like a blind man, yet, he didn’t appear lost. He walked with purpose and determination, and when he did stop to look around he would stop only briefly then continue on.

“He said he knows a way, a secret way.” Caramon saw Sturm’s look and added. “Raist knows lots of things. He reads books.”

Caramon was immediately sorry he’d spoken, for that brought up the unwelcome thought of the night-blue spellbook. He quickly banished the reminder. If Raistlin had found guidance in a book belonging to an evil wizard, Caramon didn’t want to know about it.

“Maybe Flint told him,” Caramon said, and the possibility cheered him. “Yeah, that’s it. Flint must have told him.”

Sturm knew it was hopeless to point out the obvious—Flint wouldn’t tell Raistlin the time of day. Caramon had lied to himself about his twin for so many years that he wouldn’t know the truth now if it gave him a swift kick in the backside.

Ranging ahead of the others, Raistlin knew perfectly well that his brother and the knight were talking about him. He even knew what they were saying. He could have quoted them both word for word. He didn’t care. Let the knight malign him. Caramon would defend him. Caramon always defended him. It was nauseating the way Caramon always defended him. Sometimes Raistlin found himself wishing Caramon would grow a backbone, stand up to him, defy him. Then he reflected that if this happened, Caramon would be of no more use to him, and he still needed Caramon. The day would come when he would be able to live independent of his twin but not now. Not yet.

Raistlin cast an oblique glance at the two men over his shoulder—his brother trotting along like a pack animal; Sturm Brightblade, impoverished knight, carrying his nobility around in a sack. Why is he coming along? Raistlin wondered. He found the notion intriguing. Certainly the noble knight is not worried about my well being! He professes to care for Caramon, yet Sturm knows perfectly well that Caramon is a seasoned warrior. My brother can take care of himself. Sturm has some reason of his own for tagging along with us. I wonder what that can be… Why is he so interested in Skullcap?

For that matter, Raistlin asked himself, why am I?

He did not know the answer.

Raistlin scanned the rock wall of the mountain that stood dead ahead of them blocking the way. He was searching for the image that was still shadowy in his mind, yet grew clearer and more distinct with every step he took. He knew what he was looking for—or rather, he would know it when he saw it. He knew a secret way that led to Skullcap, yet he didn’t know it. He had walked this path before, and he’d never before set foot on it. He’d been here, and he hadn’t. He’d done this without doing it.

The day of the dragon’s attack on the grove, Raistlin had been writing a new spell into his spellbook when suddenly the quill pen had, seemingly of its own volition, scrawled the word Skullcap across the page.

Raistlin had stared at the word. He had stared at the quill and at his hand that had wielded it. He had torn out the ruined page and tried again to write down his spell. Again the pen had written Skullcap. Raistlin had thrown down the pen and searched his mind and at last recalled where he’d heard that name, in what connection.

Fistandantilus. Skullcap was the wizard’s tomb.

An unpleasant thrill had tingled through Raistlin’s body, a tingle in the blood as of a rising fever. He’d never thought about it, but Skullcap must be close to where they were camped. What wonders might he find there! Ancient magical artifacts, the wizard’s spellbooks like the one he had already acquired.

That was the reward, yet Raistlin had the uneasy impression that he was being guided to Skullcap for darker and more sinister reasons. If so, he would deal with those when the time came, which was why he’d decided to take Sturm along.

Sturm Brightblade was an arrogant, insufferable prig who never took a piss but that he didn’t have to pray over it. Nevertheless, he was a deft hand with a sword. Skullcap might indeed be nothing more than a crumbling old ruin, just as Raistlin had claimed to the assembly last night. Even he didn’t believe it.

“So Raistlin’s gone off to Skullcap,” said Flint, adding dourly, “Good riddance, I’d say, but he’s taking two good men, Caramon and Sturm, to their deaths along with him.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Tanis. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Flint grumbled. “I want to go on record as saying this is all a waste of time. If we do find the gate, which I doubt, the dwarves will never open it for us. If they do open it, they won’t let us in. The hearts of the Thorbardin clans are hard and cold as the mountain itself. The only reason I’m going, Half-Elven, is to have the chance to say ‘I told you so’.”

“So much is changing in the world, perhaps the hearts of the dwarves have changed as well,” Tanis suggested.

Flint gave an explosive snort and went off to finish his packing, leaving Tanis to try to placate an extremely disappointed kender.

“Please, please, please let me go, Tanis!” Tasslehoff begged. He sat on a chair—the same chair to which he had recently been tied—and kicked his feet against the legs. “It’s only fair, you know. After all, you’re using one of my very best maps.”

“You along!” Flint rumbled from the other side of the cave. “We’d be shut out for the next three hundred years. The dwarves would never let a kender beneath the mountain.”

“I think they would,” Tas said eagerly. “Dwarves and kender are related, after all.”

“We are not!” Flint roared.

“We are so,” Tas argued. “First there were gnomes, then there was the Graygem and the gnomes tried to catch it, and something happened—I forget what—and Reorx changed some of the gnomes into dwarves and some into kender, so you see, we’re first cousins, Flint.” The dwarf began to sputter.

“Why don’t you wait for me outside?” Tanis said to the dwarf.

Flint glared at Tas then picked up his pack and stomped out.

“Please, Tanis,” Tas begged, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “You know you need me to keep you out of trouble.”

“I need you here much more, Tas,” said Tanis.

Tasslehoff shook his head glumly. “You’re just saying that.”

“With Sturm, Caramon, and Raistlin gone, and Flint and I gone, who’s going to look after Tika? And Laurana? And Riverwind and Goldmoon?”

Tas thought this over. “Riverwind has Goldmoon. Laurana’s got Elistan… What’s the matter, Tanis? Does your stomach hurt?”

“No, my stomach doesn’t hurt,” Tanis said irritably. He didn’t know why any mention of Laurana and Elistan should suddenly put him in a bad humor. What they did was none of his concern.

“It’s just you made the kind of face people make when their stomach hurts—”

“My stomach doesn’t hurt!” Tanis said.

“That’s good,” Tas remarked. “Nothing’s worse than a stomach ache when you’re starting on a long journey. You’re right. Tika doesn’t have anyone since Caramon’s gone. I’ll stay to take care of her.”

“Thank you, Tas,” said Tanis. “That’s a burden off my mind.”

“I’d better go be with her right now,” Tas added, charmed with his new responsibility. “She might be in danger.”

Actually, the kender was the one who was in danger. Tika never woke before noon if she could help it, and dawn was only just now breaking. Tanis didn’t like to think what would happen to poor Tas when he barged in on her at this time of day.

Tanis found Riverwind and Goldmoon waiting for him. She greeted him with a gentle kiss.

“I will ask the gods to walk with you, Tanis,” she said to him, adding with a mischievous smile, “whether you want them to or not.”

Tanis gave a somewhat sheepish grin and scratched his beard. He didn’t know what to say, and to change the subject, he turned to Riverwind.

“Thank you for accepting this charge, my friend,” Tanis told him. “I know the decision was not an easy one, nor will your task be easy, I’m afraid. You know what you must do, where you must go if the valley is attacked?”

“I know.” Riverwind’s expression was dark, though he said quietly, “The gods are with us. Hopefully such an attack will not happen.”

The gods are with Verminaard more than us, Tanis thought wryly. They brought him back to life. He merely nodded, however, and shaking Riverwind’s hand, Tanis reminded him once more of the location of the meeting place they agreed upon—a village of gully dwarves at the very foot of the mountain where Flint said the legendary gate to Thorbardin could be found. Flint had reluctantly, and only after much persuasion, revealed the presence of the village. He refused to say how he knew about it, but Tanis suspected that this was where the old dwarf had been captured by gully dwarves a few years before and imprisoned, the details of which harrowing ordeal Flint never discussed.

Riverwind indicated a rolled-up map tucked in his belt. He had drawn the map last night in consultation with Flint and one of Tasslehoff’s maps.

“I know where the village is located,” said Riverwind. “It is on the other side of the mountains, and as of now, we have no way of crossing those mountains.”

“There’s a pass,” Flint said stolidly.

“You keep saying that, but my people have scouted the area and they can’t find any sign of one.”

“Are your people dwarves? When they are, come talk to me,” Flint grunted. He carried both a battle-axe and a pick-axe in a harness on his back. He adjusted these more comfortably then glowered at Tanis. “If we’re going, we should be going, not standing around here palavering.”

“We’ll be off, then. We’ll blaze a trail for you to follow if you have to. I hope you—” He halted in mid sentence, a shiver of fear clenching his gut. His flesh crawled, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. The old wives would have said someone was walking across his grave. Goldmoon had gone pale and Riverwind’s breath came fast, his hands clenched. Flint whipped out his axe, searching for the foe, but the feeling passed, and no enemy appeared.

“Dragons,” said Flint grimly.

“They are up there,” Goldmoon said, shivering and hugging her cloak close around her, “watching us.”

Riverwind stood with his head tilted back, searching the skies. Tanis joined him, but neither could see anything in the pale blue dawn. Both looked at each other and acknowledged the truth.

“Whether we see them or not, they’re up there. Make the people ready, Riverwind. If trouble does come, you won’t have much time to escape.”

Tanis stood a moment more, searching for some word of hope or comfort. He couldn’t find any to give. Hefting his pack, he and the dwarf started off down the path.

Flint paused to shout back over his shoulder. “Bring pick-axes!”

“Pick-axes!” Riverwind repeated, frowning. “Does he mean for us to hack our way through the mountains? I don’t like this. I begin to think I made the wrong decision. Our people should have gone off on their own.”

“Your reasons for making this decision were sound, my husband. Not even the Que-Kiri warriors challenged you when you told them your decision. They are sensible enough to realize that there is safety in numbers. Do not start second guessing yourself. The chieftain who looks behind while he walks forward will stumble and fall. That is what my father always said.”

“Damn your father!” Riverwind said angrily. “His decisions were not always right! He was the one who ordered the people to stone me, or have you forgotten that, Chieftain’s Daughter?” He stalked off, leaving Goldmoon to stare after him in astonishment.

“He didn’t mean it,” said Laurana, coming up the hillside to stand beside her. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. He is worried, that is all. He bears a great responsibility.”

“1 know.” Goldmoon sighed bleakly. “I am no help, I fear. He is right. I should not keep comparing him to my father. I meant to offer advice; that is all. My father was a wise man and a good chief. He made a mistake, but it was because he did not understand.” She looked after her husband and sighed again. “I love him so much, yet it seems I hurt him more than I would hurt my worst enemy.”

“Love gives us a power to hurt that hate cannot match,” Laurana said softly. She looked after Flint and Tanis, who were shapeless forms in the gray dawn, descending into the valley.

“Did you come to say good-bye to Tanis?” Goldmoon asked, seeing the young woman watching them.

“I thought he might want to say good-bye to me,” Laurana replied. “I waited, but he didn’t come.” She shrugged. “Apparently he doesn’t care.”

“He does, Laurana,” said Goldmoon. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s just…” She hesitated.

“I can’t compete with a memory of a rival,” Laurana bitterly. “Kitiara will always be perfect to him. Her kisses will always taste sweeter. She is not here to say or do the wrong thing. I cannot win.”

Goldmoon was struck by what Laurana had said. Competing with a memory. That was what she was forcing Riverwind to do. Small wonder he resented it. She went to find him to make her apology, which, since they were newlyweds, she knew her tender “I am sorry” would be well received.

Laurana stood looking after Tanis.

“Hullo, Tika!” Tas shoved open the screen to the cave and bounded inside, remembering at the last moment to knock. “Did you go shivery all over just a few moments ago? I did. It was a dragon! I thought I’d better hurry over to protect you! Ouch!” he said loudly, tumbling over a lump in the darkness.

“Tika?” Tas reached out his hand. “Is that lump you?”

“Yes, it’s me.” She didn’t sound pleased about it.

“What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“Thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“That Caramon Majere is the biggest numbskull in the whole wide world.” There was a pause, then she said, “He went to Skullcap with his brother, didn’t he?”

“I guess so. Tanis said he did.”

Tika glared at him. “I sent Sturm to Tanis to stop him from going! Why didn’t he?”

“Tanis thinks there might be something important in Skullcap. I don’t know about Sturm,” Tas said, settling himself in the darkness beside Tika. He sighed longingly. “Skullcap. Doesn’t that sound like a perfectly wonderful place to you?”

“It sounds horrid. It’s a trap,” said Tika.

“A trap? Now I wish I’d gone! I love traps!” Tas was disconsolate.

“Not those kind of traps,” Tika said scornfully. “I mean Raistlin’s leading Caramon into a trap. I’ve been up all night thinking through it. Raistlin’s going because of that awful old dead wizard, that Fistandoodle or whatever his name is. Caramon told me all about him and about that wicked book of his—the book Raistlin sneaked out of Xak Tsaroth. That wizard was an evil man, and that place is an evil place. Raistlin knows that and he doesn’t care. He’s going to get Caramon killed.”

“An evil place that belonged to an evil wizard, and it’s filled with traps!” Tas sighed longingly.

“If I hadn’t given Tanis my solemn promise that I’d stay here to protect you, Tika, I’d go there in a minute.”

“Protect me!” Tika was indignant. “You don’t need to protect me. No one does. Caramon’s the one who needs protecting. He’s got about as much sense as a goatsucker bird. He has to be warned about that brother of his. Tanis won’t do it, so I guess it’s up to me.” Tika threw off the blanket she’d had draped over her shoulders. The cave was growing lighter by the minute, and Tas could now see that she was dressed for travel in men’s trousers and a man’s shirt and a leather vest that Tas thought looked rather like one that Flint had once owned. Tas remembered the dwarf complaining about it being missing. He’d actually accused the kender of walking off with it!

Tika’s sword that she didn’t know how to use very well lay on the table, next to her shield, which she did know how to use, though not in quite the way the shield’s maker had intended. The shield had a dent in it from where she’d bashed a draconian over the head.

Tas leapt up in excitement. “Tanis made me promise solemnly that I’d protect you, so if you go to Skullcap, then I have to go with you!”

“I’m not going to Skullcap. I’m going to find Caramon and keep him from going. I plan to talk some sense into him.”

Tas offered his opinion. “I think it might be easier to fight an evil wizard in Skullcap than talk sense into Caramon.”

“You’re probably right. But I have to try.” Tika picked up the sword, intending to buckle it around her waist. “Have they been gone long?”

“Since before dawn, but Raistlin walks pretty slowly. We can catch up—”

“Shush!” Tika cautioned.

Someone was outside the screen. Sunlight glinted on blonde hair.

“Laurana!” Tika groaned softly and hurriedly laid the sword back on the table. “Not a word, Tas! She’ll try to stop us!”

“You’re awake!” Laurana said, entering the cave. She stopped to stare in amazement at Tika’s garb. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“I… uh… am going to wash my clothes,” said Tika. “All my clothes.”

“Were you going to wash your sword, too?” asked Laurana, teasing.

Tika was spared the need to tell another lie, for Laurana kept on talking. “You’re in luck. You’ll have company. Maritta has deemed this laundry day. All the women are going to take their clothes and bedding down to the stream. Tas, you can help. Grab those blankets…” Tas flashed Tika an agonized glance.

Tika shrugged, helpless. She couldn’t think of any way out of this.

Tas, staggering beneath a mound of blankets, was leaving the cave when Tika grabbed hold of him. “We’ll sneak away when the women go to lunch,” she whispered. “Watch me! When I signal, you come running!”

“Don’t worry about getting a late start,” Tas whispered. “Caramon’s big feet will be easy to track, and Raistlin walks really, really slow.”

Tika trudged after Tas and Laurana down to the stream. She could only hope the kender was right.

Chapter 7 Dray-yan’s plan. Grag’s opinion of it.

Dray-yan sat at the large obsidian table in the late Lord Verminaard’s chambers and drank the last of his lordship’s elven wine. The aurak made a mental note to order the commander charged with battling the elves to send him another barrel. As he sipped the wine, Dray-yan reviewed the events of the past several days, judging how they would affect his future plans. The aurak draconian was pleased with how some things had turned out, not so pleased with others. The red dragons dispatched to Pax Tharkas by Her Dark Majesty had, as expected, seen through Dray-yan’s illusion of Verminaard. Insulted at the idea of being ordered about by draconians, whom the dragons called disparagingly “rotten egg yolk,” the dragons had been on the verge of leaving.

Commander Grag took his prayers and plans to Queen Takhisis. She had graciously listened to him, and pleased with his ideas, she commanded the reds to remain in Pax Tharkas and to go along with Dray-yan’s schemes, at least for the time being. Grag informed Dray-yan that the queen was backing him only because she had no other commander she could spare to run the Red Dragonarmy. Dray-yan’s command was temporary. With success, it might become permanent.

Using the reluctant and grumbling help of the red dragons, Grag was able at last to reopen the pass blocked by the rock fall. Draconian troops marched into Pax Tharkas, though not in great numbers. The Red Dragonarmy was stretched thin. There were enough draconians to man the fortress, but not enough to use to work in the iron mines. Commanders in the field were desperate for weapons and armor. Steel was a more valuable commodity than gold. Dray-yan had to either regain his labor force or find new venues. He decided to do both.

Grag dispatched troops after the refugees. They picked up the trail immediately and followed it to a pass blocked by an avalanche and further blocked by new snow fall.

The reds declared that clearing this pass would be extremely difficult. Further, they made it clear to Dray-yan that clearing passes was tedious, boring, and unprofitable. In other parts of Ansalon, dragons were burning cities and raiding villages, not picking up rocks. The reds would not clear the pass, and if he did not come up with some sort of interesting and agreeable work for them, they were going to go elsewhere.

Dray-yan considered asking Takhisis to again intercede with the dragons, but he could not stomach the thought of once more crawling to his queen begging for help. Takhisis did not like whiners, and her supply of favors was limited. She liked commanders who took the initiative and went ahead with their own plans and ideas, leaving her free to move on with her own schemes. Dray-yan dropped the idea of marching his army through the pass. He conceived another idea, one that he hoped would win him recognition and praise from the Dark Queen.

Dray-yan did his own reconnaissance in the guise of Lord Verminaard and discovered where the refugees were hiding. He had the pleasure of seeing them run panic-stricken before him like sheep. He could only imagine their dismay as they witnessed the return of the man they’d thought they’d killed.

Having flown over the area, Dray-yan was satisfied that his plan would work. His idea would require him to do a good deal of persuading, but he hoped the dragons might find it diverting and would agree to go along with it. He was less certain how Commander Grag would feel about it. No time like the present to find out.

Dray-yan sent a messenger ordering Grag to attend him. Rather, Lord Verminaard sent the messenger. Dray-yan found it exhausting keeping up the charade, which required that he use his illusion magic every time he wanted to stick his head out the door and shout for a minion. He looked forward to the day when he could bury Verminaard once and for all. Hopefully, if this plan worked, that day would not be long in coming.

Grag arrived and was invited to partake of the wine. The commander refused, stating he was on duty.

“What do the blue dragon scouts report?” Dray-yan asked.

“One flew over the valley this morning at about dawn. The humans remain in the caves,” Grag replied. “They appear to be planning to stay there for the winter, for the dragon saw no signs of any preparations being made to leave.”

“Why should they leave?” Dray-yan asked with a shrug. “They do not think we can come through the pass.”

“They’re right. We can’t,” said Grag grimly.

“True, but there is more than one way to skin a human. I have a plan.” Dray-yan explained his idea.

Grag listened. First he was incredulous and stared at Dray-yan as though he’d gone mad. As Dray-yan elaborated, however, patiently explaining how this could be done, Grag began to realize that the aurak might be right. This could be done! The plan was daring, bold and dangerous but not impossible.

“What do you think?” Dray-yan asked finally.

“The reds must be convinced.”

“I will undertake to speak with them myself. I believe they will agree.” Grag thought so too. “My troops will need to time to train.”

Dray-yan eyed him, frowning. He hadn’t counted on this.

“Is that necessary?”

“Consider what you are asking them to do, yes!” Grag returned heatedly. Dray-yan considered, before waving a clawed hand in resignation. “Very well. How long?”

“A month.”

Dray-yan snorted. “Out of the question.”

“The humans are not going anywhere.”

“We don’t know that. You have one week.”

“Two,” Grag temporized, “or I will not agree.”

Dray-yan eyed him. “I could find another commander who would.”

“That is true,” said Grag coolly, “but that would mean one more who knows your little secret, Lord Verminaard.”

“You have two weeks,” Dray-yan said. “Make the most of the time.”

“I plan to.” Grag rose to his feet. “How do negotiations come with the dwarves of Thorbardin?”

“Quite well,” Dray-yan replied. “If this works out, we will have no need for the humans and you may simply kill them.”

“We’re going to a lot of trouble if we don’t really need them,” Grag pointed out.

“We cannot be seen to be weak. If nothing else, the deaths of these slaves will serve to instill fear in others who might be thinking of rebelling.”

Grag nodded. He hesitated a moment, then said, “You know I do not like you, Dray-yan.” Dray-yan’s lip curled. “We were not put into this world to be liked, Commander.”

“And that I would never stoop to flattery,” Grag continued.

“Where is all this leading, Commander? I have work to do.”

“I want to say that I consider this plan of yours one of genius. We will make history. Emperor Ariakas and the other Highlords will look on our race with new respect and admiration.”

“That is my hope,” said Dray-yan. Though he did not say it, he was pleased by Grag’s praise. He could already see himself in a Highlord’s armor. “Do your job well, Commander. You have two weeks.”

Grag saluted and left to start making arrangements.

“Oh, Commander,” Dray-yan called after him, “if you think of it, you might mention this brilliant plan of mine to Her Dark Majesty. Just mention it in passing…”

Chapter 8 A Dwarf’s Knowledge. A Wizard’s Mystery.

The valley in which the refugees sheltered formed a bowl perhaps ten miles long and ten miles wide. Flint and Tanis walked due south, keeping in the foothills at the base of the mountains, not descending into the valley. Flint set a meandering course. Tanis might have thought the dwarf was lost and wandering, but he’d traveled with Flint for many years and knew better. A dwarf might lose his way in the desert. A dwarf would most certainly lose himself at sea, should he ever have the misfortune to wind up there, but the dwarf had not been born who could get lost among the mountains and hills of Kharolis, long trod by the boots of his ancestors. Flint kept his gaze fixed on the stone walls that thrust up from the valley floor, and every so often, he would adjust their course, shift direction.

They had been traveling for several hours when the dwarf suddenly veered to the right. Leaving the foothills, he began to climb a steep grade.

Tanis followed. He had been searching for some sign that Raistlin, Caramon, and Sturm had come this way, but he’d found none.

“Flint,” said Tanis, as they started to ascend, “which way is Skullcap from here?” Flint paused to get his bearings then pointed to the east. “That way. On the other side of that mountain. If they’ve gone in that direction, they won’t get far. I guess we were worried for nothing.”

“There’s no pass in that direction?”

“Use your eyes, lad! Do you see a pass?”

Tanis shook his head, then smiled. “I don’t see a pass in this direction either.”

“Ah, that’s because you’re not a dwarf!” said Flint and continued the ascent.

Caramon, Sturm, and Raistlin were down in the valley, following a trail that was faint, overgrown, and occasionally impassable, forcing them to make detours into the forest. No matter how far they ventured from the trail, Raistlin always led them unerringly back. The stream that ran near their campsite wound through the valley like a gleaming snake, cutting across the trail at several points. Up until now, whenever they’d been forced to cross the stream, it was shallow enough that they could wade through it. They had come to a place where the stream flowed deep and swift, and they could not cross it. Raistlin struck off to the north, following the bank, and eventually found a place where the water was only ankle deep. Once they were on the other side, Raistlin led the way along the bank until they once more picked up the trail.

“How did he know where to find the ford?” Sturm asked in a low voice.

“Lucky guess,” Caramon returned.

Sturm regarded Raistlin grimly. “He seems to make a lot of those.”

“A good thing, too,” Caramon muttered, “otherwise we’d be wandering around here lost.” Caramon increased his pace to catch up with his far-ranging twin.

“Don’t you think you should rest, Raist?” Caramon asked solicitously as he caught up. Caramon was worried at the pace his frail twin was setting. They’d walked for hours without a break.

“You’ve really pushed yourself this morning.”

“No time,” Raistlin said, walking faster. He glanced at the sky. “We must be there by sunset.”

“We must be where by sunset?” Caramon asked, puzzled.

Raistlin appeared momentarily confused then brushed the question aside. “You will—” His words were interrupted by a coughing spasm. He choked, gasping for breath. Caramon hovered nearby, watching helplessly as Raistlin wiped his mouth then quickly crumpled the handkerchief, thrusting it back into a pocket, though not before Caramon had seen spots on the white cloth that were as red as the mage’s robes.

“We’re stopping,” said Caramon.

Raistlin tried to protest, but he lacked the breath to argue. Glancing up at the sun, which had yet to reach its zenith, he gave in and slumped down on a fallen log. His breath came in wheezes. Caramon removed the stopper from the water skin, and as he held it out for his brother to drink, saw that Raistlin’s golden-tinged skin had a feverish flush. Knowing better than to say anything about this, fearing to draw his brother’s ire, Caramon took the opportunity as he handed over the water to brush his hand against his brother’s. Raistlin’s skin always seemed unnaturally warm to the touch, but Caramon fancied that it was hotter than normal.

“Sturm, could you gather some wood? I want to start a fire,” Caramon said. “I’ll brew your tea, Raist. You can take a nap.”

Raistlin flashed his twin a look that caused the words to dry up in Caramon’s mouth.

“A nap!” Raistlin said scathingly. “Do you think we are on a kender outing, brother?”

“No,” said Caramon, unhappy. “It’s just that you—”

Raistlin rose to his feet. His eyes glinted from the shadow of his cowl. “Go ahead, Caramon. Start a fire. You and the knight have your picnic. Perhaps you can go fishing, catch a trout. When the two of you are finished, you might consider catching up with me!” He pointed with his staff to his tracks in the snow. “You will have no difficulty following my trail.” He started to cough, but he managed to stifle it in the sleeve of his robes. Leaning on his staff, he strode off.

“By the gods, for a bent copper I would go fishing,” Sturm said vehemently. “Let him end up in a wolf’s belly!”

Caramon did not answer but silently gathered up his gear and that of his brother and started off in pursuit of his twin.

“For a bent copper,” Sturm muttered.

Since there was no one around to offer him such an incentive, the knight hefted his own equipment and stalked grimly after them.

Tanis was not the least bit surprised when Flint found the old dwarven trail, hidden from sight, carved out of the side of the mountain. Flint had been walking with one eye fixed on the ground and the other searching the mountain walls, looking for signs only he could see, secret marks left by his people who had lived in and around the Kharolis mountains since the time of the forging of the world by the dwarven god, Reorx.

Tanis pretended to be surprised, however, swearing he’d been certain they were lost past recovery. Flint flushed with pride, though he pretended he’d done nothing special. Tanis eyed the route of path that stretched ahead of them, meandering across the face of the mountain.

“It’s narrow,” he said, thinking of the refugees that might have to use it, “and steep.”

“It is that,” Flint agreed. “It was meant to be trod by dwarven feet, not human.” He pointed ahead. “See that cleft in the walls up ahead? That’s where this path leads. That’s how we cross the mountains.”

The cut was so narrow that it formed almost a perfect V shape. Tanis could not tell how wide it was, for they were yet some distance away, but from this vantage point, it looked as if two humans walking side-by-side would be a tight squeeze. The path on which he stood could accommodate two humans at some points, but he could see plainly that in other places people would need to walk single-file.

