Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (7 page)

The beautiful tower was transformed into a thing of evil, horrible to look upon. Almost four hundred years had passed, and no one had dared come too near it. Many had tried, but few could summon up the courage to come within sight of the dread Shoikan Grove, a forest of oak trees that stood guard around the Tower. No one knew what went on in the grove. No one who entered the grove ever returned to tell.

Raistlin was here in this part of Palanthas because he had magic to perform, and it was vital that he be left alone. Any interruption—such as Bertrem knocking on his door—might well be fatal.

The Tower’s twisted remains came into view, blotting out the stars, blotting out the light of the two moons, Solinari and Lunitari. Nuitari, the dark moon, was still visible, though only to the eyes of those who had been initiated into the dark god’s secrets. Raistlin kept his eyes upon the dark moon and drew courage from it.

He pressed steadily on, even though he could feel the terror that flowed in a bone-chilling river from the Tower. Fear lapped at his feet. He shivered and drew his robes closer around him and went on. Fear grew deeper. He began to sweat. His hands trembled, his breath came fast, and he was afraid he would have a coughing fit. He gripped the Staff of Magius tightly, and though the shadow of the Tower snuffed out every other light in the world, the staff’s light did not fail him.

The river of terror grew so deep that he could barely find the courage to put one foot in front of the other. Death awaited him. The next step would be his doom. Still he took that next step. Gritting his teeth, he took another.

“Turn back!” Fistandantilus urged him, his voice hammering inside Raistlin’s brain. “You are mad to think of trying to destroy me. You need me.”

You need me, Raist!
Caramon’s voice said, pleading.
I can protect you
.

“Shut up!” Raistlin said. “Both of you.”

He came within sight of the Shoikan Grove, and he shuddered and closed his eyes. He could not go on, not without risking dying of the terror. He was far from the populated part of the city. It would do. He searched around for a suitable place to cast his spell. Nearby was an empty building with three gables and leaded pane windows. According to the sign that dangled at a crazy angle from a hook, the building had once been a tavern known as the Wizard’s Hat, a name suitable for a tavern located near the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas.

The painted sign was extremely faded, but by the light of the staff, Raistlin could see a laughing wizard quaffing ale from a pointed hat. Raistlin was reminded of the senile old wizard, Fizban, who had worn (and continually mislaid) a hat that looked very much like the one portrayed on the sign.

The memory of Fizban made Raistlin uncomfortable, and he quickly banished it. He walked over to the door and shoved on it. The door creaked on rusty hinges and swung slowly open. Raistlin was about to enter when he had the feeling he was being watched. He told himself that was nonsense; no one in his right mind came to this part of the city. Just to reassure himself, he cast a glance around the street. He saw no one, and he was about to enter the tavern when he happened to look up at the sign. The painted eyes of the wizard were fixed on him. As he stared, one eye winked.

Raistlin shivered. The thought came to him that if he failed, he would die there and no one would ever know what had happened to him. His body would not be found. He would die and be forgotten, a pebble washed away in the River of Time.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Raistlin chided himself. He stared hard at the sign. “It was a trick of the light.”

He walked swiftly into the abandoned tavern and shut the door behind himself. All that time, Fistandantilus was berating him.

“I cast the Curse of Rannoch! I am the Master of Past and Present. You are nothing, a nobody. Without me, you would have failed your Test in the Tower.”

“Without me,” Raistlin returned, “you would be lost and adrift in the vastness of the universe, a voice without a mouth, a scream no one can hear.”

“You have used
my
knowledge,” Fistandantilus said.
“I have fed you my power!”

“I
spoke the words that mastered the dragon orb,” said Raistlin.

“I tell you the words to speak!” Fistandantilus retorted.

“You do,” Raistlin agreed, “and all the while you mean to destroy me. You will wait until my life-force gives you strength, and then you will use it to kill me. You plan to become me. I won’t let that happen.”

Fistandantilus laughed. “My hand holds your heart! We are bound together. If you kill me, you will die.”

“I am not convinced of that. Still, I will not take a chance,” said Raistlin. “I do not intend to kill you.”

