Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  The shrine was small and oddly shaped, resembling an egg. The ceiling was domed and adorned with the five heads of the dragon, all looking down on Raistlin. The dragons’ eyes had been painted in such a way that they seemed to follow him, so no matter where he walked, he could not escape their gaze. An altar to Takhisis stood in the center of the room. Incense burned perpetually, smoke rising from an unknown source. The smell was cloying, filling the nostrils and lungs. Raistlin felt himself start to grow dizzy and, fearing it was poisonous, he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and tried to breathe as little as possible.

  Raistlin turned to leave, only to find that the door had shut and locked behind him. His alarm grew. He searched for another way out. A door stood open at the end of the nave. To reach it, Raistlin would have to walk past the altar, which was wreathed in the smoke that was definitely having some sort of strange effect on him. The room was shrinking and expanding, the floor rolling in waves beneath his feet. Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand, using it to support his faltering steps, he staggered among the pews, where the worshipers were meant to sit and reflect on their worthlessness.

  He was arrested by a woman’s voice.

  You will kneel before me.

  Raistlin froze, the blood congealing in his veins. He leaned on the Staff of Magius to steady himself. The voice did not speak again, and he doubted, after long moments of silence, if he had heard it or imagined it.

  He took another step.

  Kneel before me! Give yourself to me, the voice said, adding in sultry tones, I offer rich reward to those who do.

  Raistlin could no longer doubt. He looked up at the ceiling. A dark light, like the light of the dark moon, shone in the eyes of the five dragons. He went down on his knees and bowed his head.

  “Your Majesty,” Raistlin said. “How may I serve you?”

  Place the dragon orb on the altar.

  Raistlin’s hands shook. His heart constricted. The poisonous fumes clouded his mind, made thinking an effort. He reached into the pouch and clasped his hand possessively over the dragon orb. He seemed to hear the voice of Fistandantilus, desperately and furiously chanting the words of magic, hoping in vain to destroy the dragon and free himself from his prison.

  “I will serve you in everything except that, my Queen,” said Raistlin.

  A crushing weight fell on him, trying to beat him down. The weight was the weight of the world, and he was collapsing under it. Takhisis was going to smash him, pulverize him. He gritted his teeth and kept fast hold of the dragon orb and did not move.

  Then suddenly, the weight lifted, eased.

  I will hold you to your promise.

  Raistlin crouched on the floor, trembling. The voice did not speak again. He slowly and shakily rose to his feet. The dark light shone in the dragons’ eyes. He could still feel the Queen’s malice, a cold breath hissing through sharp teeth.

  Raistlin was relieved, though confused, to find he was still in one piece. Takhisis could have crushed him like an eggshell. He wondered why she hadn’t.

  The reason came to Raistlin, and a thrill of excitement made him shiver. He had felt the weight of the world, but not the weight of Takhisis.

  “She cannot touch me,” he breathed.

  With the return of her evil dragons, the wise had assumed that Takhisis had also returned. But now Raistlin was not so certain. Takhisis could touch mortals with a spiritual hand, but not with a physical one. She was not able to exert the full force of her power and her might, which meant that she had not yet fully entered the world. Something was stopping her, blocking her way.

  Pondering that question, Raistlin almost ran toward the exit. He felt her cruel eyes and their dark enmity boring into his back. The double doors seemed to be as far away as time’s ending, but he finally reached them. He pushed on them, and they swung open at his touch. He walked out of the shrine and heard the doors sigh shut behind him. He breathed fresh air gratefully. The dizzy feeling passed.

  He found himself in a large hall whose ornate ceiling was supported by thick, black, marble columns. He had never been in this part of the mansion, and he was wondering how to find the way out when he heard someone coming and looked up to see Ariakas. And for the first time, Ariakas saw him.

  This is no coincidence, Raistlin thought, and he tensed.

