Raistlin had already recovered from his startlement and his fear; the spell came immediately to his lips. His hand performed the motions, tracing the symbol of a sun in the air. Sparks from the fireball still glimmered on the cellar floor at his feet. He noticed, as he moved his hand, that his skin had a golden cast to it, but he did not let himself do more than remark upon this as a curiosity. He dared not lose his concentration.
Symbol drawn, he spoke the words of magic. The symbol flashed brightly in the air; he had spoken the words correctly, accurately. From the fingers of his outstretched right hand streaked five small flaming projectiles, a puny response to the deadly weapons of the powerful archmages.
Raistlin was not surprised to hear the dark elves laughing at him. He might as well have been tossing gnome crackers at them.
He waited, holding his breath, praying that the old man kept his promise, praying to the gods of magic to see to it that the old man kept his promise. Raistlin had the satisfaction, the deep abiding satisfaction, of hearing elven laughter sucked away by indrawn breaths of astonishment and alarm.
The five streaks of flame were now ten, now twenty. No longer smidgens of flame, they were crackling, sparkling white-hot stars, stars shooting up the stairs, shooting with unerring accuracy for Raistlin’s three foes.
Now it was the dark elves who had no escape, no defensive spells powerful enough to protect them. The deadly stars struck with a concussive force that knocked Raistlin off his feet, and he was standing some distance from the center of the blast. He felt the heat of the flames all the way down the cellar steps. He smelled burning flesh. There were no screams. There had not been time for screams.
Raistlin picked himself up. He wiped dirt from his hands, noting once more the peculiar golden color of his skin. The realization came to him that this golden patina had protected him from the fireball. It was like a knight’s armor, only much more effective than armor; a plate and chain-mail clad knight would have fried to death if that fiery ball had struck him, whereas Raistlin had suffered no ill effects.
“And if that is true,” he said to himself, “if this is armor or a shield of some magical type, then it could aid me considerably in the future.”
The storage room was ablaze. Raistlin waited until the worst of the flames had died down, taking his time, recovering his strength, bringing his next spell to mind. Holding the sleeve of his robe over his nose against the stench of charred elf, Raistlin mounted the stairs, prepared to face his next foe.
Two bodies lay at the top of the cellar stairs, black lumps burned beyond recognition. A third body was not visible, perhaps it had been vaporized. Of course, this is all illusion, Raistlin reminded himself. Perhaps the conclave had simply miscounted.
Emerging from the cellar, he gathered up the skirt of his robes, stepped over the body of one of the elves. He cast a swift glance around the storage room. The table was a pile of ash, the mops and brooms were wisps of smoke. The image of Fistandantilus hovered amidst the ruins. His illusory form was thin and translucent, almost indistinguishable from the smoke. A good stiff puff of breath could blow him away.
Raistlin smiled.
The old man stretched out his arm. It was cloaked in black. The hand was shriveled, wasted, the fingers little more than bare bones.
“I will take my payment now,” said Fistandantilus.
His hand reached for Raistlin’s heart.
Raistlin took a step backward. He raised his own hand protectively, palm out. “I thank you for your assistance, Archmagus, but I rescind my part of the bargain.”
“What did you say?”
The words, sibilant, lethal, coiled around inside Raistlin’s brain like a viper in a basket. The viper’s head lifted; eyes, cruel, malignant, merciless, stared at him.
Raistlin’s resolve shook, his heart quailed. The old man’s rage crackled around him with flames more fierce than those of the fireball.
I killed the elves, Raistlin reminded himself, seizing hold of his fast-fleeing courage. The spell belonged to Fistandantilus, but the magic, the power behind the spell, was my own. He is weak, drained; he is not a threat.
“Our bargain is rescinded,” Raistlin repeated. “Return to the plane from which you’ve come and there wait for your next victim.”
“You break your promise!” Fistandantilus snarled. “What honor is this?”
“Am I a Solamnic knight, to concern myself with honor?” Raistlin asked, adding, “If it comes to that, what honor is there in luring flies to your web, where you entangle and devour them? If I am not mistaken, your own spell protects me from any magic you may try to cast. This time the fly escapes you.”