He and Flint had been climbing steadily since they left the foothills. The path had the solid backing of the mountain on one side, with nothing on the other except a long drop. Traversing such terrain did not bother dwarves in the least. Flint claimed that so long as they had rock beneath their feet, dwarven boots did not slip. Tanis thought of Goldmoon, who was terrified of heights, walking this path, and he wished for a moment that he believed in these new-found gods, so that he could pray to them to spare her and the people the necessity of making this terrible journey. As it was, he could only hope, and his hope was bleak.

He and Flint continued, their pace slowing, for though the dwarf marched with confidence along the trail, Tanis had to take more care.

Fortunately, the mountain had sheltered the path from the snow, so that the trail wasn’t icy. Even so, Tanis had to watch his step, and though heights didn’t bother him, every time he looked over the edge to the boulders below, certain parts of him shriveled.

By late afternoon, he and Flint had reached the cut that was every bit as narrow and difficult to cross as it had looked from a distance.

“We’ll camp here for the night where the walls protect us from the wind,” said Flint. “We cross in the morning.”

As Tanis scouted out the best of a bad place in which to spend a cold night in a rock-strewn ravine, Flint stood with his hands on his hips, his lips pursed, staring up at the peak that towered above them. At length, after a good long perusal, he grunted in satisfaction.

“I thought as much,” he said. “We need to leave Riverwind a sign.”

“I have been leaving signs,” Tanis pointed out. “You’ve seen me. He’ll have no trouble finding the path.”

“It’s not the path I’m wanting to show him. Come take a look.” Flint pointed at large boulder.

“What do you make of that, lad?”

“It’s a rock,” said Tanis. “Like every other rock around here.”

“Aye, but it’s not!” Flint said triumphantly. “That rock is striped—red and orange. The rocks around it are gray.”

“Then it must have tumbled down the side of the mountain. There’s lots of loose rocks and boulders up there.”

“That boulder didn’t fall. Someone put it there. Now why do you suppose someone would do that?” Flint grinned. He was enjoying himself.

Tanis shook his head.

“It’s a keystone,” Flint stated. “Knock it out and it takes out that boulder, and that boulder takes out that one, and before you know it the whole shebang comes cascading down on your head.”

“So you want me to warn Riverwind that no one should disturb this boulder,” said Tanis. Flint snorted. “The cold has frozen your brain, Half-Elf. I want you to tell him that if he’s being pursued, once all the people have safely crossed, he should knock it out. It will block the pass behind him.

“Bring pick-axes, you advised.” Tanis recalled their conversation that morning. He gazed thoughtfully at the rock and shook his head. “Explaining something this complicated is going to be difficult, short of leaving him a written note. You should have said something to him this morning.”

“I wasn’t certain I would find it. For all I knew, if my people had left a keystone, and sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t, it might have already been triggered or tumbled down on its own.”

“Which would have meant that this cut was impassable,” said Tanis. “We would have come all this way for nothing, unless there is another way out.”

Flint shrugged. “From the signs my people left, this is the only pass there is. There was no way of knowing if it was open without coming to see for ourselves.”

“Still, you should have told Riverwind about the keystone.”

Flint glowered at him. “I’m breaking faith with my people by showing it to you, Half-Elven, much less going around blabbing secrets to a pack of humans.”

Irate, he stomped off, leaving Tanis to solve the problem. At length, the half-elf picked up Flint’s pick-axe and laid it down beside the keystone with its point facing the boulder. Anyone happening upon it would think they had either dropped it or abandoned it. Riverwind, he hoped, would remember that Flint had specifically mentioned pickaxes and would realize that this was a clue. Whether he realized it was a clue to blocking the trail behind them if they were being pursued was another matter.

He found Flint comfortably ensconced among the rocks, chewing on strips of dried venison.

“I was thinking about what you said, about dwarves sharing their secrets with humans. It seems to me that if we could all see ourselves as one ‘people’, this would be a better world.”

“What are you grousing about, Half-Elven?” Flint demanded.

“I was saying it’s a damn shame we can’t trust each other.”

“Ah, if we all trusted each other, we’d all be kender,” Flint said. “Then where would we be? I’m going to sleep. You take first watch.”

Flint finished his meal, then wrapped himself in his blanket, and lay down on his back among the rocks.

Tanis propped himself up against a sloping wall, and, unable to get comfortable, he gazed into the starlit night.

“If there is no other way out of the valley, how will Raistlin reach Skullcap?” he asked.

“Fly there on his broomstick, most likely,” Flint muttered, and giving a great yawn, he shoved a stone out from beneath his shoulders, closed his eyes, and sighed in deep contentment.

“This feels like home,” he said, lacing his fingers over his chest. He was soon snoring.

Raistlin, Caramon, and Sturm continued their trek across the valley, walking all through the afternoon. Raistlin seemed infused with an unnatural energy that would not permit him to rest but kept driving him on. Caramon often insisted that they stop, but he wasted his time, for Raistlin would sit down for only a few moments, then he would be back on his feet, pacing restlessly, his gaze going to the sun now starting its descent into afternoon.

“Sunset,” was all he would say and kept walking.

The forested part of the valley ended. Open grassland spread before them. The trail they had been following through the trees disappeared, yet Raistlin kept going, moving out onto the snowcovered grass. He walked with his head down, leaning heavily on his staff. He looked neither to the right nor the left but kept his gaze fixed on his feet, as though all his will was bent on placing one foot in front of the other. His hand pressed against his chest. His breath rattled in his lungs. Sturm expected the mage to collapse at any moment. He knew better than to say anything, however, knowing that any attempt to try to make Raistlin rest would result in a venomous look and a sarcastic gibe.

“This will be the death of your brother,” Sturm warned Caramon in a low voice.

“I know,” said Caramon, worried, “but he won’t stop. I’ve tried to talk to him. He just gets mad.”

“Where is he going in such a hurry? There’s nothing ahead of us but a solid stone wall!” The grass lands, smooth and trackless, stretched on for about two miles, coming to an abrupt end at a sheer wall of rock jutting up from the valley floor. The rock wall formed a span, like a natural bridge, between two mountains.

“Once we step out from under the cover of the trees and onto the empty grasslands, a blind gully dwarf could spot us.”

Caramon acknowledged the truth of this with a slow nod and kept walking.

“I don’t like this, Caramon,” Sturm continued. “There’s something strange at work here.” He had been going to say “evil,” but he changed it at the last moment, fearing to upset Caramon, who nodded again and kept walking.

Sturm halted to draw breath. Gazing after the twins, he shook his head.

“I think Raistlin could order Caramon to follow him into the Abyss and he’d never hesitate,” he said to himself. Loyalty to a brother was admirable, but loyalty should see with clear eyes, not stumble along blind.

Caramon peered around over his shoulder. “Sturm? You coming?”

Sturm hefted his pack and walked on. Loyalty to friends went unquestioned.

Chapter 9 Pheragas Who? Wake Me if you see a Ghost.

As the sun waned and Flint and Tanis bedded down for the night on the mountain, Sturm, Caramon and Raistlin reached the end of their day’s journey—a blank wall.

Both Caramon and Sturm could see quite clearly their sojourn across a snow-covered meadow was headed straight for a dead end. The rays of the setting sun struck the immense stone wall full on. Caramon thought they might climb it, but the bright sunlight revealed that the wall was smooth-sided with nary a hand or foot-hold in sight. The wall was slightly curved, like the side of a bowl, and so high that the tallest siege engines ever constructed would have reached only to its midpoint. There were no caves, no cracks, no way through it or over it, yet Raistlin made for the wall with dogged determination.

Caramon said nothing about the fact that they were on a journey to nowhere, for he was loathe to cross his brother. Sturm said nothing to Raistlin aloud, though he said plenty beneath his breath. Caramon could hear the knight muttering to himself as he slogged along behind him. Caramon knew Sturm was angry with him as well as his brother. Sturm believed Caramon should call a halt to this and force Raistlin to turn back. Sturm assumed that Caramon didn’t because he feared his twin.

Sturm was only half-right. Caramon did fear his brother’s anger, but he would have willingly risked his twin’s snide comments and disparaging remarks if he thought that Raistlin was doing something wrong or putting himself in danger. Caramon was not so sure that was the case. Raistlin was acting very strangely, but he was also acting with purpose and resolve. Caramon felt compelled to respect his brother’s decisions.

If it turns out he’s wrong and we’ve come all this way for nothing, Caramon reflected wryly, Sturm will at least have the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” They continued to march across the grassland. Raistlin increased his pace as the shadows of coming night spread across the valley. They came at last to the base of the great gray wall. The land was silent with that eerie, heavy silence that comes with a blanket of snow. The sky was empty, as was the land around them. They might have been the only living beings in the world.

Raistlin shoved back the cowl so that it fell around his shoulders and stared at the wall before him. He blinked and looked vaguely astonished, very much like he was seeing it for the first time, with no clear idea how he came to be here.

His confusion was not lost on Sturm.

The knight dropped his pack containing his armor with a clang and a clatter that echoed off the mountainside and jarred every tooth in Caramon’s head.

“Your brother has no idea where he is, does he?” Sturm said flatly. “Or what he’s doing here?” He glanced over shoulder. “It will be dark soon. We can make camp back in the woods. If we start now—”

He stopped talking because no one was listening to him. Raistlin had begun to walk along the base of the wall, his gaze intently scanning the gray rock that glimmered orange in the light of a flaring sunset. He walked several paces in one direction, then, not finding what he was seeking, he turned around and walked back. His gaze never left the wall. At length he paused. He brushed off snow that had stuck to the wall and smiled.

“This is it,” he said.

Caramon walked over to look. His brother had uncovered a mark chiseled into stone at about waist-height. Caramon recognized the mark as a rune, one of the letters of the language of magic. His gut twisted, and his flesh crawled. He longed to ask his brother how he had known to trek miles across an unfamiliar, desolate valley and walk up to this vast wall of stone at precisely this location. He did not ask, however, perhaps because he feared Raistlin might tell him.

“What… what does it mean?” Caramon asked instead.

Sturm shoved forward. He saw the mark and said grimly, “Evil, that’s what it means.”

“It’s not evil; it’s magic,” Caramon said, though he knew he was wasting his breath. In the mind of the Solamnic knight, they amounted to the same thing.

Raistlin paid no attention to either of them. The mage’s long, delicate fingers rested lightly, caressingly, on the rune.

“Don’t you know where you are, Pheragas?” Raistlin said suddenly. “This was to be our supply route in case we were besieged, and this was to have been our means of escape if the battle went awry. I know that you are dull-witted sometimes, Pheragas, but even you could not have forgotten something this important.”

Caramon glanced around in perplexity, then stared at his brother. “Who are you talking to, Raist? Who’s Pheragas?”

“You are, of course,” returned Raistlin irritably. “Pheragas…” He looked at Caramon and blinked. Raistlin put his hand to his forehead. His eyes lost their focus. “Why did I say that?” Seeing the rune beneath his fingers, he suddenly snatched his hand away. He looked up the wall and down, looked side to side. Turning to Caramon, Raistlin asked in a low voice. “Where are we, my brother?”

“Paladine save us,” said Sturm. “He’s gone mad.”

Caramon licked dry lips, then said hesitantly, “Don’t you know? You brought us here, Raist.” Raistlin made an impatient gesture. “Just tell me where we are!”

“The eastern end of the valley.” Caramon peered at their surroundings. “By my reckoning, Skullcap must be somewhere on the other side of this wall. You said something about an ‘escape route’. ‘In case the battle went awry.’ What… uh… did you mean by that?”

“I have no idea,” Raistlin replied. He gazed at the wall and at the rune, his brow furrowed. “Yet I do seem to remember...”

Caramon laid a solicitous hand on his brother’s arm. “Never mind, Raist. You’re exhausted. You should rest.”

Raistlin wasn’t listening. He stared at the wall, and his expression cleared. “Yes, that’s right.” He spoke softly. “If I touch this rune…”

“Raist, don’t!” Caramon grabbed hold of his brother’s arm.

Raistlin whipped his staff around, giving Caramon a crack on the wrist. Caramon yelped and drew back his hand. Raistlin touched the rune and pressed on it hard.

The portion of the wall on which the rune was etched depressed, sliding into the wall about three inches. A grinding sound emanated from inside the stone wall, followed by loud snapping and groaning. The outline of a doorway, about five feet in height and rectangular, appeared etched into the wall. The door shivered, displacing the snow sticking to the side of the wall, then the noise stopped. Nothing else happened.

Raistlin stood, frowning at it.

“Something must be wrong with the mechanism. Pheragas, put your shoulder to the door and push on it. You, too, Denubis. It will take both of you to force it.”

Neither man moved.

Raistlin glanced irritably at them both. “What are you waiting for? Your brains to come back? Trust me. It will not happen. Pheragas, quit standing there gaping like a gutted fish and do as I command you.”

Caramon simply stared at his twin, his mouth wide open. Sturm frowned deeply and took a step backward.

“I’ll have nothing to do with evil magic,” he said.

Raistlin gave a mirthless laugh.

“Magic? Are you daft? This is not magic. If this door was magic, it would be reliable! This mark is not a magical rune. It is the dwarven rune for the word ‘Door’. The mechanism is three hundred years old and it is stuck, that’s all.”

He eyed his brother. “Pheragas—”

“I’m not Pheragas, Raist,” said Caramon quietly.

Raistlin stared at him. His eyes flickered, and he said quietly, “No, no, you’re not. I don’t know why I keep calling you that. Caramon, please, you have nothing to fear. Just put your shoulder to the door—”

“Wait a minute, Caramon.” Sturm halted the big man as he was about to obey. “This door might not be magic, as you say—” though he gave the doorway a dark glance—“but I for one want to know how your brother knew it was here.”

Raistlin glared at the knight and Caramon cringed, expecting him to lash out at Sturm. Caramon was always getting caught in the middle between his brother and his friends, and he hated it. Their fighting made his stomach twist. He cast Sturm a pleading glance, begging him to let the subject drop. After all, it was just a door…

His brother did not lash out. The explosion of rage Caramon feared did not happen. Raistlin’s lips compressed. He looked at the door, looked at the trail they had left through the snow, the trail that stretched back to the woods and across the valley. His gaze went to Sturm, and there came a ghost of a smile to the thin lips.

“You have never trusted me, Sturm Brightblade,” Raistlin said quietly, “and I do not know why. To my knowledge, I have never betrayed you. I have never lied to you. If I have kept certain information to myself from time to time, I suppose that is my right. To be honest,” Raistlin added with a shrug, “I do not know how I found this door. I do not know how I knew it was here. I do not know how I knew to open it. I did, and that is all I can say.”

He raised his hand, as Sturm would have spoken. “I also know this. Inside the door we will find a tunnel that will lead us directly into the fortress of Zhaman, what is now known as Skullcap.” Raistlin glanced at the door and sighed. “At least, it used to. The tunnel might have been destroyed in the blast.”

“Now that you’re being so open and honest,” said Sturm grimly, “I suppose you assume we’ll walk right in.”

“Either that or spend the next several days searching for a way over these mountains, and more days after that in crossing them,” Raistlin replied. “It is up to you, Sir Knight. Which would you rather do? In the interests of saving time, Caramon and I will take this route. Won’t we, my brother?”

“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon.

Sturm was still frowning at the door.

“C’mon, Sturm,” said Caramon in low tones. “You don’t want to go traipsing over these mountains. You might never find a way. Like Raist says, the door’s not magic. Dwarves built it. We saw doors that worked like this in Pax Tharkas. As for how Raist knew it was here, it doesn’t matter. Maybe he read about it in a book and just forgot.”

Sturm regarded his friend thoughtfully. Then he smiled and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“If all mankind were as loyal and trusting as you are, Caramon, the world would be a better place. Unhappily—” his gaze shifted to Raistlin—“such is not the case. Still, as you say, this saves us time and effort.”

Sturm walked over to the door and put his shoulder against the stone. Caramon joined him, and both shoved on the rock. At first, they made no progress. They might have been pushing on the side of the mountain. They gave it another shove, digging their heels into the ground, and suddenly the block of stone slid backward, moving so fast on steel tracks that Caramon lost his footing and fell flat. Sturm stumbled too, barely catching himself.

The sun had vanished. The afterglow was all the light in the sky, and that would be gone soon.

“Shirak,” said Raistlin, raising his staff. The crystal on top, held fast in the golden claw, burst into light. He walked past his brother, and Sturm, who stood hesitantly near the opening in the stone wall, and entered the tunnel.

Light gleamed on a steel rail about six feet in length, running straight into the passage until, at this juncture, the rail line split, part of it curving around to the left to come up against a wall, The rest continued on down the tunnel, disappearing in the darkness. Raistlin examined the mechanism with interest.

“Look at this,” he said, pointing. “The door is mounted on wheels that run along the rail. The door can then be pushed against this wall, so that it is out of the way.” Four carts mounted on rails stood in a row. The carts were still in good condition, for the passage beneath the mountain had been sealed up tight. The floor and walls were dry. Raistlin glanced inside the carts. They were empty. By the looks of them, they had never been used.

“Supply wagons could be driven up to the tunnel, their contents unloaded onto these carts. The carts were either pushed or pulled along the rails, down the tunnel, and into Zhaman. Thus, even besieged, the fortress could still be resupplied, and in case defeat was imminent, those inside the fortress could use this route to escape.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” stated Caramon, entering and peering around.

“What doesn’t?” asked his brother impatiently.

“According to Flint, when the wizard saw that he was about to be defeated, he decided to destroy himself and kill thousands of his own troops.” Caramon gestured to the tunnel. “Why would he do that when he could have fled to safety?”

“And we know we’re not being followed,” said Caramon with a yawn.

As it turned out, they were both wrong. Tas and Tika were out there, and they were following them.

Midway through the day, Tasslehoff and Tika had finally managed to sneak away from laundry detail. When it came time to spread the sopping wet clothes and bedding over bushes to dry, Tika had eagerly volunteered for the task. A quick poke in the ribs had caused Tas to volunteer as well. Tas had managed to retrieve their packs and hide them beneath a rotted log. Snagging these, the two of them had dumped the laundry they were supposed to be hanging and slipped away from camp.

They’d picked up the trail of the three men with ease. They could see in the snow the print of Raistlin’s narrow feet, the brush-marks left by the hem of his robes, and indentations made by his staff. Caramon’s large footprints were always near the smaller prints of his brother, and Sturm’s heavy prints came behind, guarding the rear.

Well aware that they’d lost valuable time and that they had only half the day left before darkness overtook them, Tika tried her best to hurry along. This proved difficult, for Tasslehoff was constantly being distracted by something he saw and continually starting to venture off to investigate. Tika had to either argue him out of it, forcibly restrain him, or if she happened to be looking the other way, go chase him down.

When night fell, the two were still inside the forest.

“We have to stop,” Tika said, dispirited. “If we go on, we might miss their tracks in the dark. Does this clearing look like a good place to camp?”

“As good as any,” said Tas. “There are probably wolves out there ready to tear us apart, but if we build a fire we can keep them away.”

“Wolves?” Tika glanced nervously around the dark forest.

She had traveled far from Solace and the Inn of the Last Home, where she had worked as a barmaid, going on a journey she had never expected to take. Neither had she expected to fall in love on this journey and certainly not with Caramon Majere, who had teased her unmercifully when she was a little girl, calling her “Carrot-top.”

“Freckle-face” and “Skinny Butt.”

He didn’t call her those names now, of course. No one did. Tika had filled out nicely; too nicely, she thought, when she compared herself to the graceful, sylph-like Laurana. Buxom and broadshouldered, with strong, muscular arms, gleaned from years of carrying heavy trays of food and hefting mugs of ale, Tika was always amused when someone termed her “pretty”. Her red curls, green eyes and flashing smile had captured more than one heart back in Solace, and now Caramon’s was among them, his the most treasured.

Here she was, far from home, far from anything resembling a home, if you came down to it, spending the night in a dark—extremely dark—forest, her only companion a kender. While Tasslehoff was her best friend and she was very glad he was with her, she couldn’t help wishing he wouldn’t talk quite so much or so loudly and especially that he wouldn’t keep jumping up at every strange noise and crying out eagerly, “Did you hear that, Tika? It sounded like a bear!” Tika had spent many nights in the wilderness on this trip but always in company with skilled warriors who knew how to defend themselves. Tika had been in a few fights, but thus far the only weapon she had ever wielded with elan was a heavy iron skillet. She had found a sword, but she knew quite well, for she’d been told often enough, that when she wielded it, she was dangerous only to herself.

Tika had not meant to be spending this night alone. She’d meant to be spending the night with Caramon. She knew that once she’d caught up with them, neither Sturm nor Caramon would send her back alone and unprotected, no matter what Raistlin might say. They would have to take her and Tas along with them, and she would be able to keep Caramon out of whatever trouble his brother was likely to get him into.

A snapping sound nearby caused her heart to stop.

“What was that?” she gasped.

Tas had grown sleepy by this time and gone to bed.

“Probably a goblin,” he said drowsily. “You’re taking first watch.” Tika gave a muffled shriek and grabbed her sword.

“Don’t worry,” said Tas, yawning and pulling his blanket up over his head. “Goblins almost never attack by night. Ghosts and ghouls attack by night.”

Tika, who had been reassured, wasn’t anymore.

“You don’t think there are ghosts here?” she asked, dismayed.

“There aren’t any burial grounds around, at least that we’ve found, so I expect not,” said Tas, after giving the matter some thought. He added, with another jaw-cracking yawn, “If a ghost does show up, Tika, be sure to wake me. I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Tika told herself that the snapping noise she had heard was a deer, not a bear or a wolf, but she quickly threw more wood on the fire until she realized that the fire would reveal them to their enemies. Then she wondered in a panic if she should put it out.

Before she could decide, the fire began to die and there was no more fuel. Tika was afraid to go out to gather wood, and when the last flickering light from the last ember disappeared, she sat in the darkness, clutching her sword and hating Tasslehoff with all her might for sleeping so soundly and peacefully when there were ghosts, goblins, wolves, and other horrible things all around them.

Terror is exhausting, however, not to mention she’d spent half the day hauling water and wringing out wet clothes and the other half traipsing through the woods. Tika’s head sank onto her chest. The hand holding the sword relaxed its grip.

Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep was that one was never ever supposed to fall asleep on watch.

Chapter 10 A Memory Of The Past. Hope For The Future. Mumblety-peg.

Sturm took first watch for their group that night. Caramon took second. They did not ask Raistlin to stand watch. Sturm would not have trusted him, and Caramon proclaimed his brother too weak; Raist needed his sleep.

The night passed in such profound peace and quiet that Sturm found it difficult to stay awake. He was at length forced to march up and down along the tunnel to fight off the longing to close his eyes. As he marched, his mind went, as it generally did when he was alone, to the time he’d spent in Solamnia, a bittersweet time, with more bitter than sweet.

The knighthood that had once been so revered in Solamnia had long since fallen into disrepute. The reasons for this were numerous. The Cataclysm brought death and destruction to all parts Krynn, not excluding the nation of Solamnia. Shortly after the disaster struck, rumors began to spread throughout Solamnia that the knights had been given the power by the gods to prevent the Cataclysm and had failed to stop it.

People who had lost everything—homes, livelihood, friends and family—were glad to have someone to blame, and the knights were easy targets. Add to this volatile situation those who had always been jealous of the power wielded by the knights, and those who believed, rightly or wrongly, that the knights had grown wealthy at the expense of the poor, and it was small wonder the mixture exploded.

Mobs attacked the knights’ halls and castles. The knights could not win under such circumstances. If they defended themselves against the mobs and killed people, they were called murderers. If they did not stand up to the mobs, they risked losing everything, including their lives. The turmoil in Solamnia would abate for a time, then again rear its monstrous head. The knights continued to try desperately to bring stability and peace to the land, and in some places they would succeed, but because their Order was fractured, individual knights could never hold onto power for long.

Sturm’s family had worked hard to maintain peace in their ancestral holding, and they had succeeded longer than most, for the Brightblades were revered and honored by those they governed. Outsiders came to the villages and towns under their control, however, and began stirring up trouble, as they were now doing over much of Solamnia. This was, in truth, a concerted effort by the forces of the Dark Queen to undermine the power of her most implacable enemies. None knew this at the time, however. Angriff Brightblade, foreseeing trouble, sent his wife and son south to the tree-top town of Solace, long known as a safe haven for those in desperate straits.

Sturm grew up in Solace, raised on his mother’s tales of the past glories of the knighthood. He read and studied the Measure—the code of laws devised by the knights—and he lived by the Oath Est sularus et mithas, “My honor is my life.” He and his mother heard little news from the north, and what they did hear was bad. Then the time came that they heard no news at all. When Sturm’s mother died, he determined to seek out his father and he traveled north to Solamnia. Sturm discovered his family’s hall in ruins, for it had not only been ransacked, it had also been burned and razed. He could not find his father, nor could he discover what had happened to Angriff Brightblade. Some said this; some said that. No one knew for certain. Sturm believed his father must be dead; otherwise nothing would have kept him from returning to claim the castle of his ancestors.

While his father might be dead, his father’s debts were very much alive. Angriff had borrowed heavily on his lands in order to keep them up and provide aid to the poor and destitute under his protection. The bitter irony of the fact that those who had attacked the hall were those who were alive to do so because of his father’s help was not lost upon Sturm. He was forced to sell off the lands of his forefathers in order to settle the debts. All that was left when he was finished was his father’s sword and armor. And his honor.

Sturm thought back to all this as he walked his watch in the darkness of the tunnel, his pacing lit by the feeble light of a lantern. The night before he left to return to Solace, the only home he had ever known, he had entered the Brightblade vault where the dead lay in repose. Located in the ruins of the family chapel, the burial chamber was accessible only by a sealed bronze door, the key to which was hidden in the chapel. There was evidence that the mob had attempted to batter down the door, probably hoping to find wealth inside. The door held firm, as had the Brightblades, down through the centuries.

Sturm found the hidden key and opened the door and went, hushed and reverent, into the vault, his eyes half-blinded by his tears. The tombs holding his forebearers stood in the gloom. Stone knights lay atop upon the sarcophagi, their graven hands holding graven swords. Sturm’s father had no tomb, for none knew where his body lay buried. Sturm placed on the floor a living rose in memory of his father, and he went down on his knees and asked his ancestors for forgiveness for having failed them.

Sturm kept vigil all that night. When the light of dawn crept into the chamber, he rose stiffly to his feet and made a solemn vow on the sword, which was all he had left, that he would restore the honor and glory of the Brightblade family. He left the vault, shutting and sealing the bronze door. He kept the key with him until he was on board ship back to Abanasinia. Standing on the deck in the silver light of Solinari, Sturm consigned the key to the ocean’s depths. As yet, he’d done nothing to fulfill that oath.

He walked the tunnel with measured tread, thinking his melancholy thoughts, when he was interrupted.

“Will you stop that pacing!” Raistlin demanded peevishly. “I cannot sleep with you stomping about.”

Sturm halted, turned to confront the mage.

“What is it you hope to find in this accursed place, Raistlin? What is so important that you risk all our lives to find it?”

All Sturm could see of Raistlin were his strange hourglass eyes gleaming in the lantern light. Sturm had not really expected an answer, and he was startled when Raistlin said, his voice cool and clear in the darkness, “What is it you are hoping to find in Skullcap?” When Sturm made no reply, Raistlin continued, “You did not choose to go with us for love of me certainly. You know that both Caramon and I are capable of taking care of ourselves, so why did you come?”

“I see no need to bandy words with you, Raistlin,” Sturm returned. “My reasons are my own.”