  Ariakas asked him about his quarters, if he found them to his liking. Raistlin replied that he did, not mentioning that he meant to leave those quarters the moment he had the chance. Ariakas mentioned that Raistlin had Kit to thank for his “post” which, since Raistlin didn’t have a post yet, meant he had Kit to thank for nothing. Raistlin said merely that he owed his sister a good deal.

  Ariakas apparently did not like his tone, for he frowned and said something to the effect that most men cringed and cowered before him. Having just refused to cringe and cower before the Queen, Raistlin was unlikely to cower before the servant. He was not above a little flattery, however, and he said something to the effect that being impressed did not make him fearful, adding that he knew Ariakas had no use for fearful men.

  “I would have you admire me,” Raistlin countered.

  Ariakas began to laugh and said something about not admiring him yet, but maybe some day when he had proven himself. Ariakas walked off.

  That day Raistlin left the Red Mansion. He traveled the corridors of magic to avoid having to pass through one of the city gates. He had to walk the streets, however, and his pulse quickened when he saw two draconians wearing the insignia of the temple guard.

  Fortunately for him, the furor over the death of the Adjudicator had died down. The Nightlord believed the Black Robes in the Tower had been complicit in the murder, and since they had were all dead, he was no longer actively seeking out wizards. He had made numerous arrests of their “accomplices,” tortured the victims until they confessed, put them to death, and announced that the case was closed.

  Raistlin had been worried that the small fish, Mari, might have been caught in the Nightlord’s huge net. He asked around and found out that the suspects had been human, which put his mind at ease. He told himself his concern for the kender was merely the fact that he’d been foolish enough to give her his real name.

  Certain that he would not hear from Ariakas about a job, Raistlin had to earn a living, buy back his dagger, and pay for his room and board. The best and fastest way to earn steel, he decided, was to sell his potions to Snaggle.

  Raistlin returned to the Broken Shield. He picked up his key and opened the door to his room to find the mattress ripped apart, the furniture broken, and a hole punched in the wall.

  Raistlin also found a bill tacked to the bedpost from Talent Orren demanding two steel to pay for the damages. Raistlin sighed deeply and set to work.

  10

  Hair of the Troll. A Maelstrom Special.

  14th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin spent the next two days working on his potions in the empty confines of the Tower. He had arrived on the morning of the thirteenth to find draconians finally removing the bodies of the murdered Black Robes. Raistlin asked to view the last corpse before it was hauled off. He could not have recognized the man from the desiccated remains that were left. He knew it was Paunchy only because the bones with their parchmentlike casing of skin were lying in Paunchy’s bed.

  The body had been drained of fluid. Death must have been slow and prolonged and agonizing. The corpse’s mouth was wide open, jaws locked in a scream. The skeletal fingers gripped the bedsheets. The legs had twisted in their death throes. The eyes rattled around in the sockets like shriveled grapes.

  The draconians fidgeted in the room while Raistlin carefully examined the corpse, constantly peering over their shoulders and fingering their weapons. When Raistlin said he was finished, they hurriedly wrapped the body in the bed linens, carried it out and dumped it in a cart with the others.

  Raistlin went to work cleaning up the kitchen. As he scrubbed the kettle, he went over t
he evidence in his mind and came to the conclusion that he knew the identity of the Black Ghost.

  “But it makes no sense …”

  An idea struck him. Raistlin paused in the act of throwing out rotting cabbages, thought it over, and said to himself, with a shrug, “Kitiara. Of course.”

  Raistlin had not forgotten his interest in the resistance movement, Hidden Light. For two days, he thought of little else as he worked. The decision he was considering would be life-altering, maybe even life-ending, and he would not rush it. He finally made up his mind to at least do some investigating, see what he could learn. After he finished his work for the day, he went in search of the Hair of the Troll.

  The tavern was located on the outskirts of the Green District. Raistlin had no trouble finding it, for the tavern was the only building of any size in that part of the city. Unlike the White District, which was home to warehouses and smithies, tanneries and artisans of various kinds necessary to support the military, the Green District was home to nothing much except vermin—two-legged as well as four-legged.