He sat down upon a dust-covered bench. The tavern’s interior was much as it had been centuries before, when the tavern had been a popular place for the wizards and their pupils to congregate. There was no bar, but there were tables surrounded by comfortable chairs. Raistlin would have expected the room to be filled with cobwebs and overrun by rats, but apparently even spiders and rodents were loath to live within the shadow of the Tower, for the dust lay thick and smooth and undisturbed. A mural on the wall portrayed the three gods of magic toasting each with mugs of foaming ale.

Raistlin looked around the empty tables and chairs, and he imagined wizards sitting there, laughing, telling tales, discussing their work. Raistlin saw himself seated there, discoursing, studying, arguing with his fellows. He would have been accepted for what he was, not reviled. He would have been loved, admired, respected.

Instead he was alone in the darkness with the specter of evil.

Raistlin leaned the Staff of Magius against the table, propping it with a chair so it would shed its pure, white light on the table. A cloud of dust rose as he sat down, and he sneezed and coughed. When the coughing fit ended, he took the orb from its pouch and placed it on the table.

Fistandantilus had gone quiet. Raistlin could no longer mask his
thoughts from the old man, for he had to concentrate his entire being on taking control of the dragon orb. Fistandantilus saw the danger he was in, and he was trying to find a way to save himself.

Raistlin placed the dragon orb on the table, steadying the small globe so it did not roll off onto the floor. He took from another pouch a crudely carved wooden stand he had constructed during those days when he and Caramon and the others had traveled by wagon across Ansalon.

Raistlin had been happy then, happier than he had been in a long time. He and his brother had rediscovered some of their old camaraderie, remembering what it was like in their mercenary days, when it had been just the two of them relying on steel and magic for their survival.

He brushed dust from the table off the dragon orb and brushed the dust of Caramon from his mind. He placed the orb in the center of the wooden stand. The orb was cold to the touch. He could see, in the staff’s light, the varied shades of green swirling around slowly inside. He knew what to expect, having used the orb before, and he waited, counseling patience, battling fear.

He thought back to the writings of an elf wizard named Feal-Thas, who had once possessed a dragon orb. Raistlin recalled one line.

Every time you try to gain control of a dragon orb, the dragon inside is trying to gain control of you
.

The dragon orb began to grow to its original size, about the span of his hand measured with his fingers spread wide, from the tip of his thumb to the tip of his little finger.

He reached out to the orb.

“You will regret this,” Fistandantilus said.

“I will add it to my list,” Raistlin said, and he placed his hands upon the cold crystal of the dragon orb.
“Ast bilak moiparalan. Suh tantangusar.”

He spoke the words he had learned from Fistandantilus. He spoke them once; then spoke them a second time.

The green color swirling around in the orb was subsumed by a myriad of colors, all whirling so rapidly that if he looked at them, they would make him dizzy. He shut his eyes. The crystal was cold,
painful to the touch. He kept firm hold of it. The pain would ease, only to be replaced by far worse.

He said the words a third time and opened his eyes.

A light glowed in the orb. A strange light, formed of all the colors of the spectrum. He likened it to a dark rainbow. Two hands appeared in the orb. The hands reached out for his hands. Raistlin drew in a deep breath and took hold of the hands, clasped them tightly. He was confident, felt no fear. In the past, the hands had supported him, soothed him as a mother soothes a child, and he was startled, alarmed, to feel the hands close over his in a crushing grip.

The table, the chair, the staff, the tavern, the street, the Tower, Palanthas—everything disappeared. Darkness—not the living darkness of night, but the horrible darkness of everlasting nothingness—surrounded him.

The hands pulled on his hands, trying to drag him into the void. He exerted all his will, all his energy. All was not enough. The hands were stronger. They were going to drag him down.

He looked at the hands and saw, to his horror, that they were not the hands of the orb. The flesh of the hands had rotted and fallen off. The nails were long and bone yellow, like those of a corpse. The bloodstone pendant, its green surface spattered with the blood of so many young mages whose lives the old man had stolen, dangled from the scrawny neck.

