Wizards Conclave aom-5

by Douglas Niles

  He pressed his hands hard against the outer wall as if the sheer force of his will would push them physically into the treasure chamber.

  But soon, with a shrug, Kalrakin turned and made his way back to the door. As he reached the portal, it opened automatically, swinging inward to reveal a small anteroom with a floor of black slate. A rug of exquisite beauty lay just within the entry.

  "How did it open?" asked Luthar wonderingly as he hesitantly approached.

  Kalrakin shook his head. "I don't know. I had yet to raise a hand when it swung wide. Once again, we are made welcome. We are invited."

  Without delay he stepped through the entry, looking down with amusement at a colorful rug. He wiped his feet then watched with interest as the scuffs of mud vanished a second later, apparently absorbed by the threads of the fabric. Luthar followed him closely, but Kalrakin had already moved on. The anteroom opened into a huge, circular chamber with three large, different staircases spiraling upward, and several closed doors suggesting other rooms around the periphery of this central atrium.

  When the tall sorcerer turned his attentions to one of the nearest of the closed doors, staring curiously, its portal swung open. Pleasing aromas-fresh-baked bread, roast meats-emerged, and Kalrakin stepped into a small banquet room. There was a table large enough for perhaps a dozen guests, but now it was set for two, with silver candleholders holding long, burning tapers. A bottle of wine rested in a platinum dish filled with crushed ice; beside it sat a decanter filled with dark red liquid. A haunch of roast beef, steaming hot, oozed juices on a large wooden board, while a loaf of fresh bread and a dish of soft butter were positioned near both settings.

  Kalrakin laughed out loud. He stepped forward, poured a glass of the red wine into one of several crystal goblets on the table. He quaffed the drink, losing a few droplets into the tangle of his beard, then hurled the vessel at the stone wall, just above the dark, cool hearth. The glass shattered, shards exploding across the room, leaving crimson drops spattering across the wall.

  "Was that necessary?"

  The sorcerer whirled around at these words, his beard and hair flying wildly, eyes bulging in shock as a man in a long black robe entered the room from a discreet side door. He bore a staff capped by the golden image of a dragon's head, and his robe formed a hood that draped loosely over his head. His face was aged, but he moved with the grace of a younger man. His eyes were very deep set, and they flashed with challenge as he stepped into the dining room.

  Luthar gasped in alarm, clapping a hand to his mouth. Kalrakin drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and glared at the Black Robe like a hawk ready to seize its prey.

  "And just who are you?" Kalrakin demanded.

  "I am the one who invited you here," said the newcomer. His tone was stern, yet not angry. "I saw that the gates were parted, the food was ready and available, for your pleasure. But I am surprised-and disappointed-that you do not treat this hallowed place with more respect. After all, you come with a legacy of magic; that much I could sense from a hundred… a thousand miles away. We should strive together to make this place alive, again!"

  "A legacy of magic?" The sorcerer howled with laughter, and held up the Irda Stone. "This is what you sensed! My magic has fooled you. Yes, it has a legacy, but as different from yours as your three moons. As for me, I spit on your gods, your magic. I would spit on your three moons if I could!"

  The Black Robe's face grew pale, and his knuckles tightened where he gripped his staff. "How dare you!" he hissed.

  Kalrakin merely sneered. "I have no need to kowtow to you or your silly gods. Your era, and theirs, is through. It is time you made way for me!"

  "You shall not dare to blaspheme the gods of magic, not here, in this most sacred of places!" declared the Black Robe in outrage. "Perhaps I have made a mistake. You and your friend must leave this place-now!"

  "I have no intention of leaving," Kalrakin replied. With elaborate casualness he poured himself another goblet of wine, took a deep and messy drink, and hurled this second vessel against the wall so that it burst amid the shards of the previous shattered goblet. "No, I like it here," he declared with a bark of a laugh. "And you do not frighten me, Black Robe."