  The Dark Queen could have not pursued her war without the loyalty and sacrifice of those races who worshiped her: goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, minotaurs, and the newly created race of draconians. But it was humans who, with few exceptions, were running Takhisis’s war, and the human commanders made no secret of the fact that they despised the “scum” who were doing much of the fighting and most of the dying.

  Goblins and hobgoblins, ogres and minotaurs were accustomed to such persecution, though that didn’t mean they liked it. The draconians were not, however. They considered themselves far superior to humans in strength, intelligence, and skill. Having been taught to fight from the time they were hatched, draconians were starting to rebel against their human commanders and generating unrest among the goblins and hobgoblins, who were also sick and tired of spilling their blood and getting nothing except whippings and bad food in return.

  As a consequence, morale among the dragonarmies was dangerously low. The bodies of human commanders were discovered on the battlefield with arrows in their backs; shot from behind by their own forces. Several divisions of hobgoblins had thrown down their arms, refusing to fight until they were paid. Due to the segregation of the forces by race, the “hobs and gobs, dracos and cows,” as they were disparagingly known, congregated in the Green District, the only district where they were welcome.

  They thronged the streets, most of them in various stages of inebriation; ale being a cheap morale booster. The soldiers were always spoiling for a fight, eager to avenge their wrongs, and humans were their favorite targets. Those humans who were forced to enter the Green Gate and walk through the Green District had learned to bring along friends to watch their backs.

  Raistlin had assumed he would have to pass some sort of test to prove himself, but it had not occurred to him that the first test would be to actually reach the Hair of the Troll alive. The moment he set foot on the streets, he was surrounded by a jeering mob. The fact that he was wearing the black robes of a wizard meant little to draconians. Raistlin removed his cowl, allowing the late afternoon sun to shine on his golden skin and his long white hair. His strange appearance caused the crowd to back off and allow him to pass, though they continued to jeer and make threats.

  He forced himself to walk at an even pace. He kept his gaze fixed on his destination and did not react when a dirt clod struck him between the shoulder blades. He had no intention of being goaded into a fight. He had about another block to go, though he was beginning to doubt he would make it.

  Another dirt clod struck him, this time on the head. The blow was not hard or even particularly painful, but he could see that the situation was rapidly deteriorating. A group of slavering goblins, armed with knives, not dirt, closed in on him. Raistlin was starting to think he would have to fight. He took a bit of fur from his pouch and was about to speak the words to a spell that would shoot a bolt of lightning from his hands to one goblin after another when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to see Mari.

  “Hullo, there, Raist,” she said cheerfully.

  She was no longer dressed in black, but in the bright colors kender favored. She appeared to have “borrowed” most of her outfit, for nothing fit her. Her blouse was too long; the sleeves were constantly falling over her hands. Her breeches were too short, permitting a good view of her mismatched and ragged stockings. She had tied her yellow braids in a knot on top of her head, leaving the ends to dangle down around her face, giving her the look of a lop-eared rabbit.

  She added something that Raistlin couldn’t hear over the noise. Mari shook her head. Turning to the goblins, she yelled shrilly, “Shut up, you buggers!”

  The goblins subsided to a dull roar.

  “What brings you to this part of town?” Mari shouted the question.

  Raistlin wondered what in the name of the Abyss she was talking about, then he remembered the correct reply. Keeping one eye on the goblins, he replied, “I have just escaped the Maelstrom,” he said, adding coldly, “And my name is not Raist.”

  Mari grinned at him. “Right now I’d say your name was Dead Duck. You look like you could use some help.”

  Before he could answer, Mari raised her voice. “Free ale at the Hairy Troll! Our friend Raist here is buying!”

  The jeers changed to cheers in an instant. The goblins broke into a run, pushing and shoving each other to be first to reach the tavern.

  Raistlin watched them dash off. He returned the fur to his pouch. “How much is that going to cost me?” he asked with a rueful smile.

  “We’ll put it on your tab,” said Mari.

