Dragons of Spring Dawning

1An old man and a golden dragon.

He was an ancient gold dragon, the oldest of his kind. In his day, he had been a fierce warrior. The scars of his victories were visible on his wrinkled golden skin. His name had once been as shining as his glories, but he had forgotten it long ago. A few of the younger, irreverent gold dragons referred to him affectionately as Pyrite—Fool’s Gold—due to his not infrequent habit of mentally fading out of the present and reliving his past.

Most of his teeth were gone. It had been eons since he had munched up a nice bit of deer meat or torn apart a goblin. He was able to gum a rabbit now and then, but mostly he lived on oatmeal.

When Pyrite lived in the present, he was an intelligent, if irascible, companion. His vision was dimming, though he refused to admit it, and he was as deaf as a doorknob. His mind was quick. His conversation was still sharp as a tooth—so the saying went among dragons. It was just that he rarely discussed the same topic as anyone else in his company.

But when he was back in his past, the other golds took to their caves. For when he remembered them, he could still throw spells remarkably well, and his breath weapons were as effective as ever.

On this day, however, Pyrite was neither in past nor in present. He lay on the Plains of Estwilde, napping in the warm spring sunshine. Next to him sat an old man doing the same thing, his head pillowed on the dragon’s flank.

A battered and shapeless pointed hat rested over the old man’s face to shield his eyes from the sun. A long white beard flowed out from under the hat. Booted feet stuck out from beneath long, mouse-colored robes.

Both slept soundly. The gold dragon’s flanks heaved and thrummed with his wheezing breath. The old man’s mouth was wide open, and he sometimes woke himself with a prodigious snore. When this happened, he would sit bolt upright—sending his hat rolling onto the ground (which did not help its appearance) and look around in alarm. Seeing nothing, he would grunt to himself in annoyance, replace his hat (after he found it), poke the dragon irritably in the ribs, then go back to his nap.

A casual passerby might have wondered what in the name of the Abyss these two were doing calmly sleeping on the Plains of Estwilde, even though it was a fine, warm spring day. The passerby might have supposed the two were waiting for someone, for the old man would occasionally awaken, remove his hat, and peer solemnly up into the empty sky.

A passerby might have wondered—had there been any passers by. There were not. At least no friendly ones. The Plains of Estwilde were crawling with draconian and goblin troops. If the two knew they were napping in a dangerous place, they did not seem to mind.

Awakening from a particularly violent snore, the old man was just about to scold his companion sternly for making such terrible noises when a shadow fell across them.

“Ha!” the old man said angrily, staring up. “Dragonriders! A whole passel of ’em. Up to no good, too, I suppose.” The old man’s white eyebrows came together in a V-shape above his nose. “I’ve had about enough of this. Now they have the nerve to come and cut off my sunshine. Wake up!” he shouted, poking at Pyrite with a weather-beaten old wooden staff.

The gold dragon grumbled, opened one golden eye, stared at the old man (seeing only a mouse-colored blur), and calmly shut his eye again.

The shadows continued to pass over—four dragons with riders.

“Wake up, I say, you lazy lout!” the old man yelled. Snoring blissfully, the gold rolled over on his back, his clawed feet in the air, his stomach turned to the warm sun.

The old man glared at the dragon for a moment, then, in sudden inspiration, ran around to the great head, “War!” he shouted gleefully, directly into one of the dragon’s ears. “It’s war! We’re under attack—”

The effect was startling. Pyrite’s eyes flared open. Rolling over onto his stomach, his feet dug into the ground so deeply he nearly mired himself. His head reared up fiercely, his golden wings spread and began to beat, sending clouds of dust and sand a mile high.

“War!” he trumpeted. “War! We’re called. Gather the flights! Mount the attack!”

The old man appeared rather taken aback by this sudden transformation, and he was also rendered momentarily speechless by the accidental inhalation of a mouthful of dust. Seeing the dragon start to leap into the air, however, he ran forward, waving his hat.

“Wait!” he yelled, coughing and choking. “Wait for me!”

“Who are you that I should wait?” Pyrite roared. The dragon stared through the billowing sand. “Are you my wizard?”

