“Your oath to kill me … if you could.” Kistilan nodded. “But you gave another oath, Megistal. To hold all else in abeyance until the mountain tower is complete.”
“There will be no tower.” Megistal shook his head. “The dwarves have seen to that. Now you must pay for what you did.”
“What I did?” Kistilan laughed harshly. “The Scions gave me my powers, Lunitarian, just as they gave you yours. I am favored of the Scions.”
“You were,” Megistal admitted. “And of all who learned at their feet, you were the first to betray them. You turned their gifts against them.”
“They refused to give me more!”
“They gave you all they could. Like the rest of us … the favored ones … it was up to you to go beyond, if you desired.”
“I did!” Kistilan snapped. “What they wouldn’t give, I took.”
“And the Scions are gone from Krynn now. And I have sworn, in the names of our mentors, that you will die.”
“You haven’t the power that I have!” Kistilan shouted, flinging a spell at the buckskin- and fur-clad man. Brilliant lightnings writhed like serpents around Megistal, twining and striking at him, then diminished. The red-moon sorcerer stood unscathed, smiling faintly. With a hiss of rage, Kistilan drew darknesses around himself like a second cloak, and unleashed them furiously, muttering spell after spell.
Megistal was swallowed up in seething, swirling darkness, where dull red, angry glows danced crazy patterns. Twin vortices of blackness seemed to descend from the skies above and swell from the earth below to envelope him. Then the swirling slowed, went mute, and faded. And only one thing was changed about Megistal. Where the look in his eyes had been a slight sadness, now it was anger.
“The Scions knew you, Kistilan. They predicted there would be corrupters, and they knew you would be the first. The elemental powers are not to be invoked; they are only to be studied. They threaten the very fabric of existence on this world.”
“I am favored of the Scions!” Kistilan raged. “I alone am favored of the powers!”
“You, alone?” Megistal asked sarcastically. “There were twenty-one of us so honored.”
“There were,” Kistilan sneered. “But I found the others. You are the last of the rest.”
“So I had feared.” Megistal nodded.
“You are the last of the rest!” Kistilan repeated. “Do you think I have not gone past the powers? Do you think I hesitate to use them?” Seething, he hurled flames and lightning bolts from his fingertips.
Megistal was forced backward by the sheer might of the evil magic pounding at his shields. He had expected elemental forces, but had not thought that Kistilan could have so corrupted them. They were now something new and implacable. Megistal tried to counterattack with spells of his own, but the intensity of the black-robe’s magic buffeted him. It was inconceivable that so much power could be unleashed by one man, and yet it was, and the dark wizard increased its concentration second by second.
Kistilan was at the limit of his strength, drawing upon the pure hatreds that lived within him to give force to his spells. He concentrated, amplified, and regenerated the powers striking from his fingers and saw the red-moon mage begin to crumple. Then, suddenly, the magic was broken, and Kistilan found himself lying facedown on the hard ground. Something had kicked his feet out from under him. He turned his head and looked up at the angriest face he had ever seen.
Damon Omenborn, still hurt and shaken from the torments of magic, stood over the fallen wizard, glaring at him.
“You dare …”
Damon kicked the wizard solidly in the ribs. “I dare,” he growled. “That man there”—he pointed at Megistal—“I have despised, because he is a wizard. Because he uses magic. But he is not an evil man. I see that now. He is a mage, but nothing like you. He isn’t evil. You are!” Stooping, the dwarf grasped the man’s lapels and lifted him as a child might lift an oversized rag doll. The mage spat, hissed, and started to mutter, and a hard dwarven hand slapped him so hard his teeth clicked together.
The wizard’s eyes went wild, and his hand pointed at the dwarf. A hard glare lashed out at Damon and ended abruptly as a human arrow—a Cobar arrow—pierced Kistilan’s hand. Then Megistal shouted something that was in no language at all.
Kistilan’s eyes opened wide, and he gasped. To Damon, it seemed that he abruptly became as light as a feather, and the dwarf clung more tightly to the fabric of the man’s cloak. But the fabric thinned, became like smoke, and parted in his hand. Kistilan whimpered, and Damon realized abruptly that he could see right through the man’s head.
