Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  The last battle. The bloodstone.

  26th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin was caught completely off-guard. A second before, he had been triumphing in his victory over Ariakas, and between the space of one shuddering breath and another, he was held fast in the grip of his most implacable foe, a wizard Raistlin had duped and cheated and sought to destroy.

  Raistlin stared, mesmerized, at the bloodstone pendant dangling from the bony hand. When Fistandantilus had been a living man, he had murdered countless young mages, sucking out their lives with the bloodstone and giving the life-force to himself.

  In desperation, Raistlin cast the only spell that came to his terrified mind—an elementary spell, one of the first he had ever learned. “Kair tangus miopiar!”

  His hand flared with fire. Raistlin realized the moment he spoke that the spell would be useless against Fistandantilus. The magical flames could only harm the living. He was despairing, cursing himself, when, to his amazement, Fistandantilus snarled and snatched his hand away.

  “You are flesh and blood!” Raistlin gasped, and he was heartened. He was fighting a live enemy, one that might be strong, but also one who could be killed.

  Falling back, Raistlin clasped the Staff of Magius in both hands and raised it in front of him, using it as both shield and weapon. He remembered the times Caramon had insisted his twin learn to defend himself with the staff and how he had always tried to get out of it.

  “I will soon be your flesh and your blood,” said Fistandantilus, his fleshless lips parting in a ghastly smile. “A reward from my Queen.”

  “Your Queen!” Raistlin almost laughed. “A Queen you plotted to overthrow.’

  “All is forgiven between us,” said Fistandantilus. “On one condition—that I destroy you. Did you honestly think your actions, your plans, would escape my notice? In return for your demise, I will become you—or rather, your young body will house me.”

  He cast a disparaging glance over Raistlin’s thin frame and sniffed. “Not the best body I have inhabited, but one that is powerful in magic. And with my knowledge and wisdom, you will become more powerful still. I hope that will be a final comfort to you in your last moments.”

  Raistlin lashed out with the Staff of Magius, aiming a blow at the wizard’s hooded head. But he was not particularly skilled as a fighter, not like Caramon. His strike was clumsy and slow. Fistandantilus ducked. He caught hold of the staff, and jerked it out of Raistlin’s hands.

  The staff’s magic crackled. Fistandantilus cried in rage and flung the staff halfway down the corridor. Raistlin heard the crystal globe crack as the staff struck the stone floor. The glow of magic dimmed.

  Raistlin glanced back over his shoulder and marked where the staff lay. He fell back a step, his hand fumbling beneath his robes for the pouches that held the dragon orb and his spell components. Fistandantilus saw what he intended. He pointed at the pouches and spoke words of magic. Like iron to lodestone, the pouches flew out of Raistlin’s hands and into the hands of the old man.

  “Bat dung and rose petals!” Fistandantilus cast the pouches disdainfully to the floor. “When I am you, you will have no need of such ingredients. The Master of Past and Present will craft magnificent magic. Too bad you will not be there to see it.”

  Fistandantilus extended his hands, fingers spread, and began to chant, “Kalith karan, tobanis-kar…”

  Raistlin recognized the spell and hurled himself to the floor. Blazing arrows of fire shot from the old man’s fingertips and sizzled over Raistlin’s head. The scorching heat burned his hair. The Staff of Magius lay just beyond reach. The crystal globe had cracked, but the magical light continued to shine and he saw, in its light, something sparkle.

  He was about to try to make a grab for it when he heard footsteps behind him—Fistandantilus coming to finish him off. Raistlin gave a moan and tried to rise, only to collapse onto the floor again.

  Fistandantilus laughed, amused at his struggles. “When I am in your body, Majere, I will hunt down and slay your imbecile brother, who is now trying to fight his way to the Foundation Stone. Caramon will think, in his final, despairing moments, that his beloved twin was his murderer. But then that’s nothing new to poor Caramon, is it? He’s already seen you kill him!”

  Fistandantilus began chanting a spell. Raistlin did not recognize the words; he had no idea what the spell would do. Something horrible, that was certain. He moaned again and glanced surreptitiously behind him. When Fistandantilus was near, Raistlin lashed out with his feet, striking the old man in the shins and sending him crashing to the floor. The spell ended in a garbled cry and a thud.

