Read Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
along with Gilthas, the new ambassador to the United Human
Nations, and, of course, Laurana. Even Oalamar will be here!
Think of that, Caramon! The Head of the Conclave coming to
your funeral. He'll be standing right over there next to Palin,
who's head of the White Robes, but then I guess you already
know that, him being your son and all. At least, I think that's
where they were standing. The last time I was here for your fu-
neral I came after it was all over and everyone was going home.
I heard about it later from Palin, who said that they were sorry.
If they'd known I was coming they would have waited. I felt a
bit insulted, but Palin said that they all thought I was dead,
which I am, of course, only not at the moment. And because I
missed your funeral the first time, that's why I had to try to hit
it agam.
Gerard groaned. Not only did he have to deal with a kender,
he had to deal with a mad kender. Probably one of those who
claimed to be "afflicted." He felt badly for Caramon, hoped the
old man wasn't too upset by this incident. Caramon would prob-
ably be understanding. For reasons passing Gerard's compre-
hension, Caramon seemed to have a soft spot for the little
nuisances.
"So anyway my speech goes on," the kender said. " 'Caramon
Majere did all these things and more. He was a great hero and a
great warrior, but do you know what he did best?' " The kender's
voice softened. " 'He was a great friend. He was my friend, my
very best friend in all of the world. I came back-or rather I came
forward-to say this because I think it's important, and Fizban
thought it was important, too, which is why he let me come. It
seems to me that being a great friend is more important than
being a great hero or a great warrior. Being a good friend is the
most important thing there is. Just think, if everyone in the world
were great friends, then we wouldn't be such terrible enemies.
Some of you here are enemies now-' I look at Dalamar at this
point, Caramon. I look at him very sternly, for he's done some
things that haven't been at all nice. And then I go on and say, 'But
you people are here today because you were friends with this one
man and he was your friend, just like he was mine. And so maybe
when we lay Caramon Majere to rest, we will each leave his grave
the beginning of peace.' And then I bow and that's the end. What
do you think?"
Gerard arrived in the doorway in time to see the kender jump
down off a table, from which vantage point he'd been delivering
his speech, and run over to stand in front of Caramon. Laura was
wiping her eyes on the comers of her apron. Her gully dwarf
helper blubbered shamelessly in a comer, while the Inn's patrons
were applauding wildly and banging their mugs on the table,
shouting "Hear, hear!"
Caramon Majere sat in one of the high-backed booths. He was
smiling, a smile touched by the last golden rays of the sun, rays
that seem to have slipped into the Inn on purpose just to say
goodnight.
"I'm sorry this had to happen, sir," said Gerard, walking
inside. "I didn't realize he would trouble you. I'll take him away
now."
Caramon reached out his hand and stroked the kender's top-
knot, the hair of which was standing straight up, like the fur of a
startled cat.
"He's not bothering me. I'm glad to see him again. That part
about friendship was wonderful, Tas. Truly wonderful. Thank
you."
Caramon frowned, shook his head. "But I don't understand
the rest of what you said, Tas. All about the United Elven Na-
tions and Riverwind coming to the Inn when he's been dead
these many years. Something's peculiar here. I'll have to think
about it." Caramon stood up from the booth and headed
toward the door. "I'll just be taking my evening walk, now,
Laura."
"Your dinner will be waiting when you come back, Father,"
she said. Smoothing her apron, she shook the gully dwarf, or-
dered him to pull himself together and get back to work.
"Don't think about it too long, Caramon," Tas called out. "Be-
cause of . . . well, you know."
He looked up at Gerard, who had laid a firm hand on the
kender's shoulder, getting a good grip on flesh and bone this time.
"It's because he's going to be dead pretty soon," Tas said in a
loud whisper. "I didn't like to mention that. It would have been
rude, don't you think?"
"I think you're going to spend the next year in prison," said
Gerard sternly.
Caramon Majere stood at the top of the stairs. "Yes, Tika, dear.
I'm coming," he said. Putting his hand over his heart, he pitched
forward, headfirst.
The kender tore himself free of Gerard, flung himself to the
floor, and burst into tears.
Gerard moved swiftly, but he was too late to halt Caramon's
fall. The big man tumbled and rolled down the stairs of his
beloved Inn. Laura screamed. The patrons cried out in shock and
alarm. People in the street, seeing Caramon falling, began to run
toward the Inn.