For a moment, Kistilan hung there, gasping, fading away. Then he was gone, and Damon stood alone with an empty fist. A hand came from somewhere to rest on his shoulder.
Damon half-turned, looking up at the sad face of a disillusioned wizard. “You had such power all along?” he asked.
“I had it,” Megistal admitted.
“Then, all those times … out there, and in the valley … you could have killed me. You could have killed us all.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You were right in what you told Kistilan,” the mage admitted. “I am—by your views—a vile thing, a magic-user. But I am not evil, Damon. Many of us are not.”
“Favored of the powers,” Damon muttered. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I have a burden to bear, that I hope no other man must ever have. My conscience must always be stronger than the powers I was given.”
Others of the Roving Guard had recovered now and were trudging toward them. Among them, surrounded, pushed, and in some cases dragged by grim dwarves, were the remaining captive wizards and the Cobar, Quist Redfeather.
Damon looked up at Megistal, frowning. “Will this conscience of yours permit you to leave Kal-Thax and not come back?”
“I don’t see why not.” The wizard shrugged, an ironic smile touching his cheeks. “I have no further business here.”
“Good!” Damon said. He pointed at the battered humans being brought forward by his guards. “And take these with you.”
“Goodbye, Damon Omenborn.” Megistal lifted a hand in farewell. “I have truly learned from you.” The big wizard muttered, and the air seemed to crackle. Then he was gone, as were the other captured wizards. Only the dour Cobar remained in the midst of the dwarven guards.
“Wait a minute!” Damon shouted into empty air. “Take the Cobar, too!”
From somewhere—from everywhere and nowhere—a chuckling voice responded. “He is your problem, Damon, not mine. You still owe him a horse.”
“My problem,” Damon growled. He glared at the human warrior, who glared right back at him fiercely. Then Damon looked northward, toward Thorbardin, and his heart went cold. On the slopes, armies still fought, but above them the massive face of Southgate was blank metal. The plug was closed. It could mean only one thing. Enemies had penetrated the defenses and were now inside.
“Bring him along,” Damon commanded, pointing at the human.
21
The Breath of Reorx
It was Porcirin the Pure who led the penetration of Thorbardin. A native of faraway Istar, Porcirin was not well liked among the brothers of the Orders of High Sorcery. With his Istarian attitude of self-righteous single-mindedness, the self-proclaimed “Wearer of the Whitest Robe” was considered by many wizards to be a hypocrite, and by some to be a lunatic. He was not of the highest levels of sorcery, having failed two of the three tests of the Scions. He was not trustworthy, he rarely followed the orders of his superiors unless they just happened to suit him, and—in true Istarian fashion—he was something of a fanatic. Still, Porcirin had a talent for debate and a passion for purpose … and followers who would bend to his will.
With the departure of Kistilan the Dark from the assault on the dwarven stronghold, and the resultant confusion of the besieging forces, Porcirin had decided that the human-wave assault on the ga
te was a waste of time, and that there was a better way to recover the Stone of Threes, which was somewhere inside the undermountain fortress. It did not require an army to go and find it, despite Kistilan’s ambitions. Any three sorcerers, providing they were practitioners of the three orientations of magic, could locate the Stone of Threes if they could get close enough to sense its presence.
So, with half the company of wizards missing, and Kistilan the Dark gone off somewhere, Porcirin took matters into his own hands. Calling a number of others together, he pointed at the great, open gate on the mountainside above and said, “The time is at hand. Who will follow me into the lair of the dwarves to recover that which is ours?”
Some turned away, and some simply glared at him, but six among them were persuaded. The task would be simple, Porcirin assured them. The seven would transport themselves—a short distance only, just through the gate and far enough past it to be beyond any simple inner defenses the dwarves might have—then make themselves invisible and go in search of their tower stone. When they found it, they would take it by whatever means were necessary and return to the outside, to resume the task of creating a Tower of High Sorcery in the Kharolis Mountains.