Raistlin bowed to the shadowy image of the old man. Deliberately he turned his back, began to walk toward the door. If he could make it to the door, escape this charnel room, this room of death, he would be safe. The way was not far, and though part of him kept expecting to feel the touch of that dread hand, his confidence grew with each step he took nearer the exit.
He reached the doorway. When the old man’s voice spoke, it seemed to come from a great distance away. Raistlin could barely hear it.
“You are strong and you are clever. You are protected by armor of your own making, not mine. Yet your Test is not concluded. More struggles await you. If your armor is made of steel, true and fine, then you will survive. If your armor is made of dross, it will crack at the first blow, and when that happens, I will slip inside and take what is mine.”
A voice could not harm him. Raistlin paid no heed to it. He continued walking, reached the door, and the voice drifted away like the smoke in the air.
6
RAISTLIN WALKED THROUGH THE DOORWAY OF LEMUEL’S STORAGE room and stepped into a dark corridor made of stone. At first he was startled, taken aback. He should have been standing inside Lemuel’s kitchen. Then he recalled Lemuel’s house had never truly existed except in his mind and the minds of those who had conjured it.
Light gleamed on the wall near him. A sconce in the shape of a silver hand held a globe of white light, akin to the light of Solinari. Next to that, a hand made of brass held a globe of red light, and beside that hand, a hand of carven ebony held nothing—in Raistlin’s eyes, at least. Those mages dedicated to Nuitari would see their way clearly.
Raistlin deduced from these lights that he was back in the Tower of Wayreth, walking one of the many corridors of that magical building. Fistandantilus had lied. Raistlin’s Test was over. He had only to find his way back to the Hall of Mages, there to receive congratulations.
A breath of air touched the back of his neck. Raistlin started to turn. Burning pain and the nerve-jarring sensation of metal scraping against bone, his own bone, caused his body to jerk with agony.
“This is for Micah and Renet!” hissed Liam’s vicious voice.
Liam’s arm, thin, strong, tried to encircle Raistlin’s neck. A blade flashed.
The elf had intended his first blow to be his last. He had tried to sever Raistlin’s spinal cord. That breath of air on his neck had been enough to alert Raistlin. When he turned, the blade missed its mark, slid along his ribs. Liam was going to make another try, this time going for the throat.
Raistlin’s panic-stripped mind could not come up with the words of a spell. He had no weapon other than his magic. He was reduced to fighting like an animal, with tooth and claw. His fear was his most powerful tool, if he did not let it debilitate him. He remembered vaguely watching Sturm and his brother in hand-to-hand combat.
Clasping his hands together, Raistlin drove his right elbow with all the force his adrenaline-pumping body could manage into Liam’s midriff.
The dark elf grunted and fell back. But he was not injured, just short of breath. He leapt back to the fight, his knife slashing.
Frantic and terrified, Raistlin grabbed hold of his attacker’s knife hand. The two grappled, Liam trying to stab Raistlin, Raistlin struggling to wrench the knife from the dark elf’s grip.
They lurched about the na
rrow corridor. Raistlin’s strength was ebbing fast. He could not hope to keep up this deadly contest for long. Staking his hopes on one desperate move, Raistlin concentrated his remaining energy, smashed the elf’s hand-the hand holding the knife—against the stone.
Bones cracked, the elf gasped in pain, but he clung tenaciously to his weapon.
Panic seized hold. Again and again Raistlin struck Liam’s hand against the hard stone. The knife’s handle was slippery with blood. Liam could not hold on to it. The knife slipped from his grip and fell to the floor.
Liam made a lunge to try to recover his weapon. He lost it in the shadows, apparently, for he was down on all fours, frantically searching the floor.
Raistlin saw the knife. The blade burned with red fire in Lunitari’s bright light. The elf saw it at the same time, made a lunge for it. Snatching the knife from beneath the elf’s grasping fingers, Raistlin drove the blade into Liam’s stomach.
The dark elf screamed, doubled over.