“Yes, yes,” the old man called hastily. “I’m—uh—your wizard. Drop your wing a bit so I can climb on. Thanks, there’s a good fellow. Now I... oh! Whoa! I’m not strapped in!.. Look out! My hat! Confound it, I didn’t tell you to take off yet!”

“We’ve got to reach the battle in time,” Pyrite cried fiercely. “Huma’s fighting alone!”

“Huma!” The old man snorted. “Well, you’re not going to arrive in time for that battle! Few hundred years late. But that’s not the battle I had in mind. It’s those four dragons there, to the east. Evil creatures! We’ve got to stop them—”

“Dragons! Ah, yes! I see them!” roared Pyrite, swooping up in hot pursuit of two extremely startled and highly insulted eagles.

“No! No!” yelled the old man, kicking the dragon in the flanks. “East, you ninny! Fly two more points to the east!”

“Are you sure you’re my wizard?” Pyrite asked in a deep voice. “My wizard never spoke to me in that tone.”

“I’m—uh, sorry, old fellow,” the old man said quickly, “just a bit nervous. Upcoming conflict and all that.”

“By the gods, there are four dragons!” Pyrite said in astonishment, having just caught a blurred glimpse of them.

“Take me in close so I can get a good shot at them,” the old man shouted. “I have a really wonderful spell—Fireball. Now,” he muttered, “if I can just remember how it goes.”

Two dragonarmy officers rode among the flight of four brass dragons. One rode at the front. A bearded man, his helm seemed slightly large for him and was worn pulled well down over his face, shadowing his eyes. The other officer rode behind the group. He was a huge man, nearly splitting out of his black armor. He wore no helm—there probably wasn’t one large enough—but his face was grim and watchful, particularly over the prisoners who rode the dragons in the center of the flight.

It was an odd assortment of prisoners—a woman dressed in mismatched armor, a dwarf, a kender, and a middle-aged man with long, unkempt gray hair.

The same passerby who had observed the old man and his dragon might have noticed that the officers and their prisoners went out of their way to avoid detection by any ground troops of the Dragon Highlord. Indeed, when one group of draconians spotted them and began to shout, trying to attract their attention, the dragonarmy officers studiously ignored them. A truly sharp observer might also have wondered what brass dragons were doing in the Dragon Highlord’s service.

Unfortunately, neither the old man nor his decrepit golden dragon was a sharp observer.

Keeping in the clouds, they sneaked up on the unsuspecting group.

“Whiz down out of here at my command,” the old man said, cackling to himself in high glee over the prospect of a fight. “We’ll attack ’em from the rear.”

“Where’s Sir Huma?” the gold asked, peering blearily through the cloud.

“Dead,” muttered the old man, concentrating on his spell.

“Dead!” roared the dragon in dismay. “Then we’re too late?”

“Oh, never mind!” snapped the old man irritably. “Ready?”

“Dead,” repeated the dragon sadly. Then his eyes blazed. “But we’ll avenge him!”

“Yes, quite,” said the old man. “Now... at my signal—No! Not yet! You—”

The old man’s words were lost in a rush of wind as the gold dove out of the cloud, plummeting down on the four smaller dragons beneath him like a spear shooting from the sky.

The big dragonarmy officer in the back caught a glimpse of movement above him and glanced up. His eyes widened.

“Tanis!” he yelled in alarm at the officer in the front.

The half-elf turned. Alerted by the sound of Caramon’s voice, he was ready for trouble, but at first he couldn’t see anything. Then Caramon pointed.

Tanis looked up.

“What in the name of the gods—” he breathed.

Streaking down out of the sky, diving straight for them, was a golden dragon. Riding on the dragon was an old man, his white hair flying out behind him (he’d lost his hat), his long white beard blowing back over his shoulders. The dragon’s mouth was bared in a snarl that would have been vicious if it hadn’t been toothless.

“I think we’re under attack,” Caramon said in awe.

Tanis had come to the same conclusion. “Scatter!” he yelled, swearing under his breath. Down below them, an entire division of draconians watched the aerial battle with intense interest. The last thing he had wanted to do was call attention to the group, now some crazy old man was ruining everything.

The four dragons, hearing Tanis’s command, broke instantly from formation—but not soon enough. A brilliant fireball burst right in their midst, sending the dragons reeling in the sky.