  Raistlin made a lunge and a grab for the small, sparkling object. His hand closed over the dragon orb, and he scrambled to his feet.

  A trumpet blast echoed through the corridor.

  Fistandantilus did not bother to rise. He sat on the floor, slapped his hands on his knees, and grinned up at him. “Some moron has tripped your spell trap.”

  The old man gathered his black robes around him and pushed himself to his feet. He took a step toward Raistlin, who opened his palm. The dragon orb’s colors swirled and glowed, illuminating the corridor.

  “Well, go ahead, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “You have the orb. Use it. Call upon the power of the dragons to smash me to a bloody pulp.”

  Raistlin looked at the orb, at the colors swirling inside. His mouth twisted, and he looked away.

  Fistandantilus smiled grimly. “You don’t dare use it. You are too weak. You fear the orb will take hold of you and you’ll end up a drooling idiot like poor Lorac.”

  He lifted the bloodstone pendant. “I promise, Majere, I won’t let that happen. Your end will be swift, though not exactly painless. And now, much as I have enjoyed our little contest, my Queen needs my services elsewhere.”

  Fistandantilus began to chant.

  Raistlin closed his fist over the orb. The bright light welled out between his fingers: five rays, five different colors, slanting off in different directions. Raistlin raised his hand.

  “Cease your spell-casting, old man, or I will hurl the orb to the floor. The orb is made of crystal. It can be broken.”

  Fistandantilus frowned. His chanting ceased. He held up the bloodstone pendant and made a squeezing motion with his hand.

  Raistlin’s heart quivered and bounded in his chest. He gasped, unable to breathe. Fistandantilus tightened his grip, and Raistlin’s heart stopped beating. He could not breathe. Black spots burst before his eyes, and he felt himself falling.

  Fistandantilus relaxed his grip a fraction.

  Raistlin’s heart gave a painful lurch, and he was able to draw in a breath. Fistandantilus squeezed his hand again, and Raistlin cried out in agony and fell to the floor. He lay on his back, staring up at Fistandantilus. The old man knelt down beside Raistlin and pressed the bloodstone against Raistlin’s heart.

  Fear, raw and bitter, gripped Raistlin. His mouth went dry; his arm muscles clenched; sickening, hot liquid burned his throat. His fear wrung him, drained him, leaving him confused and shaken. He was not afraid of death. Weak and frail, he had fought death from the moment of his birth. Death held no terror for him; even now, it would be easier to simply shut his eyes and let the easeful darkness wash over him.

  He did not fear dying. He did fear oblivion.

  He would be consumed by Fistandantilus. His soul devoured, swallowed up, and digested. His body would go on living, but he would not. And no one would know the difference. In the end, it would be as if he had never been.

  “Farewell, Raistlin Majere …”

  Raistlin was swimming in the ocean, trying to keep afloat, but he was trapped in the Maelstrom and there was no escape; the blood-red water was dragging him down, dragging him under.

  “Caramon! Where are you?” Raistlin cried. “Caramon, I need you!”

  He felt an arm clasp hold of him, and for a moment relief flooded through him. Then he realized that the arm was
not the muscular arm of his twin. It was the bony arm of Fistandantilus, clutching his victim closer, preparing to suck out his life. Fistandantilus pried open Raistlin’s fingers and took hold of the dragon orb. He held it up before him and laughed.

  Raistlin saw to his horror his own face laughing at him. The eyes were his eyes, the pupils the shape of hourglasses. The hand that held the dragon orb was his hand. The light of the staff, which was fast dimming, glimmered on golden skin. The delicate bones, the maze of blue veins, were all his.

  He was losing himself, dwindling away to nothingness.

  Rage blazed inside Raistlin. He was too weak to use his magic. The spells writhed like snakes in his mind and slithered away, and he could not catch them. But he had another weapon—the weapon a mage could use when all other weapons had failed him.

  Raistlin gave a flick of his wrist, and the little silver knife he wore on the thong around his forearm slid into his palm. His hand closed spasmodically over the hilt and, with his dying strength, he wrapped his arm around Fistandantilus and pulled him close and thrust the knife into him. Raistlin felt the knife pierce flesh, and he felt it scrape horribly against bone. He had struck a rib. He jerked the knife free. Blood, warm and sticky, gummed his fingers.

