by Tina Daniel
Yuril, plus the four other sailors from the Castor who had decided crewing on a disabled ship was not to their taste, worked near the water’s edge, dragging their two small boats up onto the beach. Tanis hoped they hadn’t traded one bad job for worse.
Standing apart from the others, his back to the sea, Raistlin surveyed the terrain.
The narrow strip of rock-strewn beach gave way to low sand dunes. Beyond these, the land began rising and breaking up into a maze of ravines and plateaus. As far as the eye could see the terrain looked barren and uninviting.
Although it was only midmorning, the sun burned hot and bright in the sky. A dry wind stirred up the sand on the shore. Tanis felt the grit invade his throat.
A hand brushed the half-elf’s arm. It belonged to Raistlin. The young mage had a disconcerting habit of moving around so quietly it was difficult to keep track of him.
Raistlin didn’t seem dismayed by the tough, broken landscape. “I judge that we have about a two-day journey inland before we reach the ruins of the dead city,” said the mage to Tanis in a low voice. “Do you think Flint’s leg will hold up?”
“His leg is much better,” replied Tanis. “The old dwarf will probably outlast all of us.”
Both men looked over to where Kirsig hovered around Flint, apparently offering a poultice for his leg while the dwarf grumbled and attempted to shoo her away. But not too strenuously, Tanis noticed. He and Raistlin exchanged a grin.
When Tanis turned back, his momentary good humor faded. “The question I have, Raistlin, is where are we headed? You haven’t told us very much about the spell that you say will open a portal to let this evil god, or whatever it is, into this world.”
Raistlin caught not only the impatience but also the hint of skepticism in Tanis’s voice. “Surely in the land of your mother’s people you learned something about the old gods,” the young mage answered, knowing that any reference to Tanis’s divided heritage risked offending the half-elf. Raistlin saw that his words had hit their mark, for color rose in Tanis’s cheeks.
“I can’t vouch for whether the spell I uncovered will open a portal, or whether the old gods such as Sargonnas are more than mere fairy tales,” the mage continued brusquely. “I do know that the spell seems to be ancient and powerful magic. And I know that if there is any chance of Sargonnas entering this world, it behooves us to try to prevent it.”
“What about Sturm, Caramon, and Tasslehoff? Are they somewhere on this island?” Tanis asked. “Aren’t they the reason we came all this way?”
“I can’t wave a magic wand to see if they’re here or not,” snapped Raistlin, “but you heard what Kirsig said about the minotaurs forming alliances with other races. If, as I suspect, the minotaurs are caught up in their age-old visions of conquest and are trying to bring Sargonnas into the world to help them, it wouldn’t matter where Caramon and the others are. We’re all in dire jeopardy.”
Raistlin paused, taking a deep breath. Visibly calmed, he continued. “The jalopwort was just one of the ingredients necessary for the spell. The magic also calls for the sacrifice of a victim amenable to Sargonnas. My guess is that may be the reason why Caramon, Sturm, and Tas were brought to this part of the world. One of them may be the intended offering.
“We don’t have much time. The spell can only occur during certain conjunctions of the sun, the moons, and the stars. These conjunctions occur not twice in one hundred years, and the next is only three nights away.
“Now let me show you a map I copied from an antique atlas in Morath’s library.”
Tanis waited, convinced. With Flint and Kirsig, who had overheard the tense discussion and joined them, the half-elf looked at a scrap of parchment that Raistlin had produced. It was covered with squiggly lines and geographic symbols. Yuril and the other sailors came hurrying up, and the small group gathered round the young mage.
“I think the spell will be cast somewhere in or near the ancient ruins of the city of Karthay,” said Raistlin. “The city was destroyed by a volcano during the Cataclysm and buried under tons of ash and lava. It is a sacred site of the minotaur nation.” He pointed to an area on the map marked as a mountain range. “Sargonnas is the god of deserts, fires, and volcanos,” he added.
“Based on this map, I think we can get there in time, but the journey promises to be dangerous. Anyone who does not relish that prospect should feel free to stay here and wait for us.” At this, Raistlin looked up, not at Flint, but at Yuril and the female sailors.
