“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 close
d. 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.”
13
A royal guest. The way out.
A dread discovery.
turm ran his hands over the helm, marveling at the craftsmanship. 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 li
ke 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.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 15