Momentarily blinded by the brilliant light, Tanis dropped the reins and threw his arms around the creature’s neck as it went rolling about out of control.

Then he heard a familiar voice.

“That got ’em! Wonderful spell, Fireball—”

“Fizban!” Tanis groaned.

Blinking his eyes, he fought desperately to bring his dragon under control. But it seemed the beast knew how to handle himself better than the inexperienced rider, for the brass soon righted himself. Now that Tanis could see, he flashed a glance around at the others. They appeared unhurt, but they were scattered all over the sky. The old man and his dragon were pursuing Caramon—the old man had his hand outstretched, apparently all set to cast another devastating spell. Caramon was yelling and gesturing—he, too, had recognized the befuddled old mage.

Racing toward Fizban from behind came Flint and Tasslehoff, the kender shrieking in glee and waving his hands, Flint hanging on for dear life. The dwarf looked positively green.

But Fizban was intent upon his prey. Tanis heard the old man shout several words and extend his hand. Lightning shot from his fingertips. Fortunately his aim was off. The lightning streaked past Caramon’s head, forcing the big man to duck but otherwise not injuring him.

Tanis swore an oath so vile he startled himself. Kicking his dragon in the flanks, he pointed at the old man.

“Attack!” he commanded the dragon. “Don’t hurt him, just drive him out of here.”

To his amazement, the brass refused. Shaking his head, the dragon began to circle, and it suddenly occurred to Tanis that the creature intended to land!

“What? Are you mad?” Tanis swore at the dragon. “You’re taking us down into the dragonarmies!”

The dragon seemed deaf, and now Tanis saw that all the other brass dragons were circling, preparing to land.

In vain Tanis pleaded with his dragon. Berem, sitting behind Tika, clutched the woman so desperately she could barely breathe. The Everman’s eyes were on the draconians, who were swarming over the plains toward where the dragons were going to land. Caramon was flailing about wildly, trying to avoid the lightning bolts that zapped all around him. Flint had even come to life, tugging frantically at his dragon’s reins, roaring in anger, while Tas was still yelling wildly at Fizban. The old man followed after them all, herding the brass dragons before him like sheep.

They landed near the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains. Looking quickly across the plains, Tanis could see draconians swarming toward them.

We might bluff our way out of this, Tanis thought feverishly, though their disguises had been intended only to get them into Kalaman, not deceive a party of suspicious draconians. However, it was worth a shot. If only Berem would remember to stay in the background and keep quiet.

But before Tanis could say a word, Berem leaped from the back of his dragon and took off, running frantically into the foothills. Tanis could see the draconians pointing at him, yelling.

So much for keeping in the background. Tanis swore again. The bluff might still work... they could always claim a prisoner was trying to escape. No, he realized in despair, the draconians would simply chase after Berem and catch him. According to what Kitiara had told him, all the draconians in Krynn had descriptions of Berem.

“In the name of the Abyss!” Tanis forced himself to calm down and think logically, but the situation was fast getting out of control. “Caramon! Go after Berem. Flint, you—No, Tasslehoff, get back here! Damn it! Tika, go after Tas. No, on second thought, stay with me. You, too, Flint—”

“But Tasslehoff’s gone after that crazy old—”

“And if we’re lucky, the ground will open and swallow them both!” Tanis glanced back over his shoulder and swore savagely. Berem—driven by fear—was clambering over rocks and scrub bushes with the lightness of a mountain goat, while Caramon—hampered by the dragon armor and his own arsenal of weapons—slipped down two feet for every foot he gained.

Looking back across the Plains, Tanis could see the draconians clearly. Sunlight gleamed off their armor and their swords and spears. Perhaps there was still a chance, if the brass dragons would attack—

But just as he started to order them into battle, the old man came running up from where he had landed his ancient gold dragon. “Shoo!” said the old man to the brass dragons. “Shoo—get away! Go back to wherever you came from!”

“No! Wait!” Tanis nearly tore out his beard in frustration, watching as the old man ran among the brass dragons, waving his arms like a farmer’s wife driving her chickens to shelter.

Then the half-elf stopped swearing for—to his astonishment—the brass dragons prostrated themselves fiat on the ground before the old man in his mouse-colored robes. Then, lifting their wings, they soared gracefully into the air.