Yuril and her small band had apparently already discussed the risks. “I have a debt to repay,” spoke the sinewy sailor, “and my friends here are no strangers to adventure. I speak for us all when I say we cast our lot with you.” Yuril delivered her statement proudly, one hand on the hilt of the short sword she wore at her waist. The muscles stood out on her bronzed forearms.
We are fortunate to have her and the others, thought Tanis.
“This dead city,” Flint spoke up, “will probably be well guarded, and Sturm and Caramon and that damnable kender along with it. What do you plan to do once we get there?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Raistlin. “I won’t know until we see how many soldiers are guarding the area. Between us,” he added, looking at Tanis, “we should be able to come up with a plan.”
Tanis felt his heart constrict as he thought once more of the missing Kitiara. He turned away from the group, pretending to scan the inhospitable terrain.
Following Raistlin’s map, they picked up a trail along a river that had long ago flowed to the sea from the Worldscap Mountains. Now it had dried up, leaving only cracked, sun-baked earth.
The river route led them down one side and up the other of countless ravines and gashes in the earth. When they could, they kept to the dusty riverbed. Other times, they followed the dry river from paths above, proceeding single-file on narrow ridgetops. All day they stuck to their course, making such slow and uncertain progress traveling up and down and then doubling back that Tanis was left confused as to what, if any, headway they were making. Pausing as they reached one of several plateaus, the half-elf was glad to see that the Blood Sea had receded into the distance while a range of towering peaks had drawn somewhat nearer.
The land appeared empty—empty of greenery, animals, indeed of all life. The wind gusted at the higher elevations, strong and dry, howling into their faces and driving grit into their eyes and throats. The sun glared overhead, creating ovenlike heat that reached into all but the deepest recesses of the rocks. Whenever they plunged abruptly downward and briefly luxuriated in cool shadows, they felt a hint of something worse—the bitter chill of the territory at night.
By late afternoon, the small group was exhausted and dispirited. Raistlin and Tanis headed the column, in effect sharing leadership. Flint and Yuril brought up the rear. Trekking along the bottom of a ravine, the companions trudged along in silence, no longer so confident of the path they had chosen.
All of a sudden Raistlin and Tanis rounded a bend to find a sheer wall that loomed before them with no possibility of being scaled. To both their left and right stretched fifty vertical feet of smooth rock. Once again the group had no option but to turn back and retrace their steps.
By the time Flint and Yuril had climbed out of the ravine and Raistlin had made another sighting of the dry, winding riverbed below, the sun was sinking out of sight. Tanis felt the first chill as darkness began to settle over the land. He saw Flint sink down to the ground, his face lined with sweat and dirt. Immediately several of the sailors followed suit.
Next to him, Raistlin peered at the parchment map, turning it around in his hands, trying to decipher which was the best route.
“The old river keeps splitting off and changing direction,” the young mage said wearily.
“Your map must be a hundred years out of date,” said Tanis, “Who knows how many rockslides and earthquakes have come along since then?”
Raistlin frowned at him.
“I don’t think
any of us can go much farther today,” said the half-elf softly, indicating the group that had collapsed on the ground behind him.
“I told you,” said the mage sharply, “that if we don’t get to Karthay inside of two days, there may be grave consequences.”
“Perhaps there will be enough light from the twin moons later tonight to permit us to cover some ground,” said Tanis diplomatically. “But right now it would be best for us to stop to eat and rest. Besides, I thought I spotted some ant-lion pits during the day, and we wouldn’t want to stumble into one in the dark.”
Flint had come up behind them. “Ant-lion pits?” said the dwarf worriedly. “I agree with Tanis. Let’s make camp for the night.”
Raistlin hesitated.
“There’d be more shelter down in one of the ravines,” added Flint, “but we’d also be more vulnerable to attack.” Tanis nodded.
With a heavy sigh, Raistlin gave in. His pale, tense face suddenly showed a deep exhaustion. Tanis felt quite certain that the young mage couldn’t have lasted much longer.
Everybody was happy with the decision.
