Dragons of Winter Night

by Margaret Weis

  “I always knew it would come to this,” the knight said slowly. “I will die before I place myself under your protection, Raistlin.”

  And with that, the knight turned and walked deeper into the forest. Tanis saw the leader of the elven undead make a gesture, detailing some of his ghastly band to follow. The half-elf started after, then stopped as he felt a surprisingly strong hand grip his arm.

  “Let him go,” the mage said sternly, “or we are all lost. I have information to impart and my time is limited. We must make our way through this forest to the Tower of the Stars. We must walk the way of death, for every hideous creature ever conceived in the twisted, tortured dreams of mortals will arise to stop us. But know this—we walk in a dream, Lorac’s nightmare. And our own nightmares as well. Visions of the future can arise to help us, or hinder. Remember, that though our bodies are awake, our minds sleep. Death exists only in our minds—unless we believe otherwise.”

  “Then why can’t we wake up?” Tanis demanded angrily.

  “Because Lorac’s belief in the dream is too strong and your belief too weak. When you are firmly convinced, beyond doubt, that this is a dream, you will return to reality.”

  “If this is true,” Tanis said, “and you’re convinced it is a dream, why don’t you awaken?”

  “Perhaps,” Raistlin said, smiling, “I choose not to.”

  “I don’t understand!” Tanis cried in bitter frustration.

  “You will,” Raistlin predicted grimly, “or you will die. In which case, it won’t matter.”

  10

  Waking dreams. Future visions.

  Ignoring the horrified stares of his companions, Raistlin walked to his brother, who stood clutching his bleeding arm.

  “I will take care of him,” Raistlin said to Goldmoon, putting his own black-robed arm around his twin.

  “No,” Caramon gasped, “you’re not strong en—” His voice died as he felt his brother’s arm support him.

  “I am strong enough now, Caramon,” Raistlin said gently, his very gentleness sending a shiver through the warrior’s body. “Lean on me, my brother.”

  Weak from pain and fear, for the first time in his life Caramon leaned on Raistlin. The mage supported him as, together, they starting walking through the hideous forest.

  “What’s happening, Raist?” Caramon asked, choking. “Why do you wear the Black Robes? And your voice—”

  “Save your breath, my brother,” Raistlin advised softly.

  The two traveled deeper into the forest, and the undead elven warriors stared menacingly at them from the trees. They could see the hatred the dead bear the living, see it flicker in the hollow eye sockets of the undead warriors. But none dared attack the black-robed mage. Caramon felt his life’s blood well thick and warm from between his fingers. As he watched it drip upon the dead, slime-coated leaves beneath his feet, he grew weaker and weaker. He had the fevered impression that the black shadow of himself gained in strength even as he lost it.

  Tanis hurried through the forest, searching for Sturm. He found him fighting off a group of shimmering elven warriors.

  “It’s a dream,” Tanis shouted to Sturm, who stabbed and slashed at the undead creatures. Every time he struck one, it vanished, only to reappear once more. The half-elf drew his sword, running to fight at Sturm’s side.

  “Bah!” the knight grunted, then gasped in pain as an arrow thudded into his arm. The wound was not deep, because the chain mail protected him, but it bled freely. “Is this dreaming?” Sturm said, yanking out the blood-stained shaft.

  Tanis jumped in front of the knight, keeping their foes back until Sturm could stanch the flow of blood.

  “Raistlin told us—” Tanis began.

  “Raistlin! Hah! Look at his robes, Tanis!”

  “But you’re here! In Silvanesti!” Tanis protested in confusion. He had the strangest feeling he was arguing with himself. “Alhana said you were in Ice Wall!”

  The knight shrugged. “Perhaps I was sent to help you.”

  All right. It’s a dream, Tanis told himself. I will wake up.

  But there was no change. The elves were still there, still fighting. Sturm must be right. Raistlin had lied. Just as he had lied before they entered the forest. But why? To what purpose?

  Then Tanis knew. The dragon orb!

  “We’ve got to reach the Tower before Raistlin!” Tanis cried to Sturm. “I know what the mage is after!”