  She took hold of his hand and tugged him along toward the tavern. Raistlin was somewhat dubious about entering the ramshackle wooden structure, which looked extremely unstable; a healthy sneeze would knock it into a heap. The tavern was two stories tall, but Mari gleefully informed him that a goblin who had ventured onto the second floor had ended up crashing through the rotting floor boards and got stuck in the hole, much to the delight of the crowd in the bar below. Patrons would still proudly point out the hole in the ceiling and relate how the unfortunate goblin’s legs could be seen kicking wildly until someone had pushed him through and he had crashed onto the tables below.

  There had once been a fireplace, but the chimney had fallen in, and no one had bothered to repair it. The outside of the building was painted with lewd drawings and scrawls. A large signboard featuring a very hairy troll had once hung in front, but it had fallen down, and now either the sign leaned against the building or the building leaned against the sign; Raistlin wasn’t sure which. The locals maintained that the sign was the only thing keeping the building standing.

  A door had apparently once guarded the entrance, but all that was left of it were rusting hinges. No door was needed anyway, according to Mari, because the Hairy Troll never closed. It was always crowded, day or night.

  The stench of stale ale, vomit, and sweaty goblin almost stunned Raistlin as he walked through the door. The smell was bad, but the din was mind-numbing. The bar was jammed with soldiers. Empty casks of ale passed for tables. The patrons either stood around them or sat on wobbly benches. There was no bar. The tavern’s owner, a half-ogre named Slouch, sat beside a keg of ale, filling mugs and taking steel, which he dumped in an iron box at his side. Slouch never spoke and rarely moved from his place by the iron box. He paid no heed to anything going on in the bar. Fights might rage around him, but Slouch would never so much as glance up. He kept his attention firmly focused on the ale flowing into the glasses and the steel coins flowing into his coffer.

  The rule was that a patron paid for his drink in advance (Slouch did not trust his customers, with good reason) then took a seat. The ale was delivered by gully dwarf servers, who scuttled around underfoot, dodging kicks and ducking punches. Mari escorted Raistlin to a three-legged table and told him to sit down. He closed his eyes to the filth and took a seat.

  “What would you like to
drink?” she asked.

  Raistlin looked at the dirty glasses being shoved into the hands of the patrons by dirtier gully dwarves and said he wasn’t thirsty.

  “Hey, Maelstrom!” Mari hollered, her shrill voice carrying over the howls and grunts and laughter. “Tell Slouch that my friend Raist here wants one of your specials!”

  Her shout was directed at the only other human in the room, one of the largest, ugliest men Raistlin had ever seen. Maelstrom was as tall as a minotaur and as broad through the chest and shoulders as one of those monsters. He was swarthy, his black eyes barely seen beneath overhanging beetling black brows and long, black, greasy hair that he wore in a braid down his back. He wore a leather vest and leather pants and tall leather boots. He was never known to wear anything else; no shirt, no cloak, and he went bare chested even during the coldest days of winter.

  Maelstrom’s black eyes had been fixed on Raistlin from the moment he’d entered, and at Mari’s shout, he gave a slow nod and said something to Slouch, who shifted his bulk and thrust two mugs beneath the spout of another, smaller cask. Maelstrom deigned to deliver the mugs himself, moving with ease through the crowd, shouldering aside draconians, knocking aside goblins, and leaving overturned gully dwarves in his wake. He never once took his eyes from Raistlin.

  Maelstrom lowered himself onto the long bench that groaned with the enormous man’s weight, causing the other end to tilt, nearly lifting Raistlin off the floor. Maelstrom plunked one mug down in front of Raistlin and kept the other mug for himself.

  “This is my friend Raist,” said Mari. “The one I was telling you about. Raist, this is Maelstrom.”

  “Raist,” said Maelstrom with a slow nod.

  “My name is Raistlin.”

  “Raist,” Maelstrom repeated, frowning, “drink up.”

  Raistlin recognized the pungent, earthy smell of dwarf spirits and was reminded forcibly of his brother, who was overly fond of the potent liquor. Raistlin pushed the mug away.