  Fistandantilus flinched and gave a puzzled grunt, wondering at first what was wrong. Then the pain hit him, and he realized what had happened. His face that was Raistlin’s face contorted. The hourglass eyes darkened with pain and fury. Raistlin had not dealt his foe a mortal blow, but he had gained precious time.

  His strength was almost gone. He had one more chance, and it would be his last. Unwittingly, Fistandantilus helped him, twisting his body in an effort to try to seize the knife. Raistlin stabbed and the blade sank deep. Fistandantilus gave a cry, only it was Raistlin’s voice that screamed. Raistlin saw his own face contort in agony. He shuddered and closed his eyes and thrust the knife in deeper. He gave the blade a twist.

  Fistandantilus fell, writhing, to the floor. Raistlin let go of the knife; his hand was too weak and shaking to hold on to it. The knife remained buried up to the hilt in the black robes.

  Raistlin gasped for air and watched himself die. He realized suddenly he had only a few moments to act. He grabbed the bloodstone that still lay on his breast and slammed it down on the heart of the dying wizard.

  An eerie feeling come over Raistlin, a feeling that he had done this before. The feeling was strong and unnerving. He ignored it and kept the stone pressed to the heart, and he felt his own strength, his own being returning to him and with it, the knowledge, the wisdom, the power of the archmagus.

  Fistandantilus opened his mouth in an attempt to cast a spell. He coughed, choked, and blood, not magic, flowed from his lips. He gave a shudder. His body went rigid. The blood bubbled on his lips. The hourglass eyes fixed in his head, and he lay still. His hand went flaccid; the dragon orb rolled onto the floor. The hourglass eyes, dark with enmity and rage, stared up at Raistlin. He looked down on himself, dead, and Raistlin wondered, suddenly, fearfully, if he was the one who had died, and if it was Fistandantilus who was gazing down at him.

  Alarmed at the thought, he snatched the bloodstone from the body, and the flow of knowledge ended abruptly. He did not know what he had gleaned; his head was littered with strange spells and arcane knowledge. He was reminded of the confusion in the library in the wretched Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka.

  He rose, shakily, to his feet, and he was suddenly aware that he was not alone. By the light of the Staff of Magius, once more burning brightly, he could see on the wall a shadow—five heads of the Dark Queen.

  Well done, Fistandantilus!

  Raistlin caught his breath and cautiously looked up.

  Raistlin Majere is dead! You have slain him!

  The shadowy eyes of the shadowy heads stared at something in his hand. He looked down to see that he was holding the bloodstone pendant.

  “Yes, my Queen,” he said. “Raistlin Majere is dead. I have killed him.”

  Good! Now make haste to the Foundation Stone. You are the final guardian.

  The heads vanished. The Dark Queen, intent upon other dangers, disappeared.

  “Not even the gods can tell the difference,” Raistlin murmured.

  He looked at the bloodstone pendant. As the wizard’s dark soul flooded into his, Raistlin had glimpsed unspeakable acts, countless murders, and other crimes too terrible to name. He closed his hand over the pendant, then flung it into one of the acid pools. He watched the acid devour the pendant, as the pendant had almost devoured him. He seemed to hear it hiss in anger.

  Raistlin held up the dragon orb. He watched the colors swirl in the light, and he chanted the words and disappeared from the tunnels, leaving the body of Raistlin Majere behind.

  18

  Two Brothers.

  26th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin stood before a broken column, encrusted with jewels that glittered temptingly, luring the unwary to their doom. He murmured the words to a spell he had not known he knew, and he traced a rune in the air. The figure of a woman appeared inside the stone. The woman was young, with a sweet and winsome face, pale with grief and sorrow, soft with yearning. The woman’s eyes searched the darkness.

  He saw her lips move, heard her ghostly, anguished cry.

  “Berem comes, Jasla,” Raistlin said.

  He was careful to avoid stepping in the underground stream, which was crawling and snapping and roiling with baby dragons. Climbing a rock ledge that ran along the foul water, he came to a place some distance from the stone, where he could keep watch. He spoke the word, “Dulak,” and the staff’s light went out.