As night fell, the temperature continued to drop. Now the wind cut into them bitterly. They made camp behind a line of boulders. Although the boulders afforded them only meager protection from the biting wind, they did offer another advantage, Flint noted. “In the dark, any attacker will find it hard to distinguish which is stone and which is flesh,” the dwarf said, “and we will appear to be twice our actual number.”
Yuril volunteered to go prowling for wildlife for supper, but Tanis declined her offer. “It’s growing too dark,” Tanis explained. “If anyone should hunt, it is I, with my nightvision. But even if I caught anything, we couldn’t cook it. Raistlin and I agree that we shouldn’t light any fires until we are sure of our bearings. On this high plateau, it might be a beacon to whoever—or whatever—else is on this part of the island.”
The small group huddled together on the leeward side of the boulders. Tanis walked from person to person, sharing the provisions he carried—small portions of meal bread, dried fruit, and half a cupful of water for everyone. All day they hadn’t come across one spring or stream where Tanis could have refilled his canteen. When he reached Flint, Tanis noticed that Kirsig wasn’t at the dwarf’s side as usual.
“Where’s Kirsig?” the half-elf asked anxiously.
“Don’t bother about her,” the dwarf snapped. “She scurried off somewhere after you gave your speech about the fires. Now at last I’ve got some peace and quiet.”
Alarmed at this news, Tanis gazed out over the darkening plateau but could see no sign of the female half-ogre. Despite his protestations, Flint also peered nervously into the gathering night. Just then Kirsig trotted into sight holding a bulging bag.
“Hello, dearies. You weren’t worried about me, were you?” she asked, pinching Flint’s cheek. “I just thought that since we didn’t have much in the way of victuals with us, I’d go see what I could dig up. And dig I did!” She held the bag up triumphantly.
“Smagroot,” Kirsig proclaimed. She held out the sack, insisting everybody take some of its contents. Tanis reached in and grabbed the smallest sample he could find. The smagroot was green, fleshy, and moist, with a texture a little like an uncooked potato. Tanis nibbled on one end of the root. It tasted sweet and soothed his throat with welcome moisture as he swallowed.
“Best thing in the world if you’re stuck in a desert, my daddy always used to say,” Kirsig babbled as she dispensed the smagroot.
Raistlin had come up next to Tanis and taken some. “I have read of smagroot,” said the young mage, eagerly tasting the exotic root. “The plant is also called desert balm and has saved the lives of many travelers stranded in dry parts. But I am surprised that anybody could find some and dig it up in the dark.” Looking over at Flint, Tanis saw that the grizzled dwarf was beaming the way a teacher does when his prized pupil performs well.
The smagroot momentarily lifted the gloom that had settled on the travelers with nightfall. Everybody ate their fill, and Kirsig still had half a bag left for the next day. After “dinner,” each member of the group worked at making himself comfortable for a night of restless sleep on cold, hard ground. The night was black. Clouds hid the stars. “I’ll take the first watch,” Tanis volunteered.
“I would like to take the first watch,” announced Raistlin, surprising Tanis and Flint. “I’m not ready to go to sleep,” the mage explained, “and I could use the solitude to clear my thoughts.”
Tanis hestitated a moment, then shrugged. After several minutes of tossing and turning, however, he found himself unable to sleep. He propped himself up on one elbow, then sat up. Staring across the space of the camp, his eyes adjusted to the dark so that he could see more than just the auras supplied by his normal nightvision.
Raistlin leaned up against a boulder, staring up at the sky. Hair fell across his face, and the young mage appeared lost in thought.
Tanis jumped as a loud rumble broke the silence, then had to smile when he realized it was only Flint’s snoring, augmented this evening by Kirsig’s. In between the rumbles, a sandpapery noise, like that of a small nocturnal animal scuttling across the ground, reached his ears.
Tanis jerked up his head. Raistlin, he saw, did the same.
The sandpapery whisper had grown louder, until it seemed not to come from the ground but from the sky above. Looking up, Tanis saw nothing before he felt a heavy weight drop onto his shoulders, accompanied by the sensation of being smothered. He attempted to call out a warning but only succeeded in inhaling what felt like a mouthful of feathers. When he tried to reach for the knife in his belt, Tanis found he couldn’t move his arms, which were pinned to his sides. Sharp talons pinched into his neck.
