by Kevin Stein
Lady Masak grasped her assailant by the ankle and dragged his leg out from beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. She groped frantically for the wand.
An open palm came up and under her chin, snapped her head back, causing her to smash up against the bookshelves. She tried to stand. A black-skinned hand, its fingers bleeding, reached down and lifted the woman by the neck. Claws slashed out and tore open the woman’s throat.
Lady Masak rose on shaking legs and staggered to the window, feebly clutching her neck, around which hung a necklace bearing a silver cat’s skull, ruby eyes gleaming in the flames. Blood ran between her grasping fingers. She shook her head once and smiled-a hideous smile that remained on her face as she sank to the floor.
The fire consumed the room. A hand reached from the roiling clouds of smoke to pick up the wand from the floor. Clawed fingers snapped the rod in two, discarding the splintered wooden halves, leaving it to be destroyed by the blaze.
Chapter 21
The door to the estate was unlocked, and Raistlin turned the handle without a sound, walking through the foyer and front room to the library. The councillor, wearing a white silk gown that clung about her flawless shoulders as if it possessed a life of its own, sat in a chair in front of the fire, arranging the varied pieces on the black and white gameboard on top of a small table.
“Very fitting,” said Raistlin softly, the door closing behind him.
“Welcome, Master Mage. Have you been successful in your mission?”
“It appears that you were expecting me,” he said.
“Please.” Shavas gestured to the chair opposite her. “Yes, I have.”
The mage nodded, taking the offered seat. His face was flushed with red light from the fireplace, giving his skin a sheen of bronze.
“A game?”
“We are much alike, Councillor,” Raistlin said.
“How do you mean?” Shavas asked, her graceful hands arranging her pieces for the first move.
“We both have the same desires.”
“Ah!” Shavas lifted her head. Her word held a volume of meaning, of promise. Her gaze was warm, her voice and body alluring. Her face was incomparably beautiful.
Raistlin, swallowing, began setting up his own pieces. He watched Shavas’s hands carefully, saw her fingers shake. She accidentally knocked over a foot soldier.
“Is there something wrong, my lady?”
She shook her head briskly, tightening her lips, her pale skin flushing in the heat of the fire. “Who shall go first?” she asked.
“I will,” Raistlin replied, pushing a yeoman forward. “I must admit that I am surprised to find you so calm, with your city in such chaos. What has happened?”
Shavas glanced up. “Don’t you know? Where have you been?” She pushed her own yeoman to counter her opponent’s. “Lord Brunswick was murdered last night. Lady Masak was killed just … just this afternoon.”
“You can’t move that piece yet.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t … thinking.”
“How did they die?” Raistlin brought out another yeoman.
“The same as Lord Manion. They were killed by a giant cat.”
The mage lifted one of his knights from the board, replacing it in front of his lines.
The councillor removed a small bar from the scales at the side of the table, shifting the balance very slightly in Raistlin’s favor. She placed a metal barrier, carved to resemble a hedgerow, in front of the knight.
“It is now my turn to ask questions. You have found the reason for the cats’ disappearances?”
Raistlin sent the knight around the hedge, pressing forward, evening the scales by removing one of his own ingots and placing it next to the figure.
“No, I have not. Do you have any information to add to the investigation?”
Shavas paused before answering, placing her fingers against her mouth in thought. She opened a drawer in the board and took out a footman, clad in heaviest armor, placing it two squares in front of Raistlin’s champion.
“It seems late to further a lost cause.”
Raistlin detected a note of relief in her voice.
“How, then, have you spent your time?” she questioned.
The mage left his knight where it was, placing another marker next to it. “In strange company.”
“Whose?”
Raistlin moved the piece forward, in front of Shavas’s footman. “You know him, I think. You keep his picture … there.” He pointed.
“Really? In a book?”
“Allow me to show you.”
The mage rose from his seat, aided by his staff, and went to the shelf where he had replaced the volume entitled, Mereklar and the Lord of Cats.