  The knight could do nothing more than nod. It seemed to Tanis that from then on they did nothing but fight for every inch of ground they gained. Time and again, the two warriors forced the elven undead back, only to be attacked in ever-increasing numbers. Time passed, they knew, but they had no conception of its passing. One moment the sun shone through the stifling green haze. Then night’s shadows hovered over the land like the wings of dragons.

  Then, just as the darkness deepened, Sturm and Tanis saw the Tower. Built of marble, the tall Tower glistened white. It stood alone in a clearing, reaching up to the heavens like a skeletal finger clawing up from the grave.

  At sight of the Tower, both men began to run. Though weak and exhausted, neither wanted to be in these deadly woods after nightfall. The elven warriors—seeing their prey escaping—screamed in rage and charged after them.

  Tanis ran until it seemed his lungs would burst with pain. Sturm ran ahead of him, slashing at the undead who appeared before them, trying to block their path. Just as Tanis neared the Tower, he felt a tree root twist itself around his boot. He pitched headlong onto the ground.

  Frantically Tanis fought to free himself, but the root held him fast. Tanis struggled helplessly as an undead elf, his face twisted grotesquely, raised a spear to drive it through Tanis’s body. Suddenly the elf’s eyes widened, the spear fell from nerveless fingers as a sword punctured its transparent body. The elf vanished with a shriek.

  Tanis looked up to see who had saved his life. It was a strange warrior, strange—yet familiar. The warrior removed his helm, and Tanis stared into bright brown eyes!

  “Kitiara!” he gasped in shock. “You’re here! How? Why?”

  “I heard you needed some help,” Kit said, her crooked smile as charming as ever. “Seems I was right.” She reached out her hand. He grasped it, doubting as she pulled him to his feet. But she was flesh and blood. “Who’s that ahead? Sturm? Wonderful! Like old times! Shall we go to the Tower?” she asked Tanis, laughing at the surprise on his face.

  Riverwind fought alone, battling legions of undead elven warriors. He knew he could not take much more. Then he heard a clear call. Raising his eyes, he saw Que-shu tribesmen! He cried out joyfully. But, to his horror, he saw them turning their arrows upon him.

  “No!” he shouted in Que-shu. “Don’t you recognize me? I—”

  The Que-shu warriors answered only with their bowstrings. Riverwind felt shaft after feathered shaft sink into his body.

  “You brought the blue crystal staff among us!” they cried. “Your fault! The destruction of our village was your fault!”

  “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered as he slumped to the ground. “I didn’t know. Forgive me.”

  Tika hacked and slashed her way through elven warriors only to see them turn suddenly into draconians! Their reptile eyes gleamed red, their tongues licked their swords. Fear chilled the barmaid. Stumbling, she bumped into Sturm. Angrily the knight whirled, ordering her out of his way. She staggered back and jostled Flint. The dwarf impatiently shoved her aside.

  Blinded by tears, panic-stricken at the sight of the draconians, who sprang back into battle full-grown from their own dead bodies, Tika lost control. In her fear, she stabbed wildly at anything that moved.

  Only when she looked up and saw Raistlin standing before her in his black robes did she come to her senses. The mage said nothing, he simply pointed downward. Flint lay dead at her feet, pierced by her own sword.

  I led them here, Flint thought. This is my responsibility. I’m the eldest. I’ll get them out.r />
  The dwarf hefted his battle-axe and yelled a challenge to the elven warriors before him. But they just laughed.

  Angrily, Flint strode forward—only to find himself walking stiffly. His knee joints were swollen and hurt abominably. His gnarled fingers trembled with a palsy that made him lose his grip on the battle-axe. His breath came short. And then Flint knew why the elves weren’t attacking: they were letting old age finish him.

  Even as he realized this, Flint felt his mind begin to wander. His vision blurred. Patting his vest pocket, he wondered where he had put those confounded spectacles. A shape loomed before him, a familiar shape. Was it Tika? Without his glasses, he couldn’t see—

  Goldmoon ran among the twisted, tortured trees. Lost and alone, she searched desperately for her friends. Far away, she heard Riverwind calling for her above the ringing clash of swords. Then she heard his call cut off in a bubble of agony. Frantically she dashed forward, fighting her way through the brambles until her hands and face were bleeding. At last she found Riverwind. The warrior lay upon the ground, pierced by many arrows—arrows she recognized!

