Dragons of Winter Night

by Margaret Weis

  “Gilthanas!” Tanis shouted. “The Inn! It’s under attack!”

  Gilthanas raised glassy eyes and stared uncomprehendingly. Then, apparently understanding, he sighed and shook his head. “Laurana,” he gasped, and he pushed himself forward, trying to stagger out of the doorway. “We’ve got to reach them.” He collapsed in Tanis’s arms.

  “Stay here,” the half-elf said, helping him sit down. “You’re not capable of moving. I’ll try and get through. I’ll go around the block and come in from the back.”

  Tanis ran forward, darting in and out of doorways, hiding in the wreckage. He was about a block from the Inn when he heard a hoarse shout. Turning to look, he saw Flint gesturing wildly. Tanis dashed across the street.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Why aren’t you with the others—” The half-elf stopped. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

  The dwarf, his face smudged with ash and streaked with tears, knelt beside Tasslehoff. The kender was pinned beneath a beam that had fallen in the street. Tas’s face, looking like the face of a wise child, was ashen, his skin clammy.

  “Blasted, rattle-brained kender,” Flint moaned. “Had to go and let a house fall on him.” The dwarf’s hands were torn and bleeding from trying to lift a beam that would take three men or one Caramon to get off the kender. Tanis put his hand to Tas’s neck. The lifebeat was very weak.

  “Stay with him!” Tanis said unnecessarily. “I’m going to the Inn. I’ll bring Caramon!”

  Flint looked up at him grimly, then glanced over at the Inn. Both could hear the yells of the draconians, see their weapons flash in the glare of the firelight. Occasionally an unnatural light flared from the Inn—Raistlin’s magic. The dwarf shook his head. He knew Tanis was about as capable of returning with Caramon as he was of flying.

  But Flint managed to smile. “Sure, lad, I’ll stay with him. Farewell, Tanis.”

  Tanis swallowed, tried to answer, then gave up and ran on down the street.

  Raistlin, coughing until he could barely stand, wiped blood from his lips and drew a small, black leather pouch from the innermost pockets of his robes. He had just one spell left and barely energy enough to cast it. Now, his hands shaking with fatigue, he tried to scatter the contents of the little pouch into a pitcher of wine he had ordered Caramon to bring him before the battle started. But his hand trembled violently, and his coughing spasms doubled him over.

  Then he felt another hand grasp his own. Looking up, he saw Laurana. She took the pouch from his frail fingers. Her own hand was stained with the dark green draconian blood.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Ingredients for a spell.” The mage choked. “Pour it into the wine.” Laurana nodded and poured in the mixture as instructed. It vanished instantly.

  “Don’t drink it,” the mage warned when the coughing spasm passed. Laurana looked at him. “What is it?”

  “A sleeping potion,” Raistlin whispered, his eyes glittering.

  Laurana smiled wryly. “You don’t think we’re going to be able to get to sleep tonight?”

  “Not that kind,” Raistlin answered, staring at her intently. “This one feigns death. The heartbeat slows to almost nothing, the breathing nearly stops, the skin grows cold and pale, the limbs stiffen.”

  Laurana’s eyes opened wide. “Why—” she began.

  “To be used as a last resort. The enemy thinks you are dead, leaves you on the field—if you are lucky. If not—”

  “If not?” she prompted, her face pale.

  “Well, a few have been known to waken on their own funeral pyres,” Raistlin said coolly. “I don’t believe that is likely to happen to us, however.”

  Breathing more easily, he sat down, ducking involuntarily as a spent arrow fluttered overhead and fell to the floor behind him. He saw Laurana’s hand tremble then and realized she was not as calm as she was forcing herself to appear.

  “Are you intending that we take this?” she asked.

  “It will save us from being tortured by draconians.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Trust me,” the mage said with a slight smile.

  Laurana glanced at him and shivered. Absently, she wiped blood-stained fingers on her leather armor. The blood did not come off, but she didn’t notice. An arrow thudded next to her. She didn’t even start, just stared at it dully.

  Caramon appeared, stumbling out of the smoke of the burning common room. He was bleeding from an arrow wound in the shoulder, his own red blood mingling oddly with the green blood of his enemy.

