The Soulforge

by Margaret Weis

  The elf, smiling, picked up the pitcher and brought it along.

  Raistlin knew something about the Qualinesti from Tanis, probably knew more than most humans, for he had questioned the half-elf extensively on elven ways and practices. The three were tall and slender, as are all elves, and though most elves look alike to humans, Raistlin thought he detected a certain resemblance between them. All three had green eyes and peculiarly jutting, pointed chins. They were young, probably around two hundred. They wore short swords beneath their cloaks—he could hear the metal strike the chairs occasionally—and probably carried knives. He could hear the creak of leather armor.

  He wondered what crime they had committed that was vile enough to be sent into exile, a punishment worse than death to elves. He had the feeling he was about to find out.

  The elf who had spoken to Raistlin was the spokesman for the group. The other two rarely opened their mouths. Perhaps they didn’t speak Common. Many elves did not, scorned to learn a human language.

  “I am Liam.” The elf made introductions. “This is Micah and Renet. And your name would be? …”

  “Of little interest to you, sir,” Raistlin replied.

  “Oh, but I assure you, it is, sir,” Liam returned. “I like to know the name of any man with whom I’m drinking.”

  “Majere,” Raistlin said.

  “Majere?” Liam frowned. “One of the ancient gods was called by that name, I believe.”

  “And so am I.” Raistlin sipped at his wine. “Though I do not claim godhood. Please explain the nature of this job, sir. I don’t find the company of dark elves so appealing that I want to prolong this interview.”

  An angry glint came into the eye of one of the other elves, the one called Renet. His fist clenched, he started to stand. Liam snapped words in elven, shoved his friend back down in his seat. Raistlin’s question was answered, however. At least one of the other elves understood Common.

  Raistlin himself spoke a smattering of Qualinesti, having learned the language from Tanis. He did not let on that he understood what was being said, however, thinking he might pick up useful information if the elves imagined they could speak freely among themselves in their own tongue.

  “This is no time to be thin-skinned, Cousin. We need this human,” Liam said in elven.

  Shifting to Common, he added, “You must forgive my cousin, sir. He’s a bit hot-tempered. I think you might be a little friendlier toward us, Majere. We’re doing you a big favor.”

  “If you are looking for friends, I suggest you talk to the barmaid,” Raistlin said. “She looks as if she could accommodate you. If you want to hire a mage, then you should explain the job.”

  “You are a mage, then,” Liam asked with a sly grin.

  Raistlin nodded.

  Liam eyed him. “You look very young.”

  Raistlin was growing irritated. “You are the one who approached me, sir. You knew what I looked like when you invited me to join you.” He started to rise. “It seems I have wasted my time.”

  “All right! All right! I don’t suppose it matters how young you are, so long as you can do the work.” Liam leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Here is the proposal. There’s a mage living in Haven who owns a mageware shop. He’s human, like yourself. His name is Lemuel. You know him?”

  Raistlin did in fact know Lemuel, having had dealings with him in the past. He considered Lemuel a friend, hoped to find out what these unsavory elves wanted, with a view toward warning him.

  Raistlin shrugged. “Whom I know is my own affair and none of yours.”

  Micah, jerking a thumb at Raistlin, muttered in elven, “I don’t much like this mage of yours, Cousin.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to like him,” Liam returned in elven, scowling. “Drink your wine and keep your mouth shut. I do the talking.”

  Raistlin watched blandly, with the vacant expression of one who has no idea what is being said.

  Liam shifted back to Common. “Now then, our plan is this: We enter the mage’s house in the night, steal the valuables from his shop, turn them into good, hard steel. That’s where you come in. You’ll know what’s worth the taking and what isn’t, plus you’ll know where to sell the goods and get us a fair price. You will receive your share, of course.”

  Raistlin was scornful. “As it happens, sir, I have frequented the shop of this Lemuel, and I can tell you right now that you are wasting your time. He has nothing of value. His entire collection is worth twenty steel at most, hardly fit payment for your trouble.”