It was gone.
Raistlin glanced back at Shavas. “Ah, I see you’ve found it for yourself.”
The woman appeared uneasy. “I have no idea what you mean. But perhaps I have seen the man. What does he look like?”
“Tall, with dark skin and hair. Many would consider him handsome,” the mage replied, with a slight touch of bitterness. He returned to his seat, scanning the board with expert ability.
“And his eyes, are they … unusual in any way?”
“Unusual? How do you mean?”
“Did they … shine, reflect, in the light?”
“Perhaps. I didn’t notice. I didn’t spend time gazing into his eyes,” said Raistlin. He removed the opposing footman from the board and the yeoman behind it, setting it into its square.
The councillor bit her lower lip and scraped her tapered fingernails against the varnished table, leaving a slight mark of their passage in the wood. Reaching to the scales, she removed another ingot, this one larger than the others.
Raistlin frowned, wondering at her strategy. The spell she was about to cast was powerful. In defense, he took a marker of his own.
Shavas lifted her knight, dropped it nervously.
“He is here!” she said in a hollow voice. “He has come to kill us all!”
“Who?”
“You know very well who I’m talking about! The Lord of the Cats! He has come to punish the Council of Mereklar.” Shavas reached out a lovely, trembling hand to Raistlin. “I desperately need your protection!”
“The Cat Lord? If is it truly he, then he is a demi-god. How can I stand against one so powerful?” Raistlin asked.
“I didn’t tell you this before,” Shavas began, taking a deep breath, “but my ancestors collected several items of magic in their journeys. One of them is this broach of good fortune I wear”-she touched the golden necklace with the fire opal-“and the other is this.” Opening the drawer to the table, Shavas removed a triangular leather pouch that bulged in the center. “It is a weapon.”
Raistlin was not looking at the bag. He was staring at the necklace, thinking that it looked incomplete, unfinished. Why didn’t I notice that before? he asked himself.
Because you weren’t looking at the necklace, a mocking, inner voice answered.
Shavas opened the pouch, taking out a short wand. Raistlin glanced at it, saw that it was bent at one end, and fitted with a metal ring at the other. It was covered with runes and sigla. He did not touch it.
“How does it work?”
“I’m not certain. I’ve never used it. I’ve never had any need. But, I was told by my father that it takes our feelings and amplifies them a hundredfold. If you want to destroy an enemy, you have only to feel his destruction and point the wand at him, like this.”
She held the weapon by the bent end, pointing the tip at Raistlin.
The mage made no comment. He did not move.
Shavas, smiling and lowering her eyes, turned the wand around and handed it to him. Raistlin replaced it in the bag, then tucked the bag into his robes.
“Now, you can protect me,” Shavas said. “It is a powerful weapon. It can destroy even a demi-god.”
She leaned forward and her gown slipped, revealing her white bosom. The opal hung glittering
from her soft neck. “And when this terrible nightdream is over, we will have time to ourselves.”
“You mean you and my brother will have time,” Raistlin said, sneering. Why did I say that? What is she doing to me? He snarled at himself inwardly. Remember! Remember what you have seen!
“I admit it,” said Shavas, her fingers caressing the mage’s hand. “I … met with Caramon”-she blushed like a schoolgirl-“but it was only to make you jealous. You’re the one I want!”
Her voice was low and husky. There was a ring of truth to her last statement that startled Raistlin. He stared at her, entranced.
“I am wealthy, powerful! I could give you … so much! Do this one thing for me! Destroy the Lord of the Cats!”
Raistlin slowly removed his arm from the woman’s grasp. She let him go, sitting back in her chair. The mage stared down at the board, at the warrior of the dead who stood before his champion.
“From the way you speak, you sound as if you know where he is.”
“Not where he is, where he might be. Lord Cal is very efficient. We think the Cat Lord may be trapped in Leman Square, east of the center of Southgate Street.”
“I have seen it,” the mage said, standing. “Shall I go there now, lady?”