In a rage, forgetting he was dressed in captured dragonarmy armor, Tanis ran across the trampled grass toward the old man, following Tas. Hearing them coming, Fizban turned around to face them.

“I’ve a good mind to wash your mouth out with soap,” the old mage snapped, glowering at Tanis. “You’re my prisoners now, so just come along quietly or you’ll taste my magic—”

“Fizban!” cried Tasslehoff, throwing his arms around the old man.

The old mage peered down at the kender hugging him, then staggered backwards in amazement.

“It’s Tassle—Tassle—” he stammered.

“Burrfoot,” Tas said backing off and bowing politely. “Tasslehoff Burrfoot.”

“Great Huma’s ghost!” Fizban exclaimed.

“This is Tanis Half-Elven. And that is Flint Fireforge. You remember him?” Tasslehoff continued, waving a small hand at the dwarf.

“Uh, yes, quite,” Fizban muttered, his face flushing.

“And Tika... and that’s Caramon up there... oh, well, you can’t see him now. Then there’s Berem. We picked him up in Kalaman and—oh, Fizban!—he’s got a green gem—ugh, ouch, Tanis, that hurt!”

Clearing his throat, Fizban cast a bleak look around.

“You’re-uh-not with the-err-uh-dragonarmies?”

“No,” said Tanis grimly, “we’re not! Or at least we weren’t.” He gestured behind them. “That’s likely to change any moment now, though.”

“Not with the dragonarmies at all?” Fizban pursued hopefully. “You’re sure you haven’t converted? Been tortured? Brainwashed?”

“No, damn it!” Tanis yanked off his helm. “I’m Tanis Half-Elven, remember—”

Fizban beamed. “Tanis Half-Elven! So pleased to see you again, sir.” Grabbing Tanis’s hand, he shook it heartily.

“Confound it!” Tanis snapped in exasperation, snatching his hand out of the old man’s grip.

“But you were riding dragons!”

“Those were good dragons!” Tanis shouted. “They’ve come back!”

“No one told me!” The old man gasped indignantly.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Tanis continued, ignoring the interruption. “You’ve blown us out of the skies! Sent back our only means to get to Neraka—”

“Oh, I know what I’ve done,” Fizban mumbled. He glanced back over his shoulder. “My, my. Those fellows seem to be gaining. Mustn’t be caught by them. Well, what are we doing standing around?” He glared at Tanis. “Some leader you are! I suppose I’ll have to take charge... Where’s my hat?”

“About five miles back,” stated Pyrite with a great yawn.

“You still here?” Fizban said, glaring at the gold dragon in annoyance.

“Where else would I be?” the dragon asked gloomily.

“I told you to go with the others!”

“I didn’t want to.” Pyrite snorted. A bit of fire flared from his nose, making it twitch. This was followed by a tremendous sneeze. Sniffing, the dragon continued peevishly. “No respect for age, those brass dragons. They talk constantly! And giggle. Gets on my nerves, that silly giggle...”

“Well, you’ll just have to go back by yourself then!” Fizban stalked up to stare the dragon in its bleary eye. “We’re going on a long journey into dangerous country—”

“We’re going?” Tanis cried. “Look, old man, Fizban, whatever your name is, why don’t you and your—uh—friend here go back. You’re right. It’s going to be a long, dangerous journey. Longer, now, that we’ve lost our dragons and—”

“Tanis...” said Tika warningly, her eyes on the draconians.

“Into the hills quick,” Tanis said, drawing a deep breath, trying to control his fear and his anger. “Go on, Tika. You and Flint. Tas—” He grabbed the kender.

“No, Tanis! We can’t leave him here!” Tas wailed.

“Tas!” Tanis said in a voice that warned the kender the half-elf had plainly had enough and wasn’t going to stand for anything further. Apparently the old man understood the same thing.

“I’ve got to go with these folks,” he said to the dragon. “They need me. You can’t go back on your own. You’ll just have to sallyforth—”

“Polymorph!” the dragon said indignantly. “The word is ‘polymorph!’ You never get that right—”

“Whatever!” the old man yelled. “Quickly! We’ll take you with us.”