  “They’re breaking down the front door,” he said, breathing heavily. “Riverwind ordered us back here.”

  “Listen!” Raistlin warned. “That’s not the only place they’re breaking in!” There was a splintering crash at the door leading from the kitchen to the back alley.

  Ready to defend themselves, Caramon and Laurana whirled just as the door shattered. A tall, dark figure entered.

  “Tanis!” Laurana cried. Sheathing her weapon, she ran toward him.

  “Laurana!” he breathed. Catching her in his arms, he held her close, nearly sobbing in his relief. Then Caramon flung his huge arms around both of them.

  “How is everyone?” Tanis asked, when he could talk.

  “So far, so good,” Caramon said, peering behind Tanis. His face fell when he saw he was alone. “Where’s—”

  “Sturm’s lost,” Tanis said wearily. “Flint and Tas are across the street. The kender’s pinned under a beam. Gilthanas is about two blocks away. He’s hurt,” Tanis told Laurana, “not badly, but he couldn’t make it any farther.”

  “Welcome, Tanis,” Raistlin whispered, coughing. “You have come in time to die with us.”

  Tanis looked at the pitcher, saw the black pouch lying near it, and stared at Raistlin in sudden shock.

  “No,” he said firmly. “We’re not going to die. At least not like th—” he broke off abruptly. “Get everyone together.”

  Caramon lumbered off, yelling at the top of his lungs. Riverwind ran in from the common room where he had been firing the enemy’s arrows back at them, his own having run out long ago. The others followed him, smiling hopefully at Tanis.

  The sight of their faith in him infuriated the half-elf. Someday, he thought, I’m going to fail them. Maybe I already have. He shook his head angrily.

  “Listen!” he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the draconians outside. “We can try and escape out the back! Only a small force is attacking the Inn. The main part of the army isn’t in the city yet.”

  “Somebody’s after us,” Raistlin murmured.

  Tanis nodded. “So it would appear. We haven’t much time. If we can make it into the hills—”

  He suddenly fell silent, raising his head. They all fell silent, listening, recognizing the shrill scream, the creak of giant leather wings, coming nearer and nearer.

  “Take cover!” Riverwind yelled. But it was too late.

  There was a screaming whine and a boom. The Inn, three stories tall and built of stone and wood, shook as if it were made of sand and sticks. The air exploded with dust and debris. Flames erupted outside. Above them, they could hear the sound of wood splitting and breaking, the thud of falling timber. The building began to collapse in on itself.

  The companions watched in stunned fascination, paralyzed by the sight of the gigantic ceiling beams shuddering beneath the strain as the roof caved in onto the upper floors.

  “Get out!” Tanis shouted. “The whole place is—”

  The beam directly above the half-elf gave a great groan, then split and cracked. Gripping Laurana around the waist, Tanis flung her as far from him as he could and saw Elistan, standing near the front of the Inn, catch her in his arms.

  As the huge beam above Tanis gave way with a shuddering snap, he heard the mage shriek strange words. Then he was falling, falling into blackness—and it seemed that the world fell on top of him.

  Sturm rounded a corner t
o see the Inn of the Red Dragon collapse in a cloud of flame and smoke as a dragon soared in the sky above it. The knight’s heart beat wildly with grief and fear.

  He ducked into a doorway, hiding in the shadows as some draconians passed him—laughing and talking in their cold, guttural language. Apparently they assumed this job was finished and were seeking other amusement. Three others, he noticed—dressed in blue uniforms, not red—appeared extremely upset at the Inn’s destruction, shaking their fist at the red dragon overhead.

  Sturm felt the weakness of despair sweep over him. He sagged against the door, watching the draconians dully, wondering what to do next. Were they all still in there? Perhaps they had escaped. Then his heart gave a painful bound. He saw a flash of white.

  “Elistan!” he cried, watching the cleric emerge from the rubble, dragging someone with him. The draconians, swords drawn, ran toward the cleric, calling out in Common for him to surrender. Sturm yelled the challenge of a Solamnic knight to an enemy and ran out from his doorway. The draconians whirled about, considerably disconcerted to see the knight.