All seven of them knew transport spells, so, gazing up at the big open gate in the mountain’s face, they said their incantations, more or less in unison.
As Porcirin materialized in a wide, high-ceilinged tunnel that was surprisingly well lighted, he heard screams behind him. He turned quickly, fighting down the brief nausea of transport. Three of his followers were with him, but the other three were some distance behind in the midst of a huge vaulted area traversed from end to end by a narrow catwalk. Two of the laggards were on the catwalk, clinging in terror. The third was dangling from its rail, screaming and flailing. Even as Porcirin and the three wizards with him glanced back, hundreds of missiles of various kinds flew from holes in the walls of the vaulted chamber, striking the other three with deadly accuracy.
It was over in a second. The clinging wizard fell screaming from sight, pierced through by a javelin. The other two stood for an instant, then were toppled by whistling balls of gray iron. They fell from the precarious walkway and disappeared into unseen depths below.
And all around Porcirin and the other survivors, armed dwarves were closing in. “Second spell,” Porcirin commanded, then muttered it, ducking as a thrown hammer flashed past his head.
In an instant, the three were shielded by invisibility and hurried forward, to escape before the advancing dwarves closed around them.
“There they go,” a dwarf shouted. “It’s true, you can still see their eyes. Look for their eyes!”
There seemed to be hundreds of dwarves on all sides, and one of them—a short, wide-shouldered creature—pointed directly at Porcirin. “Here’s one!” the dwarf shouted and lunged at the wizard, lashing out with a dark-steel sword. In panic, Porcirin shut his eyes, ducked, dived to the side, and rolled. He heard the dwarf’s sword ring against stone just behind him. He rolled again and opened his eyes for an instant as someone very short and very solid fell over him.
“I found one!” a voice called. “Oh, rust. Now where did he go?”
Not far away, drums sounded a complex tattoo, and several dwarves shouted. “That’s the signal. Everybody back. Hurry!” Running feet sounded, echoing through the big tunnel, and Porcirin opened his eyes just a crack to see what was going on. Dwarves were streaming past him on both sides, running along the tunnel, deeper into the mountain. A pair of them ran into him, flipped over him and rolled. One of them turned back, raising a hammer. But the second grabbed him and pulled him away. “No time for that!” he shouted. “You heard the orders as well as I did. Come on!”
They ran, and others swarmed after them. Within moments the corridor around the wizards was empty. Porcirin sat up, looked around, and said, “Saritius? Kryxan? Lonex?”
“Here,” three voices answered.
“What was that all about?” one continued.
“They could see our eyes,” another growled. “Why didn’t somebody tell me that an invisibility spell doesn’t hide a person’s eyes?”
“I meant, why did they all run away?” the first explained.
“I don’t like this,” a third voice grumbled. “I don’t like this at all.”
“Shut up!” Porcirin snapped. “It doesn’t matter why they ran. We’re inside their fortress now. Let’s look for our …”
A short distance away, steel clanged against stone as a heavy, barred portcullis dropped across the tunnel, blocking the route toward the catwalk and the gateway beyond. In the distance, the light from the gateway dimmed as creaking sounds erupted, like a great screw turning in steel collars. Dropping their invisibility spells, the wizards got to their feet and sprinted back the way they had come, as far as the barred portcullis. Just beyond was the huge, vaulted chamber with the catwalk through its center and the murder holes in the walls. Now those murder holes were disappearing with a staccato series of clangs and clicks as covers were sealed over them from beyond the walls. In the distance, past the outer end of the vaulted cavern, the glare of light from outside diminished and then vanished as a monstrous gate closed, sealing the exit of the fortress.
“What is this?” Kryxan snarled. “A trap?”
“Well, if it is, it has only one side,” Porcirin pointed out, turning. Northward, into the depths of the mountain, the wide tunnel ran with no sign of blockades. “Come on,” he said. “We were going in that direction, anyway.”