  Raistlin assumed that this would end the conversation, that he had discouraged the thieves from pursuing their nefarious scheme. At all events, he would warn Lemuel to take suitable precautions.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me …”

  Liam reached out, grabbed hold of Raistlin’s wrist. Feeling the mage stiffen, Liam let go, though his strong, thin-fingered hand hovered near. He exchanged glances with his cousins, as if asking their agreement to proceed. Reluctantly both nodded.

  “You are right about the shop, sir,” Liam admitted. “But perhaps you are not familiar with what the mage has hidden in his cellar below the kitchen.”

  As far as Raistlin knew, Lemuel had nothing hidden in the cellar. “What does he have hidden?”

  “Spellbooks,” Liam answered.

  “Lemuel once had a few spellbooks in his possession, but I know for a fact that he sold them.”

  “Not all of them!” Liam sunk his voice to beneath a whisper. “He has more. Many more. Ancient spellbooks from back before the Cataclysm! Spellbooks that many thought were lost to this world! That is the true prize!”

  Lemuel had never mentioned such books to Raistlin. He had, in fact, pretended that Raistlin had acquired all the books in the older mage’s possession. Raistlin felt betrayed.

  “How do you know this?” he asked sharply.

  Liam smiled unpleasantly. “You are not the only one with secrets, sir.”

  “Then, once more, I bid you good night.”

  “Oh, for the love of the Queen, tell him!” said one of the cousins in Qualinesti. “We are wasting time! Dracart wants those spellbooks delivered within the fortnight!”

  “Dracart forbade us—”

  “Tell him part of the truth, then,”

  Liam turned back to Raistlin. “Micah visited the shop on the pretext of buying herbs. If you know this Lemuel, you know that he is stupid and naive, even by human standards. He left Micah alone in the shop while he went to his garden. Micah made a wax impression of the key to the front door.”

  “How do you know of the existence of the spellbooks?” Raistlin persisted.

  “I tell you again, that must be our secret,” Liam said, a hard and dangerous edge to his voice.

  Guessing that this Dracart, whoever he was, had knowledge of the books, Raistlin tried another question, asking as innocently as he could, “And what do you intend to do with these spellbooks?”

  “Sell them, of course. What possible use could they be to us?” Liam smiled. His cousins smiled. The elf’s tone was persuasive, he did not blink an almond eye.

  Raistlin considered. He was angered that Lemuel had lied about the existence of such valuable spellbooks. But he wanted no harm to come to the mage, for all that.

  “I will not be party to murder,” Raistlin said.

  “Nor will we!” Liam stated emphatically. “This Lemuel has many friends in the elven lands, guest friends who would feel obligated to avenge his death. The mage is not at home. He has left to visit these friends of his in Qualinost. The house is empty. An hour’s work and we will be rich men! As for you, you can either take your share in magic artifacts or we will pay you in hard steel.”

  Raistlin wasn’t thinking of money. He wasn’t thinking of the fact that the elves were lying to him, that they were undoubtedly intending to use him and then find a way to conveniently get rid of him. He was thinking of spellbooks—ancient spellbooks, perhaps spellbooks that had been stolen from the besieg
ed Tower of High Sorcery in Daltigoth, or rescued from the drowned Tower of Istar. What wealth of magic lay within their covers? And why was Lemuel keeping them secret, hidden away?

  Raistlin had the answer immediately. These must be books of black magic. That was the only logical explanation. Lemuel’s father had been a war wizard of the White Robes. He could not destroy the books. By strictest law, no member of one order could willfully destroy any magical artifact or spellbook belonging to another. Magical knowledge, no matter from whence it came, who produced it, or whom it might benefit, was precious and deserved protection. But he might have been tempted to conceal those spellbooks he considered evil. By hiding such books away. he could both preserve them and keep them from falling into the hands of his enemies.

  It is my duty to look into this matter, Raistlin convinced himself. Besides, if I do not go with these elves, they will only find someone else, someone who might harm the books.