  "Go!" roared the wizard, in a voice that rattled the windows and rumbled through the floor and the walls. His robe flapped as if in the midst of a gale, and the staff grew longer in his hand. The gold dragon head seemed to darken until it was blood red in color, and now flames flickered within the image's eyes. "Go at once, if you wish to leave here alive!"

  "Let us leave, my lord," Luthar urged in a whisper, coming around the great table to tug on his companion's arm. "We should do as he suggests!"

  "Be silent!" Kalrakin snapped, seizing Luthar by the face and pushing him down hard. The rotund sorcerer toppled back heavily to the floor, where he looked between the other two men with wide, frightened eyes.

  "Do you not recognize this flesh?" demanded the Black Robe, stepping closer, stamping his staff against the stone floor. More thunder rolled, and his dark eyes flashed as if they might release the force of lightning at any second. Dark smoke spumed from the flared nostrils of the dragon head.

  "I see a simple-minded mage," Kalrakin declared, sneering. "One who does not realize that his era is gone. One who is about to learn some lessons."

  "I am Fistandantilus!" roared the wizard. "I am the most feared wielder of magic in the history of Krynn! I have consumed the souls of greater men than you, and I am always hungry for more! You are a fool if you do not flee now, running for your wretched lives! Or perhaps you want to feel the tortures of a thousand years-do you think I can't arrange that!?"

  "Cheap tricks," Kalrakin said with an arrogant shrug. Once again he flipped the white Irda Stone between his hands. Then he laughed, a sound that brought an almost comical expression of outrage to the face of Fistandantilus. "I do not fear you. In fact, I doubt your power. Your impotence is proof that your time is passed… that my era commences."

  "Doubt at your own risk, fool! Depart at once, or I shall unleash that might to your unending regret!" declared the Black Robe. "The black moon is high in the sky, and the power of Nuitari once again thrums in the world!"

  "Power? You speak of power! Here is power!"

  The sorcerer held up the white bauble. It pulsed, and a stab of light flew outward, a spear of pure energy. The white light made no sound, but the flash of brilliance lingered in the room almost like an echo, ebbing and flowing ominously around the form of the ancient, black-robed wizard. A corona that shone like the sun outlined the shape of the wizard; his staff glowed fiercely. And then the illumination began to grow even brighter, until it seemed that it must turn into fire-yet there was no heat.

  Slowly, gradually, it began to wane, allowing the shadows back into the room, plunging everything suddenly into darkness. And when the light had finally faded altogether, the Black Robe was gone. There was no residue where he had stood, no mark to prove that he had even been there.

  "Wh-hat happened? Where did he go?" stammered Luthar, climbing nervously to his feet. He had been holding his hands over his eyes so tightly that he left red impressions of his fingers in his cheeks and forehead.

  Kalrakin shrugged. "What does it matter? He is gone and will trouble us no more. First let us eat. Then we will have a look around our new home."

  Chapter 7

  Wizards of White and Black

  Dalamar the Dark rode his magic steed through the skies of Krynn. Wind whistled past, flapping his black robe against his lean frame, streaming his hair into a long tail behind him. He squinted, leaned low, and looked down to study the forest of Qualinesti as it undulated past. To his right, the snowy peaks of the High Kharolis gleamed, a horizontal necklace of eternal ice. Dark thunderheads loomed over that great mountain range, though the air before the wizard was clear, lofting to a sky of pale blue.

  The phantom steed he rode was a ghostly shape, sleek and horselike as it pulsed and shimmered in the air, vault
ing the dark elf through the sky with speed approaching dragon-flight. For hours he had flown over a seemingly endless forest, but he knew that before midafternoon he would arrive at his destination-even though Solace lay hundreds of miles to the northeast, beyond the far border of Qualinesti.

  A sense of growing urgency propelled him, allowing for no delay. He recognized that he needed help. For too long he had been alone. Since he had awakened, starving and weak in a small cave in Silvanesti, he had learned to relish his mortal flesh again, even those flaws, those proofs of life, such as the hunger that periodically gnawed at his belly. While he languished under the black power of Mina, those things had been gone from his existence.