  Running to him, she knelt beside him. “Heal him, Mishakal,” she prayed, as she had prayed so often.

  But nothing happened. The color did not return to Riverwind’s ashen face. His eyes remained locked, staring fixedly into the green tinged sky.

  “Why don’t you answer? Heal him!” Goldmoon cried to the gods. And then she knew. “No!” she screamed. “Punish me! I am the one who has doubted. I am the one who has questioned! I saw Tarsis destroyed, children dying in agony! How could you allow that? I try to have faith, but I cannot help doubting when I see such horrors! Do not punish him.” Weeping, she bent over the lifeless body of her husband. She did not see the elven warriors closing in around her.

  Tasslehoff, fascinated by the horrible wonders around him, wandered off the path, and then discovered that—somehow—his friends had managed to lose him. The undead did not bother him. They who fed off fear felt no fear in his small body.

  Finally, after roaming here and there for nearly a day, the kender reached the doors to the Tower of the Stars. Here his lighthearted journey came to a sudden halt, for he had found his friends—one of them at least.

  Backed up against the closed doors, Tika fought for her life against a host of misshapen, nightmare-begotten foes. Tas saw that if she could get inside the Tower, she would be safe. Dashing forward, his small body flitting easily through the melee, he reached the door and began to examine the lock while Tika held the elves back with her wildly swinging sword.

  “Hurry, Tas!” she cried breathlessly.

  It was an easy lock to open; with such a simplistic trap to protect it, Tas was surprised that the elves even bothered.

  “I should have this lock picked in seconds,” he announced. Just as he set to work, however, something bumped him from behind, causing him to fumble.

  “Hey!” he shouted at Tika irritably, turning around. “Be a little more careful—” He stopped short, horrified. Tika lay at his feet, blood flowing into her red curls.

  “No, not Tika!” Tas whispered. Maybe she was only wounded! Maybe if he got her inside the Tower, someone could help her. Tears dimmed his vision, his hands shook.

  I’ve got to hurry, Tas thought frantically. Why won’t this open? It’s so simple! Furious, he tore at the lock.

  He felt a small prick in his finger just as the lock clicked. The door to the Tower began to swing open. But Tasslehoff just stared at his finger where a tiny spot of blood glistened. He looked back at the lock where a small, golden needle sparkled. A simple lock, a simple trap. He’d sprung them both. And, as the first effects of the poison surged with a terrible warmness through his body, he looked down to see he was too late. Tika was dead.

  Raistlin and his brother made their way through the forest without injury. Caramon watched in growing amazement as Raistlin drove back the evil creatures that assailed them; sometimes with feats of incredible magic, sometimes through the sheer force of his will.

  Raistlin was kind and gentle and solicitous. Caramon was forced to stop frequently as the day waned. By twilight, it was all Caramon could do to drag one foot in front of the other, even leaning upon his brother for support. And as Caramon grew ever weaker, Raistlin grew stronger.

  Finally, when night’s shadows fell, bringing a merciful end to the tortured green day, the twins reached the Tower. Here they stopped. Caramon was feverish and in pain.

  “I’ve got to rest, Raist,” he gasped. “Put me down.”

  “Certainly, my brother,” Raistlin said gently. He helped Caramon lean against the pearl wall of the Tower, then regarded his brother with cool, glittering eyes.

  “Farewell, Caramon,” he said.

  Caramon looked at his twin in disbelief. Within the shadows of the trees, the warrior could see the undead elves, who had followed them at a respectful distance, creep closer as they realized the mage who had warded them off was leaving.

  “Raist,” Caramon said slowly, “you can’t leave me here! I can’t fight them. I don’t have the strength! I need you!”

  “Perhaps, but you see, my brother, I no longer need you. I have gained your strength. Now, finally, I am as I was meant to be but for nature’s cruel trick—one whole person.”

  As Caramon stared, uncomprehending, Raistlin turned to leave.

  “Raist!”

  Caramon’s agonized cry halted him. Raistlin stopped and gazed back at his twin, his golden eyes all that were visible from within the depths of his black hood.