Raistlin yanked the blade free. Liam tumbled to his knees, his hand pressed over his stomach. Blood poured from his mouth. He pitched forward, dead, at Raistlin’s feet.
Gasping, each breath causing him wrenching agony, Raistlin started to turn, to flee. He could not make his legs work properly and collapsed to the stone floor. A burning sensation spread from the knife wound throughout his nerve endings. He was nauseated, sick.
Liam would have his revenge after all, Raistlin realized in bitter despair. The dark elf’s knife blade had been tipped with poison.
The lights of Solinari and Lunitari wavered in his sight, blurred together, and then darkness overtook him.
Raistlin woke to find himself lying in the same corridor. Liam’s body was still there, beside him, the elf’s dead hand touching him. The body was still warm. Raistlin had not been unconscious long.
He dragged himself away from the dead body of the dark elf. Wounded and weak, he crawled into a shadowy corridor and slumped against a wall. Pain coiled around his bowels. Clutching his stomach, he retched and heaved. When the vomiting subsided, he lay back on the stone floor and waited to die.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he demanded through a haze of sickness.
He knew the answer. Because he had dared to bargain with a wizard so powerful that he had once thought of overthrowing Takhisis, a wizard so powerful that the conclave feared his power even after he was dead.
If your armor is made of dross, it will crack at the first blow, and when that happens, I will slip inside and take what is mine.
Raistlin almost laughed. “What little life I have left, you are welcome to, archmagus!”
He lay on the floor, his cheek pressed against the stone. Did he want to survive? The Test had taken a terrible toll, one from which he might never recover. His health had always been precarious. If he survived, his body would be like a shattered crystal, held together by the force of his own will. How would he live? Who would take care of him?
Caramon. Caramon would care for his weak twin.
Raistlin stared into Lunitari’s red, flickering light. He couldn’t imagine such a life, a life of dependency on his brother. Death was preferable.
A figure materialized out of the shadowy darkness of the corridor, a figure illuminated by Solinari’s white light.
“This is it,” Raistlin said to himself. “This is my final test. The one I won’t survive.”
He felt almost grateful to the wizards for ending his suffering. He lay helpless, watching the dark shadow as it drew closer and closer. It came to stand next to him. He could sense its living presence, hear its breathing. It bent over him. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes.
“Raist?”
Gentle fingers touched his feverish flesh.
“Raist!” The voice sobbed. “What have they done to you?”
“Caramon,” Raistlin spoke, but he couldn’t hear his own words. His throat was raw from the smoke, the retching.
“I’m taking you out of here,” his brother said.
Strong arms slipped under Raistlin’s body. He smelled Caramon’s familiar smell of sweat and leather, heard the familiar sound of creaking armor, his broadsword clanking against the stone.
“No!” Raistlin tried to free himself. He pushed against his brother’s massive chest with his frail, fragile hand. “Leave me, Caramon! My Test is not finished! Leave me!” His voice was an intelligible croak. He gagged, coughed.
Caramon lifted his brother, cradled him in his arms. “Nothing is worth this, Raist. Rest easy.”
They walked beneath the silver hand, holding the white light. Raistlin saw tears, wet and glistening, on his brother’s cheeks. He made one last attempt.
“They won’t permit me to leave, Caramon!” He fought for breath enough to speak. “They’ll try to stop us. You’re only putting yourself in danger.”
“Let them come,” Caramon said grimly. He walked with firm, unhurried steps down the corridor.
Raistlin sank back, helpless, his head resting on Caramon’s shoulder. For an instant, he allowed himself to feel comforted by his brother’s strength. The next moment he cursed his weakness, cursed his twin.
“You fool!” Raistlin said silently, lacking the strength to speak the words aloud. “You great, stubborn fool! Now we’ll both die. And, of course, you will die protecting me. Even in death, I will be indebted to you.…”
“Ah!”
Raistlin heard and felt the sharp intake of breath into his brother’s body. Caramon’s pace slowed. Raistlin raised his head.
At the end of the corridor floated the disembodied head of an old man. Raistlin heard whispered words.