  Sturm became dimly aware that another figure was running with him. Glancing to his side, he saw the flash of firelight off a metal helm and heard the dwarf roaring. Then, from a doorway, he heard words of magic.

  Gilthanas, unable to stand without help, had crawled out and was pointing at the draconians, reciting his spell. Flaming darts leaped from his hands. One of the creatures fell over, clutching its burning chest. Flint leaped on another, beating it over the head with a rock, while Sturm felled the other draconian with a blow from his fists. Sturm caught Elistan in his arms as the man staggered forward. The cleric was carrying a woman.

  “Laurana!” Gilthanas cried from the doorway.

  Dazed and sick from the smoke, the elfmaid lifted her glazed eyes. “Gilthanas?” she murmured. Then, looking up, she saw the knight.

  “Sturm,” she said confusedly, pointing behind her vaguely. “Your sword, it’s here. I saw it—”

  Sure enough, Sturm saw a flash of silver, barely visible beneath the rubble. His sword, and next to it was Tanis’s sword, the elven blade of Kith-Kanan. Moving aside piles of stone, Sturm reverently lifted the swords that lay like artifacts within a hideous, gigantic cairn. The knight listened for movement, calls, cries. There was only a dreadful silence.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said slowly, without moving. He looked at Elistan, who was staring back at the wreckage, his face deathly pale. “The others?”

  “They were all in there,” Elistan said in a trembling voice. “And the half-elf …”

  “Tanis?”

  “Yes. He came through the back door, just before the dragon hit the Inn. They were all together, in the very center. I was standing beneath a doorway. Tanis saw the beam breaking. He threw Laurana. I caught her, then the ceiling collapsed on top of them. There’s no way they could have—”

  “I don’t believe it!” Flint said fiercely, leaping into the rubble. Sturm grasped hold of him, yanked him back.

  “Where’s Tas?” the knight asked the dwarf sternly.

  The dwarf’s face fell. “Pinned under a beam,” he said, his face gray with grief and sorrow. He clutched at his hair wildly, knocking off his helm. “I’ve got to go back to him. But I can’t leave them—Caramon—” The dwarf began to cry, tears streaming into his beard. “That big, dumb ox! I need him. He can’t do this to me! And Tanis, too!” The dwarf swore. “Damn it, I need them!”

  Sturm put his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “Go back to Tas. He needs you now. There are draconians roaming the streets. We’ll be all—”

  Laurana screamed, a terrifying, pitiful sound that pierced Sturm like a spear. Turning, he caught hold of her just as she started to rush into the debris.

  “Laurana!” he cried. “Look at that! Look at it!” He shook her in his own anguish. “Nothing could be alive in there!”

  “You don’t know that!” she screamed at him in fury, tearing away from his grasp. Falling onto her hands and knees, she tried to lift one of the blackened stones. “Tanis!” she cried. The stone was so heavy, she could only move it a few inches.

  Sturm watched, heartsick, uncertain what to do. Then he had his answer. Horns! Nearer and nearer. Hundreds, thousands of horns. The armies were invading. He looked at Elistan, who nodded in sorrowful understanding. Both men hurried over to Laurana.

  “My dear,” Elistan began gently, “there is nothing you can do for them. The living need you. Your brother is hurt, so is the kender. The draconians are invading. We must either escape now, and keep fighting these horrible monsters, or waste our lives in useless grief. Tanis gave his life for you, Laurana. Don’t let it be a needless sacrifice.”

  Laurana stared up at him, her face black with soot and filth, streaked with tears and blood. She heard the horns, she heard Gilthanas calling, she heard Flint shouting something about Tasslehoff dying, she heard Elistan’s words. And then the rain began, dripping from the skies as the heat of the dragonfire melted the snow, changing it to water.

  The rain ran down her face, cooling her feverish skin.

  “Help me, Sturm,” she whispered through lips almost too numb to shape the words. He put his arm around her. She stood up, dizzy and sick with shock.

  “Laurana!” her brother called. Elistan was right. The living needed her. She must go to him. Though she would rather lie down on this pile of rocks and die, she must go on. That was what Tanis would do. They needed her. She must go on.

  “Farewell, Tanthalas,” she whispered.