Gerard dashed down the stairs as fast as ever he could and
was the first to reach Caramon. He feared to find the big man in
terrible pain, for he must have broken every bone in his body.
Caramon did not appear to be suffering however. He had already
left mortal cares and pain behind, his spirit lingering only long
enough to say good-bye. Laura threw herself beside him on the
ground. Taking hold of his hand, she held it pressed to her lips.
"Don't cry, my dear," he said softly, smiling. "Your mother's
here with me. She'll take good care of me. I'll be fine."
"Oh, Daddy!" Laura sobbed. "Don't leave me yet!"
Caramon's eyes glanced around at the townspeople who had
gathered. He smiled and gave a little nod. He continued to search
through the crowd and he frowned.
"But where's Raistlin?" he asked.
Laura looked startled, but said, brokenly, "Father, your
brother's been dead a long, long time-"
"He said he would wait for me," Caramon said, his voice be-
ginning strong, but growing fainter. "He should be here. Tika's
here. I don't understand. This is not right. Tas. . . What Tas said
. . . A different future. . ."
His gaze came to Gerard. He beckoned the Knight to come
near.
"There's something you must. . . do," said Caramon, his
breath rasping in his chest.
Gerard knelt beside him, more touched by this man's death
than he could have imagined possible. "Yes, sir," he said. "What
is it?"
"Promise me . . ." Caramon whispered. "On your honor. . . as
a Knight."
"I promise," said Gerard. He supposed that the old man was
going to ask him to watch over his daughters or to take care of his
grandchildren, one of whom was also a Solamnic Knight. "What
would you have me do, sir?"
"Dalamar will know. . . . Take Tasslehoff to Dalarnar," Cara-
mon said and his voice was suddenly strong and firm. He looked
intently at Gerard. "Do you promise? Do you swear that you will
do this?"
"But sir," Gerard faltered, "what you ask of me is impossible!
No one has seen Dalamar for years. Most believe that he is dead.
And as for this kender who calls himself Tasslehoff . . ."
Caramon reached out his hand, a hand that was bloody from
his fall. He grasped hold of Gerard's most unwilling hand and
gripped it tightly.
"I promise, sir," said Gerard.
Caramon smiled. He let out his breath and did not draw an-
other. His eyes fixed in death, fixed on Gerard. The hand, even in
death, did not relinquish its grip. Gerard had to pry the old man's
fingers loose and was left with a smear of blood on his palm.
"I'll be happy to go with you to see Dalamar, Sir Knight, but I
can't go tomorrow," said the kender, snuffling and wiping his
tear-grimed face with the sleeve of his shirt. "1 have to speak at
Caramon's funeral."
CHAPTER FOUR
A STRANGE AWAKENING
Silvan's arm was on fire. He couldn't put out the blaze, and
no one would come help him. He called out for Samar and
for his mother, but his calls went unanswered. He was
angry, deeply angry, angry and hurt that they would not come,
that they were ignoring him. Then he realized that the reason they
were not coming was that they were angry with him. He had
failed them. He had let them down, and they would come to him
no more. . . .
With a great cry, Silvan woke himself. He opened his eyes to
see above him a canopy of gray. His vision was slightly blurred,
and he mistook the gray mass above him for the gray ceiling of
the burial mound. His arm pained him, and he remembered the
fire. Gasping, he shifted to put out the flames. Pain lanced
through his arm and hammered in his head. He saw no flames,
and he realized dazedly that the fire had been a dream. The pain
in his left arm was not a dream, however. The pain was real. He
examined the arm as best he could, though every movement of
his head cost him a gasp.
Not much doubt. The arm was broken just above the wrist.
The flesh was swollen so that it looked like a monster arm, a
strange color of greenish purple. He lay back down and stared
around him, feeling sorry for himself, and wondered very
much that his mother did not come to him when he was in such
agony. . . .
"Mother!" Silvan sat up so suddenly that the pain coiled
round his gut and caused him to vomit.
He had no idea how he came to be here or even where here
was. He knew where he was supposed to be, knew he had been
dispatched to bring help to his beleagured people. He looked
around, trying to gain some sense of the time. Night had passed.
The sun shone in the sky. He had mistaken a canopy of gray
leaves for the ceiling of the burial mound. Dead gray leaves,
hanging listlessly from dea~ranches. Death had not come natu-
rally, as with the fall of the year, causing them to release their hold
on life and drift in a dream of reds and golds upon the crisp air.