“The Hammer of Kharas,” said Raistlin. He drew out the last syllable into a sibilant hiss. Sturm was startled. He had spoken of the Hammer only to Tanis. His first impulse was to turn away, but he could not resist the challenge.

“What do you know of the Hammer?” he asked in a low voice.

Raistlin made a hoarse, rasping sound that might have been a bitter chuckle, or else he was clearing his throat. “While you and my brother were smashing each other over the head with wooden swords, I pursued my studies, something for which you mocked me. Now you come running to me for answers.”

“I never mocked you, Raistlin,” Sturm said quietly. “Whatever else you may think of me, you must at least give me credit for that. I often protected you, as in the time the mob was about to turn you into a burnt offering to that snake god. If you must know, my dislike of you stems from the miserable way you treat your brother.”

“What is between my brother and me is between my brother and me, Sturm Brightblade,” Raistlin returned. “You cannot possibly understand.”

“You are right. I do not understand,” Sturm replied coolly. “Caramon loves you. He would lay down his life for you, and you treat him like garbage. Now I must get some sleep, so I will bid you good-night—”

“That which is now known as the Hammer of Kharas was originally known as the Hammer of Honor,” said Raistlin. “The hammer was made to honor the Hammer of Reorx, used by the god to forge the world. The Hammer of Honor was a symbol of peace between the humans of Ergoth, the elves of Qualinesti, and the dwarves of Thorbardin. During the Third Dragon War, the Hammer was given to the great knight, Huma Dragonbane, to be used along with the magical Silver Arm to forge the first dragonlances. They drove the Dark Queen back into the Abyss, where she has been ever since, or rather, up until now.

“In the time of the High King Duncan and the Dwarfgate Wars, the Hammer of Honor was given into the hands of the hero, Kharas, a dwarf so revered that the Hammer’s name was changed in his honor. The Hammer was last seen during the war being wielded by Kharas, but he departed the field of battle early, grieved at being forced to fight his own kind. He carried the Hammer with him back into Thorbardin, and there it has been lost to all knowledge, for the gates of the mountain kingdom were sealed shut and hidden from the world.”

Raistlin paused to draw breath then added, “The one who recovers the Hammer and uses it to forge dragonlances will be lauded a hero. He will find fame and fortune, honor, and glory.” Sturm cast Raistlin an uneasy glance. Was the mage speaking in generalities, or he had been prying into the knight’s innermost thoughts?

“I must get some sleep,” Sturm said, and he walked over to wake up the loudly snoring Caramon.

“The Hammer is not in Skullcap,” Raistlin told him. “If it still exists, it is in Thorbardin. If you are seeking the Hammer, you should have gone with Tanis and Flint.”

“You said the key to Thorbardin lies in Skullcap,” said Sturm.

“I did,” Raistlin replied, “but since when does anyone ever listen to me?”

“Tanis listens,” said Sturm, “and that is why he sent me with you and your brother, to make sure that if you do find the key, you deliver it.”

The mage had nothing to say to that, for which Sturm was grateful. Conversations with Raistlin always upset him, left him with feeling that all his sterling notions of the world were in reality blackened and tarnished.

Sturm woke Caramon. The big man, yawning and stretching, took up the watch. Sturm was weary, and he sank almost immediately into a deep sleep. In his dreams, he used the Hammer of Kharas to batter down the bronze door of his family’s vault.

The night passed without event for all those who wandered. Those who kept watch saw nothing and heard nothing. Those who did not keep watch—Tika and Tasslehoff—slept undisturbed. Allseeing eyes kept watch over them. Day dawned slowly and reluctantly. The sun struggled to pierce thick, gray clouds and ended up failing miserably and eventually went, sulking, into hiding. The sky threatened rain or snow, though it did neither.

When a gray and feeble sun lit the tunnel entrance, Sturm, Caramon, and Raistlin resumed their journey. They discussed shutting the entrance behind them, shoving the stone door back in place. Upon examination, none of them, not even Raistlin, could determine how to operate the mechanism and open the door once it was shut. Even if they did finally figure it out, the mechanism had broken down once. It might do so again. Then they would be trapped, and they had no idea what they would find farther on. The tunnel might be blocked, in which case they would have to admit defeat and retrace their steps. They agreed to leave the door open. The three proceeded down the tunnel, the light of the crystal atop Raistlin’s staff illuminating their way. Sturm carried a lantern, for he disliked intensely the idea that Raistlin could suddenly, with a single word, plunge them into darkness.

The tunnel, constructed by dwarven engineers, cut straight through the mountain. The walls were rough hewn, the floor relatively smooth. There were no signs that anyone had ever been inside it.

“If the dwarves had been fleeing their besieged fortress, we’d find discarded armor, broken weapons, bodies,” said Caramon. “This was never used.”

“Which proves the theory that Fistandantilus did not bring down Zhaman deliberately,” Raistlin stated. “The blast was accidental.”

“Then what caused it?” Caramon asked, interested.

“Foul magic,” Sturm stated.

Raistlin shook his head. “I know of no magic, foul or otherwise, that has the power to level such a mighty fortress. According to Flint, the blast laid waste to the land for miles around Zhaman. The wise have long wondered what really happened in that fortress. Perhaps we will be the ones to discover the truth.”

“You will write a treatise on the subject, no doubt,” said Sturm, “and read it aloud at the next Wizard’s Conclave.”

“I might at that,” Raistlin said with a smile.

The three walked on.

Tasslehoff woke Tika by scolding her for having fallen asleep. She had undoubtedly missed any number of ghosts that could have visited them in the night.

Tika scolded herself, flushing to think how Caramon would have berated her for sleeping on watch. Tika told Tas irritably to shut up and get a move on. They picked up the trail of the three ahead of them and set out in dogged pursuit.

She and Tas also got an early start to their day; making up for lost time. Lack of sleep and the knowledge that she was far from home and help put Tika in a bad mood. She was grumpy with Tas and did not want to chat, even about such interesting tidbits of gossip as the fact that Tasslehoff had discovered Hederick the High Seeker had his own secret stash of food hidden away.

Tika stalked along the trail, keeping her gaze on the ground, following the tracks in the snow and fighting the strong urge to turn around and run back to the settlement. If she’d been able to think of a way to sneak back without anyone knowing she’d been gone, she would have. Tika could have come up with a plausible tale, but she knew that Tasslehoff would never be able to keep from blurting out the truth, and she dreaded the idea that people would laugh at her and say she’d gone running after Caramon like some infatuated school girl.

To give her credit, it wasn’t all fear of being ridiculed that kept her going. Tika’s heart was warm, her love for Caramon deep, and her fear for him very real. The idea that she might be able to save Caramon from Raistlin’s machinations kept her slogging along the trail. As for Tas, he was happy to be on the road to adventure once more.

The two reached the edge of the forest about midmorning and saw the trail snake across the barren, snow-covered field.

“Look, Tika!” Tas pointed excitedly, as they drew near the mountain. “There’s a cave. Their trail leads into a cave!”

Tas grabbed Tika’s hand and tugged at her, trying to hurry her along.

“I’m very fond of caves. You never know what you’re going to find inside. Did I ever tell you about the time I went into this cave and there were two ogres and they were playing at mumblety-peg, and at first they were going to tear me limb from limb and eat me, starting with my toes. I didn’t know this, but kender toes are considered a delicacy among ogres. Anyway, I told the ogres I was really good at mumblety-peg, better than either of them, and I wagered them that if I won, they wouldn’t eat me. Of course they had to play, because I had made a wager. The ogres handed me a knife, which I was supposed to throw, but instead I used the knife to stab the ogres in the knees. That way they couldn’t chase after me, and I escaped being eaten. Can you play mumblety-peg, Tika, in case ogres inside the cave want to eat us?”

“No,” said Tika. She did not like caves at all, and her heart was beating fast at the thought of going into one.

Tas was about to launch into more details about the ogres, but Tika ordered him to hush up and when he didn’t, she gave his topknot a yank and threatened to pull it out by the roots if he didn’t for mercy’s sake keep quiet and let her think.

Tas wasn’t sure what it was she had to think about, but he was fond of his topknot, and while he didn’t really believe Tika would pull it out, he didn’t want to take any chances. She’d gone very pale and tight-lipped, and whenever she thought he wasn’t looking, she wiped away a tear. The footprints they were following led straight to the cave, which turned out to be a tunnel. There were muddy boot prints inside, large muddy boot prints. Tika knew Caramon and the others had come this way.

“Light the lantern!” Tas said. “Let’s see what’s down here.”

“I didn’t bring a lantern,” Tika said in dismay.

“Never mind!” cried Tas, rooting around in the darkness. “I found a whole stack of torches.”

“Oh, good,” said Tika. She stared into the darkness that stretched on and on ahead of them, and she felt her knees go weak and her stomach turn to jelly.

Tas had managed to light one of the torches, and he was walking all around the cave, peering into the carts and stopping to scan the walls. “Hey, look, Tika! Come here! Look at this!” Tika didn’t want to look. She wanted to turn and run, run all the way back to camp. Then Tas would tell everyone that Tika had run away like a big scared baby. Gritting her teeth, Tika went to see what he’d found, hoping it wasn’t too horrible.

Tas was pointing at the wall. There, scrawled in charcoal, was a heart. In the middle of the heart was the word “Tika”.

“I’ll bet Caramon drew that,” said Tas, grinning.

“I’ll bet he did, too,” said Tika softly. She reached out and took the flaring torch from the kender.

“Follow me,” she said, and feeling her own heart soar to the heavens with happiness, she led the way along the tunnel, deeper into the darkness.

Chapter 11 A Question Of Faith. End Of The Tunnel. The Man-Eating Stalig Mite.

Flint and Tanis edged their way through the pass that wasn’t so much as a pass as a large gap. Tanis envisioned the refugees trying to cross this rocky, narrow defile, their children in tow, and he hoped fervently it wouldn’t come to that. They spent most of the morning navigating among the boulders and scrambling over rock slides, finally emerging after hours of toil on the other side.

Using his battle-axe, Flint pointed. “Well, there you are, Half-Elven,” he said. “Thorbardin.” Tanis looked down at the landscape spread beneath him. Ash-gray plains led into dark green foothills, thick with pine trees, from which soared the gray blank face of the tallest mountain peak in the Kharolis chain.

Tanis regarded the mountain in bleak dismay. “There’s nothing there.”

“Aye,” said Flint in gloomy satisfaction. “Just like I told you.” The dwarf had indeed told him, but Flint had a tendency to exaggerate and embellish his tales a mite now and then, particularly those tales having to do with the wrongs, perceived or otherwise, suffered by his people. Search as Tanis might, he could see no sign of anything resembling a gate on the mountain side or even a place where one might put a gate.

“Are you sure Thorbardin is there?” Tanis asked.

Flint rested his weight on the battle-axe and gazed steadily at the mountain.

“I was born and raised hereabouts. The bones of my ancestors lie on the plains below us. They died because our cousins closed the gates of that mountain on them. Cloudseeker casts a shadow over us all. Each and every one of us hill dwarves sees it loom large in his dreams. I’m not likely to forget this place.”

Flint spit on the ground. “That’s Thorbardin.”

Tanis sighed deeply, scratched his beard and asked himself, “What in the Abyss do I do now?” He had no hope at all that he would be successful in his mission. Neither he nor Flint had any idea where to even start looking for the lost gate to the dwarven kingdom. They could spend years traipsing across the face of Cloudseeker. The greedy and the desperate had been searching for this gate for three hundred years and never found it. There was no reason to think he and Flint would be the ones to succeed where so many had failed.

Tanis considered giving up. He went so far as to half-turn, look back the way they’d come, and even take a step in that direction, but he found he couldn’t do it. He could not admit defeat, not yet.

Flint stood leaning on the battle-axe, watching his friend turn first one way and then the other. When Tanis turned around again, Flint nodded.

“We’re to keep going then,” he said.

“You know as well as I do that it’s only a matter of time before Verminaard attacks,” Tanis said, adding in frustration, “There must be a way inside Thorbardin! Just because no one else has discovered it…”

“After all, the gods are with us,” Flint observed.

Tanis eyed his friend to see if the dwarf had spoken sarcastically or if he was serious. Tanis couldn’t tell. The dwarf’s expression was unreadable, much of it hidden behind his full beard and shaggy eyebrows.

“Do you believe the gods are with us?” Tanis asked. “Do you believe what Elistan and Goldmoon have been teaching?”

“Hard to say,” said Flint, and he appeared uncomfortable talking about it. He cast Tanis a sidelong glance. “I take you don’t?”

“I want to.” Tanis shook his head. “But I can’t.”

“We’ve seen miracles,” Flint pointed out. “Riverwind was burnt to a crisp by a black dragon. Elistan was brought back from the brink of death.”

“And Verminaard brought back from the dead, as well,” said Tanis dryly. “I’ve seen Raistlin scatter a few rose petals and cause goblins to fall sound asleep at his feet.”

“That’s different,” Flint growled.

“Why? Because it’s magic? Magic or no, one could call such things ‘miraculous’.”

“I call them accursed,” Flint muttered.

“All I know for certain,” Tanis said, smiling, “is that the only being who walks with me is you, my friend.” He clapped Flint on the shoulder. “I could not ask for a better companion. Gods included.”

Flint flushed in pleasure, but he only said gruffly that Tanis was a silly ass and he shouldn’t talk in such a flippant manner about things beyond his understanding.

“I think we should keep going,” Tanis said. “Raistlin may find the key to the gate in Skullcap.”

“Do you think he’s planning to bring it to us if he does?” Flint snorted in derision. “And you claim you don’t believe in miracles.”

The two started what Tanis feared would be a slow and laborious journey down the side of the mountain when Flint came to a sudden halt.

“Would you look at this,” he said.

Tanis looked and marveled. It wasn’t a miracle. It was a road. Built by dwarves, centuries old, the road had been carved out of the side of the mountain. Winding back and forth across the face of the mountain, the road led down and into the foothills then climbed back up the other side. All the refugees had to do was make it this far, and the way after that would be smooth.

“Provided this road leads to the gate,” said Flint, reading Tanis’s thoughts.

“It must,” said Tanis. “Where else would it go?”

“Just what people have been asking themselves these last three hundred years,” Flint remarked dryly.

Sturm, Caramon, and Raistlin, traveling beneath the mountain, found their journey long, tedious and uneventful. The area was prone to earthquakes, but the dwarf-built tunnel had survived hundreds of these shocks almost unscathed. Occasionally they noticed places where the walls had cracks, and here and there a small rock slide impeded their path, but that was all. The tunnel ran straight, no twists or turns. It was neither haunted nor otherwise inhabited. They walked for several hours and made good time. Raistlin was again strangely energized. He set a swift pace, ranging ahead of his brother and Sturm, his staff thumping the tunnel floor, his red robes swirling about his ankles. When the other two called a halt to take a breather, Raistlin would caustically remind them that lives depended on their progress.

Down here in the darkness, with no way to tell time, none of them had any idea how long they walked or how many miles they traveled. Every so often, they came upon marks on the wall that appeared to be some type of indicator of distance. The marks were in dwarven, however, and none of them knew what they meant.

They traveled so long that Caramon began to secretly wonder if they might not have missed Skullcap altogether. Perhaps they had walked across the continent and would emerge to find themselves in some distant realm—the far southern reaches of Ice Wall, maybe. He was deep in his imaginings, dreaming of vast expanses of white wastes, when Sturm called their attention to the increased amount of debris and rubble in the passage.

“We must be nearing the end,” said Raistlin. “The destruction we see is a result of the blast that leveled the fortress.”

“What do we do if the blast destroyed the tunnel?” Sturm asked.

“We must hope that it was protected,” Raistlin said. “As you can see, the beams shoring up the ceiling have not been damaged. That is a good sign.”

They trudged wearily on. The light of Sturm’s torch and Raistlin’s staff did not extend far, and Raistlin almost walked headlong into a stone wall before he realized it was there. He came to an abrupt halt, shining the light this way and that.

“I hope this is a hidden door like that other one,” said Caramon. “Otherwise we’ve come all this way for nothing.”

“You have no faith in me, do you, Pheragas?” Raistlin murmured. Holding his staff to light his task, he began to search the wall for marks.

“Who is this Pheragas?” Caramon muttered.

“Probably better you don’t know,” Sturm said grimly.

“Found it!” Raistlin announced. He pointed, and there was the same mark that they had seen on the door at the other end—the dwarven rune for ‘door.’

He pressed on the rune. As before, the mark depressed, sliding into the wall. There came a grinding sound, then a cracking sound as the stone separated, forming the outline of a doorway. This time the mechanism worked. The heavy door rumbled back so fast that it almost ran Raistlin down, and he was forced to scramble out of its way in a flurry of red robes, causing Sturm to pull at his mustaches to hide his smile.

The heavy door rumbled and screeched on the rusted tracks and flattened itself against the wall with a resounding boom that echoed back down the passageway.

“Nothing like announcing our arrival,” Sturm remarked.

“Hush!” Raistlin held up his hand.

“It’s a little late for that,” Caramon said, with a wink at Sturm. Raistlin glared at him. “Take off your helm and you might find your brain inside! The sounds I hear are coming from out there.” He pointed through the opening of the tunnel and, now that the echoes had faded, they could hear harsh shouts and the clash of arms.

Caramon and Sturm both drew their swords. Raistlin reached into his pouch.

“Dulak,” he murmured, and the glow from his staff blinked out, leaving only Sturm’s torch to light the way.

“What did you do that for?” Sturm demanded, adding grudgingly, “Much as I hate to admit it, we could use that light of yours.”

“It is never wise to proclaim to your enemies that you are a wizard,” Raistlin said quietly.

“Magic works best by stealth and darkness, is that it?” Sturm said.

“C’mon, you two, cut it out,” Caramon said.

They stood unmoving, listening to the sounds of battle that were distant, far away.

“Someone else is interested in the secrets of Skullcap,” Sturm said at last. Raistlin stirred at this. “I’m going to go find out what is happening. You two can stay here.”

“No,” said Sturm. “We all go together.”

Moving cautiously, holding his torch in one hand and his sword in the other, Sturm walked through the door. Raistlin came after him and Caramon brought up the rear, keeping a look-out over his shoulder.

Traveling down the dark tunnel, Tasslehoff Burrfoot reached the conclusion that if he never saw another rock in his life, it would be too soon. At first, tramping along a secret tunnel underneath a mountain was exciting. A skeletal warrior might be lurking just around the corner, ready to leap out and throttle them. A wight might decide to try to suck out their souls, or whatever it was that wights did to people.

Tika, on the other hand, didn’t appear to find the tunnel in the least exciting. She was nervous and unhappy.

Tas considered it his duty to try keep up her spirits and so he livened the journey by telling her all the gruesome, creepy, scary stories he’d ever heard about the things that lived in secret tunnels underneath mountains. Far from having the desired effect, the stories seemed to simply plunge Tika deeper in gloom. Once she actually turned around and tried to smack the kender. Accustomed to this sort of behavior in his companions, Tas ducked in time. He decided to change the subject.

“How long do you suppose we’ve been walking, Tika?”

“Weeks, I should imagine,” she said glumly.

“I think it’s only been a few hours,” Tas said.

“Oh, what do you know?” she snapped.

“I know it certainly is boring,” said the kender. He kicked at a rock, sent it bounding over the stone floor. “Do we have any more food left?”

“You just ate!”

“That seems like days ago!” Tas waved his arms. “You said yourself we’ve been walking for weeks…”

“Oh, shut up—” Tika began then froze in place.

A hideous sound thundered down the passageway—a loud rumbling, accompanied by shrill screeching. The ground shook, and dust fell from the walls. The rumbling and screeching lasted for several heart-thudding moments, then ended abruptly.

“What… what was that?” Tika quavered.

Tas reflected. “I think it was a Stalig Mite.” he said in hushed tones.

“A what kind of mite?” Tika whispered, her hands shaking so that the flame of the torch bounced all over the cavern.

“A Stalig Mite,” Tas said solemnly. “I’ve heard stories about them. They live in caves, and they’re huge and quite ferocious. I’m sorry to tell you this, Tika, but you should prepare yourself for the worst. That sound we heard was probably the Stalig Mite devouring Caramon.”

“No!” Tika cried wildly. “I don’t believe—” She paused, eying the kender. “Wait a minute. I’ve never heard of a Stalig Mite.”

“You should really get out more, Tika.”

“You mean stalagmite!” Tika was so mad she very nearly threw the torch at him.

“That’s what I said.” Tas was hurt. “Stalig Mite. Found only in caves.”

“A stalagmite is a rock formation found in caves, you doorknob! What do you mean scaring me like that?” Tika wiped sweat from her forehead.

“Are you sure?” Tas was loathe to give up the idea of a ferocious man-eating Stalig Mite.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Tika sounded very cross.

“Well, if that noise wasn’t made by a Stalig Mite devouring Caramon, then what was it?” Tas asked practically.

Tika had no answer for that, and she wished he hadn’t brought it up. She turned around. “Maybe we should go back…”

“We’ve been back, Tika,” Tas pointed out. “We know what’s back there—a lot of very dark darkness—and we don’t know what’s up ahead. Maybe Caramon hasn’t been eaten by a rock formation, but he and his brother could still be in trouble and need our help. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we—you and I—rescued Caramon and Raistlin? They’d respect us then. No more pulling my topknot or slapping my hand when all I wanted to do was to touch his stupid old staff.”

Tika envisioned Raistlin humbled and meek, thanking her profusely for saving his life, and Caramon hugging her tightly, telling her over and over how proud he was of her. Tas was right. Behind them was nothing but darkness.

Fearful but resolute, Tika continued on her way through the tunnel, accompanied by Tasslehoff, who was hoping Tika turned out to be wrong about the Stalig Mites.

Chapter 12 Death in the Darkness. A Ghostly Messenger.

Sturm had taken only a few steps into the room beyond before he found his way blocked by a heavy beam that had fallen down from the ceiling. Standing in the small pool of light cast by his torch, he saw that he’d encountered destruction so complete he could make out few details of what it was he was even looking at. Fire had swept the room. The floor was ankle-deep in debris, most of it blackened and burnt. Charred lumps might have once been furniture. Sturm circled around the heavy beam, kicking aside debris, and found another doorway.

“The sounds are coming from out here,” he called back softly to his friends.

“From the armory,” said Raistlin. “I know where I am now. This was the library What a pity it did not survive!”

He bent down to pick up the remnants of a book. The pages fell out in a shower of ash. The leather cover was all that remained and it was scorched, the corners blackened and curled.

“What a pity,” Raistlin repeated softly.

He dropped the book and looked up to find Sturm staring at him “Armory? Library? How do you know so much about this accursed place?” asked the knight.

“Caramon and I lived here once upon a time,” Raistlin said sarcastically. “Didn’t we, my brother? I’m sure we must have told you.”

“C’mon, Raist,” Caramon mumbled. “Don’t do this.”

Sturm continued to regard the mage with suspicion; he might almost have believed him.

“Oh, for mercy’s sake!” Raistlin snapped. “How gullible can you be, Sturm Brightblade? There is a perfectly logical explanation. I have seen maps of Zhaman. There. End of mystery.” Raistlin knelt down to pick up another book, only to feel it crumble at his touch. He let the ashes sift through his fingers. Sturm and Caramon had walked over to the door, taking the torch with them. Crouching on the floor, clutching his staff, Raistlin was glad for the darkness, which concealed his shaking hands, the chill sweat beading on his face and trickling down his neck. He was almost sick with terror and wished with all his soul that he had listened to those who warned him not to come to this place. He had lied to Sturm, lied to his brother. Raistlin had never seen a map of Zhaman. He was not even certain such a map existed. He had no idea how he knew where to find the rune on the mountain side. He had never heard of anyone called Pheragas. He did not know how he knew the sounds were coming from the armory or how he knew this room was the library. He had no idea how he knew that far below this level of the fortress was a laboratory…

Raistlin shuddered and clutched at his head with his hand, as though he could reach inside and tear out memories of things he’d never seen, places he’d never been.

“Stop it!” he whispered frantically, “Leave me alone! Why do you torment me?”

“Raist?” Caramon called. “Are you all right?”

Raistlin grit his teeth. He dug his nails into his palms, forcing his hands to quit shaking. He drew in a deep, shivering breath and held tightly to the staff, pressing the cool wood against his burning skin, and closed his eyes. The feeling of dread slowly seeped out of him and he was able to stand.

“I am fine, my brother,” he said, knowing that if he did not answer Caramon would come looking for him. He moved slowly across the debris-strewn room to join Sturm and his twin, who were standing by the door, listening to the sounds of battle and arguing about whether they should go investigate or not.

“Some innocent person could be in trouble,” Sturm maintained. “We should go see if we can help them.”

“What would an innocent person be doing wandering about this place?” Caramon demanded.

“It’s not our fight, Sturm. We shouldn’t go sticking our heads in a goblin’s lair. Wait here until it’s over, then let’s go see what’s left.”

Sturm frowned. “You stay with your brother. I’m going to at least see—” A bestial roar of pain, anguish, and bellowing fury shook the floor, sending dust and debris raining down from the ceiling, drowning out the rest of Sturm’s words. The roaring ceased suddenly in an agonized gurgle. The harsh voices shouted in triumph, and the sounds of clashing swords grew louder. The three friends stared at each other in alarm.

“That sounded like a dragon!” Caramon said.

“I told you, someone is in danger!” Sturm flung down the sack containing his armor, useless to him now, for there was no time to put it on. Caramon opened his mouth to remonstrate, but before he could say a word, his friend had dashed into the darkness.

Caramon looked pleadingly at his twin. “We can’t let him go off alone, Raist! We have to help him.”

Raistlin’s mouth twisted. “I suppose we must, though how we are supposed to fight a dragon with nothing but swords and rose petals is beyond me!”

“It sounds like it’s wounded. Those warriors probably have it cornered,” Caramon said hopefully, and he dashed off after Sturm.

“What a relief! A cornered, wounded dragon,” Raistlin muttered.

He ran through the mental catalog of his spells, searching for one that would do more than irritate the dragon—or give it a good laugh. Choosing one he thought might be suitable, Raistlin hastened after his brother, hoping, at least, to stop Caramon from getting himself slaughtered in some grand and noble last stand of the Brightblades.

Caramon followed Sturm out of the ruined library and found himself in a wide corridor. This part of the fortress had escaped the worst effects of the blast. The only damages were cracks in the walls and floors and some chunks of the ceiling that had crashed down into the corridor. The dragon’s roars sounded as though they were coming from the far end. The bellowings grew louder and more terrifying.

The voices of those battling the beast were growing louder as well. Caramon could not make out the words, but it sounded as if they were jeering their foe and spurring each other on. Sturm was running forward. He had not looked back; he had no idea if Caramon was coming or not. Caramon advanced more cautiously. Something about this battle struck him as odd. He wished his twin would join him.

Half-turning, Caramon called softly, “Raist, hurry up!”

A hand closed over Caramon’s arm, and a voice whispered from the darkness, “I am here, my brother.”

Caramon gave a violent start.

“Damn, Raist! Don’t creep up on me like that!”

“We must make haste,” Raistlin said grimly, “prevent the knight from getting himself burnt to a cinder.”

The two of them hurried forward, following the light of Sturm’s torch and the bright gleam of his sword.

“I don’t like this,” Caramon said.

“I can’t think why,” Raistlin returned caustically. “The three of us marching boldly to our deaths…”

Caramon shook his head. “It’s not that. Listen to those voices, Raist. I’ve heard them or something like them before.”