“Yes!” she cried. “And if you succeed, come back to me … tonight.”
“Yes,” said Raistlin, gazing at her intently. “I will be back. Tonight.”
Chapter 22
Caramon made excellent time, running at a steady pace up Southgate Street. The road was, for the most part, empty. Lord Cal and his guards were busy dispersing the people, attempting to restore order. Still, the warrior thought it best to keep to the shadows of twilight. He didn’t have time to beat off an enraged mob.
When he reached Barnstoke Hall, the place appeared deserted. He put his hand on the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. The door was locked. He started to bang on it, demanding entrance, then realized the proprietor might not be exactly delighted to see him.
Well, I opened it once, he thought. I can do it again.
Taking a deep breath, Caramon stepped back, then threw his weight into the door. It gave a little. Gathering himself together, rubbing his shoulder, he started to try again when a voice shrilled behind him.
“Hey, Caramon. Can I help you?”
“Earwig!” the warrior exclaimed, whirling around. “Where have you been? We’ve looked all over! Are you sick or something?”
The kender seemed unusually pale, his face drawn and pinched. He stood with a slight stoop, leaning as heavily on his hoopak as Raistlin did on the Staff of Magius.
“I haven’t eaten in a few days, I think,” he said vaguely. “I was captured by … by that man.”
“Yeah, we went looking for you. In the cave … the cave of the dead wizard?”
Earwig appeared thoughtful, then shrugged. “I don’t remember. I’ve been through quite a lot recently, you know.”
“Where have you been? How did you escape? Wait till I bust this door down, and we’ll have a bite to eat and then talk.”
“No!” cried Earwig, clinging to Caramon. “There’s something I need to show you. We have to go now.”
“But what about you? You don’t look like you’re in any condition to-”
“Do not worry about me, Caramon. We have more pressing matters to attend to!”
The warrior’s eyes opened in surprise. “You’re sure talking funny. You sound kind of like Raist.”
“Don’t be a fool, Caramon!” the kender said sharply. “Come on!”
Caramon didn’t like this, and he wished his brother were around to advise him. Thinking of Raistlin made him recall the mage’s warning. Caramon looked at the kender’s ring finger. The flesh around the ring was swollen and fiery red. Blood trickled from beneath it.
Seeing the warrior’s stare, Earwig shoved his hand into his pocket. “Are you coming? Or do I have to go by myself?”
“All right, Earwig,” said Caramon, not wanting the kender to run around loose. “Lead the way.”
The kender headed at a run back toward the center of the city. Caramon had to work to catch up with him.
“Where are we going?” the warrior asked, searching the streets for signs of the mob.
“Uh, back to where I was, when I was captured, that is,” Earwig replied, apparently distracted by having to walk and think at the same time. “I mean, to the tunnels underneath the city.”
“Tunnels? What tunnels?”
“The tunnels where my jail cell was, dolt!” Earwig muttered beneath his breath.
“Did the tunnels have paintings all over them, like somebody was trying to tell a story or something?”
“Uh, yeah, I think so. It’s kind of hard to remember. I have this terrible headache,” the kender mumbled, rubbing his head with his right hand.
“Here, stop. Wait a minute. Let me see. Maybe you were-” The warrior reached out.
“Hey! What are you doing?!” the kender yelled. Spinning around, he clobbered the fighter on the hand with his hoopak.
“Ouch! Hey, yourself!” Caramon said in dismay, clutching his hand, staring at his friend. “I was only trying to help.”
Earwig glared at him, then a look of confusion crossed his face. “I–I’m sorry. I’m … nervous, that’s all.” The kender turned, moving back up the street.
“A nervous kender!” Caramon marveled. “Maybe I should have him stuffed for posterity.” Shrugging, massaging his bruise, the fighter followed.