  The rain increased, pouring down gently, as if the gods themselves wept for Tarsis the Beautiful.

  Water dripped on his head. It was irritating, cold. Raistlin tried to roll over, out of the way of the water. But he couldn’t move. There was a heavy weight pressing down on top of him. Panicking, he tried desperately to escape. As fear surged through his body, he came fully to consciousness. With knowledge, panic vanished. Raistlin was in control once more and, as he had been taught, he forced himself to relax and study the situation.

  He could see nothing. It was intensely dark, so he was forced to rely on his other senses. First, he had to get this weight off. He was being smothered and crushed. Cautiously he moved his arms. There was no pain, nothing appeared broken. Reaching up, he touched a body. Caramon, by the armor—and the smell. He sighed. He might have known. Using all his strength, Raistlin shoved his brother aside and crawled out from under him.

  The mage breathed more easily, wiping water from his face. He located his brother’s neck in the darkness and felt for the lifebeat. It was strong, the man’s flesh was warm, his breathing regular. Raistlin lay back down on the floor in relief. At least, wherever he was, he wasn’t alone.

  Where was he? Raistlin reconstructed those last few terrifying moments. He remembered the beam splitting and Tanis throwing Laurana out from under it. He remembered casting a spell, the last one he had strength enough to manage. The magic coursed through his body, creating around him and those near him a force capable of shielding them from physical objects. He remembered Caramon hurling himself on top of him, the building collapsing around them, and a falling sensation.

  Falling …

  Ah, Raistlin understood. We must have crashed through the floor into the Inn’s cellar. Groping around the stone floor, the mage suddenly realized he was soaked through. Finally, however, he found what he had been searching for—the Staff of Magius. Its crystal was unbroken; only dragonfire could damage the Staff given him by Par-Salian in the Towers of High Sorcery.

  “Shirak,” whispered Raistlin, and the Staff flared into light. Sitting up, he glanced around. Yes, he was right. They were in the cellar of the Inn. Broken bottles of wine spilled their contents onto the floor. Casks of ale were split in two. It wasn’t all water he had been lying in.

  The mage flashed the light around the floor. There were Tanis, Riverwind, Goldmoon, and Tika, all huddled near Caramon. They seemed all right, he thought, giving them
a quick inspection. Around them lay scattered debris. Half of the beam slanted down through the rubble to rest on the stone floor. Raistlin smiled. A nice bit of work, that spell. Once more they were in his debt.

  If we don’t perish from the cold, he reminded himself bitterly. His body was shaking so he could barely hold the staff. He began to cough. This would be the death of him. They had to get out.

  “Tanis,” he called, reaching out to shake the half-elf.

  Tanis lay crumpled at the very edge of Raistlin’s magic, protective circle. He murmured and stirred. Raistlin shook him again. The half-elf cried out, reflexively covering his head with his arm.

  “Tanis, you’re safe,” Raistlin whispered, coughing. “Wake up.”

  “What?” Tanis sat bolt upright, staring around him. “Where—” Then he remembered. “Laurana?”

  “Gone.” Raistlin shrugged. “You threw her out of danger—”

  “Yes …” Tanis said, sinking back down. “And I heard you say words, magic—”

  “That’s why we’re not crushed.” Raistlin clutched his sopping wet robes around him, shivering, and drew nearer Tanis, who was staring around as if he’d fallen onto a moon.

  “Where in the name of the Abyss—”

  “We’re in the cellar of the Inn,” the mage said. “The floor gave way and dropped us down here.” Tanis looked up. “By all the gods,” he whispered in awe.

  “Yes,” Raistlin said, his gaze following Tanis’s. “We’re buried alive.”

  Beneath the ruins of the Red Dragon Inn, the companions took stock of their situation. It did not look hopeful. Goldmoon treated their injuries, which were not serious, thanks to Raistlin’s spell. But they had no idea how long they had been unconscious or what was happening above them. Worse still, they had no idea how they could escape.

  Caramon tried cautiously to move some of the rocks above their heads, but the whole structure creaked and groaned. Raistlin reminded him sharply that he had no energy to cast more spells, and Tanis wearily told the big man to forget it. They sat in the water that was growing deeper all the time.