Raistlin glanced at his twin and saw that Caramon was serious. The two had served together as mercenaries for years, and Raistlin had come to respect his brother’s skill and his warrior instincts. Raistlin drew back the folds of his cowl in order to better hear the voices. He looked at Caramon and gave a nod.

“You’re right. We have heard those voices before. Fool knight!” Raistlin added bitterly. “We have to stop him before he gets himself killed! You go on. I’ll catch up.” Caramon dashed on ahead.

“Shirak,” Raistlin spoke the word of magic, and the light of his staff flared. He noted in passing the remnants of a gigantic iron stair rail spiraling downward.

“That leads to my chambers,” he said to himself.

Focused on his spellcasting, he did not realize what he was saying.

“Sturm! Wait up!” Caramon called out when he thought the knight could hear him over the clash of arms.

Sturm halted and turned around. “Well, what is it?” he said impatiently.

“Those voices!” Caramon gasped, huffing from the exertion. “They’re draconian. No, listen!” He gripped his friend’s arm.

Sturm did listen, his brow furrowing. He lowered his sword. “Why would draconians attack a dragon?”

“Maybe they had a falling out,” Caramon said, trying to catch his breath. “Evil turns on its own.”

“I am not so certain,” said Raistlin, coming up to them. He looked from the knight to his twin.

“Do either of you sense the debilitating fear that we have felt before around these beasts?”

“No,” Sturm replied, “but the dragon cannot see us.”

“That shouldn’t make a difference. Back in camp, we felt the terror of the red dragon long before it came into view.”

“It’s all very strange,” Sturm muttered, frowning.

“The one thing we do know is this,” said Raistlin. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend’.”

“True,” said Sturm, smiling slightly. “In that case, we should help the dragon.”

“Help the dragon!” Caramon goggled. “Have you both gone crazy?” Both had, apparently, for Sturm was once more running toward the fight and Raistlin was hastening alongside. Shaking his head, Caramon dashed after his brother and the knight. The sounds of battle intensified. The draconians’ hissing and their guttural voices, could be heard clearly now. They spoke their own language but with a mixture of Common thrown in, so that Caramon could understand about every fourth word. The dragon’s roaring diminished, growing weaker. Light flared from the armory, shining into the corridor.

Sturm had flattened himself against a wall. Edging near the door, he risked a glance into the chamber. What he saw amazed him so he could not move but stood transfixed, staring. Caramon yanked him back.

“Well?” he demanded.

“There is a dragon,” said Sturm, awed, “like none I have ever seen or heard of. It is beautiful.” He shook himself, came back to reality. “And it is badly hurt.”

Caramon went to see for himself.

Sturm was right. The dragon was not like any other dragon Caramon had ever encountered. He had seen dragons with scales that were black as the Dark Queen’s heart, dragons with scales red as searing flame, dragons with scales the color of a cobolt sky. This one was different. It was smaller than most and it was beautiful, as Sturm has said. Its scales gleamed like polished brass.

“What sort of dragon is it?” Caramon turned back to his twin.

“That’s what we must find out,” said Raistlin, “which means we can’t let it die.”

“There are four draconians,” Sturm reported. “One is badly wounded. The other three are on their feet. They have their backs to us. They’re concentrating on finishing off the dragon. They are armed with bows. They’ve been loosing arrows at it. We can take them from behind.”

“Let me see what I can do,” said Raistlin. “Perhaps I can save us time and trouble.” Raistlin drew something from his pouch, crushed it beneath his fingers, spoke the words of magic, and made a motion with his hand.

A ball of blazing fire flew from his fingertips, hurtled across the room, and struck one of the draconians in the back. The magical fire burst on the draconian’s scaly skin. The draconian gave a hideous yell and collapsed onto the floor, rolling about in agony as the flames blackened his scales and charred his flesh. His companions scrambled to get away from him, for the flames were spreading, licking at their heels.

“Remember, you two!” Raistlin warned, as Sturm and Caramon charged inside. “Draconians are as dangerous dead as they are alive!”

Sturm shouted his battle-cry, “Arras, Solamni! Arise, Solamnia!” The draconian started at the yell and was about to turn to face this new foe, just as Sturm’s sword slid through its entrails. Sturm yanked his blade out swiftly, before the draconian’s corpse could freeze into stone, trapping his weapon. Caramon was taking no chances. Wrapping his fist around his sword’s hilt, he bashed his draconian on the back of the neck. The draconian’s neck cracked and it fell to the floor, stiff as marble.

“Three dead!” Caramon reported, sucking on bruised knuckles. He hurried over to finish off the wounded draconian, only to find that it had died. The body crumbled to dust as he approached it.

“Four dead,” he amended.

The battle ended, Sturm hastened over to the dragon. The great beast lay sprawled on the floor, its shining brass scales smeared with blood. Raistlin walked over to the dragon as fast as he was able. The magic always took its toll on his body. He felt as weary as though he’d been in battle for three days, instead of three minutes.

“Keep watch on the corridor,” he ordered Caramon, as he passed his twin. “There were other draconians in this room. These four were left to finish the job.”

Caramon looked about at the vast number of spent arrows lying on the floor and nodded his head in grim agreement. He glanced back at the dragon and his heart smote him. The beast was so beautiful, so magnificent. No matter that it was a dragon, it should not be suffering like this. He left to keep a lookout at the door.

Sturm crouched beside the dragon’s head. The dragon’s eyes were open but fast dimming. His breathing was labored. He gazed at Sturm in wonder.

“A Solamnic knight… Why are you here? Do you… fight with the dwarves?” The dragon roused himself with an effort. “You must slay the foul wizard!”

Sturm glanced up at Raistlin.

“Not me,” Raistlin snapped. “The dragon speaks of dwarves fighting… He must mean Fistandantilus!”

“He found me sleeping,” the dragon murmured. “He cast a spell on me, made me a prisoner… Now he has sent his demons to slay me…”

The dragon coughed, blood spewing from his mouth.

“What kind of dragon are you?” Raistlin asked. “We have never seen your like.” The gleaming body shuddered. The dragon’s massive tail thumped the floor, his legs convulsed, wings twitched. He gave a final shiver. Blood poured out of his mouth. The dragon’s head lolled. The eyes stared, unseeing.

Raistlin gave an annoyed sigh.

Sturm cast him a reproachful glance, then bowed his head. “Paladine, God of Light and Mercy, Wisdom and Truth,” he prayed, “take the soul of this noble beast to your blessed realm—”

“Sturm, I heard something!” Caramon came running into the room. He stopped, abashed, when he saw the knight was praying, and looked at his twin. “I heard voices coming from the library.”

“Sir Knight,” Raistlin said sharply, “leave off your prayer. Paladine knows what to do with a soul. He does not need you to tell him.”

Sturm ignored him. He finished his prayer then rose to his feet.

“I heard voices,” said Caramon, apologetic, “coming from the corridor. Maybe draconian. I can’t tell.”

“Go with my brother,” said Raistlin. “The magic has drained me. I must rest.” He sank down onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall.

Caramon was alarmed. “Raist, you shouldn’t stay here alone.”

“Just go, Caramon,” Raistlin said, closing his eyes. “Sturm needs your help. Besides, you worry me to death with your fussing!”

The light glimmering from the crystal shone on his golden skin. His face was drawn. He began to cough and fumbled for his handkerchief.

“I don’t know,” Caramon hesitated.

“He will be safe enough here,” said Sturm. “The draconians have moved on.” Caramon cast his twin an uncertain glance. “You should douse the light, Raist.” Raistlin waited to hear the running footfalls of Sturm and his brother fade away. When he was certain they were gone, hoping his brother would not take it into his head to come back, Raistlin rose to his feet.

The room had been an armory, as he had said. The stands of old-fashioned plate armor lay dismembered on the floor. The draconians had overturned them, probably searching for loot. Weapons of various types littered the blood-covered floor, most of them either broken or rusted beyond repair. Raistlin cast a cursory glance at them but saw nothing of interest. Draconians were intelligent creatures who knew something of value when they saw it. They would have already appropriated anything worth while.

Raistlin walked over to the object that had caught his interest—a large burlap sack near the pile of dust that had once been a draconian. He laid his staff on the floor and knelt beside the sack, taking care to keep his robes out of the blood.

He poked one of the lumps inside the sack with his finger and felt something hard and solid. The sack was soaked with blood. Raistlin’s deft fingers pulled and tugged at the knot of the drawstring that closed the top. He finally pried it loose and opened the sack. The light from the crystal atop his staff shone on a helm and no ordinary helm at that. The draconian had recognized its value beneath the dust and grime that covered it, and though Raistlin was not one to judge the finer points of armor, even he could see that the helm had been crafted by an expert, designed to both protect the wearer and adorn him.

Raistlin rubbed of some of the dirt from the helm with the hem of his sleeve. Three large red rubies sparkled in the light.

Raistlin glanced inside the sack, saw nothing more of interest, and turned his attention back to the helm. Passing his hand over it, he murmured a few words. The helm began to give off a soft, pale glow.

“Ah, so you are magic… I wonder…”

The hair prickled on the back of his neck. A shiver crept up from the base of his spine. Someone was in the room with him. Someone was creeping up on him from behind. Moving slowly, Raistlin set down the helm. In the same motion, he took hold of his staff, and twisting to his feet, turned around.

Eyes, pale and cold, surrounded by shadow, gazed out of the darkness. The eyes had no substance, no head, no body. The eyes were not the eyes of the living. Raistlin recognized in that fell gaze the hatred and pain of a soul constrained to dwell in the Abyss, a prisoner of the God of Death, unable to find rest or relief from the gnawing torment of its terrible existence. The eyes drifted nearer, abyssal darkness stirring about it, trailing after it. Raistlin raised his staff, holding it in front of him. The staff was his only protection. He was too weak to cast another spell, even if he could think of any spell that would work against this dread specter. He considered shouting for help, but he feared that this might cause the wraith to attack. Above all, he had to keep the specter from touching him, for the touch of death would drain warmth, drain strength, and drain away his life.

The wraith drifted nearer, and suddenly the staff’s light flared in a blaze of dazzling white, nearly blinding Raistlin, who was forced to shield his eyes with his hand. The wraith halted. A voice spoke. The voice was dry as bone and soft as ash, and it came from an unseen mouth.

“The Master bids me give you this message, Raistlin Majere. You have found what you seek.” Raistlin was so astonished he nearly dropped the staff. His hand shook, and the light wavered. The wraith moved closer, and Raistlin tightened his grip, thrusting out the staff. The light shone steadily, and the wraith retreated.

“I don’t… understand.” Raistlin’s mouth was dry. He had to try twice to speak and then the words came out in a croak.

“Nor will you. Nor are you meant to. Not for a long time. Know that you are in the Master’s care.”

The spectral eyes closed. The darkness dissipated. Raistlin’s arm began to shake uncontrollably and he was forced to lower the staff. He was completely unnerved, and when a voice spoke behind him, he nearly crawled out of his skin.

The voice was Sturm’s. “Who were you talking to?” The knight’s tone was ugly and suspicious.

“I heard you talking to someone.”

“I was talking to myself,” said Raistlin. He thrust the helm into the sack, hoping the knight had not caught sight of it. He asked sharply, “What of those voices my brother heard? Where is Caramon?”

Sturm was not going to be distracted. His eye had caught sight of the gleaming metal.

“What is that you hold?” he demanded. “Why are you trying to hide it? Let me see it!” Raistlin sighed. “I am not trying to hide anything. I found an ancient dwarven helm inside this sack. I know little about armor, but it looks to be of some value. You can judge for yourself.” He handed over the sack. “Where is Caramon?”

“Entertaining guests,” said Sturm.

He opened the sack, pulled out the helm, and held it to the light. He breathed a soft sigh.

“Beautiful workmanship. I’ve never seen the like.” He glowered at Raistlin. “Of ‘some’ value! This is worth a king’s ransom. Such a helm would be worn only by one of royal blood, a prince or perhaps the king himself.”

“That would explain it…” Raistlin murmured. He added off-handedly, “You should handle it carefully. I think it might be enchanted.”

He was thinking of the wraith’s words. You have found what you seek. What had he come here seeking? Raistlin hardly knew. He had told Tanis he was searching for the key to the Thorbardin. Was that true? Or had it been an excuse? Or did the truth lie somewhere in between…

“Entertaining guests?” Raistlin repeated, the knight’s strange remark having suddenly penetrated the fog of his thought. “What do you mean? He’s not in trouble.”

“That depends on what you mean by trouble,” Sturm replied, and he gave a low chuckle. Concerned, Raistlin started to go to his twin’s aid, only to find Caramon standing in the doorway. His brother’s face was flushed red.

“Hey, Raist,” he said, with a sheepish grin, “look who’s here.” Tika appeared at Caramon’s side. She gave Raistlin a smile that quickly evaporated beneath the mage’s cold stare.

He opened his mouth but was interrupted by Tasslehoff bounding into the room, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement.

“Hullo, Raistlin! We came to rescue you, but I guess you don’t need rescuing. Caramon thought we were draconians and nearly skewered us. Wow, is that a dragon? Is it dead? Poor thing! Can I touch it?”

Raistlin fixed his brother with a piercing glare.

“Caramon,” he said in frozen tones, “we need to talk.”

Chapter 13 A Royal Guest. The Way Out. A Dread Discovery.

Sturm ran his hands over the helm, marveling at the crafts-manship. He was vaguely aware of the tension in the room, of Raistlin berating his brother in low and angry tones, of Caramon’s feet shuffling and his aggrieved replies that it wasn’t his fault, of Tika grabbing Tasslehoff by the collar and yanking him out of the room, muttering something about searching for the way out of this horrible place. Sturm was conscious of all that was going on, but he paid no attention to any of it. He could not take his eyes and his thoughts from the helm.

His fingertips carefully brushed the grime off the gemstones so that they gleamed more brightly. One in particular caught his eye—a ruby as large a child’s fist, set in the center of the helm. Sturm pictured what the helm would look like polished, shining. He was tempted, suddenly, to try it on.

He did not know where this notion came from. He would not, of course, have traded his own helm that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s before him for all the steel coins in Krynn, and this helm would not fit him anyway. It had been made for a dwarf and was therefore too large for a human. His head would rattle around inside like a pea in a walnut shell, yet Sturm wanted to put it on. Perhaps he wanted to see what it felt like to wear a king’s ransom, perhaps he wanted to judge the quality of the craftsmanship, or perhaps the helm was speaking to him, urging him to place it over his head, draw it down over his long fair hair that was already starting to gray, though he was not more than twenty-nine years old.

He took off his father’s helm and rested it on floor at his feet. Holding the helm, admiring it, Sturm seemed to recall Raistlin saying something to the effect that the helm was magical. The knight discounted that notion. No true warrior such as this dwarven warrior must have been would have ever allowed a wizard anywhere near his armor. Raistlin was just trying to ward Sturm off. Raistlin wanted the helm for himself.

Sturm put the helm over his head. To his amazement and gratification, it fit him as if it had been made for him and him alone.

“So, Raist, what kind of dragon do you think that is?” Caramon asked, with a desperate attempt to change the subject he knew was coming. “It’s a strange color. Maybe it’s a mute dragon.”

“You mean mutant dragon, you dolt,” Raistlin said coldly. “The beast was perfectly capable of speech, and right at the moment I don’t give a damn what it was!” He drew in a seething breath.

“I think we’ll go look for a way out, Caramon,” said Tika, speaking the first desperate thought that came into her mind. “C’mon, Tas. Let’s go find an exit.” She collared the kender.

“But we know how to get out!” Tas argued. “The same way we got in!”

“We’re going to find a different way,” said Tika grimly, and she hauled him out of the room. Raistlin fixed Caramon with a withering stare. Caramon wilted beneath it, seeming to shrivel to half his size.

“What is she doing here?” Raistlin demanded. “Did you tell her to come? You did, didn’t you?”

“No, Raist, I swear it!” Caramon stood with his head hanging, his unhappy gaze on his boots. “I had no idea.”

“Of all the stupid stunts you have pulled, this takes the biscuit. Do you realize what danger you have put her in? And the kender. Ye gods, the kender!”

Raistlin was forced to pause to draw in air enough to continue speaking and that made him cough. He could not speak for long moments and fumbled for his handkerchief. Caramon regarded his twin in anguish, but he dared not say a word of sympathy or try to help him. He was in trouble enough already, trouble that was not in any way, shape, or form his fault. Though some part of him was secretly thrilled that Tika had thought enough of him to come after him, another part wished her on the other side of the continent.

“She won’t be a problem, Raist,” said Caramon, “or Tas either. Sturm can take them back to camp. You and me—we’ll go on to Thorbardin or wherever you want to go.” Raistlin finally caught his breath. He dabbed his lips and eyed his brother with grudging approval. Caramon’s plan would not only rid him of Tika and Tasslehoff, it would also rid of him of the knight.

“They leave immediately,” Raistlin said, his words rasping in his throat.

“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon, relief washing over him. “I’ll go talk to Sturm—Sturm? Oh, here you are.”

He turned to find Sturm right behind him. Caramon gave his friend a puzzled look. The knight had removed his own helm, a helm that he valued above his life, and in its place he wore a helm that was dirty, stained with blood, and far too big for him. The visor came to his throat. His eyes were barely visible through the top portion of the eye slits.

“Uh, that’s a nice helm you found, Sturm,” Caramon said.

“I am properly addressed as ‘Your Highness’,” Sturm intoned, his voice sounding odd coming from inside the helm. “I would ask your names and where you are from, but we have no time to waste on pleasantries. We must ride immediately for Thorbardin!”

Caramon flashed his brother a startled glance. He had no idea what Sturm was doing. It was not like the serious-minded knight to play the fool.

Raistlin was regarding Sturm with narrow, glittering eyes. “I warned him the helm was magical,” he said softly.

“Come on, Sturm,” said Caramon, now frightened. “Quit horsing around. I’ve been talking to Raist, and we’ve decided that you should escort Tas and Tika back to camp.”

“I do not know this Sturm person of whom you keep speaking.”

Sturm interrupted impatiently. “I am Grallen, son of Duncan, King Beneath the Mountain. We must return to Thorbardin at once.” His voice grew sad. “My brothers are dead. I fear all is lost. The king must be informed.”

Caramon’s jaw dropped. “Grallen? Son of Duncan? Huh? Raist, do you know what he’s talking about?”

“How very interesting,” murmured Raistlin, regarding Sturm as though he were some sort of experiment inside a laboratory jar. “I warned him. He would not listen.”

“What’s happened to him?” Caramon demanded.

“The helm has seized hold of him. Such magic is not uncommon. There is the famous elven Brooch of Adoration, crafted by a wizard to hold the spirit of his dead wife. Then there was Leonora’s Singing Flute, which—”

“Raist!” said Caramon. “Stop the history lessons! What about Sturm?”

“Apparently the helm belonged to a dwarven prince named Grallen,” Raistlin explained. “He died, either on the field of battle or here in the fortress. I’m not sure of the nature of the enchantment, but my guess is that the prince’s soul had some strong reason to remain in this world, a reason so important he refused to relinquish it, even unto death. His soul became part of the helm, hoping that someone would be fool enough to pick it up and put it on. Enter Sturm Brightblade.”

“So this dwarven prince is now Sturm?” Caramon asked, dazed.

“The other way around. Sturm is now the dwarven prince, Grallen.”

Caramon cast a stricken glance at his friend. “Will he ever go back to being Sturm?”

“Probably,” said Raistlin, “if the helm is removed.”

“Well, then, we’ll remove it!”

“I wouldn’t—” Raistlin began, but Caramon had already taken hold of the helm and started jerking on it, trying to drag it off Sturm’s head.

Sturm gave a cry of pain and outrage and shoved Caramon away. “How dare you lay rough hands on me, human!” He reached for his sword.

“We beg your pardon, Your Highness,” said Raistlin, hurriedly intervening. “My brother is not himself. The heat of battle has left him confused…”

Sturm sheathed his sword.

“The helm’s stuck tight, Raist,” Caramon reported. “I couldn’t budge it!”

“I am not surprised,” said Raistlin. “I wonder…” He lapsed into thought.

“What do we mean you’re not surprised? This is Sturm! You have to break this enchantment, lift it, or do something to it!”

Raistlin shook his head. “The spell cannot be broken until the soul of Prince Grallen frees him.”

“When will that be? Will Sturm be a dwarf forever?”

“Unlikely,” Raistlin said, adding irritably, “Stop shouting! You’ll have every draconian in the place down on us! The prince’s soul is intent upon completing some mission. Perhaps something as simple as returning to give news of the death of his brothers.”

Raistlin paused. He stared at the helm in thoughtful silence.

“Perhaps this is what the messenger meant…” he murmured.

Caramon ran his ran through his hair. He looked desperately unhappy. “Sturm thinking he’s a dwarf! This is terrible! What are we going to do?”

“Your Highness,” said Raistlin, ignoring his brother and addressing Sturm, “we would be glad to escort you back to Thorbardin, but as you see, we are humans. We do not know the way.”

“I will guide you, of course,” Sturm said at once. “There will be rich reward for you in return for your service to me. The king must hear this terrible news!”

Caramon turned to face his brother, who was looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“You wouldn’t use him like this!” Caramon growled.

“Why not? We have found what we sought.” Raistlin pointed to Sturm. “Behold the key to Thorbardin.”

Tika sat on a broken column and heaved a mournful sigh.

“I wish this whole fortress would just crash down on my head. Bury me in the rubble and have done with it.”

“I think you’re too late,” said Tas, wandering around the debris-strewn corridor, shining the light of his torch and poking his hoopak into murky corners in the hopes of finding something interesting. “The fortress has crashed down as much as it’s going to.”

“Well then, maybe I’ll fall into a pit,” said Tika. “Tumble down the stairs and break my neck. Anything so I don’t have to face Caramon again. Why, why, why did I ever come?” She buried her head in her hands.

“He didn’t look very pleased to see us, did he?” Tas admitted. “Which is strange, considering all the trouble we went to just to rescue him from that man-eating Stalig Mite.” Tika had told a small lie when she said that she and Tas were going to search for the way out. The fortress was dark and eerie, and though Tas would have been happy to explore, Tika was not feeling all that adventurous. She had only wanted to get away from Caramon. She and Tas remained in the corridor, not far from the room where Caramon was arguing with this twin. The light from their torches and Raistlin’s staff filtered out into the hallway. Tika could hear their angry voices, especially Raistlin’s, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Undoubtedly bad things about her. Her cheeks burned. Sick at heart, she rocked back and forth and groaned. Tasslehoff was patting her soothingly on her shoulder, when suddenly he gave a great sniff.

“1 smell fresh air,” he said, and he wrinkled his nose. “Well, maybe not fresh air, but at least it smells like air that’s outside, not inside.”

“So what?” Tika returned in muffled tones.

“You told Caramon we were going to find the way out. I think we have. Let’s go see!”

“I didn’t mean a way out,” said Tika, sighing. “I meant a way out—of this stupid situation.”

“But if we did find a way out that was better than the way in, then you could tell Caramon and he could tell Raistlin and he wouldn’t be mad at us anymore. We’d be making ourselves useful.” Tika lifted her head. That was true. If they proved they could be useful, Raistlin couldn’t stay mad at them. Caramon would be glad that she’d come. She sniffed the air. At first, all she could smell was the musty, dank smell of some place that has been deep underground for a long, long time. Then she knew what Tas meant. The whiff of air was damp and tinged with decay, but at least, as Tas said, it smelled different from the air trapped down here.

“I think it’s coming from up there,” Tika said, peering up overhead. “I can’t see. Hold the torch higher.”

Tas climbed nimbly on top of the fallen column, and from there clamored onto another part of the fallen column that lay on the column beneath it. He now stood head and shoulders above Tika. He held his torch as high as he could, stretching his arm nearly out of the socket. The light revealed the underside of a rickety-looking cat walk constructed of iron.

“The fresh air smell is definitely coming from up there,” Tas announced, though, in truth, he couldn’t really tell much difference. He wanted to take Tika’s mind off her troubles. “Maybe if we climbed onto that cat walk, we’d find a door or something. Do you have any rope?”

“You know perfectly well I don’t have any rope,” returned Tika, and she sighed again. “It’s hopeless.”

“No, it’s not!” Tas cried. He peered overhead, twisting his neck to see. “I think that if you stood on this column then hoisted me onto your shoulders, I could reach the bottom of the cat walk. You know what I mean?” He looked back at Tika. “Like those tumblers we saw at the faire last year. There was the guy who tied himself in a knot and—”

“We’re not tumblers,” Tika pointed out. “We’d likely break our necks.”

“You were just saying you wanted to break your neck,” Tas said. “Come on, Tika, we can at least try!”

Tika shook her head.

Tas shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to go back and tell Caramon we failed.” Tika mulled things over. “Do you really think we could do it?”

“Of course, we can!” Tas balanced the torch on the rock, carefully, so as not to put it out. “You stand here. Brace your feet. Hold very still. I’m going to climb up your back onto your shoulders. Oops, wait! You should take off your sword…”

Tika unbuckled her sword belt and set it down on the rock beside the torch. She and Tas tried several different ways of hoisting the kender onto her shoulders, but climbing a person turned out not to be as easy as the tumblers had made it look. After a few failed attempts, Tas finally figured out how to do it.

“Fortunately you’ve got big hips,” he told Tika.

“Thanks a bunch,” she said bitterly.

Planting one foot on her hip, Tas hoisted himself up. He put his other foot on her shoulder, brought up his other foot, then he had both feet on both of Tika’s shoulders. Slowly, teetering a little, keeping his hands on the top of Tika’s head, he straightened.

“I didn’t think you were this heavy!” Tika gasped. “You’d better… hurry!”

“Hold onto my ankles!” Tas instructed. He reached up and grasped two of the iron railings. “You can let loose now!”

Tas swung his right leg up, trying to connect with the balcony. After two tries, he finally made it. He slid one leg through the railings then didn’t know what to do with the other leg. He hung there for a moment in an extremely awkward, uncomfortable, and precarious position. Tika, looking up, put her hands over her mouth, terrified Tas would fall.

Fortunately he came from a long line of kender who climbed up onto balconies or shinnied out onto ledges or walked the ridgepoles of roofs. A wriggle, a few grunts, a readjustment of his leg so that he wasn’t about to dislocate a hip, another wriggle and a squeeze, and he was through the iron railings and lying flat on his stomach on the cat walk.

“You did it!” Tika cried, impressed. “What’s up there? Is there a way out?” She could hear Tas rummaging around in the dark, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Once he seemed to trip over something, for he said, “Ouch!” in irritated tones. Then he came back, leaned over the edge of the rail, and called down, “Say, Tika, why do you suppose they call it a cat walk? Do cats walk on these things a lot?”

“How should I know? What difference does that make?” she returned irritably.

“I was just wondering. I think it’s because they have nine lives.” Before Tika could point out that this made no sense, Tas added “There’s lots of rope up here, coils and coils of it, and some torches and a sack that has something squishy inside that smells bad. I’ll keep looking.” He was off again. Tika picked up the torch and looked around nervously, not liking being left alone. Then she reflected she wasn’t truly alone. Caramon was not far away. He would come if she called.

Tas came back. “I found it! There’s a hole in the ceiling that I think leads up into a shaft that I’m pretty sure goes outside. I’ll bet we could climb up the shaft. Do you want to try?”

“Yes,” Tika said, thinking that wherever the shaft led was better than where she was now. Anything was better than going back to Caramon and his brother. “How do I get up onto the cat walk?”