  “How does it feel to be weak and afraid, my brother?” he asked softly. Turning, Raistlin walked to the Tower entrance where Tika and Tas lay dead. Raistlin stepped over the kender’s body and vanished into the darkness.

  Sturm and Tanis and Kitiara, reaching the Tower, saw a body lying on the grass at its base. Phantom shapes of undead elves were starting to surround it, shrieking and yelling, hacking at it with their cold swords.

  “Caramon!” Tanis cried, heartsick.

  “And where’s his brother?” Sturm asked with a sidelong glance at Kitiara. “Left him to die, no doubt.”

  Tanis shook his head as they ran forward to aid the warrior. Wielding their swords, Sturm and Kitiara kept the elves at bay while Tanis knelt beside the mortally wounded warrior.

  Caramon lifted his glazed eyes and met Tanis’s, barely recognizing him through the bloody haze that dimmed his vision. He tried desperately to talk.

  “Protect Raistlin, Tanis—” Caramon choked on his own blood—“since I won’t be there now. Watch over him.”

  “Watch over Raistlin?” Tanis repeated furiously. “He left you here, to die!” Tanis held Caramon in his arms.

  Caramon closed his eyes wearily. “No, you’re wrong, Tanis. I sent him away.…” The warrior’s head slumped forward.

  Night’s shadows closed over them. The elves had disappeared. Sturm and Kit came to stand beside the dead warrior.

  “What did I tell you?” Sturm asked harshly.

  “Poor Caramon,” Kitiara whispered, bending down near him. “Somehow I always guessed it would end this way.” She was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. “So my little Raistlin has become truly powerful,” she mused, almost to herself.

  “At the cost of your brother’s life!”

  Kitiara looked at Tanis as if perplexed at his meaning. Then, shrugging, she glanced down at Caramon, who lay in a pool of his own blood. “Poor kid,” she said softly.

  Sturm covered Caramon’s body with his cloak, then they sought the entrance to the Tower.

  “Tanis—” Sturm said, pointing.

  “Oh, no. Not Tas,” Tanis murmured. “And Tika.”

  The kender’s body lay just inside the doorway, his small limbs twisted by convulsions from the poison. Near him lay the barmaid, her red curls matted with blood. Tanis knelt beside them. One of the kender’s packs had opened in his death throes, its contents scattered. Tanis caught sight of a glint of gold. Reaching
down, he picked up the ring of elven make, carved in the shape of ivy leaves. His vision blurred, tears filled his eyes as he covered his face with his hands.

  “There’s nothing we can do, Tanis.” Sturm put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ve got to keep going and put an end to this. If I do nothing else, I’ll live to kill Raistlin.”

  Death is in the mind. This is a dream, Tanis repeated. But it was Raistlin’s words he was remembering, and he’d seen what the mage had become.

  I will wake up, he thought, bending the full force of his will to believing it was a dream. But when he opened his eyes, the kender’s body still lay on the floor.

  Clasping the ring in his hand, Tanis followed Kit and Sturm into a dank, slime-covered, marble hallway. Paintings hung in golden frames upon marble walls. Tall, stained-glass windows let in a lurid, ghastly light. The hallway might have been beautiful once, but now even the paintings on the walls appeared distorted, portraying horrifying visions of death. Gradually, as the three walked, they became aware of a brilliant green light emanating from a room at the end of the corridor.

  They could feel a malevolence radiate from that green light, beating upon their faces with the warmth of a perverted sun.

  “The center of the evil,” Tanis said. Anger filled his heart—anger, grief, and a burning desire for revenge. He started to run forward, but the green-tainted air seemed to press upon him, holding him back until each step was an effort.

  Next to him, Kitiara staggered. Tanis put his arm around her, though he could barely find the strength to move himself. Kit’s face was drenched with sweat, the dark hair curled around her damp forehead. Her eyes were wide with fear—the first time Tanis ever saw her afraid. Sturm’s breath came in gasps as the knight struggled forward, weighted down by his armor.

  At first, they seemed to make no progress at all. Then slowly, they realized they were inching forward, drawing nearer and nearer the green-lit room. Its bright light was now painful to their eyes, and movement exacted a terrible toll. Exhaustion claimed them, muscles ached, lungs burned.