  Thus Raistlin rationalized, but in his heart was the undeniable longing to see these books, to hold them and feel their power. Perhaps unlock their secrets …

  “When do you propose to do this?” Raistlin asked.

  “Lemuel left town two days ago. We are pressed for time. Tonight? Are you with us?”

  Raistlin nodded. “I am with you.”

  4

  THE RED AND SILVER MOONS SHONE BRIGHTLY; THE ORBS WERE close this night, as if the two gods were leaning their heads together, to whisper and laugh over the follies they viewed from high above. The silver and red light shone down on the thieves. Raistlin cast two shadows as he walked along the road. The shadows stretched before him. One shadow, tinged with silver, went to his right; the other, haloed by red, to his left. He could have almost imagined diverging paths, except that, in essence, both shadows were black.

  They took a roundabout way to Lemuel’s house to avoid passing through town. Raistlin did not recognize the route. They were coming from a different angle, and he was startled—startled and ill at ease—to suddenly see the mage’s house loom in front of him before he was expecting it. The house was the same as Raistlin remembered, held the same appearance of being abandoned that it had worn the first time he had visited Lemuel. No lights shone in the windows, nor was there a single sound of anything living within. Lemuel had been at home then. What if he were at home now?

  These dark elves would have no compunction about killing him.

  Micah produced the skeleton key he had made, fitted it into the lock. The other two elves kept watch. Their cloaks were cast aside, providing easy access to their weapons. They were well equipped with daggers and knives, the weapons of thieves, weapons of assassins.

  Raistlin felt a deep loathing for these dark elves, a loathing that extended to himself, for he was standing in the moonlight in the dead of night alongside them, preparing to enter a man’s house without his knowledge or his permission.

  I should turn right now and walk away, he thought to himself.

  The door opened soundlessly. Beyond, it was dark and still. Raistlin hesitated only a moment, then he slipped inside.

  He could have rationalized the situation. He had come too far to back out, the dark elves would never let him escape alive. He might have continued to pretend that he was doing this for Lemuel’s own good to relieve him of books which must be a burden on the mage’s soul.

  Now that he was here, now that he was committed, Raistlin scorned to do either. He already loathed himself for the crime that he was about to commit, he didn’t intend to add to that loathing by lying about his motives. He hadn’t come here out of fear or constraint, he wasn’t here in the name of loyalty and friendship.

  He was here for the magic.

  Raistlin stood in the darkness in the mageware shop with the elves, his heart beating fast with excitement and anticipation.

  “The human cannot see in the dark,” Liam said in Qualinesti. “We don’t want him falling over something and breaking his neck.”

  “At least not until we are finished with him,” Micah said, with a trilling, musical laugh that accorded oddly with his dire words.

  “Strike a light.”

  One of the elves produced quickmatch, put the match to a candle standing on the counter. The elves politely handed the candle to Raistlin, who just as politely took it.

  “This way.” Micah led them from the shop.

  Raistlin could have supplied himself with light, magical light, but he did not mention this to the elves. He chose to save his energy. He was going to need it before this night was out.

  The four left the shop, entered the kitchen, which Raistlin remembered from his first visit. They continued through the pantry, entered a door, and passed into a small storage room containing a veritable thicket of mops and brooms. Working swiftly and silently, the elves cleared these to one side.

  “I see no spellbooks,” Raistlin remarked.

  “Of course you don’t,” Liam grunted, barely biting off the appellation “fool.” “I told you. They are hidden in the cellar. The trapdoor is beneath that table.”

  The table in question was a butcher’s block, used to cut meat. Made of oak, it was stained with the blood of countless animals. Raistlin was amused to see that the sight and smell disgusted the dark elves, who were prepared to murder humans without compunction, but who looked queasy over the idea of steaks and lamb chops. Holding their breaths against what must have been to them a malodorous stench, Micah and Renet hauled the table to one side. Both hastily wiped their hands on a towel when they had finished.

  “We will put back all as we have found it when we leave,” Liam said. “This Lemuel is such a stupid, unobservant little man. He will likely go for years without noticing that the books have been discovered and removed.”