“I’ll send down some rope. Hold that torch where I can see what I’m doing.” Tika raised the torch. Working by its flickering light, Tas tied one end of the rope to an iron railing. He tugged on it to make sure it was good and tight, then he flung the rope down to Tika.

“You’d better douse the torch,” he advised, “so no draconians come after us. I’ll light one up here.”

Tika extinguished the light then took hold of the rope and began to pull herself up, hand over hand. She’d been quite adept at rope climbing when she was a girl; the children of the tree-top town of Solace could clamor up and down ropes like spiders. She hadn’t done much rope climbing since those days, but the skill came back to her.

“You have strong arms,” Tas remarked admiringly.

“And big hips,” Tika muttered. She pulled herself up and over the railing.

“The air shaft’s over here.” Tas and his torch led the way to a wide hole in the ceiling. Though Tika couldn’t see sunlight, she could feel and smell the fresh air flowing down from above, gently brushing her face. She drew in a deep breath.

“This is definitely the way out,” she said.

“I think it’s also the way in,” said Tas. “The draconians used this route to enter the fortress. You can tell because they left their stuff lying around.”

“That means they’ll be back to collect it!” Tika said, alarmed.

“Any minute now probably,” said Tas in cheerful tones, “so if we’re going to explore the shaft, we should do it pretty quickly.”

“What if there are draconian guards inside there?” Tika faltered.

Tas peered up the shaft, his face screwed up into thought wrinkles.

“I don’t think so,” he said at last. “If the draconians had gone back up the shaft, they would have taken their stuff with them. No. They’re somewhere else. Probably exploring the ruins down below.”

“Then let’s go up there,” said Tika, shivering at the thought.

The two climbed a pile of rubble that lay beneath the shaft and from there into the shaft itself. Dim gray light filtered down from above, so they could leave the torch behind. The shaft did not go straight up, like a chimney, but sloped gradually, and the climb was an easy one. The breeze wafting down the shaft grew stronger and colder, and they soon came in sight of heavy gray clouds that looked so close it seemed they could grab a handful. The opening was a large oval hole in the rock; the edges glistened wetly in the gray light.

Tas poked his head out of the hole and immediately ducked down again.

“Draconians!” Tas whispered. “Lots of them, standing on the ground below us.” They both held very still, then Tas started to raise himself up again.

“What are you doing!” Tika gasped, tugging on his breeches. “They’ll see you!”

“No, they won’t,” Tas said. “We’re up above them. Come on. You can look.” Tika didn’t like it, but she had to see for herself. She edged her head cautiously out of the hole. The draconians were gathered at the base of the ruined fortress on one of the few dry patches of ground available. A foul-smelling, evil-looking swamp surrounded them. The gray clouds roiling above turned out not to be clouds at all, but a thick mist rising from dark and putrid waters. The draconians stood in a group around a draconian who appeared to be their leader. He was larger than the others, his scales were a different color, and he was issuing orders. His voice was deep and loud, and they could hear him quite clearly.

“Tika!” said Tas, excited. “I can speak draconian! I know what he’s saying.”

“I know what he’s saying, too,” said Tika. “He’s speaking Common.” The two listened and watched. Then Tika said softly, “Come on! We have to go tell the others!”

“Shouldn’t we wait to hear more?”

“We’ve heard enough.” Tika said.

She began to scrabble back down the shaft. Tas listened a moment longer, then he followed.

“You know, Tika,” said Tas, when they reached the cat walk. “It’s good we came, after all.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Tika said.

Chapter 14 Bad News. Who’s Going To Go Back?

“Raistlin! Caramon! Sturm! There’s a draconian army right outside!” Tas announced, bursting into the armory.

“The draconians are planning to attack our people in the valley!” Tika was saying at the same time. “We heard the big one telling his soldiers! The attack is coming from Pax Tharkas.”

“We found out because I can understand draconian now.” Tas raised his voice to be heard above Tika. “Say, why is Sturm wearing that funny-looking helm?”

Raistlin glared at them. “I can’t understand a word either of you is saying. One person talks at a time!”

“Tas,” Tika ordered, “go keep watch in the corridor.”

“But Tika—”

She glared at him, and Tasslehoff departed.

Tika repeated what they’d overheard, adding, “These draconians are part of a larger force. They’ve been posted here to make sure that our people don’t come this way. It’s a good thing Tas and I came,” she said, with a defiant glance at Raistlin, “otherwise we wouldn’t have found out about the danger the refugees are in.”

Raistlin looked at Caramon, who sighed and shook his head.

“This makes things difficult,” said Raistlin.

“What? How? I don’t understand,” Tika said.

This was not the reception she had been expecting.

She had hoped that Caramon would be pleased with her. Well, maybe not pleased, because her news was very bad, the worst news possible, but he could at least be pleased that she and Tas had found out about the attack in time to prevent it.

Caramon only stood there looking troubled and unhappy. Raistlin’s lips were tightly compressed. She couldn’t tell how Sturm looked because he was wearing some sort of odd-looking helm that covered his face. All in all, Tika realized, everyone was acting very strangely.

“What’s the matter with you? We should get started right away. Right now. And why is Sturm wearing that funny looking helm?”

“She’s right, Raist,” said Caramon. “We should go back.”

“What will the refugees do once we have warned them?” Raistlin demanded. “Where can they go that is safe?” He glanced at Sturm. “Thorbardin.”

“Of course, we must go to Thorbardin,” Sturm said, and he sounded impatient. “We have delayed long enough. I’m leaving. If you’re coming with me, humans, then come.” He started to walk out the door. Raistlin hurriedly intervened, stepping in front of him, and laying his hand on the knight’s arm. “We plan to go with you, Your Highness, but there is an emergency we must deal with first. If you will just be patient a moment longer…”

“Your Highness!” Tika stared at Sturm, then she said in a low voice to Caramon, “Did he get hit on the head again?”

“It’s a long story,” said Caramon bleakly.

“Let me put it this way,” said Raistlin dryly. “Sturm is not himself.” He looked back at his brother. “We must go with the knight to Thorbardin. We may never have another chance to find the dwarven kingdom.”

“No, we have to go back to camp,” Tika insisted.

“Riverwind is aware that an attack is possible,” Raistlin said. “He will be ready for it, if it comes.”

“Why can’t we do both?” Caramon asked. “We take Prince Grallen here with us back to camp. Then the prince can lead the refugees to Thorbardin. Problem solved.”

“Prince Grallen? Who’s Prince Grallen?” Tika asked, but no one answered her.

“An excellent idea, but it won’t work,” Raistlin said flatly.

“Sure it will,” said Caramon.

“Try and see,” said Raistlin, shrugging. “Tell Prince Grallen.” Caramon, looking extremely uncomfortable, walked over to where Sturm stood by the door, tapping his foot restlessly on the floor. “Your Highness, we are planning to go to Thorbardin, but first we’re going to make a little side trip. We have some friends who are trapped in a valley to the north—”

Sturm drew back. He glared at Caramon from out of the helm’s eye slits. “North! We do not travel north. Our way lies east across the Dergoth Plains. I would have been grateful to have your company, human, but if you go north, you go alone.”

“I told you so,” said Raistlin.

Caramon sighed deeply.

“What’s wrong with Sturm?” Tika asked, frightened. “Why is he talking like that?”

“The helm’s possessed him,” said Caramon. “He thinks he’s a dwarven prince who lived three hundred years ago. He’s dead set on going to Thorbardin.”

“The helm will not let him do anything else,” said Raistlin. “There is no reasoning with the enchantment.”

“What if we knocked him out, tied him up and dragged him?” Tika asked. Caramon was horrified. “Tika, this is Sturm we’re talking about.”

“Well, apparently it isn’t,” Tika snapped. “It’s Prince Something-or-other.” She didn’t understand any of this, but she was understanding enough to see where this conversation was headed, and she didn’t like it. “Caramon Majere, our friends are in danger! We can’t just abandon them!”

“I know,” he replied unhappily. “I know.”

“I doubt if we could knock him out,” Raistlin observed. “The helm will act to protect him from harm. If we tried to attack him, he would fight us and someone would get hurt. Just because Sturm thinks he is a dwarf prince doesn’t mean he has lost the ability to use his sword.” Tika interposed herself between Raistlin and Caramon. She turned her back on Raistlin, faced Caramon, her arms akimbo, her red curls quivering, her green eyes glittering.

“Thorbardin or no Thorbardin, prince or no prince, someone has to warn Riverwind and the others! You and I should go back, Caramon. Your brother and Sturm can travel to Thorbardin.”

“Yes, Caramon,” said Raistlin in dulcet tones. “Run along with your girlfriend. Leave me to make my way across the accursed Plains of Dergoth in company with a knight who thinks he’s a dwarf. We will both die, of course, and our mission will fail, but you two will undoubtedly enjoy yourselves.”

Tika was so furious she was tempted to turn around and slap Raistlin across his golden-skinned face. She knew that would only make matters worse, however. Digging her nails into her flesh to keep control of herself, she kept facing Caramon, forcing him to look at her, talk to her, think about her and what she was saying.

“Raistlin exaggerates,” Tika told him. “He’s trying to make you feel guilty. He’s a wizard! He has his magic, and like he said, the helm will protect Sturm and Sturm can still use his sword. You have to come with me!”

Caramon was in agony. His face had gone an ugly, blotchy red, mottled with pale white splotches. He looked at his twin and he looked at Tika, then he looked away from both of them.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Tasslehoff poked his head in the door. “You people are being awfully loud,” he said sternly. “I can hear you yelling clear down at the end of the corridor!”

Tika lapsed into irate silence. Caramon still didn’t say anything and Sturm began to pace, marching back and forth, impatient to be on his way.

“Whatever you decide, my brother,” said Raistlin.

Tika eyed Caramon. “Well?”

Caramon cast an uneasy glance at Tika.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “We’re all tired and hungry. It’s been a long day. Let’s go back into the tunnel, get something to eat, and talk about this in the morning.”

“You’re going with your brother,” said Tika in frozen tones.

“I don’t know,” Caramon said, hedging. “I haven’t decided. I need to think.” Tika cast him a look—a green-eyed baleful look that skewered Caramon like a spear. She stalked angrily out of the room.

“Tika! Wait…” Caramon started after her.

“Where do you think you are going?” Raistlin demanded. “You must help me persuade the prince to stay. He will not be pleased at the delay.”

Caramon watched Tika walking down the corridor, heading back toward the library. She looked angry clear through to her bones.

“Tas, go with her,” Caramon said in low tones, so his brother couldn’t hear. Tas obligingly ran off. Caramon could hear the two talking.

“Tika, what’s wrong?” Tas called out, racing to catch up with her.

“Caramon’s a blithering idiot,” Tika answered, choking on her rage, “and I hate him!”

“Caramon!” Raistlin said sharply. “I need you!”

Sighing deeply, Caramon went back to his twin.

After a great deal of talking and reasoning, Raistlin finally persuaded Prince Grallen to stay overnight in Skullcap. He told the prince he and his brother needed to rest before they could undertake the journey, and at last the Prince grudgingly agreed.

They returned to the library and from there went back into the tunnel. Caramon, fearing draconians might find them, wanted to shut the stone door. Raistlin pointed out that the draconians did not know about the tunnel and they should be safe enough here. Shutting the stone door would make a lot of noise. The only reason the draconians hadn’t heard the clamor the first time was due to the dragon’s roaring. Of course, after this, there was no argument. The door remained open.

They ate sparingly, for they had a long journey ahead of them—no matter which way they decided to go. Sturm ate what was given him then fell immediately into a deep slumber from which he could not be wakened.

Caramon was so unhappy he almost couldn’t eat. Tika wouldn’t talk to him or even look at him. She sat with her back against the stone wall, moodily chewing on dried meat. Raistlin ate very little, as always, then went to study his spells, ordering everyone to leave him in peace. He sat on the floor, his robes wrapped around him for warmth, bathed in the pale glow of the staff, his book propped on his knees.

Tasslehoff was fascinated by Sturm-turned-dwarf. The kender sat talking to the prince as long as the prince would talk to him, and when Sturm fell asleep, Tasslehoff continued to sit beside him, watching him.

“He even snores different from Sturm!” Tas reported, when Caramon walked over to see how the knight was faring.

Caramon glanced at his brother, then bent down to take hold of the helm.

“Are you going to yank it off? Here, let me help!” Tas offered, adding excitedly, “Can I put it on next? Can I be the prince?”

Caramon only grunted. He tugged on the helm, twisted it, and when that wouldn’t work, he gave it a thump to see if he could loosen it.

The helm was stuck fast.

“The only way you’re going to get it off is to take Sturm’s head with it,” Tas said. “I guess that’s not an option, huh?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Caramon.

“That’s too bad,” said Tas, disappointed but philosophical. “Oh, well, if I can’t be a dwarf, at least I have the fun of watching Sturm be a dwarf.”

“Fun!” Caramon snorted.

He slumped back against the wall, folded his arms over his chest, and settled himself comfortably on the floor. He had offered to take the first watch. Tika stood up, wiped off her hands, and started to walk toward him. Caramon groaned inwardly and braced himself.

“Did you enjoy your dinner?” he asked, rising nervously to his feet. Tika glanced over her shoulder at Raistlin. Seeing him absorbed in his reading, she said softly, “You’ve made up your mind. You’re going with your brother, aren’t you?”

“Look, Tika, I’ve been thinking,” said Caramon. “What if we all go to Thorbardin tomorrow? We’ll meet up with Flint and Tanis, then Raistlin can stay with them, and you and I will go back to warn the others—”

“We’ll go back to bury them, you mean,” said Tika. She turned on her heel and returned to her place by the wall.

“She doesn’t understand,” Caramon said to himself. “She doesn’t understand how weak Raistlin is, how sick he gets. He needs me. I can’t leave him. The refugees will be all right. Riverwind is smart. He’ll know what to do.”

Raistlin, who had been only pretending to study his spells, smiled to himself in satisfaction when he saw Tika walk off. He shut the spell-book, put it back in his pack that his brother always carried for him, and feeling suddenly weary from the day’s exertions, he doused the light of his staff and went to sleep.

The night deepened. The darkness in the tunnel was impenetrable. Tika sat awake, listening to the various sounds: Sturm’s rumbling snore, Caramon’s shuffling, Tasslehoff’s twitches and whiffles, and other noises that were maybe rats and maybe not.

Tika knew what she had to do. She just had to find the courage to do it.

Caramon gave a jaw-cracking yawn. Fumbling about in the dark, he located Tas and shook him.

“I can’t stay awake any longer,” he said softly. “You take over.”

“Sure, Caramon,” said Tas sleepily. “Is it all right if I sit by Sturm? He might wake up and then I can ask the prince if I could wear the helm, just for a little while.”

Caramon muttered something to the effect that the prince and the helm could all go straight to the Abyss as far as he was concerned. Tika heard him walking over by her, and she swiftly lay down and closed her eyes, though he probably couldn’t see her in the darkness. He called out her name.

“Tika,” he whispered loudly, hesitantly.

She didn’t answer.

“Tika, try to understand,” he said plaintively. “I have to go with Raist. He needs me.” She kept quiet. Caramon heaved a huge sigh then, tripping over Sturm’s feet, he groped about until he found his blanket and lay down. When he was snoring, Tika rose to her feet. She found her pack and a torch and crept over to where Tasslehoff was keeping himself entertained by poking at Sturm with his hoopak in an effort to make him wake up.

“Tas,” said Tika in a smothered voice. “I need you to light this torch for me.” Always glad to oblige, Tas fumbled about in one of his pouches. He produced flint and a tinderbox and soon the torch was burning brightly. Tika held her breath, waiting for the light to wake the sleepers. Raistlin muttered something and pulled his cowl over his eyes and rolled over. Sturm did not so much as twitch. Caramon, who had overslept through an ogre attack and kept on snoring.

Tika gave a little sigh. She hadn’t wanted to wake him, but a part of her was disappointed.

“Do you remember what I did with my sword?” she asked Tas.

The kender gave the matter some thought. “You took it off when we climbed up to the cat walk. I guess you forgot it in all the excitement. It’s probably still lying on that rock back in the fortress.” Tika gave an inward sigh. No true warrior was likely to forgot where she’d put her sword.

“Should I go back to get it?” Tas asked eagerly.

“No, of course not!” Tika returned. “Who knows what awful things are lurking about there at night? Look what happened to Sturm.”

Now it was Tas who gave the inward sigh. Some people had all the luck. It wasn’t fair.

“Let me borrow Rabbitslayer then,” said Tika.

Tas gave his knife a fond pat and handed it over.

“Don’t lose it. Where are you going?” Tas asked.

“Back to camp, to warn the others.”

“I’ll come with you!” Tas jumped up.

“No.” Tika shook her red curls. “You’re on watch, remember? You can’t leave.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right,” Tas agreed, more easily than Tika had expected. She’d feared she would have an argument on this point.

“I’ll go if you really need me,” Tas told her. “But if you don’t, I’d rather stay here. I don’t want to miss out on Sturm being a dwarf. That’s something you just don’t see every day. I’ll wake up Caramon.”

“No, you won’t,” Tika said grimly. “He’ll try to stop me.” She thrust Tas’s knife in her belt and slung her pack over shoulder.

“Are you really going by yourself?” Tas asked, impressed.

“Yes,” said Tika, “and don’t you say a word to anyone. Understand? Not until morning. Promise?”

“I promise,” Tas said glibly.

Tika knew Tas, and she also knew that promises were like lint to kender—easily brushed off. She eyed him sternly.

“You must swear to me by every object you have in your pouches,” she said. “May they all change into roaches and crawl off in the night if you break your vow.”

Tas’s eyes went round at this terrible prospect. “Do I have to?” he asked, squirming. “I already promised—”

“Swear!” said Tika in a terrible voice.

“I swear.” Tas gulped.

Fairly certain this fearful oath would be good for at least a few hours, long enough for her to get a good start, Tika walked off down the tunnel. She’d gone only a short distance, however, before she remembered something and turned around.

“Tas, give Caramon a message for me, will you?”

Tasslehoff nodded.

“Tell him I do understand. I do.”

“I’ll tell him. Bye, Tika,” Tas said, waving.

He had the feeling this wasn’t right, her going off by herself like this. He should wake up someone, but then he thought of all the wonderful things he had in his pouches changing into roaches and skittering off, and he didn’t know what to do. He sat back down beside Sturm and tried to come up with some way around the promise. The light Tika carried grew smaller and smaller in the distance until he couldn’t see it anymore, and he still hadn’t thought of any way out of his predicament.

He continued to think, and he thought so hard that hours passed without him noticing.

As it turns out, Raistlin was wrong when he stated that the draconians did not know about the tunnel. A baaz draconian, wandering into the library in search of loot, had discovered the secret tunnel. He was inside it when he heard the humans returning. They were on him before he realized it, and he was trapped. The baaz considered attacking them, for there were only five of them, and one was a sniveling runt of a kender and the other a female.

Seeing the female, the baaz had a better idea. He would kill the others, capture her alive, have his fun with her, then drag her back to his comrades and trade her for dwarf spirits. The baaz retreated a safe distance down the dark tunnel and spied on the group.

Two of them were warriors who wore their swords with assurance. One was a loathsome wizard carrying a staff with a light that hurt the baaz’s eyes. The baaz hated and distrusted all magicusers, and disappointed, he decided to leave the group alone, at least for the time being. Maybe one would fall asleep on watch, then he could sneak up on them and butcher them in their sleep. The baaz was doomed to disappointment, it seemed, for the big warrior took first watch and he remained alert the entire time. The draconian was afraid to shift a claw for fear he’d hear him. The big man then woke up the kender and the draconian’s hopes rose, for even a draconian new to Krynn had come to know that kender, while delicious, are not to be trusted. He also knew that kender had sharp ears and sharper eyes, and this one appeared more alert than usual. The kender was also wide awake.

The draconian had settled himself for a long night of boredom when his luck took a sudden change. The human female lit a torch, had a short talk with the kender, then walked off down the tunnel by herself. She passed right in front of the draconian, who lurked in the shadows, doing his utmost to keep quiet. If she had turned her head, she would have seen the torch light gleam in his brass scales and his lust-filled eyes. She walked with her head down, her gaze fixed on her feet. She did not notice him.

The baaz waited tensely for the kender or someone to come after her, but no one did. Moving slowly and quietly to keep his claws from clicking on the stone floor, the baaz crept down the tunnel after the female.

He would have to let her get far enough away from the others before accosting her, so that no one would hear her scream.

Chapter 15 Caramon’s Choice. Tika Misses Her skillet. Raistlin Misses a spell.

“She did what?” Caramon towered over Tasslehoff. The big man’s face was red, his eyes flashed. The kender had never seen him so angry. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“She made me promise!” Tas wailed.

“Since when in your life have you ever kept a promise?” Caramon roared. “Light that torch for me, and be quick about it!”

“She said that if I told you, everything in my pouch would change into roaches,” Tas returned. Light flared. Raistlin sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“What is the matter with you two? Stop bellowing, Caramon. You’re making noise enough to wake the dead!”

“Tika’s gone,” said Caramon, buckling on his sword belt. “She left in the middle of the night. She went back to warn the others.”

“Well… good for her,” Raistlin said. He watched his brother for a few moments in silence, then said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“After her.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Raistlin said coldly. “She’s been gone for hours. You’ll never catch up with her.”

“She might have stopped to rest.” Caramon grabbed hold of the torch. “You wait here. Go back to sleep. I won’t be gone long…” He paused then said in altered tones, “Where’s Sturm?”

“Oh for the love of—” Raistlin scrambled to his feet. “Shirak!” he said, and the staff’s light began to glow. “This is what comes of leaving a kender on watch!”

“He went in there.” Tas pointed at the library. “I thought he was going to go pee.”

“Did he say anything?” Raistlin’s eyes glittered feverishly.

“I asked him if I could wear the helm and he said ‘no’,” Tas reported sulkily. Raistlin began to gather up his things. “We have to go after Sturm. He has no idea what he is doing. He could walk straight into the draconian army!”

“It isn’t fair,” Tasslehoff said, gathering up his pouches. “Sturm got to wear the helm all night. I told him it was my turn.”

“What about Tika?” Caramon demanded. “She’s by herself.”

“She is going back to camp. She is not in any danger. Sturm is.”

Caramon agonized. “I don’t know…”

Raistlin picked up his pack. “You do what you want. I am going after Sturm.” He stalked off.

“Me too,” Tas said. “Maybe it will be my turn to wear the helm tonight. I gave Tika Rabbitslayer, Caramon,” he added, feeling sorry for his friend. “She left her sword in the corridor. Oh, and she gave me a message for you! I almost forgot. She said to tell you she understands.” Caramon groaned softly and shook his head.

“I’d stay and talk some more, but I’ve got to be going,” said Tas. “Raistlin might need me.” Tas waited a moment to see if Caramon would come, but the big man did not stir. Fearful that the other two would leave him behind, Tas turned and ran off. Caramon heard the kender’s voice coming from the library.

“I can carry your pack for you, Raistlin!”

He heard his brother’s voice in answer, “Touch it, and I will slice off your hand.” Caramon made up his mind. Tika understood. She’d said so.

He caught up with his twin at the door leading into the fortress.

“Let me carry that. It’s too heavy for you,” Caramon said, and he shouldered Raistlin’s pack.

Tika walked for hours, anger and frustration and love blazing like embers inside her. First love would flare up, then die down, only to have anger burst into flame. The fire fed her energy, and she made good time, or thought she did. It was hard to tell how far she’d come; the tunnel seemed unending. She talked to herself as she walked, holding imaginary conversations with Caramon and telling Raistlin exactly what she thought of him.

Once she thought she heard something behind her and she stopped, her heart pounding—not with fear, but with hope.

“Caramon!” she called eagerly. “You came after me! I’m so glad…” She waited, but there was no answer. She didn’t hear the sound anymore and decided she must have imagined it.

“Wishful thinking,” she muttered to herself and kicked angrily at a loose rock, sending it rolling across the floor. “He’s not coming.”

In that moment, she faced up to the truth. All the fires in her died.

Caramon was not coming. She’d given him an ultimatum: her or his brother. He had chosen Raistlin.

“He will always choose Raistlin,” Tika said to herself. “I know he loves me, but he will always choose Raistlin.”

She had no idea why this was so. She only knew it would be so until something happened to separate the two, and maybe not even then.

There was the sound again. This time Tika knew she hadn’t imagined it.

“Tasslehoff? Is that you?”

It would be just like the kender to abandon his post and chase after her. He was probably planning to sneak up on her, jump at her out of the shadows, then collapse with laughter at her fright.

If it was Tas, he didn’t answer her shout.

She heard the noise again. It sounded like harsh breathing and scraping footfalls, and whoever it was, it wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.

“Tasslehoff,” Tika faltered. “This isn’t funny…”

Even as she said the words, she knew it wasn’t Tas. Fear twisted into a cold, hard knot in her belly. Her throat constricted. She couldn’t breathe or swallow. She shifted the torch to her left hand, almost dropping it. Her right hand closed spasmodically over the dagger in her belt. She didn’t want to die, not alone, in the darkness, and at the thought, a little whimper of terror escaped her.

She couldn’t see, but she could hear the sound made by claws scraping across the stone floor, and she knew immediately her pursuer was a draconian. Her first panicked instinct was to run, but though her brain was screaming at her to flee, her legs refused to budge. Besides, there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

The harsh panting and grunting came closer and closer. The draconian was finished sneaking about.

He emerged into the torchlight right in front of her, racing straight at her. At the sight of her, his hideous scaly face contorted in a slavering grin. He gurgled, saliva flicked from his jaws. He wore a curve-bladed sword, but he had not drawn it. He did not want to kill his prey; he wanted to enjoy it first.

Tika let the beast-man draw close to her—not from any planned strategy, but because she was too terrified to move. The draconian’s red eyes gleamed; his clawed hands opened. He spread his wings and leaped at her, planning to drag her to the stone floor with him on top of her. Determination hardened in Tika. Determination steadied her hand, turned her terror to strength. Swinging the torch in a wild, backhand stroke, she bashed the draconian in his leering face. Her hit was perfectly if accidentally timed and caught the draconian in mid-flight. The blow knocked the baaz’s head one way and his momentum carried his feet in the opposite direction, upending him. He landed with a heavy thud on the stone floor, his wings crumpled beneath him. Tika flung aside the torch, and holding the dagger in both hands, she was on the baaz in an instant. Screaming in fury, she slashed and stabbed.

The draconian howled and tried to grab hold of her. She didn’t know what part of the draconian she was striking; she couldn’t see all that well, for a red rage dimmed her vision. She struck at anything that moved. She kicked, stomped, stabbed and slashed, knowing only that she had to keep fighting until the thing stopped moving.

Then her blade struck rock, jarring her arms painfully The dagger slid out of her blood-slick hands. Panicked, Tika scrabbled to find her weapon. She caught hold of it, picked it up, whirled around, and saw her foe dead at her feet. The rock she had hit was the draconian, turned to stone. Sobbing for breath, shaking all over, Tika tasted a horrid, bitter liquid in her mouth. She retched and felt better. Her frantic heartbeat slowed. She breathed a little easier, and only then felt the burning pain of the scratches on her arms and legs. She picked up the torch, held it over the draconian and waited for the corpse to turn to ashes. Only when it finally disintegrated did she believe it was dead.

Tika shuddered and was about to slump down on the stone floor, when the thought came to her that there might be more of the monsters out there. She hurriedly wiped the blood from her hand to get a better grip on the knife and waited. The pain burned in her arms and her legs and she began to shiver.