  Dalamar shuddered momentarily then sneered at the memory of Mina; it didn't matter. That was over now, her dark power broken. He flexed his muscles, feeling them ripple beneath his smooth, unblemished skin. He rotated his arms, flexed his fingers, leaned back, and relished the smooth and uncomplaining response of his muscles. Another treasure.of life… another thing for him to cherish.

  He had learned to cherish the bad along with the good. He remembered, upon awakening, that he had pulled aside the black robe covering his chest and looked down to see five bleeding sores. These had been marks of discipline, the punishment of his Shalafi many decades ago. They would never heal, not so long as he breathed-and for once, the presence of the oozing marks reassured, even pleased, him.

  For, by all the gods, he lived again!

  That life itself was a reward of sorts surprised him, but he was grateful that it had been granted to him. The greatest gift, the true blessing that the gods had bestowed upon him when they restored him to life, was neither the pumping of his blood, nor his complete control over the physical form of his body. It was something that he sensed in his mind and in his soul, a churning, growing power that bubbled there, percolating through his thoughts, permeating his very being. And he knew:

  His master of magic had returned. Nuitari, the black moon, once again soared through the skies of Krynn.

  Even before Mina had taken him, the dark elf had languished for long years, despairing of ever wielding his black arts again. Of course, he had dabbled in the wild sorcery, even learned some of the art of necromancy, but that had been a pale imitation of true magic, the blessed power of his god, Nuitari. Always there had been the taint of corruption around the wild magic. Now that the god Nuitari, and his magical cousins, had returned to the cosmos, wild sorcery was nothing less than pale imitation-no, blasphemy.

  Indeed, Dalamar knew his destiny: He would be the leading prophet of that ancient magic, and he would drive the corruption of sorcery back into the shadows where it belonged. Lovingly Dalamar traced his hands over the silver runes embroidered into his robe, as the material fluttered and flapped in the wind of his passage. For decades the runes had been dull and silent; now they glowed and sparkled, and he could feel the warmth of their power in the mere touch of his fingers. They were potent again, and this robe was no longer a mere garment. It was his badge, his armor, his herald, all in one.

  He thought of the great Tower of Sorcery where once he had been Master. Here the first taint of bitterness soured his mood. The place he most desired to see again, the place where his greatest treasures were stored, where he had collected the most remarkable library of magical books in the history of the world… that place was barred to him, forever. It had been the one condition exacted by those ever-jealous gods, Solinari and Lunitari, before they would allow Nuitari to restore his favored devotee to life. Dalamar had accepted the condition-to refuse would have meant permanent, irrevocable death-and at the time had not even regarded it as a very burdensome restriction.

  In the past weeks, however, he began to understand the full cost of that banishment. He remembered not only his own spell books left there, but the night-blue tomes scribed by Fistandantilus himself, and the black, hourglass — sigil volumes that were the legacy of his Shalafi, Raistlin Majere. All those wonderful books were gone to him. Many contained enchantments unique in the history of Krynn, enchantments that were lost not just to Dalamar but to the world. Perhaps someday he could reconstruct-

  No… the dark elf's lip curled into a sneer of contempt as he mouthed the word. Those spells would never be restored, for the world did not deserve to receive his largesse.

  Even as his bitterness settled into a dull anger, Dalamar shrugged away any inclination to despair. As his homeland was merely a place, his spell books were merely objects. He had his life back, and even without those spell books he knew how to put his magical power to use.

  His thoughts had turned to another tower, the one place in Krynn that might house an equal, perhaps even greater, trove of magical lore. The Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest was the traditional center of magical study, the place where aspiring mages-including Dalamar himself, in a time lost to the far, far past-went to learn the arcane arts. The most talented of the mages were granted an opportunity to take the Test, with those who passed being awarded a robe in the color-red, black, or white-of the god who most favored the apprentice mage. There, at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest, he had sworn allegiance to the Conclave, working on behalf of wizards of all three robes, spying upon, and eventually betraying, his Shalafi. Again he touched his chest, this time with a grimace-those five wounds now, and forever, the legacy of that betrayal.