The battle sapped Raistlin’s fragile strength. He coughed, spitting blood, and since he dared not let go of the hands, he was forced to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his new black robes. He spoke to the dragon, Viper, whose essence was trapped inside the orb.

“Viper, you acknowledged me as your master!” he said to the dragon. “You have served me in the past. Why do you abandon me now?”

The dragon answered.

Because you are prideful and weak. Like the elf king Lorac, you fell into my trap
.

Lorac was the wretched king who had been arrogant enough to think he could control the dragon orb. The orb had seized control of Lorac and duped him into destroying Silvanesti, the ancient elven homeland.

“He destroyed what he loved most. I destroyed Caramon,” Raistlin said feverishly, not even thinking about what he was saying. “The dragon has duped me …”

The hands tightened their grip and pulled him inexorably into the endless emptiness. Raistlin fought against it with a strength born of desperation. He had no idea what was going on, why the orb had turned on him. His arms trembled from the strain. He was sweating in the black robes. He was growing weaker.

“You float on the surface of Time’s river.” Raistlin gasped, struggling for breath against the choking sensation in his throat. “The future, the past, the present flow around you. You touch all planes of existence.”

That is true
.

“I have an enemy on one of those planes.”

I know
.

Raistlin looked into the orb, looked beyond the hands. He could see, on the other side of the River of Time, the face of Fistandantilus. Raistlin had seen rats on battlefields swarming over the corpses of the dead. He’d watched them devour flesh, strip it from the bones. The ruins the rats left behind were all that was left of the old man.

His eyes remained, burning with resolve and ruthless determination. His skeletal hands held Raistlin fast, one hand on his hand, one hand on his heart. Fistandantilus was fighting Raistlin for control of the dragon orb. And he was using Raistlin’s own life- force to do it.

“I see the irony does not escape you,” said Fistandantilus. His voice softened, grew almost gentle. “Stop fighting me, young magus. No need to continue to endure the struggle, the pain, the fear that is your wretched life. You stand before me naked and vulnerable and alone. All those who ever cared for you now loathe and despise you. You do not even have the magic. Your skills, your talent, your power come from me. And deep inside, you know it.”

He speaks the truth, Raistlin thought in despair. I have no skill of my own. He told me the words to the spells. His knowledge gave me power. He watched over me, protected me as Caramon watched over me. And now Caramon is gone, and I have no one and nothing.

He is wrong. You have the magic
.

The voice that spoke was his voice, and it came from his soul and drowned out the seductive voice of Fistandantilus.

“I have the magic,” said Raistlin aloud, and he knew that pronouncement to be the truth. For him, it was the only truth. He grew stronger as he spoke. “The words may have been your words, but the voice was mine. My eyes read the runes. My hand scattered the rose petals of sleep and flared with magical fire of death. I hold the key. I know myself. I know my weaknesses, and I know my worth. I know the darkness and the light. It was
my
strength,
my
power,
my
wisdom that mastered this dragon orb.”

Raistlin drew in a deep breath, and life filled his lungs. His heartbeat was strong and vital. For a moment, the curse that had been laid on his hourglass eyes was lifted. He no longer saw all things withering with age. He saw himself.

“I have been afraid all my life. I fell victim to you because of my fear.”

He saw his foe as a shadow of himself, cast across space and time. Raistlin gripped the hands firmly, confidently.

“I am afraid no longer. Our bargain is broken. I sever the tie.” “Only death severs our tie!” said Fistandantilus. “Seize him,” Raistlin commanded.

The blue and red, black and green, and white lights inside the orb swirled violently, dazzling Raistlin’s eyes and bursting inside his head. The colors coalesced, with green predominant. The dragon, Viper, began to form inside the orb, various parts of the beast visible to Raistlin as it thrashed about: a fiery eye, a green wing, a lashing tail, a horned snout and snarling mouth, dripping fangs, ripping claws. The eye glared at Raistlin, and then shifted its glare to Fistandantilus.

Viper lifted his wings and, still inside the orb, he soared through time and space.

Fistandantilus saw his danger. He looked frantically around, seeking some means of escape. His refuge had become his prison. He could not flee the plane of his tenuous existence.