“Very well,” the dragon said. “I could use the rest.”

“I don’t think—” Tanis began, wondering what they would do with a large gold dragon, but it was too late.

While Tas watched, fascinated, and Tanis fumed in impatience, the dragon spoke a few words in the strange language of magic. There was a bright flash and then, suddenly, the dragon vanished.

“What? Where?” Tasslehoff looked all around.

Fizban leaned over to pick up something out of the grass.

“Get moving! Now!” Tanis hustled Tas and the old man into the foothills, following after Tika and Flint.

“Here,” Fizban said to Tas as they ran. “Hold out your hand.”

Tas did as instructed. Then the kender caught his breath in awe. He would have come to a dead stop to examine it, except Tanis caught him by the arm and dragged him forward.

In the palm of Tas’s hand gleamed a tiny golden figure of a dragon, carved in exquisite detail. Tas imagined he could even see the scars on the wings. Two small red jewels glittered in the eyes, then—as Tas watched—the jewels winked out as golden eyelids closed over them.

“Oh, Fizban, it—it’s—beautiful! Can I truly keep it?” Tas yelled over his shoulder to the old man, who was puffing along behind.

“Sure, my boy!” Fizban beamed. “At least until this adventure’s ended.”

“Or it ends us,” Tanis muttered, climbing rapidly over the rocks. The draconians were drawing nearer and nearer.

2 The golden span.

Up and up into the hills they climbed, the draconians in pursuit of the group, who now appeared to them to be spies.

The group had lost the trail Caramon used chasing after Berem, but could not take time to search for it. They were considerably startled, therefore, when they suddenly came across Caramon, sitting calmly on a boulder, Berem—unconscious—stretched out beside him.

“What happened?” Tanis asked, breathing heavily, exhausted after the long climb.

“I caught up with him, finally.” Caramon shook his head. “And he put up a fight. He’s strong for an old guy, Tanis. I had to dunk him. I’m afraid I was a bit too hard, though,” he added, staring down at the comatose figure remorsefully.

“Great!” Tanis was too tired even to swear.

“I’ll handle this,” Tika said, reaching into a leather pouch.

“The draconians are coming up past that last big rock,” Flint reported as he stumbled into view. The dwarf seemed about done in. He collapsed onto a rock, mopping his sweating face with the end of his beard.

“Tika—” Tanis began.

“Found it!” she said triumphantly, pulling out a small vial. Kneeling down beside Berem, she took the stopper from the vial and waved it under his nose. The unconscious man drew a breath, then immediately began to cough.

Tika slapped him on the cheeks. “On your feet!” she said in her barmaid voice. “Unless you want the draconians to catch you.”

Berem’s eyes flew open in alarm. Clutching his head, he sat up dizzily. Caramon helped him stand.

“That’s wonderful, Tika!” Tas said in excitement. “Let me—” Before she could stop him, Tas grabbed the vial and held it up to his own nose, inhaling deeply.

“Eeee Ahhhh!” The kender gagged, staggering back into Fizban, who had come up the path after Flint. “Ugh! Tika! That’s. . . awful!” He could barely speak. “What is it?”

“Some concoction of Otik’s,” Tika said, grinning. “All of us barmaids carried it. Came in handy in lots of instances, if you take my meaning.” Her smile slipped. “Poor Otik,” she said softly. “I wonder what’s become of him. And the Inn—”

“No time for that now, Tika.” Tanis said impatiently. “We’ve got to go. On your feet, old man!” This to Fizban, who was just sitting down comfortably.

“I’ve got a spell,” Fizban protested as Tas tugged and prodded him up. “Take care of those pests instantly. Poof!”

“No!” Tanis said. “Absolutely not. With my luck, you’d turn them all into trolls.”

“I wonder if I could . . .” Fizban’s face brightened.

The afternoon sun was just beginning to slide down the rim of the sky when the trail they had been following ever higher into the mountains suddenly branched off into two different directions. One led into the mountain peaks; the other seemed to wind around the side. There might be a pass among the peaks, Tanis thought; a pass they could defend, if necessary.

But before he could say a word, Fizban started off on the trail that wound around the mountain. “This way” the old mage announced, leaning on his staff as he tottered forward.

“But—” Tanis started to protest.