  Of course, the Tower of High Sorcery was not easy to find… unless it wanted one to find it. Dalamar had been more fortunate than most; in the past; when he had needed to go to the Tower, the path had opened before him. Indeed, though Wayreth Forest lay to the west of distant Qualinesti, the dark elf had entered that enchanted wood from places as distant as Ergoth and Solamnia. He saw no reason the path would not welcome him again, from here. So he had embarked, months ago, on a search for the Tower.

  But, for the first time in his life, the Tower had refused to acknowledge him. After a long and fruitless search, he was now in the air, flying to visit a man he had never expected to see again. During the flight, he took note of the scope of devastation that had wracked that once pastoral land, the land the Qualinesti had lost to Beryl, the place where that massive green dragon had died. Villages were now blackened ruins, burned to ashes. Much of the forest was shattered, trees knocked down every which way, or languishing in a wilting that browned the leaves and left the stench of rot to rise through the air. Elven arrogance had been soundly punished, he observed with cool detachment. The devastation didn't affect Dalamar, except for a sense of mild regret that a once-pleasant destination no longer existed.

  Finally he crossed the gorge of the White Rage River, and even the dispassionate dark elf was annoyed at the sight of the brown sludge that now passed for water in that formerly pristine canyon. More important, he was nearing his destination. His mere thought directed the phantom steed to descend, and soon Dalamar skimmed along barely above the height of the treetops. The ghostly flying horse followed the course of the river as it spilled from its rocky gorge to meander into the lowlands. The course grew wide, the water even more brackish and stagnant as it pooled in mudflats and eddies. Soon the elf recognized the tributary to the north, Solace Stream, and was moderately relieved to turn his magical steed up toward that unpolluted waterway.

  Darken Wood lay to his left, but Dalamar ignored the attraction of those magical groves and mystical denizens. There was nothing for him there, neither any spell book nor colleague that could help him gain entry to the forest, or recover the mastery of his own spells. The dark wizard was acutely conscious of this weakness as he approached Solace, spotting the lofty crests of the great vallenwoods from many miles away.

  Normally, Dalamar would have entered the town discreetly, seeking out Palin at some quiet and private place. However, the dark elf felt he was on an acutely urgent mission; each enchantment he cast that vanished from his memory was irretrievable forever, unless he gained access to the proper spell books. In light of that vulnerability, he opted for a more dramat
ic display of his power as a reminder to Palin, and anyone else who might be paying attention, that the black-robed wizard was still a force to be reckoned with.

  He guided his phantom steed along Solace's main street, flying several dozen feet above the ground-well below the level of the tree-mounted houses, shops, and inns that were such a characteristic of the city of vallenwoods. It was still several hours until dinnertime, and that avenue, a curving route that meandered between the roots of the mighty trees, was fairly crowded by the standards of bucolic Solace. As soon as he dropped below the canopy of leaves, a watchman pointed up at him and shouted in alarm.

  Dalamar smiled to hear gasps of fright from merchants and peddlers, shouts of surprise from shopping womenfolk, and cries of glee from a multitude of children. The children ran in a pack along the street, pointing up at him and shrieking in delight as the wizard slowed his eerie, vaporous steed. He flew across the town square then turned up the lane that would lead to Palin, leaving the band of youngsters behind with a sudden burst of speed.

  He drew up to the great balcony surrounding the Inn of the Last Home, the structure located on the sturdy boughs of one of the greatest vallenwoods. Here the phantom steed came to rest, the misty apparition fading away gently to bring Dalamar's feet to rest upon the broad, sturdy planks.

  "Hello, Dalamar."

  It was a woman's voice, which carried not the slightest hint of welcome. Nevertheless, the dark elf smiled thinly as he turned around to see the speaker: a female with long straight hair, now white but still suggestive of vital, golden youth. He tilted forward, a formal bow that was only slightly mocking.