  Raistlin waited in the darkness for the person who had been dumb enough—or perhaps courageous enough—to walk into his spell trap. Raistlin knew who that person was, the other half of himself. He heard the sounds of two people sloshing through the dragon-snapping, bloodstained water. He knew them in spite of the darkness.

  One was Caramon, a good man, a good brother, better than he deserved. The other was Berem Everman. The emerald glimmered and, in answer, the jewels in the Foundation Stone began to glitter with a myriad of colors.

  Caramon walked protectively at Berem’s side. His sword was in his hand, and it was stained with blood. His black armor was dented; his arms and legs were bleeding. He had a bloody gash on his head. His jovial face was pale, haggard, drawn with pain. Sorrow had marked him. The darkness had changed; the darkness had changed him.

  A brother lost.

  Raistlin looked into the future and saw the end. He saw a sister’s love and forgiveness, her brother redeemed. A brother found.

  He saw the temple fall. The stone splitting as the Dark Queen shrieked in rage and struggled to keep her grip on the world. He saw a green dragon, waiting for his command, waiting to take him to the Tower of Palanthas. The Tower’s gates would open at last.

  “Shirak,” said Raistlin, and the magical light of the Staff of Magius banished the darkness.

  19

  The End of a Journey.

  26th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  he Temple’s darkness is lit to day-like brilliance with the power of my magic. Caramon, sword in hand, can only stand beside me and watch in awe as foe after foe falls to my spells. Lightning crackles from my fingertips, flame flares from my hands, phantasms appear—so terrifyingly real that they can kill by fear alone.

  Goblins die screaming, pierced by the lances of legions of knights who fill the cavern with their war chants at my bidding, then disappear at my command. The baby dragons flee in terror back to the dark and secret places of their hatching, draconians wither in the flames. Dark clerics, who swarmed down the stairs at their Queen’s last bidding, are impaled upon a flight of shimmering spears, their last prayers changing to wailing curses of agony.

  Finally comes the Black Robes, the eldest of the Order, to destroy me—the young upstart. But they find to their dismay that—old as they are—I am in some m
ysterious way older still. My power is phenomenal. They know within an instant that I cannot be defeated. The air is filled with the sounds of chanting, and one by one, they disappear as swiftly as they came, many bowing to me in profound respect as they depart upon the wings of wish spells. …

  They bow to me.

  Raistlin Majere. Master of Past and Present.

  I, Magus.

  AFTERWORD

  ragons of Autumn Twilight, first published in 1984, celebrates its twenty-fifth anniversary in 2009. Since then, the Dragonlance Chronicles have been continuously in print. They have sold more than thirty million copies worldwide and been translated into almost every language.

  We have become friends with so many people around the world, people of all races, creeds, and nationalities, who have been brought together through a love of reading. We would like to thank the many fans worldwide for their help and support and encouragement. We want to give special thanks to the group on the Internet message boards of the Dragonlance Nexus, who have rallied around to provide background research and information.

  Perhaps our proudest moment was to be involved with the production of the animated film Dragons of Autumn Twilight. We would like to thank the people who worked on the movie, which has been released on DVD from Paramount Pictures: producers Arthur Cohen and Steve Stabler, director Will Meugniot, writer George Strayton, coexecutive producers Cindi Rice and John Frank Rosenblum, and composer Karl Preusser who wrote the fabulous original musical score. All the actors did a wonderful job, but we would especially like to thank Jason Marsden, who did the voice of Tasslehoff and who was so kind to give his time and talent to the fans and to us.

  Our thoughts go to our friends and members of the very first Dragonlance team: Jeff Grubb, Michael Williams, Doug Niles, and Harold Johnson; our first editor, who took a huge chance on us, Jean Blashfield Black; the amazing art staff of TSR, Inc.—Larry Elmore, Jeff Easely, Clyde Caldwell, Keith Parkinson; our former publisher, Mary Kirchoff; and our former executive editors, Peter Archer and Brian Thomsen. Finally, we would like to give special thanks and heartfelt gratitude to our friend and editor for all these many years, Pat McGilligan.