“Come on, come on. This way!” said Fizban insistently, turning around and glaring at them from beneath his bushy white eyebrows. “That way leads to a dead end—in more ways than one. I know. I’ve been here before. This leads around the side of a mountain to a great gorge. Bridge over the gorge. We can get across, then fight the draconians when they try to come after us.”

Tanis scowled, unwilling to trust the crazy old mage.

“It is a good plan, Tanis,” Caramon said slowly. “It’s obvious we’re going to have to fight them sometime.” He pointed to the draconians climbing up the mountain trails after them.

Tanis glanced around. They were all exhausted. Tika’s face was pale, her eyes glazed. She leaned on Caramon, who had even left his spears back on the trail to lighten his burden.

Tasslehoff grinned at Tanis cheerfully. But the kender was panting like a small dog and he was limping on one foot.

Berem looked the same as always, sullen and frightened. It was Flint that worried Tanis most. The dwarf had not said a word during their flight. He had kept up with them without faltering, but his lips were blue and his breath came in short gasps. Every once in a while—when he thought no one was looking— Tanis had seen him put his hand over his chest or rub his left arm as if it pained him.

“Very well.” The half-elf decided. “Go on, old mage. Though I’m probably going to regret this,” he added, under his breath as the rest hurried along after Fizban.

Near sundown, the companions came to a halt. They stood on a small rocky ledge about three-quarters of the way up the side of the mountain. Before them was a deep, narrow gorge. Far below they could see a river winding its way through the bottom of the gorge like a glistening snake.

It must be a four-hundred-foot drop, Tanis calculated. The trail they stood on hugged the side of the mountain, with sheer cliff on one side and nothing but air on the other. There was only one way across the gorge.

“And that bridge,” said Flint—the first words he had spoken in hours, “is older than I am . . . and in worse shape.”

“That bridge has stood for years!” Fizban said indignantly. “Why, it survived the Cataclysm!”

“I believe it,” Caramon said sincerely.

“At least it’s not too long,” Tika tried to sound hopeful, though her voice faltered.

The bridge across the narrow gorge was of a unique construction. Huge vallenwood limbs were driven into the sides of the mountain on either side of the gorge. These limbs formed an X-shape that supported the wooden plank platform. Long ago, the structure must have been an architectural marvel. But now the wooden planks were rotted and splitting. If there had been a railing, it had long since fallen down into the chasm below. Even as they watched, the timbers creaked and shuddered in the chill wind of evening.

Then, behind them, they heard the sound of guttural voices and the clash of steel on rock.

“So much for going back,” Caramon muttered. “We should cross over one by one.”

“No time,” Tanis said, rising to his feet. “We can only hope the gods are with us. And—I hate to admit it—but Fizban’s right. Once we get across, we can stop the draconians easily. They’ll be excellent targets, stuck out there on that bridge. I’ll go first. Keep behind me, single-file. Caramon, you’re rear guard. Berem, stay behind me.”

Moving as swiftly as he dared, Tanis set foot on the bridge. He could feel the planks quiver and shake. Far below, the river flowed swiftly between the canyon walls; sharp rocks jutted up from its white, foaming surface. Tanis caught his breath and looked away quickly.

“Don’t look down,” he said to the others, feeling a chill emptiness where his stomach had been. For an instant he couldn’t move, then, getting a grip on himself, he edged his way forward. Berem came right behind him, fear of the dragonmen completely obliterating any other terrors the Everman might have experienced.

After Berem came Tasslehoff, walking lightly with kender skill, peering over the edge in wonder. Then the terrified Flint, supported by Fizban. Finally Tika and Caramon set foot on the shivering planks, keeping nervous watch behind them.

Tanis was nearly halfway across when part of the platform gave way, the rotten wood splintering beneath his feet.

Acting instinctively, in a paroxysm of terror, he clutched desperately at the planking and caught hold of the edge. But the rotten wood crumbled in his grasp. His fingers slipped and—

—a hand closed over his wrist.

“Berem!” Tanis gasped. “Hold on!” He forced himself to hang limply, knowing that any movement on his part would only make Berem’s hold on him harder to maintain.

“Pull him up!” he heard Caramon roar, then, “Don’t anybody move! The whole thing’s liable to give way!”