If your armor is made of dross …
“Mmmmm …” Caramon rumbled deeply in his chest—his battle cry.
“My magic can destroy it!” Raistlin protested as Caramon laid his brother gently on the stone floor. That was a lie. Raistlin did not have energy enough to pull a rabbit from a hat. But he’d be damned if Caramon was going to fight his battles, especially against the old man. Raistlin had made the bargain, he had been the one to benefit, he must pay.
“Get out of my way, Caramon!”
Caramon did not respond. He walked toward Fistandantilus, blocked Raistlin’s view.
Raistlin put his hands to the wall. Propping his body against the stone, he pushed himself to a standing position. He was about to expend his strength in one last shout, hoping to warn off his brother. Raistlin’s shout was never uttered. His warning died in a rattle of disbelief.
Caramon had dropped his weapons. Now, in place of his sword, he held a rod of amber. In the other hand, his shield hand, he clasped a bit of fur. He rubbed the two together, spoke the magic. Lightning streaked from the amber, sizzled down the corridor, struck the head of Fistandantilus.
The head laughed and hurtled straight at Caramon. He did not blench, but kept his hands raised. He spoke the magic again. Another bolt flashed.
The old man’s head exploded in blue fire. A thin cry of thwarted anger screamed from some far distant plane, but it died away to nothing.
The corridor was empty.
“Now we’ll get out of here,” Caramon said with satisfaction. He tucked the rod and the fur into a pouch he wore at his belt. “The door is just ahead.”
“How—how did you do that?” Raistlin gasped, sagging against the wall.
Caramon stopped, alarmed by his brother’s wild, frenzied stare.
“Do what, Raist?”
“The magic!” Raistlin cried in fury. “The magic!”
“Oh, that.” Caramon shrugged, gave a shy, deprecating smile. “I’ve always been able to.” He grew solemn, stern. “Most of the time I don’t need the magic, what with my sword and all, but you’re hurt really bad, and I didn’t want to take the time fighting that lich. Don’t worry about it, Raist. Magic can still be your little specialty. Like I said, most of the time I don’t need it.”
“This is not possible,” Raistlin said to himself, struggling to think clear
ly. “Caramon could not have acquired in moments what it took me years of study to attain. This doesn’t make sense! Something’s not right.… Think, damn it! Think!”
It wasn’t the physical pain that clouded his mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at him, tearing at him with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone’s friend.
Not like Raistlin—the runt, the Sly One.
“All I ever had was my magic,” Raistlin said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in his life. “And now you have that, too.”
Using the wall for support, Raistlin raised both his hands, put his thumbs together. He began speaking the words, the words that would summon the magic.
“Raist!” Caramon started to back away. “Raist, what are you doing? C’mon! You need me! I’ll take care of you—just like always. Raist! I’m your brother!”
“I have no brother!”
Beneath the layer of cold, hard rock, jealousy bubbled and seethed. Tremors split the rock. Jealousy, red and molten, coursed through Raistlin’s body and flamed out of his hands. The fire flared, billowed, and engulfed Caramon.
Caramon screamed, tried to beat out the flames, but there was no escaping the magic. His body withered, dwindled in the fire, became the body of a wizened old man. An old man wearing black robes, whose hair and beard were trailing wisps of fire.
Fistandantilus, his hand outstretched, walked toward Raistlin.
“If your armor is dross,” said the old man softly. “I will find the crack.”
Raistlin could not move, could not defend himself. The magic had sapped the last of his strength.
Fistandantilus stood before Raistlin. The old man’s black robes were tattered shreds of night, his flesh was rotting and decayed, the bones were visible through the skin. His nails were long and pointed, as long as those of a corpse, his eyes gleamed with the radiant heat that had been in Raistlin’s soul, the warmth that had brought the dead to life. A bloodstone hung from a pendant around the fleshless neck.
The old man’s hand touched Raistlin’s breast, caressed his flesh, teasing and tormenting. Fistandantilus plunged his hand into Raistlin’s chest and seized hold of his heart.
The Soulforge Page 45