The life had been sucked from leaves and branches, trunk and
roots, leaving them desicated, mummified but still standing, a
husk, an empty mockery of life.
Silvan had never seen a blight of this kind attack so many
trees before, and his soul shrank from the sight. He could not take
time to consider it, however. He had to complete his mission.
The sky above was a pearl gray with a strange kind of shim-
mer that he put down to the aftereffects of the storm. Not so many
hours have passed, he told himself. The army could hold out this
long. I have not failed them utterly. I can still bring help.
He needed to splint his arm, and he searched through the
forest undergrowth for a strong stick. Thinking he'd found what
he sought, he put out his hand to grasp it. The stick disintegrated
beneath his fingers, turned to dust. He stared, startled. The ash
was wet and had a greasy feel to it. Repulsed, he wiped his hand
on his shirt, wet from the rain.
All around him were gray trees. Gray and dying or gray and
dead. The grass was gray, the weeds gray, the fallen branches
gray, all with that look of having been sucked dry.
He'd seen something like this before or heard of something
like this. . . . He didn't recall what, and he had no time to think.
He searched with increasingly frantic urgency among the gray-
covered undergrowth for a stick and found one eventually, a
stick that was covered with dust but had not been struck with the
strange blight. Placing the stick on his arm, gasping at the pain,
he gritted his teeth against it. He ripped off a shred of his shirt-
tail and tied the splint in place. He could hear the broken ends of
the bone grind together. The pain and the hideous sound com-
bined to nearly make him pass out. He sat hunched over, his
head down, fighting the nausea, the sudden heat that swept over
his body.
Finally, the star bursts cleared from his vision. The pain eased
somewhat. Holding his injured left arm close to his body, Silvan
staggered to his feet. The wind had died. He could no longer feel
its guiding touch upon his face. He could not see the sun itself for
the pearl gray clouds, but the light shone brightest in one portion
of the sky, which meant that way must be east. Silvan put his back
to the light and looked to the west.
He did not remember his fall or what had occurred just prior
to the fall. He began to talk to himself, finding the sound of his
voice comforting.
"The last thing I remember, I was within sight of the road I
needed to take to reach Sithelnost," he said. He spoke in Sil-
vanesti, the language of his childhood, the language his mother
favored.
A hill rose up above him. He was standing in the bottom of a
ravine, a ravine he vaguely remembered from the night before.
"Someone either climbed or fell down into the ravine," he
said, eyeing a crooked trail left in the gray ash that covered the
hillside. He smiled ruefully. "My guess would be that someone
was me. I must have taken a misstep in the darkness, tumbled
down the ravine. Which means," he added, heartened, "the road
must lie right up there. I do not have far to go."
He began to climb back up the steep sides of the ravine, but
this proved more difficult than he'd supposed. The gray ash had
formed a silt with the rain and was slippery as goose grease. He
slid down the hill twice, jarring his injured arm, causing him
almost to lose consciousness.
"This will never do," Silvan muttered.
He stayed at the bottom of the ravine where the walking was
easier, always keeping the top of the hill in sight, hoping to find
an outcropping of rock that would act as a staircase up the slip-
pery slope.
He stumbled over the uneven ground in a haze of pain and
fear. Every step brought a jolt of pain to his arm. He pushed
himself on, however, trudging through the gray mud that seemed
to try to drag him down among the dead vegetation, searching
for a way out of this gray vale of death that he grew to loathe as
a prisoner loathes his cell.
He was parched with thirst. The taste of ash filled his mouth,
and he longed for a drink of water to wash it away. He found a
puddle once, but it was covered with a gray film, and he could
not bring himself to drink from it. He staggered on.
"I have to reach the road," he said and repeated it many times
like a mantra, matching his footfalls to its rhythm. "I have to go
on," he said to himself dreamily, "because if I die down here, I
will turn into one of the gray mummies like the trees and no one
will ever find me."
The ravine came to a sudden end in a jumble of rock and
fallen trees. Silvan straightened, drew in a deep breath and wiped
chill sweat from his forehead. He rested a moment, then began to
climb, his feet slipping on the rocks, sending him scrabbling back-
ward more than once. Grimly, he pressed on, determined to
escape the ravine if it proved to be the last act of his life. He drew
nearer and nearer the top, up to the point where he thought he
should have been able to see the road.
He peered out through the boles of the gray trees, certain the
road must be there but unable to see it due to some sort of strange