Muffled sounds coming from outside his feather cocoon indicated the others were caught in the same predicament. Suddenly, from over his head, rang out a clear, melodic voice, speaking in Common. “These are not bull-men. They appear to be like you and your friend.”
The feather cocoon opened, and a torch flared in Tanis’s face, blinding him for an instant. Tanis felt himself caught up in a bear hug.
“Tanis Half-Elven! I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. And Raistlin, brother mine!”
Now it was the mage’s turn to be enveloped in Caramon’s muscular frame.
Raistlin smiled broadly. “We expected to find you a captive, not a captor, Brother,” the young mage responded, “but as I told Tanis, I trusted we would find you somehow, alive and well.”
The twins stood side by side, Caramon’s strong arms draped across the slender shoulders of his brother. In the flickering light of the lone torch, Tanis marveled, not for the first time, at how the Majere twins could be at the same time so alike, yet so dissimilar. At this moment, the difference was heightened by the leather thong with feathers attached that encircled Caramon’s head, and the feathers that seemed to sprout from his shoulders but were no doubt just sewn to his tunic.
Looking around in the wavering light cast by the torch, it seemed to Tanis that those who accompanied Caramon also sprouted feathers. Tanis squinted. The half-elf couldn’t be sure, but these tall beings—they stood at least a head taller than Caramon, who was himself more than six feet—appeared to have wings instead of arms!
Joining him, Flint looked suspiciously at the newcomers and broached the obvious question. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends, or at least tell them that they needn’t regard us as enemies?” the dwarf asked Caramon, looking at the feathered creatures nervously.
Caramon grinned broadly. “I apologize. But there is no need to be alarmed.” He gestured toward the half-dozen figures who had arrived with him—indeed, who had carried him and Sturm in flight. “These are my friends, the kyrie, a noble folk and sworn enemies of the minotaurs. They rescued Sturm and me from the dungeon where we were imprisoned on the island of Mithas.”
He turned slightly to indicate the kyrie nearest Raistlin. “Cloudr
eaver, this is my brother Raistlin, and my friends Flint Fireforge and Tanis Half-Elven from Solace. The females I do not know,” Caramon added, casting a jaundiced eye at Kirsig and then an altogether more favorable glance at Yuril and her fellow sailors. “Though I shall be happy to make their acquaintance,” he finished, with an obvious wink at the statuesque Yuril. She didn’t return his gesture, but neither did she turn away.
“So where is Sturm?” demanded Flint, unwilling to relinquish a lifetime of skepticism about strange races simply on Caramon’s say-so. “And though I’m not sure I really want to know, what about Tasslehoff?”
“I am here,” came a hoarse voice from outside the circle of light cast by the torch. The kyrie, Bird-Spirit, stood aside to reveal Sturm struggling to his feet. Much to his embarassment, the Solamnic had fainted soon after the kyrie landed at the companion’s camp. Only a day and a half had passed since he was rescued from the Pit of Doom. Sturm hadn’t had a chance to fully recover from his lengthy ordeal of being shipwrecked, imprisoned, beaten, and almost killed in a duel. He limped into view.
Flint stared. In the dim light, Sturm’s face looked oddly lopsided. “What did you do to your mustache?” the dwarf demanded, incredulous.
“Never mind his mustache. Can’t you see the poor thing isn’t well?” Kirsig scolded, hurrying to Sturm’s side. “C’mon, dearie, let me help.”
Far too well mannered to recoil at the grotesque appearance of the female half-ogre, Sturm did look questioningly at Flint.
“Aw, don’t worry about her. She’s all right,” the dwarf said gruffly. “And she’s not half bad at healing.”
Raistlin spoke up. “She’s considerably better than that, Sturm. Kirsig has proved invaluable during our voyage at sea and our experience thus far on land.” Yuril and the sailors murmured their assent. Her face flushed with pleasure, Kirsig took Sturm’s hand and led him over to her pack.