Her thinking cleared. If there had been any others, they would have attacked her by now. This one had acted alone, hoping to have his prize all to himself.

Tika took stock of her wounds. Long jagged scratches crisscrossed her arms and her legs, but that was the extent of the damage. Her violent attack had taken the draconian completely by surprise. The scratches burned horribly and bled freely, but that was good. The bleeding would keep the wounds from putrefying.

Tika cleaned out the scratches with water from the water skin, rinsed the draconian’s blood from her face and hands, and swished the water around in her mouth to rid herself of the horrid taste. She spit the water out. She was afraid to swallow, afraid she’d throw up again. She was bone-tired, sick and shaking. She longed to curl up in a ball and have a good cry, but she couldn’t bear the thought of spending another moment in this horrid tunnel. Besides, she had to reach Riverwind and there was no time to waste.

Gritting her teeth, Tika thrust Rabbitslayer in her belt and walked determinedly on.

Tasslehoff led Caramon, Raistlin, and Prince Sturm, as the kender was now calling him, up the airshaft. Reaching the top, they peered out cautiously and hopefully. They had not heard any sounds of draconians during the night and had hoped that, having slain the dragon and looted the place, they would have moved on. Instead, they found the draconians camped out underneath the way out.

The draconians slept on the ground, curled up, their tails wrapped around their feet and their wings folded. Most of them slept with their heads on lumpy sacks filled with whatever treasure they’d found in the fortress. One draconian had been left on watch. He sat up with his back against a rock. Every so often, his head would nod and he would slump forward, only to jerk awake again.

“I thought you said it was an army,” said Caramon dourly. “I count fifteen.”

“That’s almost an army,” Tas returned.

“Not even close,” said Caramon.

“Fifteen or fifteen hundred, it makes little difference,” Raistlin said. “We still have to get past them.”

“Unless there’s another way out.” Caramon looked at Sturm, who shook his helmed head.

“Thorbardin lies that way.” He pointed to the south. “Across the Plains of Dergoth.”

“Yeah, I know,” Caramon said. “You’ve told us that three times in the last five minutes. Is there another way out of this fortress? A secret way?”

“Our army stormed the gates of the fortress. We came in through the front and swept aside the defenders.”

“This is the only way,” said Raistlin.

“You can’t know for sure. We could do some exploring.”

“Trust me,” Raistlin said flatly. “I know.”

Caramon shook his head, but he did not continue to argue.

“We will simply wait for the draconians to leave,” Raistlin decided. “They will not hang about all day. They will likely return to the fortress to continue searching for loot. Once they have gone inside, we can depart.”

“We should just kill them now,” Sturm said. “They are merely goblins. Four of us can handle such vermin with ease.”

Caramon looked at Sturm in astonishment. “Goblins? Those aren’t goblins.” Puzzled, he looked at Raistlin. “Why does he think they’re goblins?”

“Remarkable,” said Raistlin, intrigued. “I can only speculate, but since draconians did not exist during the time in which the prince lived, the helm does not know what to make of the monsters. Thus the prince sees what he expects to see—goblins.”

“Great,” Caramon muttered. “Just bloody great.”

He peered over the edge down a sheer wall, black and smooth, that extended for about thirty feet, ending in a massive pile of rubble—chunks of the fortress, boulders, and rocks all jumbled together. At the foot of the rubble heap was the large patch of dry ground on which the draconians were camped and beyond that the mists and miasma of a swamp.

“I suppose we could climb down the wall,” said Caramon dubiously. “Looks kind of slick though.”

Caramon waited until he saw the draconian’s head slump, then he pulled himself out over the ledge for a better look. The moment his hand touched the smooth, black rock, he gave a curse and snatched his hand back.

“Damn!” he said, rubbing his palm that was bright red. “That blasted rock is cold as ice! Like sticking your hand in a frozen lake!” He sucked on his fingers.

“Let me feel!” said Tas eagerly.

The guard’s head jerked up. He yawned and looked about. Caramon grabbed the kender and dragged him back.

“At least you can use your magic to float down,” Caramon grumbled to his brother. “The rest of us will have to use the ropes to push ourselves off the rock. It will be slow going, and we’ll be sitting ducks on the way down.”

Raistlin glanced sidelong at his twin. “You are in a very bad mood this morning, my brother.”

“Yeah, well…” Caramon rubbed his stubbled jaw. He had not shaved in a couple of days, and his beard was starting to itch. “I’m worried about Tika, that’s all.”

“You blame me for the fact that the girl ran off by herself.”

“No, Raist, I don’t blame you,” Caramon said with a sigh. “If you must know, I blame myself.”

“You can blame me, too,” Tas offered remorsefully. “I should have gone with her.” The kender took hold of his topknot and gave it a painful tug as punishment.

“If anyone is to blame, it is Tika herself. Her foolishness prompted her to leave,” said Raistlin.

“Suffice it to say, she’s in far less danger returning to camp than she would be now if she were here with us.”

Caramon stirred and seemed about to say something, but Raistlin cut him off.

“We had best prepare for our departure. Caramon, you and Tas go back and bring up the extra rope and anything else you can find that you think we might be able to use. I will remain here with His Highness.”

The moment Caramon and Tasslehoff were on their feet, Sturm thought they were leaving, and only Raistlin’s most persuasive arguments could prevent the knight from rushing off.

“I hope those draconians go inside soon,” said Caramon. “We’re not going to be able to keep Sturm here much longer.”

Caramon and Tasslehoff returned with the rope and started to secure it for the trip down the mountainside. Once Sturm was aware of what they were doing, he offered his assistance. Sturm knew nothing about mountain climbing, but Prince Grallen, having lived all his life beneath the mountain in the subterranean halls of the dwarves, was skilled in the subject. His advice proved invaluable. He showed Caramon how to tie strong knots and how to best anchor the ropes. As they were working, the draconian camp below woke up. Raistlin, keeping watch, noted the bozak draconian as being the one in charge. Larger and presumably smarter than the baaz, the bronze-scaled bozak was not so much commander as he was bully and slave driver. Once he woke up, he went about kicking and hitting the baaz until, grumping and grousing, they stumbled to their feet. The bozak doled out hunks of maggot-ridden meat to the baaz, keeping the largest share for himself and five baaz, who were apparently his bodyguards. From what Raistlin could gather from listening to the mixture of Common, military argot, and draconian, the bozak was ordering his men back inside the fortress to continue searching for anything valuable. He reminded them that he would be taking his cut, and nobody had better try to keep anything from him, or he’d slice off their wings.

Led by the bozak, the draconians trooped inside the fortress, and soon Raistlin could hear the bozak’s guttural shouts echoing along the corridors far below the airshaft.

Caramon waited tensely, rope in hand, until the draconian voices and the sounds of tromping feet faded away. Then he looked at his brother and nodded.

“We’re ready.”

Raistlin climbed up onto the lip of the hole. Gripping the Staff of Magius, he positioned himself, looked down at the ground some eighty feet beneath him, and raised his arms.

“Don’t, Raist!” said Caramon suddenly. “I can carry you down on my back.” Raistlin glanced around. “You’ve seen me do this countless times, my brother.”

“Yeah, I know,” Caramon returned. “It’s just… your magic doesn’t work all the time.”

“My magic does not work all the time because I am human and fallible,” Raistlin said irritably, for he never liked to be reminded of that fact. “The magic of the staff, however, can never fail.” Despite his confident words, Raistlin felt the same flutter of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach he always felt whenever he gave himself completely into the hands of the magic. He told himself, as he always did, that he was being foolish. Spreading his arms, he spoke the word of command and leaped into the air.

The Staff of Magius did not fail him. The staff’s magic enveloped him, carried him downward, and set him drifting gently upon the currents of magic as though he were light as thistledown.

“I wish I could do that,” said Tasslehoff wistfully, peering over the edge. “Do you think I could try, Caramon? Maybe there’s a little magic left over…”

“And miss the fun of scaling this sheer rock wall that’s so cold it’ll burn off your skin if you touch it?” Caramon grunted. “Why would you want to do that?”

He looked down. Raistlin waved up at him to let him know he was safe, then hurried over to the fortress entrance. Raistlin stayed there, looking and listening for a long while, then he waved his arm again to indicate that all was safe. Caramon lowered down their packs, including the kender’s hoopak and Sturm’s armor, which Raistlin wanted to leave behind, but Caramon insisted that they bring with them.

Raistlin untied the packs, set them to one side, then took up a position near the entrance, hiding himself behind a boulder so that if the draconians came out, he could take them by surprise. Caramon, Tas and Sturm began their descent.

Sturm climbed down hand over hand with practiced ease. Tasslehoff found out that scaling rock walls was, indeed, fun. Shoving off the rock wall with his feet sent him flying out into the air, then he’d come sailing back. He did this with great glee, bouncing over the rock face, until Caramon ordered him gruffly to cut out the nonsense and get himself to solid ground. Caramon moved slowly, nervous about trusting his weight to the rope and clumsy with the placement of his feet. He was the last one down and landed with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Compared to that, the climb down the pile of rubble was relatively simple. They were gathering up their possessions when Raistlin rose up from his hiding place and hissed at them to be quiet.

“Someone’s coming!”

Caramon looked up in alarm at the three ropes dangling from the opening. Seen from this vantage point, he understood how the fortress had come by its name. It bore an uncanny resemblance to a skull. The air shaft formed one of the eyes. Another air shaft opposite formed the other eye. The entrance to the fortress was the skull’s mouth, with rows of jagged stalagmite and stalactite teeth. The ropes, trailing down from an eye socket, told all the world they were here. Caramon considered hiding in the thick vapors of the swamp, but the draconians would come after them, and if that happened, he’d rather fight them on dry land.

Caramon drew his sword. Tasslehoff, mourning the absence of Rabbitslayer, hefted his hoopak. Sturm drew his sword as well. Caramon hoped that Prince Grallen was as a skilled a warrior as Sturm Brightblade. Raistlin, hidden behind the boulder, readied his magic spells. The bozak and his five baaz bodyguards walked out of the fortress entrance, intending to have a private search through the loot the baaz had left behind to see if any of them had been holding out on him. Planning to loot the looters, the bozak was not prepared for a fight. He and the others were extremely startled to find themselves facing armed foes.

Draconians were born and bred to battle, however, and the bozak was quick to recover from the shock. He used his magic first, casting a spell on the warrior who appeared to be the greatest threat. A beam of blinding light shot from the bozak’s clawed hand and struck Sturm, who cried out, clutched his chest, and crumpled to the ground, groaning.

Seeing the knight down, the bozak turned to Caramon. The creature extended his huge wings, making the bozak seem even bigger, and charged, snarling and swinging his sword in powerful, slashing arcs. Caramon parried the first blow with his sword; the force of the attack jarring his arm to the elbow.

Before Caramon could recover, the bozak flipped around and struck Caramon with his massive tail, knocking his feet out from under him and sending Caramon to his knees. As he tried frantically to scramble to his feet, he looked up to see the bozak rounding on him, sword raised. Caramon raised his own sword and the two came together with a crash.

Raistlin crouched unseen in his hiding place near the entrance. Scattering his rose petals, he cast a spell of enchanted sleep on the three baaz who were nearest. He was not particularly confident of the results, for he’d tried this and other spells on draconians before and they had been able to resist the magic’s influence.

Two of the baaz stumbled, and one gaped and lowered his sword, but only for a moment. He managed to shake off sleep and charged into the fray. The other two remained on their feet, and worse, they realized a wizard had tried to spellbind them. They turned around, swords in hand, and saw Raistlin.

Raistlin was about to hurl fiery death at them when he found, to his horror, that the magical words to the spell eluded him. Frantically, he searched his memory, but the words were not there. He bitterly cursed his own folly. He had been more intent on watching Tika and his brother last night than he had been on studying his spells.

By now, one of the draconians was on him, swinging his sword in a vicious attack. Raistlin, desperate, lifted his staff to block the blow, praying that the staff did not shatter. As the sword hit the staff, there came a flash, a crackling sound, and a howl. The baaz dropped his sword and danced about, snarling and wringing his hand in pain. Seeing the fate that had befallen his comrade, the other baaz approached Raistlin and the staff with caution, but he kept on coming. Raistlin put his back against the rocks and held his staff before him. None of the draconians had bothered with the kender, thinking he was not a threat and they could leave him for last. One of the baaz ran over to Sturm, either to finish him off, or to loot the body, or both.

“Hey, lizard-lips!” yelled Tasslehoff, and, dashing up, he struck the baaz in the back of the head with his hoopak.

The blow did little to the thick-skulled draconian except annoy him. Sword in hand, he turned around to gut the kender, but he couldn’t seem to catch him. Tasslehoff leaped first here, then there, taunting the baaz, and daring him to try to hit him.

The baaz swung his sword time and again, but wherever he was, the kender was always somewhere else, calling him names and thwacking him with the hoopak. Between the jumping and the ducking, and name-calling that included “scaly butt” and “dragon turd,” the baaz lost all reason and gave chase.

Tasslehoff led the draconian away from Sturm, but unfortunately, in his excitement, the kender did not watch where he was going and found himself perilously near the swamp. Making one last jump to avoid being sliced in half by the enraged baaz, Tas slipped on a rock, and after much arm-flailing and flapping, he toppled with a cry and a splash into the swamp water. The baaz was about to wade in after him, when a sharp command from the bozak recalled the draconian to his senses. After a moment’s hesitation, the baaz left the kender, who had disappeared in the murk, and ran to help his comrade finish the magic-user.

Caramon and the bozak exchanged a series of furious blows that caused sparks to fly from their blades. The two were evenly matched, and Caramon might have prevailed in the end, for the bozak had been up carousing all night and was in sorry shape. Fear for his brother and his desperate need to finish this battle made Caramon reckless. He thought he saw an opening and charged in, only to realize too late that it had been a feint. His sword went flying and landed in the water behind him with a heart-rending splash. Caramon cast an anguished glance at his twin and then leaped to one side and went rolling on the ground as the bozak came at him. Caramon kicked out with his boot and caught the bozak in the knee. The bozak gave a pain-filled grunt and kicked Caramon in turn, right in the gut, driving the air out of Caramon’s lungs and leaving him momentarily helpless. The bozak raised his sword and was about to deal the death blow when a hideous, agonized scream coming from behind him caused the bozak to check his swing and look around.

Caramon lifted his head to see. Both he and the bozak stared in horror.

Pale, cold eyes cloaked in the shredded tatters of night hovered near Raistlin. One draconian lay on the ground, already crumbling to ashes. The other baaz was screaming horribly as a hand as pale and cold as the disembodied eyes twisted the creature’s arm. The baaz shriveled beneath the wraith’s fell touch and then toppled over in its stony death throes.

Caramon struggled to try to regain his feet, certain that his brother would be the next victim of the wraiths. To his astonishment, the wraiths paid no attention to Raistlin, who was flattened against the rocks, his staff held out before him. The lifeless eyes and the trailing darkness dropped like an awful cloud over the bozak. Shrieking in agony, the bozak writhed in the deadly grasp. He twisted and fought to escape but was held fast.

As the bozak’s body began to stiffen, Caramon remembered what happened to bozaks when they died, and he crawled, slipped and slid in his scramble to put as much ground between him and the corpse as possible. The bones of the bozak exploded. The foul heat and shock of the blast struck Caramon, knocking him flat and momentarily stunning him.

He shook his head to clear it and rose hastily to his feet, only to find the battle had ended. Two of the surviving draconians were fleeing back into the fortress, running for their lives. The wraiths flowed in after them and Caramon heard their death shrieks. He gave a sigh of relief, then froze. Two of the pale eyes hovered near Raistlin.

Caramon ran toward his twin, though he had no idea how to save him.

Then he saw the eyes lower, almost as if the undead was bowing to his brother. The eyes disappeared, leaving behind a bone-numbing chill and the dust of their victims.

“Are you hurt?” Caramon gasped.

“No. You?” Raistlin asked tersely.

He gave his brother a quick glance that apparently answered his question, for he shifted his gaze to Sturm. “What about him?”

“I don’t know. He was hit by some sort of magic spell. Raist, those wraiths—”

“Forget the wraiths. Is he hurt badly?” Raistlin asked, shoving past his brother.

“I don’t know,” Caramon said, limping after him. “I was kind of busy.” He reached out and took hold of his brother’s arm, dragging Raistlin to a stop.

“That thing bowed to you. Did you summon it?”

Raistlin regarded his brother with a cold stare, a slight sardonic smile on his lips. “You have an inflated notion of my powers, my brother, to think that I could command the undead. Such a spell is far beyond my capabilities, I assure you.”

“But Raist, I saw it—”

“Bah! You were imagining things.” Raistlin glowered. “How many times must I tell you that I do not like to be touched!”

Caramon released his grip on his twin.

Raistlin hurried off to check on Sturm. Caramon could not remember his brother having ever been this worried about the knight before. Caramon had a feeling that Raistlin was more worried about Prince Grallen than Sturm. Caramon trailed after him, just as Tasslehoff, sputtering and spitting out muck, pulled himself up out of the water.

“Ugh!” said the kender, dragging sopping wet hair out of his eyes. “What a stupid place to put a swamp! How’s Sturm? What did I miss?”

Raistlin had his hand on the knight’s pulse. His breastplate was scorched, but it had protected him from the worst of the blast. At Raistlin’s touch, Sturm moved his hands and his eyes opened. He tried to stand up.

“Raist,” said Caramon, helping Sturm to his feet, “if you didn’t summon them, then why didn’t the wraiths attack us? Why just attack the draconians?”

“I don’t know, Caramon,” Raistlin said in exasperation. “I am not an expert on the undead.” Seeing his brother still expected an answer, Raistlin sighed. “There are many explanations. You know as well as I do that undead are often left behind as guardians. Perhaps the draconians took some sort of sacred artifact, or perhaps, as the knight is so fond of saying, evil turned upon itself.”

Caramon seemed unconvinced. “Yeah, maybe.” He eyed his brother, then said abruptly, “We should clear out of here, before the rest of those baaz come back.”

Raistlin looked at the cave’s opening, which resembled the grinning jaw of a skull, and he fancied for a moment that the ruins were laughing. “I do not think the others will be coming back, but you are right. We should leave.” He glanced around at the bundles of loot lying on the ground, and shook his head. “A pity we do not have time to go through this. Who knows what valuable objects they found down there?”

“I wouldn’t touch it if you paid me,” said Caramon, giving the bundles a dark glance. “All right, Your Highness. Lead the way.”

Sturm was groggy but appeared to be uninjured, except for some superficial burns on his hands and arms. He plunged into the swamp, wading ankle-deep through the water. The mists rolled and twined about him.

“I just came out of there,” Tas protested. “It’s not as much fun as you might imagine.” He shrugged his shoulders and picked up his hoopak. “Oh well. I guess I can’t get any wetter.” He jumped in and went floundering after Sturm.

Raistlin grimaced. Kilting up his robes around his knees, he thrust his staff into the murk to test the bottom and then stepped gingerly into the dark water.

Caramon came after him, his hand ready to steady his brother. “It’s just that I thought I heard that wraith say something to you, Raist. I thought I heard it call you ‘Master’.”

“What a vivid imagination you have, my brother,” Raistlin returned caustically. “Perhaps, when this is over, you should write a book.”

Chapter 16 Tika’s warning. Riverwind’s Dilemma. The Refugees decide.

Laurana was in the cavern she shared with Tika, lying on the bed. She had been up a day and a night, out searching for her missing friend and the kender, and she was exhausted. Still, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking back over everything Tika had said, everything she’d done the last time they’d been together. The clues were there, right in front of her. Laurana should have known immediately that Tika meant to go off after Caramon and that Tas would go with her. She should have done something to stop them.

“If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, thinking about… other things…”

Other things such as Tanis. Laurana had just shut her eyes and was starting to drift off, when Goldmoon’s voice brought her wide awake. “Laurana! They’ve found her!” Two Plainsmen carried Tika on a make-shift litter into the cave where the sick and injured were tended. People gathered to see, and murmurs of pity and concern rose from the women, while the men shook their heads. They rested the litter gently on the floor.

Riverwind built up the fire, as his wife brought cool water. Laurana hovered over Tika.

“Where did they find her?”

“Lying on the bank of the stream,” said Goldmoon.

“Was Tas with her?”

“She was alone. No sign of the kender.”

Tika moaned in pain and stirred restlessly. Her eyes were wide open and hectically brilliant, but she saw only her feverish world. When Goldmoon bent over her, Tika screamed and began to strike her savagely with her fists. It took Riverwind and the two Plainsmen to hold her down, and even then she tried to struggle to free herself.

“What’s the matter with her?” Laurana asked, alarmed.

“Look at those scratches. She’s been attacked by some sort of wild animal,” Goldmoon answered, bathing Tika’s forehead in cool water. “A bear or a mountain lion, maybe.”

“No,” said Riverwind. “Draconian.”

His wife raised her head, looking at him in consternation. “How can you tell?” Riverwind pointed to several smears of gray ash on Tika’s leather armor. “The claw marks are only on her arms and legs, whereas a wild beast would have left its marks all over her body. The draconian was trying to subdue her, to rape her…”

Laurana shuddered. Riverwind looked very grim and his wife deeply troubled.

“What’s the matter?” Laurana asked. “She’ll be all right, won’t she? You can heal her…”

“Yes, Laurana, yes,” said Goldmoon, reassuringly. “Leave her with me, all of you.” She smoothed Tika’s red curls, damp with sweat, and placed her hand on the medallion of Mishakal she wore around her neck. “You should call a meeting of the Council, husband.”

“I need to talk to Tika first.”

Goldmoon hesitated, then said, “Very well. I will summon you when she is awake, but only talk to her for a little while. She is in need of food and rest.”

“Let me stay,” Laurana pleaded. “This is my fault.”

Goldmoon shook her head. “You need to go find Elistan.”

Laurana didn’t understand, but she could see that both were worried over something. Laurana accompanied the chieftain out of the shelter.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Tika was attacked by a draconian,” Riverwind said. “The attack must have occurred here. Or near here.”

Laurana suddenly understood the terrible implications. “The gods have mercy on us! That means our enemies have found a way into the valley! Goldmoon was right—I must tell Elistan—”

“Do so quietly,” Riverwind cautioned “Bring him back with you. Say nothing to anyone else, not yet. We don’t want to start a panic.”

“No, of course not,” Laurana said, and hastened off.

People were gathered at a respectful distance outside the cave, waiting for news. Tika, with her ready laughter and her cheerful disposition, was a favorite of nearly everyone in the camp, not counting the High Theocrat.

Maritta stopped Laurana as she left the cave, asking in concern how Tika was doing. Laurana saw that it would be easier to make a general announcement.

“She is very sick right now, but Goldmoon is with her and she will recover,” Laurana told the crowd. “She needs rest and quiet.”

“What happened to her?” asked Maritta.

“We won’t know until she wakes up,” Laurana hedged, and, managing to extricate herself, she went off in search of Elistan.

She met him on his way to Goldmoon.

“I heard about Tika,” he said. “How is she?”

“She will be well, thank the gods,” said Laurana. “Riverwind asks to speak to you.” Elistan looked at her searchingly. He saw the worry and fear in her face, and he was about to ask her what was wrong, then thought better of it. “I will come at once.” They returned to find a few people still lingering outside the cave. Laurana assured them once more that Tika was going to be fine and added that the best thing they could do to help her was to include her in their prayers.

Riverwind stood at the cave entrance. As Laurana and Elistan came up to speak to him, Goldmoon drew aside the blanket and bade them come in.

“Her fever has broken and her wounds are healing, but she is still shaken from her ordeal. She wants to speak to you, though. She insists on it.”

Tika lay wrapped in blankets near the fire. She was still so pale that her freckles, which were the bane of her existence, stood out in stark contrast to her white skin. Yet she tried to sit up when the others entered.

“Riverwind! I have to talk to you!” she said urgently, reaching out a trembling hand. “Please, listen to me—”

“So I shall,” said Riverwind, kneeling beside her, “but you must drink some of this broth first and then lie down, or my wife will throw us both out into the cold.”

Tika drank the broth, and some color came back to her face. Laurana knelt down beside her.

“I was so worried about you.”

“I’m sorry,” Tika said remorsefully. “Goldmoon tells me that everyone was out looking for Tas and me. I never meant… I didn’t think…” She gave a deep sigh and set the bowl down. Her face took on a look of resolve. “As it turned out, it was a good thing that we went.”

“Wait a moment,” said Riverwind. “Before you tell your tale, where is the kender? Is Tasslehoff safe?”

“As safe as can be, I suppose,” said Tika bleakly. “He’s with Raistlin, Caramon, and Sturm. If you can call him Sturm anymore…”

Seeing their look of concern, Tika sighed. “I’ll start from the beginning.” She told her story, how she’d decided to go after Caramon to try to talk some sense into him.

“It was stupid; I know that now,” she added ruefully.

How she and Tas entered the tunnel that went underneath the mountain, how they came out at the other end of the tunnel to find themselves in Skullcap with a dead dragon, hordes of draconians, and Grallen, prince of Thorbardin, formerly Sturm Brightblade.

“The helm he put on was cursed, or enchanted, or something. I didn’t understand, and Raistlin wouldn’t talk about it,” Tika said.

Elistan looked grave, Riverwind doubtful, and Goldmoon anxious. She placed a cool cloth on Tika’s forehead and said she should rest.

Tika took away the cloth. “I know you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either except I saw it for myself. I even talked to this… this Prince Grallen. Caramon said the helm was waiting for someone to come along and put it on so that it could force the person go to Thorbardin, to tell the king that the battle was lost.”

“Three hundred years too late,” said Laurana softly.

“But now, you see, they’ve found the way to get inside Thorbardin,” said Tika. “This Prince Grallen is going to lead them there.”

All of them exchanged glances. Riverwind shook his head. The Plainsman had an inherent distrust of magic, and this sounded too bizarre to be believed. He fixed on the more immediate threat.

“You heard the draconians say that an army was coming. Coming here. To the valley.”

“Yes. That’s why I came back. To warn you.”

“Why didn’t Caramon come with you?” Riverwind asked in stern disapproval. “Why did he send you back alone?”

“Caramon wanted to come,” Tika said, stoutly defending him. “I told him not to. I told him he should stay with Sturm, his brother and Tas, what with Sturm thinking he’s a dwarf and all. I told him I could manage fine on my own, and I did.”

Her eyes hardened. Her fists clenched. “I killed that monster when it attacked me. I killed it dead!”

She saw their troubled expressions, and she burst into tears. “Caramon didn’t know there was a draconian hiding in that passage! No one knew!” She collapsed back onto her pallet, sobbing.

“She must rest now,” said Goldmoon firmly. “I think you know all you need to know, husband.” She ushered them outside and returned to hold Tika in her arms, letting her have her cry out.

“What do we do, Revered Son?” Riverwind asked.

“The decision is yours,” Elistan replied. “Tanis placed you in charge.” Riverwind sighed deeply and gazed moodily to the south. “If you believe Tika’s story—”

“Of course, we believe her!” Laurana interjected angrily. “She risked her life to carry us this warning.”

“Hederick and the others won’t,” Riverwind observed.

Laurana fell silent. He was right, of course. The High Theocrat and his cronies didn’t want to leave, and they would find any excuse to remain. She could almost hear Hederick telling the people how Tika was not to be trusted. A former thief, now a barmaid (and the gods knew what else), she had run off to be with her lover and made up this tale to cover her sins.

“Few people like Hederick,” Laurana pointed out, “and they do like Tika.”

“What is more important,” added Elistan, “is that they like and admire you, Riverwind. If you tell the people danger is coming and they must leave, they will listen.”