After a few blocks, the street began to curve inward toward the center of the city, running parallel to several other boulevards going in the same direction. At the corner of a small park, empty of all life except for the grass and brush, Earwig went to the left, cutting across an open market till he reached a mansion, belonging to one of Mereklar’s ten councillors.
“Whose house is this?” Caramon asked, peering up to the second floor, then back down at the grounds.
“Lord Manion’s. But he’s dead now,” Earwig said sullenly. “Come on, will you! Don’t worry. Nobody’s home.”
“How do you know that?”
“Simple. Nobody lived in the house except for the lord, and he’s dead.” Earwig disappeared, starting to whistle in a weird, unnatural tone.
The warrior brought his parrying dagger up to his face, tapping himself lightly in the forehead with the pommel. “I can’t believe I’m actually listening to a kender,” he muttered. “Much less following one.”
A large pond surrounded by short hedgerows and dotted with flowerbeds reflected the light of the two visible moons, just beginning to rise.
Caramon, glancing at them, saw that they were very close together. “The Great Eye!” he recalled aloud. The deepest part of the night, his brother had said. That is when all three will converge … and great magical power will be unleashed!
Earwig was searching around in the bushes when Caramon found him. “What are you looking for?” the warrior asked, bending down to help.
“A door.”
“A door? In a bush? Boy, your head must have really gotten cracked hard!”
“There it is!” the kender exclaimed, pulling up on a clump of grass that was growing over a wooden cover. The kender scooted down. Caramon peered inside. The door led to a staircase carved into the stone walls.
“Well, aren’t you coming?” Earwig asked, staring up at Caramon from out of the hole.
Heaving a great sigh, Caramon followed, sheathing his main-gauche but leaving his broadsword out, ready for action.
Earwig lit a small torch, throwing flickering yellow light against the walls. The passage was similar to those in the sewer, except these contained different pictures, and strange lines of gold, white, and black ran as far as his eye could see. Caramon reached out and touched a white line. He snatched his hand back in astonishment, shaking it vigorously.
“Hey! That burned me!”
“Cut it out, Caramon! We don’t have time for your nonsense!”
The
kender tugged at the leather harness the fighter wore, attempting to drag his huge friend down the tunnel.
“All right, I’m coming! What’s the big hurry?”
“We have to get somewhere quickly. We … uh … we have to save the city! That’s it!”
“What do you mean, ‘save the city’? What’s going on?” the fighter demanded.
“Help me look for my amber meltings. On the floor,” Earwig said, dropping to his hands and knees, patting the ground with his palms. “Here they are! We go this way!” The kender ran down a corridor.
Caramon dashed after him, his concern over Earwig’s strange behavior now laced with fear. The kender’s little torch brought unnatural shadows to life, but the only sounds were the rapping of boot and shoe against the stone. Earwig outpaced his larger friend, running with ease through the maze of tunnels. The fighter, stumbling every once in a while when he caught his foot in a crack in the floor, was hard pressed to keep up. Suddenly, the kender’s light vanished altogether, and the warrior stopped, perplexed.
“Earwig! Where are you?”
“Over here, Caramon!” came the kender’s voice, strangely muffled, as if he were talking into his hand.
“Where?” The fighter turned in the darkness, trying to locate the other’s yell. “Is this one of your stupid games? Because-”
“Here I am!”
Using his sword’s hilt as a prod, Caramon walked with careful steps toward the direction of his companion’s voice. He bumped into walls several times, the metal of the blade clashing with loud, insensitive vibrations that made the warrior shudder nervously. He was completely blind. The darkness was impenetrable. Then, ahead, he saw a dim light. Torn between relief and the sincere desire to throttle the kender, Caramon stumbled forward and entered a room.
“Earwig. Are you in here?” the fighter called, staring with wonder at the dimly flickering torches.
He heard a puff of breath, then a metal dart struck him in the finger. Caramon fell forward, losing his grip on his sword.
He could see Earwig now, and he stared up at his friend, who was standing on a large stone dais, hoopak in hand. The top had been removed, turning it into a blowgun.