The four hurried along the tunnel, gaping around them at the sheer immensity of the undermountain excavation with its high ceilings and, at intervals, circles of bright light that flooded the area below. Beneath one of these, Saritius stopped for a moment, staring upward. “It’s the sky,” he said. “I can see the sky through that thing.”
They went a hundred yards, then another hundred, and ahead of them they saw a place where the tunnel widened, a sort of great hall with a low, circular wall of set stones in the middle of it. Beyond, in the distance, the tunnel resumed its usual size and continued onward. It looked as though it ran for miles.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Lonex marveled. “It’s unbelievable that simple dwarves could build something like this.”
“Shut up and pay attention,” Porcirin snapped. “We’re here to find the Stone of Threes. Do any of you sense its presence?”
They shook their heads. “Not a thing, yet,” Saritius said.
As they approached the wide cavern with its walled circle, the air seemed to grow warmer with each step. “They have some kind of stove in here,” Porcirin decided. Curiously, he approached the low, circular wall and peered over it, then froze, staring downward. Within the wall was a sheer-sided pit of immense proportions, a huge round hole that went straight down … and down, and down into dizzying depths as though it pierced right through the world itself. Far away, down there, was a tiny glow of intense brightness. And from the pit rose air so hot that it seemed to come from an oven.
“What … what is it?” Saritius wondered.
“This hole is deep!” Kryxan marveled.
Porcirin started to respond, then stopped as sounds brought his head up. Beyond the walled pit, beyond the wide cavern, there were dwarves in the northward tunnel—busy, bustling dwarves drawing great, fabric curtains across the opening.
Olim Goldbuckle had staked his reputation as Prince of the Daewar on the ability of his best delvers to complete a tunnel under water. Slide Tolec had, in turn, staked the honor of the thane of Theiwar on his boatmen overcoming their natural tendency to drown a few “gold-molders” if they had the chance, and instead to submerge and retrieve the Daewar delvers unharmed. Vog Ironface had promised the new regent of Thorbardin—the chief of chiefs—that his Daergar mine workers could install a hinged plug over the abandoned Hylar heat-exchange vent in the Shaft of Reorx, and have it done before it was needed. And Pakka Trune had given his word that his Klar craftsmen could produce
and weave enough rock wool, or “spunstone,” in their fiber-lofts adjoining the worm warren, to seal the width and height of the Southgate tunnel with a thick curtain of heavy woven stone.
The chiefs had given their pledges, and Willen Ironmaul had given Gem Bluesleeve permission to proceed with his plan.
Now all the pledges had been fulfilled, except one. The Daewar diving delvers had done their job, and a new tunnel now connected the bottom of the Urkhan Sea to the abandoned shaft leading to the Shaft of Reorx. True, there were now new grudges to be resolved. Daewar delvers angrily accused Theiwar boatmen of trying to drown them and, even worse, of laughing at them when they were finally pulled up from the sea, coughing, spitting, and soaked. And Theiwar boatmen in turn accused the delvers of endangering their crafts by attacking their “saviors” as soon as they had their breath. Daergar lid-setters, scorched and blistered from their exposure to the Shaft of Reorx, accused the Klar of providing inadequate insulation in their spunstone garments, and a committee of Klar weavers was petitioning the Council of Thanes for new looms, to replace those crushed by tractor worms attracted to the spunstone fibers.
But the tasks were done, and now the entire responsibility for the enterprise rested on the sturdy but nervous shoulders of Gem Bluesleeve, whose idea the whole thing had been.
“If this doesn’t work,” the warden of the watch told himself when the first signal came that wizards had penetrated Southgate, “I’ll never be able to show my face again in Thorbardin.” Then, on second thought, he amended the statement. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll never get out of Thorbardin alive, face or not.”
As the last of the spunstone drapery was hung from its curved rod running along the ceiling of the Southgate Road, Gem told himself, “Even if it does work, every smelter-smith in Thorbardin is going to be after me if I damage the magma pit.
“I should have kept my mouth shut,” the Daewar warrior told himself. “I should have been content just to be a soldier, not an inventor.”
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