“Do you think we should leave?” Laurana asked.

“Yes,” Riverwind said readily. “I have thought that since the day the dragon flew over us. We should travel south before the heavy snows block the mountain passes. This valley is no longer a safe haven. Tika’s story simply confirms what I have long feared.”

He paused then said quietly, “But what if I am wrong? Such a journey is fraught with uncertainty and danger. What if we reach Thorbardin and find the gates closed? Worse still, what if we never find Thorbardin at all? We could wander about the mountains until we drop from hunger and perish from the cold. I’m asking the people to leave a place of safety and walk headlong into danger. That makes no sense.”

“You just said that this wasn’t a place of safety,” Elistan observed. “Ever since the dragon came, the people have been uneasy, afraid. They know that dragons keep watch on us, though we can’t see them.”

“The burden is a heavy one,” Riverwind said. “The lives of hundreds are in my care.”

“Not in your care alone, my friend,” Elistan told him gently. “Paladine is with you. Take your fears and worries to the god.”

“Will he give me a sign, Revered Son? Will the god tell me what to do?”

“The god will never tell you what to do,” Elistan said. “The god will grant you the wisdom to make the right decision and the strength to carry it through.”

“Wisdom.” Riverwind smiled and shook his head. “I am not one of the wise. I was a shepherd…”

“As a shepherd, you used your skills and instincts to keep your flock safe from the wolf. That is the wisdom Paladine has given you, the wisdom on which you must rely.”

Riverwind thought this over.

“Summon the people for a meeting at noontime,” he said at last. “I will announce my decision then.”

As they were leaving, Laurana glanced back at Riverwind over her shoulder. He was walking toward the grotto where they had built a small altar to honor the gods.

“He is a good man. His faith is strong and steadfast,” she said. “Tanis chose wisely. I wish he…” She stopped talking. She hadn’t meant to speak her thoughts aloud.

“You wish what, my dear?” Elistan asked.

“I wish Tanis could find the same faith,” Laurana said at last. “He does not believe in the gods.”

“Tanis will not find faith,” said Elistan, smiling. “I think it more likely that faith will find him, much as faith found me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” Elistan admitted. “My heart is troubled about Tanis, yet Paladine assures me that I may safely rest those troubles in his hands.”

“I hope his hands are very large,” said Laurana, sighing.

“As large as heaven,” said Elistan.

If Riverwind spoke to Paladine, he did not seem to have found much ease or solace in his communion with the god. His face was dark and grim as he took his place at the front of the multitude. His words were not comforting or reassuring. He told the people of Tika’s journey. He said the knight, Sturm Brightblade, had discovered the way to Thorbardin (he was vague as to details). Riverwind told them Tika had overheard draconians talking about an army preparing for an assault on the valley and how she had been attacked by a draconian on her way back to warn them.

Hederick pursed his lips and rolled his eyes and gave a snort. “Tika Waylan is a nice girl, but as some of you will recall, she used to be a barmaid—”

“I believe her,” Riverwind said, and his firm tones silenced even Hederick, at least temporarily.

“I believe that this valley, once a haven of peace, may soon become a battle ground. If we are attacked here, we have no place to run to, no refuge. We will be trapped like rats to be captured or slaughtered. The gods have sent us this warning. We do wrong to ignore it. I propose that we leave in the next few days, travel south to Thorbardin, there to meet our friends.”

“Come now, be reasonable,” said Hederick. He turned to the crowd, raising his hands for silence.

“Don’t you people find it strange that the gods chose to deliver this warning to a barmaid instead of someone honored and respected—”

“Such as yourself?” Riverwind said.

“I was going to say, such as Revered Son Elistan,” said Hederick humbly “but yes, I think the gods might also use me as their vessel.”

“If they wanted to store ale, perhaps,” said Gilthanas in Laurana’s ear.

“Hush, brother!” she scolded him. “This is serious!”

“Of course it is, but they won’t listen to Riverwind. He is an outsider, as are we.” He glanced at Laurana. “You know, for the first time in my life, I begin to understand how alone and isolated Tanis must have felt when he lived among us.”

“I don’t feel alone among these people,” Laurana protested.

“Of course not,” Gilthanas answered, frowning. “You have Elistan.”

“Oh, Gil, not you too,” began Laurana, but he had walked off, going over to stand with the Plainsmen. They said nothing to the elf, but silently and respectfully moved to make room for him among their ranks.

Outsiders together.

Laurana should have gone after him, but she was angry at him, at Tanis, at Tika, at everyone who seemed willfully determined to misconstrue her relationship with Elistan. She worked for Elistan much as she had worked for her father: acting as a diplomat and intermediary. She had a gift for talking to people, a gift for soothing people, helping them work through anger and fear to see reason. She and Elistan were a good team. There was nothing romantic about it! He was, if anything, like a father to her.

Or a brother.

She looked at Gilthanas, and her anger softened to remorse. The two of them had once been very close. She had barely spoken to Gilthanas since she had started working with Elistan. No, it went back further than that. Since Tanis had once more entered her life.

Maybe it wasn’t even Tanis, she reflected. Her brother did not approve of her relationship with the half-elf any more now than he’d done in the past. But it was her relationship with all humans that stuck in his craw. She should keep herself aloof from them, hold herself apart. Like their father, Gilthanas was angry over the fact that the gods had seen fit to use humans to herald their return. The gods should have come to the elves, who were, after all, the chosen people. It was the humans whose transgressions had called down the wrath of the gods on the world.

“We are the good children,” said Laurana to herself. “We should not have been punished. But were we really good? Or were we just never caught?”

Elves had no such doubts. Elves were certain of their place in the universe. Humans, on the other hand, were always doubting, always seeking, always questioning. Laurana liked that about humans. She did not feel so alone with her doubts.

The thought occurred to her that she’d never tried to explain this to Gilthanas. She resolved to do so. Help him understand. She looked over at him and smiled to show that she wasn’t angry. He saw her but deliberately avoided meeting her eyes. Laurana sighed and brought her attention back to the meeting.

The arguing continued. Elistan supported Riverwind, as did Maritta.

“We all of us saw the dragon,” Maritta told them, “with that fiend, Verminaard, on its back. Now one of our own has been attacked here in this valley, or as near this valley as makes no difference. If that isn’t a sign that we are no longer safe, I don’t know what is.” Yet Hederick’s arguments were also persuasive, weighted with the fact that the people were in no danger now, but would be if they left the safety and shelter of caves to venture into the wilds, as was proven by the attack on Tika.

Riverwind could not argue against any of this. The burden lay on his heart, and he acknowledged it simply and openly.

“If we go, some or all of us may die,” he said, “but I believe that if we stay and do nothing, if we ignore Tika’s warning, we will fall victim to a cruel and brutal enemy.” He was certain, at least, of his own people joining him. The Plainsmen were united in their belief that trouble was coming and they had at last agreed, even the Que-Kiri, to accept Riverwind as their chief. Their quiet confidence gave him confidence, as did his time spent with the god. During his prayers, Riverwind had heard no immortal voice making promises, he’d felt no soothing touch of an immortal hand, but he had come away from the altar with the comforting knowledge that he did not walk alone.

He was about to say more when there was a stir at the entryway. Goldmoon appeared, guiding Tika’s faltering steps.

“She insisted on coming,” Goldmoon said. “I urged her to rest, but she said she had to speak for herself.”

People murmured softly in sympathy. The scratches on her arm had healed, but they were still visible. Pale and weak from the effects of the fever, Tika put aside Goldmoon’s hand and stood on her own to have her say.

“I just want to remind all of you who it was who freed you from Pax Tharkas,” Tika told them, “who saved you from slavery and death. It wasn’t him, the High Theocrat.” She cast a scathing glance at Hederick. “It was Tanis Half-Elven and Flint Fireforge, and they’ve gone to try to find Thorbardin. It was Sturm Brightblade, Caramon Majere, and Raistlin Majere, and they’ve gone, at great peril, to Skullcap, where they’ve found a way to enter Thorbardin. It was Riverwind and Goldmoon, who showed you how to survive and healed your hurts.

“They didn’t have to do this, any of them. They could have gone off long ago, returned to their homeland, but they didn’t. They stayed here and risked their lives to help you. I know it will be hard to leave, but… but I just want you to think about that.”

Many did think about it and made their arguments accordingly, speaking out in favor of departing. Others were not so certain. Riverwind allowed the discussion to flow freely, but when the same arguments were being presented time and again, he called a halt.

“My mind is made up. Each of you must do the same. My wife and I and those who are going with us should be ready to depart the day after tomorrow with the first light.” He paused a moment, then added, “The way will be difficult and dangerous, and I cannot promise you that we will find safe haven in Thorbardin or anywhere in this world, for that matter. I can promise you one thing: I pledge my life to you. I will do all I can to stand between you and darkness. I will fight to defend you until the last breath leaves my body.” He left the meeting hall amid silence. His people and Gilthanas accompanied him. Tika insisted on going back to her own cave, saying she would rest better in her bed.

The people gathered around Elistan, seeking his advice and reassurance. Many wanted him to make their decisions for them—should they stay or go? This he would not do, but he insisted that each person must make up his or her own mind. He advised them repeatedly to take their cares and concerns to the gods, and he was gratified to see some go to the altar. Others, however, stalked off in a huff, demanding to know what good were gods who could not tell them what to do?

Laurana remained by his side, patiently assisting him, offering her own reassurances and advice. When the last person left, she felt utterly drained and dejected.

“I never understood before how anyone could knowingly worship an evil god. Now I do,” she said to Elistan. “If you were a cleric of Takhisis, you would promise these people everything they ever wanted. Your promises would come at a terrible price and they would not be kept, but that wouldn’t matter. People refuse to take responsibility for their own lives. They want someone to tell them what to do, and they want someone to blame when it all goes wrong.”

“We are in the early days yet of the gods’ return, Laurana,” said Elistan. “Our people are like blind men who can suddenly see again. The light blinds them as much or more than the darkness. Give them time.”

“Time—the one thing we don’t have,” Laurana said with a sigh.

In the end, most of the people decided to go with Riverwind. The terror of the dragons flying over their camp did as much to convince them to leave as any of his arguments. Hederick and his followers, however, let it be known that they planned to stay.

“We will be here waiting to welcome those who turn back,” Hederick announced, adding in ominous tones, “Those who survive…”

Riverwind worked tirelessly that day and long into the night and all the next day, answering questions, assisting people to decide what to take, helping them pack. The refugees had made the hard journey from Pax Tharkas to the valley, and they knew already what they would need for the road. Even little children made up their small bundles.

Riverwind could not sleep the night before the departure. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, doubting himself, doubting his decision, until Goldmoon took him in her arms. He kissed her and held her, and matching his breathing to hers, he fell asleep.

Riverwind was up before dawn. The people emerged from their caves in the half-darkness, greeting friends or scolding children, who viewed this departure as a holiday and were behaving with untoward exuberance. Hederick made an appearance, sighing a great deal and bidding people farewell with a mournful air, as though he could already see them dead on the trail. Riverwind could sense a few people starting to waver in their decisions, and he was determined to set off the moment there was the faintest light in the sky, before they had a chance to change their minds. His scouts had picked up Tanis’s blazed trail, and they reported that the first part of the journey would be easy; that would help boost people’s spirits and give them confidence. The day dawned bright and sunny. Just before they started, scouts returned with news that the dwarf’s trail led to a hitherto unnoticed pass between the mountains. Riverwind studied the crude map Flint had drawn up for him and the scouts agreed that his map matched with what they had found. Looking at the map, Riverwind recalled the dwarf’s last enigmatic command—bring along pick-axes. Though this meant an added burden for some, he followed the dwarf’s order. The people cheered at news that a pass had been discovered, taking it for a good omen for the future. The refugees set forth quietly, without undue fuss or bother. Their harsh lives had innured them to hardship. They were accustomed to physical exertion; they had walked miles to reach this place, and they were prepared to walk many more miles. They were in good health. Mishakal had healed their sick. Even Tika was almost back to normal. Laurana noted that her friend was unusually somber and silent and chose to walk by herself, eschewing any offer of company. The wounds of the body had healed; the wounds of the heart were deeper, and not even a goddess could remedy those.

The sun shone. The day grew warm, with just enough chill in the air to keep the exertion of hiking from overheating anyone. Maritta started singing a marching song, and soon everyone joined in. The refugees made good time, trudging along the trail at a steady pace. Riverwind felt his burden ease.

That night, after the refugees’ departure, Hederick the High Theocrat sat alone in his cave. He had spent the day regaling those of his followers who had chosen to stay with some of his best speeches. Fewer had chosen to stay han he’d expected, and they had heard all Hederick’s harangues before. As darkness fell, they made some excuse to slip away, either going to their beds or gathering by the firelight to play black dots—a gambling game in which white tiles marked with black dots are arranged in various number patterns. Since the High Theocrat had laid down a strict injunction against wagering, the men thought it best to keep their game secret. Hederick found himself alone without an audience. The night was quiet, unbelievably quiet. He was accustomed to the noise and bustle of the campsite, accustomed to walking around the camp being important. All that was gone now. Though he had taken care not to show it, he was irate that so few people had trusted him enough to stay, choosing instead to go off into the unknown with a crude, uneducated savage. Hederick told himself they would be sorry.

Now that he was alone with time to think, he was the one who was sorry. He sat in the darkness and wondered uneasily what would happen to him if that silly barmaid should turn out to be right.

Chapter 17 No shadows. Too Many shadows. A Dwarf’s Dreams.

The same sunshine that warmed the hearts and spirits of the refugees shone in the sky above Caramon, Raistlin, Sturm, and Tas. The sun brought no warmth or cheer to any of these four, however. They walked a land barren and wasted, a devastated land, bleak, empty, and desolate. They walked the Plains of Dergoth. They had all thought nothing could be worse than wading through the swamp surrounding Skullcap. The water stank of rot and decay. They had no idea what sort of creatures could live beneath the slime-covered water, but something did. They could tell by the ripples on the surface, or sudden dartings around their feet, that they had disturbed some species of swampy denizen. They had to keep close together or lose sight of each other in the thick mists. They were forced to move slowly, with a shuffling gait, to avoid snags and dead branches hidden beneath the water.

Fortunately, the swamp was not large, and they soon left it, emerging from the murk onto ground that was dry, flat, and hard. The mists grasped at them with wispy fingers, but a cold wind soon blew them apart. They could see the sun again, and they thought well of themselves, believing they’d survived the worst. Sturm pointed to a distant mountain range.

“Beneath that peak known as Cloudseeker lies Thorbardin,” Prince Grallen told them, and Raistlin cast Caramon a triumphant look.

After a short rest, they continued on, entering the Plains of Dergoth. Soon each one of them began to wish he was somewhere else, even back in the foul miasma they had just left. At least the swamp was alive. The life within was green and slimy, scaly and sinuous, creepy and slithering, but it was life.

Death ruled the Plains of Dergoth. Nothing lived here anymore. Once there had been grasslands and forest, populated by birds and animals. Three hundred years ago, this had been a battlefield, with dwarf battling dwarf in bitter contest. The field had been soaked in blood, the deer slaughtered, the birds fled. The grass was trampled and trees cut down to make funeral biers on which to burn the corpses. Still, life remained. The trees would have grown back. The grass would have flourished, the birds and animals returned.

Then came the horrific blast that brought down a mighty fortress and killed all those on both sides. The blast destroyed all living things, tearing life apart with such fury that no little bit of it survived. No trees, no grass, no beasts, no bugs. No lichen, no moss. Nothing but death. Grotesque piles of twisted, blackened, melted armor and mounds of ash littered the fire-swept ground—all that was left of two great armies whose struggles had ended in a single terrible moment, as the fire devoured their flesh, boiled their blood, and consumed them utterly. The Plains of Dergoth, standing between Skullcap and Thorbardin, were plains of despair. The sun shone in the blue sky, but its light was cold, like the light of the faraway stars, and held no warmth for any of those forced to cross this dread place that was so horrible it even quenched the spirits of the kender.

Tasslehoff was marching along, staring down at his ash-covered boots, for staring at his boots was better than looking ahead and seeing nothing except nothing, when he noticed something odd. He looked up at the sky and back down at the ground and then said in a tense voice, “Caramon, I’ve lost my shadow.”

Caramon heard the kender, but he pretended he hadn’t. He had enough to do worrying about his brother. Raistlin was having a difficult time of it. Whatever strange energy had sustained and strengthened him on the trip to Skullcap appeared to have deserted him at their departure. The trip through the swamp had left him exhausted. He walked slowly, leaning on his staff, every step seeming to cost him an effort.

He refused to stop to rest, however. He insisted that they continue their journey, pointing out that Prince Grallen would not allow them to stop, which was probably true. Caramon was constantly having to reign in Sturm, who marched along at a rapid pace, his gaze fixed on the mountains, or he would have left the slow-moving mage far behind.

“Look, Caramon, you’ve lost yours, too,” said Tas, relieved. “I don’t feel so bad.”

“Lost what?” Caramon asked, only half-listening.

“Your shadow,” Tas said, pointing.

“It is probably near noon time,” returned Caramon wearily. “You can’t see your shadow when the sun’s directly over head.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Tas, “but look at the sun. It’s almost on the horizon. Only a couple of hours ’til dark. Nope.” He sighed. “Our shadows are gone.” Caramon, feeling silly, actually turned to look for his shadow. Tas was right. The sun was before him, but no shadow stretched out behind him. He could not even see his footprints, which should have shown up clearly in the fine, gray ash. He had the terrible feeling suddenly that he’d ceased to exist.

“We walk a land of death. The living do not belong here,” Raistlin said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We cast no shadows. We leave no marks.”

Caramon shuddered. “I hate this place.”

He balefully eyed Sturm, who had stopped to wait for them and was tapping his foot impatiently.

“Raist, what if that accursed helm he’s wearing is leading us into a death trap? Maybe we should turn back.”

Raistlin thought longingly of returning to Skullcap. He could not account for it, but while he’d been there he’d felt strong and healthy, almost whole again. Out here, he had to force himself to take each step, when what he longed to do was to drop down to the ash-gray ground and sleep in the dust of the dead. He coughed, shook his head, and made a feeble gesture toward the knight. Caramon understood. Sturm, under the influence of the helm, was bound to go to Thorbardin. If they turned back, he would go on without them.

Raistlin plucked at Caramon’s sleeve.

“We must keep moving!” he gasped. “We must not find ourselves benighted in this terrible place!”

“Amen to that, brother!” said Caramon feelingly. He placed his strong arm supportively under his twin’s arm, aiding his faltering footsteps, and caught up with Sturm.

“I hope I get my shadow back,” said Tasslehoff, trailing behind. “I was fond of it. It used to go everywhere with me.”

They slogged on.

Tanis could see his shadow lengthening, sliding across the trail. Only a few hours of daylight left. They had descended the mountain, moving rapidly on the old dwarven road that led down among the pine trees. A few more miles and they would reach the forest. A bed of pine needles sounded very good after the uncomfortable and cheerless nights on the mountain, with rock for a mattress and a boulder for a pillow.

“I smell smoke,” said Flint, coming to a sudden halt.

Tanis sniffed the air. He, too, smelled smoke. He had not noticed it particularly. Back in camp, the smell of smoke from the cook fires had been pervasive. He was tired from walking all day and didn’t fully appreciate what this might mean. When he did, he lifted his head and searched the sky.

“There it is,” he said, spotting a few tendrils of black drifting up out of the pine trees not far from them. He eyed the smoke. “Maybe it’s a forest fire.”

Flint shook his head. “It smells like burnt meat.”

He scowled and cast the smoke a gloom-ridden glance from beneath his heavy brows. “Naw, it’s no forest fire.” He jabbed the pick-axe into the ground and stated dourly, “It’s gully dwarf. That’s the village I was telling you about.” He glanced about. “I should have recognized where we were, but I’ve not come at it from this direction before.”

“I’ve been wondering, is this the village where you were held prisoner?” Flint gave an explosive snort. His face went very red. “As if I would go near that place in a hundred thousand years!”

“No, of course not,” said Tanis, hiding his smile. He changed the subject. “We’ve always encountered gully dwarves in cities before. Seems strange to find them living out here in the wilds.”

“They’re waiting for the gates to open,” said Flint.

Tanis stared at the dwarf in perplexity. “How long have they been here?”

“Three hundred years.” Flint waved his hand. “You’ll find nests of them all over these parts. The day the gates closed, shutting them out, the gully dwarfs squatted in front of the mountain and waited, certain the gate would open again. They’re still waiting.”

“At least this proves gully dwarves are optimists,” Tanis remarked. He turned from the road onto a trail that veered off in the direction of the smoke.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Flint demanded, standing stock still.

“To talk to them,” Tanis replied.

Flint grunted. “The kender’s not about, so you’re missing your daily dose of foolishness for the week.”

“Gully dwarves have a knack for locating that which is hidden,” Tanis returned. “As we saw in Xak Tsaroth, they worm their way into secret passages and tunnels. Who knows? They may have discovered some way inside the mountain.”

“If so, why are they living outside it?” Flint asked, but he trudged along after his friend.

“Maybe they don’t know what they’ve found.”

Flint shook his head. “Even if they have found the way into Thorbardin, you’ll never make sense of what they tell you, and don’t let the wretches talk you into staying for supper.” He wrinkled his nose. “Phew! What a stink! Not even roast rat smells as bad as this!” The smoke was thick here and the stench particularly foul. If it was a cook fire, Tanis couldn’t imagine what it was the gully dwarves were cooking.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and covered his nose and mouth with his hand, trying to breathe as little as possible.

The trail brought them to a break in the trees. Here Flint and Tanis stopped abruptly, gazing in grim silence at the terrible scene. Every building had been set ablaze, every gully dwarf slaughtered, their bodies burned. All that was left were charred skeletons and smoldering lumps of blackened flesh.

“Not roasted rat,” said Flint gruffly. “Roasted gully dwarf.” Tying rags over their noses and mouths, their eyes stinging from the smoke, Tanis and Flint walked through the destroyed village, searching for any who might still be alive. Their search proved hopeless. Whoever had done this had struck swiftly and ruthlessly. Gully dwarves—noted cowards—had been caught flat-footed apparently, without any time to flee. They had been cut down where they stood. Some of the bodies had gaping holes in them; some were hacked to pieces. Others had half-burned arrow shafts sticking out from between their ribs. Some bore no wounds at all, but were dead just the same. “Foul magic was at work here,” said Tanis grimly. “That’s not all that was at work.”

Flint reached down and gingerly picked up the hilt of a broken sword lying beside the body of gully dwarf who had been wearing an overturned soup kettle on his head. The improvised helm had saved his life for a short while perhaps, long enough for him to have made it to the very edge of camp before his attacker caught him and made him pay for breaking the sword. The gully dwarf, the kettle still on his head, lay in a twisted heap, his neck broken. “Draconian,” said Flint, eyeing the sword.

Though he had only half of it, he could easily identify the strange, serrated blades used by the servants of the Queen of Darkness. “So they’re on this side of the mountain,” said Tanis grimly.

“Maybe they’re out there watching us right now,” said Flint and he dropped the broken sword and drew his battle axe.

Tanis drew his sword from its sheathe, and both of them stared hard into the shadows. The sun’s last rays were sinking behind the mountains. Already it was dark beneath the pine trees. The shadows of coming night mingled with the smoke, made seeing anything difficult.

“There’s nothing more we can do for these poor wretches,” said Tanis. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Agreed,” said Flint, but then both froze. “Did you hear that?” Tanis asked softly. He could barely see Flint in the gloom.

The dwarf moved closer, put his back to Tanis’s back, and whispered, “Sounds like armor rattling, something big sneaking through the trees.”

Tanis recalled the enormous draconians with their large wing span, their heavy limbs encased in plate armor and chain mail. He could picture the monsters trying to slink through the pines, rustling the undergrowth, stepping on dry leaves and breaking branches—exactly the sounds they were hearing. Suddenly the noise ceased.

“They’ve seen us!” Flint hissed.

Feeling vulnerable and exposed out in the open, Tanis was tempted to tell Flint to make a run for the trees. He restrained himself. With the dusk and the smoke, whatever was out there might have heard them, but not yet seen them. If they ran, they would draw attention to themselves, give away their location.

“Don’t move,” Tanis cautioned. “Wait!”

The enemy in the forest had the same idea apparently. They heard no more sounds of movement, but they knew it was still out there, also waiting.

“Bugger this!” muttered Flint. “We can’t stand here all night.” Before Tanis could stop him, the dwarf raised his voice. “Lizard-slime! Quit skulking about and come out and fight!” They heard a yelp, quickly stifled. Then a voice said cautiously, “Flint? Is that you?” Flint lowered his sword. “Caramon?” he called out.

“And me, Flint!” cried a voice. “Tasslehoff!”

Flint groaned and shook his head.

There was a great crashing noise in the forest. Torches flared and Caramon emerged from the trees, half-carrying Raistlin, who could barely walk. Tasslehoff came running toward them, leading Sturm by the hand, tugging him along.

“Wait until you see who I found!” Tas cried.

Tanis and Flint stared at the knight, wearing the strange helm that was much too big for him. Tanis walked over to embrace Sturm. The knight drew back, bowed, then stood aloof. His gaze fixed on Flint, and it was not friendly “He doesn’t know you, Tanis,” said Tasslehoff, barely able to contain his excitement. “He doesn’t know any of us!”

“He didn’t get hit on the head again, did he?” Tanis asked, turning to Caramon.

“Naw. He’s enchanted.”

Tanis glanced at Raistlin.

“Not me,” said the mage, sinking down wearily onto a tree stump that had escaped the fire. “It was the knight’s own doing.”

“It’s a long story, Tanis. What happened here?” Caramon asked, looking grimly at the destruction of the village.

“Draconians,” said Tanis. “The monsters have crossed the mountain apparently.”

“Yeah, we ran into some draconians ourselves,” said Caramon. “Back in Skullcap. Do you think they’re still around?”

“We haven’t seen any. So you managed to reach the fortress?” Tanis asked.

“Yeah, and are we ever glad to be out of that horrible place and off those accursed plains.” He gave a jerk of his head in the direction from which they’d come.

“How did you find us?”

Raistlin coughed and glanced at his brother. Caramon’s face flushed red. He shuffled his big feet.

“He thought he smelled food,” Raistlin said caustically.

Caramon gave a sheepish grin and shrugged.

Flint, meanwhile, had been staring at Sturm and at Tasslehoff, who was wriggling with suppressed delight. “What’s wrong with Sturm?” Flint asked. “Why is he glaring at me like that? Where’d he get that helm? And why’s he wearing it? It doesn’t fit him. The helm is—” Flint drew closer, squinting to see the helm in the twilight—“it’s dwarven!”

“He’s not Sturm!” Tasslehoff burst out. “He’s Prince Grallen from under the mountain! Isn’t it wonderful, Flint? Sturm thinks he’s a dwarf. Just ask him!”

Flint’s mouth gaped. Then his jaw shut with a snap. “I don’t believe it.” He walked up to the knight. “Here now, Sturm. I won’t be made sport of—”

Sturm clapped his hand to the hilt of his sword. His blue eyes, beneath the helm, were cold and hard. He said something in dwarven, stumbling over the words, as though his tongue had trouble forming them, but there was no mistaking the language.

Flint stood staring, dumbfounded.

“What’d he say?” Tas asked.

“‘Keep your distance, hill dwarf scum,’” Flint translated, “or words to that effect.” The dwarf glowered around at Caramon and particularly Raistlin. “Someone had better tell me what’s going on!”