  Raistlin admitted the truth of this statement. Lemuel cared for nothing except his garden, took little interest in magic unless it pertained to his herbs. He had probably never even looked at these books, was merely obeying his father’s injunction to keep them hidden.

  When Raistlin took the books to the tower at Wayreth—which he fully intended to do, confessing his own sins at the time—the conclave could inform Lemuel that the books had been removed. As for what the conclave might do to Raistlin, he considered it likely that they would reprimand him for thievery, but probably nothing more severe. The conclave would not take kindly to the fact that these valuable spellbooks had been concealed all these years. Of the two crimes, they would consider concealment the greater.

  Raistlin hoped their sanctions would fall on the father, if he still lived, not on the son.

  Micah tugged at the handle of the trapdoor. It did not budge, and at first the elves thought it might be locked, either with bolts or magic. The elves checked for bolts, Raistlin cast a minor spell which would ascertain the presence of magic. No bolts were visible, neither was there a wizard-lock. The trapdoor was stuck tight, the wood having swelled with the damp. The elves wrenched and tugged and eventually the door popped open.

  Cold air, cold and dank as the breath of a tomb, flowed up out of the darkness below. The air had a foul smell that caused the elves to wrinkle their noses and back off. Raistlin covered his mouth with the sleeve of his robe.

  Micah and Renet cast furtive glances at Liam, fearful he was going to order them to walk down into that chancy darkness. Liam himself looked uneasy.

  “What is that stench?” he wondered aloud. “It’s like something died down there. Surely books on magic, even human books on magic, could not smell that bad.”

  “I am not afraid of a bad smell,” Raistlin said scornfully. “I will go down to see what is amiss.”

  Micah was not happy at this; he took offense at Raistlin’s suggestion of cowardice, though not offense enough to enter the cellar. The elves discussed the matter in their own language. Raistlin listened, diverted by their arrogance. They did not even consider the possibility that a human might be able to understand their language.

  Renet concluded that Raistlin should go down a
lone. It was possible the spellbooks might have a guardian. Raistlin was a human and therefore expendable. Micah argued that since Raistlin was a mage, he might grab several of the spellbooks and abscond with them, traveling the corridors of magic, where the elves could not follow.

  Liam had a solution to that problem. Giving gracious permission for Raistlin to enter the cellar first, the elf posted himself at the top of the stairs, armed with a bow and a nocked arrow.

  “What is this?” Raistlin demanded, feigning ignorance.

  “In order to protect you,” Liam replied smoothly. “I am an excellent shot. And although I do not speak the language of magic, I understand a little of it. I would be able to tell, for example, if someone in that cellar were to try casting a spell that would make him disappear. I doubt if he would have time to complete the spell before my arrow struck him through the heart. But do not hesitate to call out if you find yourself in danger.”

  “I feel safe in your hands,” Raistlin said, bowing to hide his sardonic smile.

  Lifting the skirts of his robes—gray-colored robes, now that he looked at them—holding the candle high, he cautiously descended the steps that led into the darkness.

  The staircase was a long one, longer than Raistlin had anticipated, leading deep under the ground. The stairs were carved of stone, a stone wall extended along on the right side, the stairs were open on his left. He shifted the candle as he walked, sending its pale light into as many portions of the cellar as it would reach, trying to catch a glimpse of something—anything. He could make out nothing. He continued his descent.

  At last his foot touched dirt floor. He looked back up the stairs to see the elves small and diminished, a far distance away, almost as if they stood upon another plane of existence. He could hear their voices faintly; they were perturbed that he had passed beyond their sight. They decided that they would go down to find him.

  Flashing the candle about, Raistlin tried to see as much as he could before the elves arrived. The candle’s feeble light did not extend far. Expecting to hear the elves’ soft footfalls, Raistlin was startled to hear a deep booming sound instead. A blast of air extinguished his candle, leaving him trapped in a darkness so deep and impenetrable that it might have been the darkness of Chaos, out of which the world was formed.