“It was the knight’s own fault,” Raistlin repeated, giving Flint a cold look. “I had nothing to do with it. I warned him the helm was magical, and he should leave it alone. He refused to listen. He put the helm on, and this is the result. He believes he is Prince Grallen, whoever that is.”

“A prince of Thorbardin,” said Flint. “One of the three sons of King Duncan. Grallen lived over three hundred years ago.” Not entirely trusting Raistlin, he drew near to inspect the helm.

“Truly it is a helm fit for royalty,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen the like!” He reached out his hand. “If I could just—”

Sturm drew his sword and held it to Flint’s breast.

“Do not go nearer!” Raistlin cautioned. “You must understand, Flint. You are a hill dwarf. Prince Grallen takes you for the enemy he died fighting.”

“Understand!” Flint repeated angrily. Keeping a wary eye on Sturm, he raised his hands and backed away. “I don’t understand any of this.” He glowered at Raistlin. “I agree with Tanis. This smacks of mage-work!”

“So it is,” said Raistlin coolly, “but not mine.”

He explained that he had come across the helm quite by accident and how Sturm had seen him holding it and become enamored of it.

“The helm’s enchantment was undoubtedly searching for a warrior, and when Sturm picked it up, the spell took hold of him. The magic is not evil. It will do him no harm, beyond borrowing his body for a short time. When we reach Thorbardin, the prince’s soul will be home. The magic will probably release the knight, and he will go back to being the same grim and dour Sturm Brightblade we have always known.”

Tanis looked back at Sturm, who still had his sword drawn, still keeping a baleful eye on Flint.

“You say the magic will ‘probably’ release him,” he said to Raistlin.

“I did not cast the spell, Tanis. I have no way of knowing for certain.” He coughed again, paused, then said, “Perhaps you don’t understand the significance of this. Prince Grallen knows where to find the gates of Thorbardin.”

“Great Reorx’s beard!” Flint exclaimed. “The mage is right!”

“I told you the key to Thorbardin lay in Skullcap.”

“I never doubted you,” said Tanis, “though I have to admit I was thinking more along the lines of a map.” He scratched his beard. “The problem as I see it is how we keep the prince from killing Flint before we get there.”

“The prince thinks we’re mercenaries. We could tell the prince that Flint is our prisoner,” Caramon suggested.

“You will do no such thing!” Flint roared.

“What about an emissary coming to talk peace terms?” Raistlin said. Tanis looked at Flint, who felt called upon to argue, saying that no one in his right mind would believe it. At last, however, he gave a grudging nod. “Tell him I’m a prince too, a prince of the Neidar.”

Tanis hid a smile and went to explain matters to Prince Grallen, who apparently found this acceptable, for Sturm slid his sword back into its sheathe and gave Flint a stiff bow.

“Now that that’s settled,” said Caramon, “do you two have anything to eat? We ran out of everything we brought.”

“I don’t see how you can be hungry,” said Raistlin. He pressed his sleeve over his nose and mouth. “The stench is appalling! We should at least move up wind.” Tanis looked again around the ruined village, the pathetic, crumpled, and smoldering little bodies. “Why would draconians do this? Why go to the trouble to slaughter gully dwarves?”

“To silence them, of course,” said Raistlin. “They stumbled across something they should not have—some secret of the draconians or some secret the draconians were charged with protecting. Thus they had to die.”

“I wonder what that secret is,” Tanis mused, troubled.

“I doubt we will ever know,” Raistlin said, shrugging.

They left the village, returning to the road that led up the mountain to Thorbardin.

“I spoke a prayer over the poor gully dwarves,” said Tasslehoff solemnly, coming up to walk beside Tanis. “A prayer Elistan taught me. I commenced their souls to Paladine.”

“Commended,” Tanis corrected. “Commended their souls.”

“That too,” said Tas, sighing.

“It was good of you to think of that,” said Tanis. “None of the rest of us did.”

“You’re busy thinking big things,” said Tas. “I keep track of the small stuff.”

“By the way,” said Tanis, a sudden thought striking him, “I left you back in camp! How did you come to be with Raistlin, Sturm and Caramon? I thought I told you to keep watch over Tika.”

“Oh, I did!” said Tas. “Wait until you hear!”

He launched into the tale, to which Tanis listened with increasing grimness.

“Where’s Tika? Why isn’t she with you?”

“She went back to warn Riverwind,” said Tasslehoff cheerfully.

“Alone?” Tanis turned to look at Caramon, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his big body behind that of his twin.

“She sneaked off in the night, Tanis,” Caramon said defensively. “Didn’t she, Raist? We didn’t know she left.”

“You could have gone after her,” Tanis said sternly.

“Yes, we could have,” said Raistlin smoothly, “and then where would you be, Half-Elven? Wandering about the mountain searching for the way inside Thorbardin. Tika was in no danger. The route we traveled was one known only to us.”

“I hope so,” said Tanis grimly.

He walked on ahead, biting back the angry words that would have done no good. He had known Raistlin and Caramon for many years, and he knew the twins had a bond that could not be broken. An unhealthy bond, or so he had always considered it, but it was not his place to say anything. He had been hoping that the romance blossoming between Tika and Caramon would give the big man strength enough to break free of his brother’s death grip. Apparently not. Tanis had no idea of what had happened back in Skullcap, but he guessed from the unhappy look Caramon had given his twin that Tika had tried to persuade Caramon to go with her and Raistlin had prevented it.

“If anything happens to her, I will take it out of Raistlin’s hide,” Tanis muttered to himself. At least Tika’d had sense enough to carry the warning to Riverwind. He hoped she had reached the refugees in time and that they would heed the warning and escape. He could not go back there now, much as he would have liked to. His mission to Thorbardin had just become eight hundred times more urgent.

Flint marched along at the rear, following after Sturm, unable to take his eyes from the knight and the marvelous helm he wore—or rather, according to Raistlin, the helm that wore him. The dwarf did not trust magic of any kind, especially magic that had anything to do with Raistlin, and no one would ever persuade him that this was not somehow Raistlin’s doing.

Flint was forced to admit that something had happened to change Sturm. The knight could speak a few words of dwarven learned from Flint over time but not many. He certainly could not speak the language of Thorbardin, that was slightly different from the language of the hill dwarves. After they made camp, Tanis asked the prince to describe the route to Thorbardin. Prince Grallen readily did so, speaking of a ridge line they would follow up the mountain. He told them how far they would travel and how to locate the secret gate, though he would not tell them what to do to open it when they found it.

Tanis looked to Flint for verification. Flint did not know specifically which ridge the prince meant, but it did sound plausible, though he didn’t say as much.

All the dwarf would say, grumbling, was that he supposed they’d find out the truth of the matter tomorrow and he wished Tanis would let them get some rest.

As Flint lay down, he looked into the sky, searching the heavens until he found the red star that was the fire of Reorx, Forger of the World.

Flint found he liked the idea of being an emissary. He had protested, of course, when Raistlin first proposed it, simply because it was Raistlin, but the dwarf had not protested too strongly. He’d given in without much of a fuss.

The thought came to him: What if I am truly an emissary? What if I am the dwarf to bring the warring clans together at last?

He lay awake a long time, watching the sparks fly across the sky as the god went about his eternal task of forging creation, and he saw himself as one of those sparks, only his light would shine forever.

Chapter 18 Leaving the valley. Treacherous Trail. The Keystone.

The first day’s travel for the refugees had been relatively easy.

They had not gone far on the second day before traveling grew more difficult. The trail wended its way upward, and as it did so, it grew steeper, more narrow, until at last it devolved into a ribbon-thin path with sheer wall on one side and a terrifying drop of hundreds of feet onto the rocks on the other. Beyond lay the pass. They were almost there, but they had to cross this first. They would have to walk this perilous part of the trail single-file, and Riverwind called a halt. Many were already terrified at just the sight of the precipice and the fall so close to their feet. Among these, as Tanis had foreseen, was Goldmoon.

She had been born and raised on the Plains of Dust, a flat and featureless land stretching endlessly for miles with nothing between her and the glorious sky. This world of mountains and valleys was new to Goldmoon and she had not grown used to it. Riverwind had been up and down the line, encouraging the others, when one of the Plainsmen came running for him.

“It is Goldmoon,” the man said. “You had better come.”

The Plainsman found his wife with her back pressed against the side of the cliff, her face deathly pale, trembling in terror. He approached her, and the hand that seized hold of him and gripped him like death was freezing cold.

She was at the head of the line. He had not forgotten her terror of high places, and he had tried to persuade to walk at the end, but she would have none of it. She was cured of that, she said, and she had walked forward confidently. She might have made it, for the distance was not far, but she committed the fatal error of looking down. She could see herself plunging through the air, landing on the rock-strewn ground, bones breaking, skull crushed, blood spattering the stones and pooling beneath her broken body.

“I am sorry, but I cannot do this, husband,” she said in a low voice. When he urged her gently forward, she went stiff. “Give me a few moments.”

“Goldmoon,” he said softly, looking back down the trail, where the line of refugees stood waiting. “Others are watching you, looking to you for courage.”

She stared at him pleadingly. “I want to go. I know I must go, but I can’t move!” She glanced over the edge at the sheer side of the cliff face, the rocks, trees, and the valley that seemed so far, far below her feet, and she shuddered and shut her eyes again.

“Don’t look down,” he counseled. “Look up. Look ahead. See that V-shape cut up there. That is the pass through the mountain. We have only to cross that and we are on the other side!” Goldmoon looked, shook her head and pressed her back against the wall.

“Have you prayed to the gods for courage?” Riverwind asked his wife. Goldmoon gave him a tremulous smile. “The courage of Mishakal is in my heart, husband, but it has yet to make its way to my feet.”

He loved her very much at that moment, and he kissed her cheek. She flung her arms around him, clasping him so tightly that she nearly cut off his breathing. He led her back off the trail onto solid ground and wondered what he was going to do.

There would be others like his wife who would find this trail difficult, if not impossible, to walk. He had to think how to help them.

He told the people to stop to rest while he considered this problem. As he was pondering, one of the advance scouts came hastening back down the trail. He motioned to Riverwind.

“We have found something strange,” the Plainsman reported. “Up ahead, at the opening to the pass, the dwarf’s pick-axe lies on the ground.”

“Perhaps it grew too heavy for him to carry,” he suggested.

The scout smiled and shook his head. “I have no great love for dwarves as you know, Chieftain, but I never yet met the dwarf who could not carry the weight of this mountain on his back, if he were so minded. It is not likely that he would leave behind a pick-axe.”

“Unless there was some good cause,” Riverwind said thoughtfully. “There is nothing else? Nothing to suggest he and Tanis were attacked or met with some other terrible fate?”

“If there had been fighting, we would see signs of a battle, but there is no blood on the stones, no gouges in the dirt, and no packs or other pieces of equipment left behind. To my mind, the pickaxe was left deliberately, as some sort of sign, but what it means, none of us can say.”

“Leave it where it is,” said Riverwind. “Let no man touch it. I’ll come look at it. Perhaps I can read this puzzle.”

The Plainsman nodded and returned to his fellows. The scout, whose name was Eagle Talon, walked the trail with the sure-footed ease of a mountain lion. Riverwind watched him go and eyed the trail ahead. It widened in some places, enough for two or even three people to walk abreast. He could post men like Eagle Talon, who had no problem with the heights, at each of those places, prepared to offer a strong arm and reassuring hand to those who made their way along the path.

Riverwind explained his plan, and called for volunteers, choosing men who were stout, sturdy, and had no fear of the dizzying heights, posting them at various points along the trail. He went to Goldmoon, told her what she should do, and indicated the first man, who stood on a ledge only a few feet away, his hand outstretched.

“You just have to cross a short distance on your own,” he said to her. “Don’t look down. Keep your back to the wall and look only at Nighthawk.”

Goldmoon gave a tremulous nod. She had to do this. Her husband was counting on her. She whispered the name of the goddess, then, shivering, she edged her way along the trail, moving her feet an inch at a time. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mouth was dry as stone. She made it and clasped Nighthawk’s hand with convulsive strength. He helped her sidle past him, holding onto her firmly and speaking to her encouragingly. The next man was farther away, but she looked back at Riverwind and smiled a triumphant, though shaky smile and crept on. Riverwind was proud of her. His plan seemed to be working, but it was slow going, so very slow. Some of the people would have no difficulty, of course. Maritta, coming after Goldmoon, traveled the trail with confidence, waving away Nighthawk’s helping hand. Others, like Goldmoon, hung on for dear life. Some could not stand but were forced to crawl along on their hands and knees.

At this rate, it would take all day or longer for the people to reach the pass. Leaving Elistan in charge, Riverwind went on ahead to see for himself the pick-axe the dwarf had unaccountably left behind.

Riverwind agreed with Eagle Talon. The axe had been left here deliberately. He wondered why. Not to mark the trail, which was obvious at this point. He noticed the striped rock, different from the others around it, and he saw how the point of the axe rested on the rock. Not just on the rock, he realized, squatting down to look at it more closely. The point was actually wedged in gently beneath the rock.

He stood up, arms folded across his chest, looking intently all around, up and down the mountainside. His scouts had traversed the cut and returned to say that it did indeed cross the mountain. They had found Tanis’s markers on the other side.

What, then, did this sign mean? That it was important, he had no doubt.

At least, he thought, watching the slow progress of the refugees up the trail, I have time to figure it out.

He was not to have as much time as he thought.

Late in the afternoon, when the sun began to sink, blanketing the trail in shadow, Riverwind called a halt to the ascent. He was pleased with the progress they had made. Only about a hundred more people had yet to make the treacherous walk up the trail to the pass. They had not lost a single person, though there had been heart-stopping moments as feet slipped and hands lost their grip. Or when a boy froze on the trail, unable to move, and one of the men had to edge his way down to rescue him.

Those who had crossed were now preparing to spend the night in the pass, relieved that this part of the trip was over and speaking hopefully that the worst was behind them. Riverwind’s scouts reported that they had found what appeared to be an ancient dwarven road. The going would be easier from now on.

Riverwind calculated that they would be through the pass by midmorning. Some of those who had not yet dared the trail would require more time, for among them were several who had not found the courage to even make the attempt. They had taken some comfort in the fact that their fellows had managed to cross without incident and told Riverwind they thought they could do so themselves after a night’s rest. Everyone was in good spirits, preparing to make camp for the night. Laurana and Elistan had both offered to remain with this group and Riverwind left them, confident that the people were in good hands.

The evening was cold, and camping among the rocks was far from comfortable. Riverwind discouraged the refugees from building fires. Light on the mountain would show up like a beacon in the darkness. The people wrapped themselves in cloaks and blankets and huddled together for warmth, wedging themselves in among the rocks and boulders as best they could, prepared to spend an uncomfortable and cheerless night. Riverwind walked the rounds, spoke with those on guard duty, made certain they were awake and alert. All the while, he kept wondering about the pick-axe.

The last thing he did, before going to bed, was to stand over the pick-axe, pondering it by the cold light of the stars, wondering what it meant.

Riverwind was wakened by a frightened cry from his wife. He woke to find Goldmoon clutching him by the shoulder.

“Something is out there!”

He felt it too, and so did many others, for he heard people crying out and stirring restlessly around him. Riverwind was on his feet, when one of the guards came running.

“Dragons!” he said softly, urgently, keeping his voice down. “Flying over the mountains!”

“What is it?” people asked fearfully, as Riverwind accompanied the guard out of the pass and into an open area where he could see. He looked to the north. A shudder went through him. Dark wings obliterated the stars. Dragons at the far end of the valley. They flew slowly, their wings making wide, sweeping motions, as though the beasts carried a burden and were struggling to remain airborne. Riverwind was reminded of the struggles made by a hawk trying to carry off a prairie rabbit.

Dragonfear crept over him, but he recognized it now and refused to give in to it. He was about to summon his warriors when he heard footfalls, and turning, he found his people gathered around him, silent and expectant, awaiting his orders.

“This is the attack on our camp Tika warned us about,” he said, marveling at his own calm. “I do not think the dragons know we have left. Tell the people they must remain quiet, and they must keep hidden! Their lives depend on it. A baby’s wail could give us away.” Goldmoon hastened away, in company with some of the other Plainsmen, and began explaining the danger.

Here and there, a child whimpered, there were moans and stifled cries as the dragonfear spread, but Goldmoon and others were on hand to provide comfort with prayers to the gods. Soon silence, like a heavy, smothering blanket, settled over the camp. People crouched among the rocks and boulders in the shadow of the pass and clasped their children to their hearts, waiting. The dragons reached a point in the sky above the burned-out grove. Lunitari was half-full this night, and her light shone on red scales and on a helmed figure riding the lead dragon. Riverwind recognized the horned helm of Lord Verminaard. Behind him flew four more red dragons. As Riverwind watched, the flight of the dragons slowed. They began to perform slow and laborious turns in mid-air, their flight now taking them over the caves where the refugees had made their home.

These were not the graceful, wheeling red dragons Riverwind had seen battling in the skies over Pax Tharkas. These dragons flew ponderously, and he once again had the impression they carried a heavy load.

Gilthanas appeared at his elbow.

“What of Laurana and the people on the other side of the trail?” he asked. Riverwind had been thinking of Hederick and those who had remained behind, and he could only shake his head, meaning that for them there was no hope. Then he realized this was not what Gilthanas meant. He meant those who had not yet ventured along the trail. They were camped out in the open, exposed on the side of the mountain with no shelter, nowhere to conceal themselves.

“We have to get them across,” Gilthanas urged.

“In the darkness? It’s too risky.” Riverwind shook his head. “We must hope the dragons will be content to attack the caves and not think to come this way.”

He braced himself, prepared to watch the dragons breathe fire on the caves, but that did not happen. Instead, the dragons continued to circle the valley, flying lower and lower, spiraling down in formation. The dragon bearing Verminaard remained hovering overhead, watching from above. Riverwind was puzzled by this, and then he saw something even more puzzling. Bundles were falling off the backs of the dragons; at least, that’s how it appeared. Riverwind could not imagine what the dragons were dropping and then he sucked in his breath in horror. These were not bundles. They were draconians and they were leaping off the dragons’ backs! He could see the monster’s wings spread as they jumped, see the moonlight glint on their scaly hides and gleam off the tips of their swords.

The draconians’ wings slowed their descent, giving them the ability to glide to a landing once they reached the ground. The draconians were not adept at dragon-jumping, or so it appeared. Some fell headlong into the thick stands of trees and many plunged, kicking and flailing, into the stream. Howls of rage split the frosty air. He could hear orders being shouted by those on the ground, as officers tried to sort through the confusion, find their men, and form them into ranks. That would happen soon enough. The draconians would march up to the caves and find their prey was gone. They would come searching for them.

“You’re right,” he said to Gilthanas. “We must get the others across.” He shook his head softly.

“The gods help us!”

Walking the steep and narrow path had been difficult and frightening by day. Now he was going to ask these people to walk it by night, and they must do so in the darkness. And in silence. Riverwind made his way back across the treacherous trail and found Elistan and Laurana waiting for him.

Elistan forestalled him. “We have already roused everyone and they are ready.”

“Poor Hederick,” Laurana said quietly, watching the draconians start to swarm into the hills. Riverwind found it difficult to dredge up any pity for that man or those deluded enough to trust him. Nor did he have time to waste thinking about him. He looked at the assembled group. Their pale faces glimmered white in the darkness, but all were quiet, prepared. Riverwind hated to do what he had to do next, but there was no choice.

“We must bind cloths around their mouths.”

Elistan and Laurana both stared at him, perhaps wondering if he’d gone mad.

“I don’t understand—” Laurana began.

“Silence is our only hope of escaping,” Riverwind explained. “If someone should fall, the draconians might hear his screams.”

Laurana blanched, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Of course,” Elistan said quietly, and hurried off.

“Are you all right?” he asked Laurana.

“Yes,” she managed faintly.

“Good.” Riverwind was brisk, matter-of-fact. “We have to get them started now. No time to waste. The draconians will attack the caves, but it won’t take them long to figure out we’re gone. Then they’ll come looking for us.”

“Will we be safe in the pass?” Laurana asked.

“I hope so,” Riverwind replied, trying to reassure himself as much as her. “We did not know the pass was there, and we have lived here for months. With luck and help from the gods, the draconians will not find us. If they do, we can defend ourselves against attack.” He stopped talking, sucked in a breath. He saw in dazzling brilliance, as though lightning had streaked across his mind, the pick-axe lying beneath the striped rock that did not belong there.

“Make haste!” he told Laurana. “Keep them moving. Don’t let anyone stop.” He turned away, then turned back. “If anyone balks, he must remain behind. We don’t have time to mollycoddle people. Keep everyone moving!”

He made his own way back across the treacherous trail, thinking, as he did so, that it was actually easier to cross in the darkness. He couldn’t see how far he had to fall or the sharp rocks waiting to break his body. The men who had done this same task today took up their places again, standing at intervals, ready to assist those who were already beginning to cross. Elistan remained at the start, saying reassuring words and giving Paladine’s blessing to all. Gags bound around their mouths, the people began to edge their way along the path.

Riverwind paused to glance back in the direction of the camp. Some of the draconians were now running toward the caves. Once they reached the living area, they would be thrown into confusion when they found their victims were gone. They would think the people had retreated deeper into the caves, and they would search the tunnels and passages. Eventually, the draconians would realize the truth. The caves had been abandoned. Verminaard knew the refugees could not go north. The most logical route lay to the south. That’s where he would look first.

Riverwind glanced to the east, wondering how many hours they had until daylight. He did not think he had many…

“Come with me,” he said to his warriors. “You won’t need your weapons. You need pick-axes! And bring me some of the men who worked in the mines!”

The first wave of draconians broke on the cliffs where the refugees had once dwelt. Howls meant to strike fear into the hearts of their victims changed to curses as they entered cave after cave and found crude furniture, toys, and clothes, and stores of food and water the refugees had been forced to leave behind.

Riverwind took the miners to where Flint had left the pick-axe. He showed them the axe and the striped rock, explaining to them what he thought the dwarf was trying to tell them. The miners examined the area as best they could by moonlight and starlight, agreeing that this rock was a keystone. But whether it would work or not, they could not say.

The crossing proceeded, though with agonizing slowness. Riverwind kept watch on the sky. There was as yet no light visible, but the stars were starting to fade.

The last few people were creeping across. One, a young woman, staggered and fell to the ground. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she was shaking, but she had not made a sound. Goldmoon took hold of her and led her away.

Laurana came next to last. Gilthanas, one of those doing duty on the cliff face, spoke to her in elven as he helped her across. She clasped his hand and kissed him.

Elistan came across last. He carried a child on his back, the little boy’s hands clasped around his neck. The cleric’s steps were firm. He did not falter. The little boy’s mother, waiting on the other side, hid her face in her hands, unable to watch.

“That was fun, Elistan,” said the little boy, pulling the gag off his mouth when they reached safety. “Can we do it again?”

People laughed, though their laughter was shaky. The men left the trail, and everyone started to move into the pass.

Back in the camp, the draconians emerged from the caves. The sky was light enough now that Riverwind could easily see what was transpiring. Verminaard’s dragon landed on the ground. Draconians swarmed around the Highlord. He leaned over the neck, conferring with his officers. At his command, the other three red dragons flew across the valley. One headed east. One flew west.

One flew south, straight toward them.

The dragon was not looking in their direction, however. The beast stared down below, searching the floor of the valley.

“Quickly, quickly!” Riverwind urged in soft tones, herding the people as he had once herded his sheep. “Take shelter in the pass. Move as far back as you can.”

The people hurried. There was no panic, and Riverwind was just thinking they might actually succeed in escaping, when a cry pierced the air, “Wait! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!” The dragon heard the voice. The beast lifted its head, shifted its gaze.

Cursing, Riverwind turned around.

Hederick was running along the trail, his flabby gut bobbing up and down as he ran, his face blotchy, his mouth gaping wide. His cronies trailed behind him, pushing and shoving each other in their panicked haste.

Hederick came to the precipice. He looked at Riverwind, looked down, and his face paled.

“I can’t cross that!”

“The rest of us did,” said Riverwind coldly, and he pointed at the dragon, who had changed direction and was now flying toward them.

Hederick’s friends shoved him aside, stepped onto the trail, and hurried across. Hederick, quivering in fear, crept along after them.

He made it safely, and once on the other side, he came storming up to Riverwind, about to launch into demands. Riverwind seized hold of the man and gave him a shove into the arms of several Plainsmen, who caught hold of the High Theocrat and hustled him off into the pass. The dragon lifted its head and gave a great bellow.

Riverwind ran for the place where the dwarf had left the pick-axe. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the dragon’s call had alerted Lord Verminaard. His dragon leapt off the ground and took to the skies. The draconians were starting to run in this direction as well. They could move faster over the ground than humans, for they used their wings to aid them. Hopping and leaping, they flowed over the trail like a scaly river.

Verminaard’s dragon bore him swiftly toward the pass. The draconians were closing on the pass much faster than Riverwind could have believed possible.

Riverwind seized hold of the pick-axe. He looked to see that the last few stragglers were safely inside the pass.

“Paladine, be with us!” Riverwind prayed then, in a nod to Flint, he added, “Reorx, guide my hand.”

Riverwind struck the striped rock with the pick-axe, hitting it at the place where the point had rested. The rock went bounding down the mountainside, and Riverwind scrambled backward. At first, nothing happened, and his heart sank. He looked to see the dragon swooping toward them. Verminaard had his hand outstretched, pointing at the pass, guiding the beast. Then the earth shuddered. There was a rending, grinding sound and it seemed to Riverwind’s astonished gaze as if the side of the mountain was on the move, rushing down on top of him. He turned and ran for the safety of the pass. Boulders bounded off other boulders and went sailing over his head. With a sound like rumbling thunder, the rock slide cascaded down the mountain side, taking with it the trail the refugees had just walked. The opening to the pass began to fill with chunks of stone.

Riverwind flattened himself on the ground, his arms protecting his head. He could not see the dragon, but he could hear its frustrated roars. The rock slide continued for several more moments, then ended in sudden silence, broken only by a few rocks shifting or settling into place.

Riverwind cautiously raised up to look. The face of the landscape had changed. The entrance to the pass was choked with enormous boulders. He heard the dragon’s wings flapping on the other side of the newly made stone wall. The dragon could not land. The rock slide had taken what level ground there was down the mountainside. He heard sounds as though the beast was making some attempt to claw its way through the debris into the pass. This must have proven ineffectual, for the dragon soon ceased its efforts.

Riverwind looked skyward. Snow capped peaks soared high above him on either side. He wondered fearfully if the dragon would attempt to fly over the pass. The cleft in the mountain was steep and narrow; he doubted if the dragon would be able to fit inside. It would certainly risk injury to its wings. The dragon might still be able to deal destruction from far above. Riverwind waited tensely for the shadow of the massive red body and wings to blot out the dawn, but the dragon did not appear. Riverwind realized it had flown off only when he no longer felt the dragonfear. For the moment, they were safe.

For the moment.

Riverwind wended his way among the rocks to join the others. They were hugging each other and laughing, weeping and praying in thankfulness. Riverwind could not join in their celebration. He knew full well why Verminaard had not attacked. There was no need to risk his dragon in the pass when all he had to do was wait for them to come out the other side. As Tika had told them, there were draconians on the opposite side of the mountain. The refugees could not stay holed up in this pass forever. They must eventually come out, and the Highlord’s forces would undoubtedly be waiting for them.

Their one hope was that Tanis, Flint, and the others could find the Gates to Thorbardin. Otherwise, the refugees would be at a literal dead end.