His face tight with the strain, sweat beading on his forehead, Berem pulled. Tanis saw the muscles on the man’s arm bulge, the veins nearly burst from the skin. With what seemed like agonizing slowness, Berem dragged the half-elf up over the edge of the broken bridge. Here Tanis collapsed. Shaking with fright, he lay clinging to the wood, shivering.

Then he heard Tika cry out. Raising his head, he realized with grim amusement that he had probably just gained his life only to lose it. About thirty draconians appeared on the trail behind them. Tanis turned to look across the gaping hole in the center of the bridge. The other side of the platform was still standing. He might jump across the huge hole to safety, and so might Berem and Caramon—but not Tas, not Flint, not Tika, or the old mage.

“Excellent targets, you said,” Caramon murmured, drawing his sword.

“Cast a spell. Old One!” Tasslehoff said suddenly.

“What?” Fizban blinked.

“A spell!” Tas cried, pointing at the draconians, who—seeing the companions trapped on the bridge—hurried up to finish them off.

“Tas, we’re in enough trouble,” Tanis began, the bridge creaking beneath his feet. Moving warily, Caramon stationed himself squarely in front of them, facing the draconians.

Fitting an arrow to his bowstring, Tanis fired. A draconian clutched its chest and fell, shrieking, off the cliff. The half-elf fired again and hit again. The draconians in the center of the line hesitated, milling about in confusion. There was no cover, no way to escape the half-elf’s deadly barrage. The draconians in the front of the line surged forward toward the bridge.

At that moment, Fizban began to cast his spell.

Hearing the old mage chant, Tanis felt his heart sink. Then he reminded himself bitterly that they really couldn’t be in a worse position. Berem, next to him, was watching the draconians with a stoic composure that Tanis found startling until he remembered that Berem didn’t fear death; he would always return to life. Tanis fired again and another draconian howled in pain. So intent was he on his targets that he forgot Fizban until he heard Berem gasp in astonishment. Glancing up, Tanis saw Berem staring into the sky. Following Berem’s gaze, the half-elf was so astonished he nearly dropped his bow.

Descending from the clouds, glittering brightly in the dying rays of the sun was a long golden bridge span. Guided by motions of the old mage’s hand, the golden span dropped down out of the heavens to close the gap in the bridge.

Tanis came to his senses. Looking around, he saw that—for the moment—the draconians were also transfixed—staring at the golden span with glittering reptilian eyes.

“Hurry!” Tanis yelled. Gripping Berem by the arm, he dragged the Everman after him and jumped up onto the span as it hovered just about a foot above the gap. Berem followed, stumbling up clumsily. Even as they stood on it, the span kept dropping, slowing a bit under Fizban’s guidance.

The span was still about eight inches above the platform when Tasslehoff, shrieking wildly, leaped onto it, pulling the awestruck dwarf up after him. The draconians—suddenly realizing their prey was going to escape—howled in rage and surged onto the wooden bridge. Tanis stood on the golden span, near its end, firing his arrows at the lead draconians. Caramon remained behind, driving them back with his sword.

“Get on across!” Tanis ordered Tika as she hopped onto the span beside him. “Stay beside Berem. Keep an eye on him. You, too, Flint, go with her. Go on!” he snarled viciously.

“I’ll stay with you, Tanis,” Tasslehoff offered.

Casting a backward glance at Caramon, Tika reluctantly obeyed orders, grabbing hold of Berem and shoving him along before her. Seeing the draconians coming, he needed little urging. Together they dashed across the span onto the remaining half of the wooden bridge. It creaked alarmingly beneath their weight. Tanis only hoped it would hold, but he couldn’t spare a glance. Apparently it was, for he heard Flint’s thick boots clumping across it.

“We made it!” Tika yelled from the side of the canyon.

“Caramon!” Tanis shouted, firing another arrow, trying to keep his footing on the golden span.

“Go ahead!” Fizban snapped at Caramon irritably. “I’m concentrating. I have to set the span down in the right place. A few more centimeters to the left, I think—”

“Tasslehoff, go on across!” Tanis ordered.

“I’m not leaving Fizban!” said the kender stubbornly as Caramon stepped up onto the golden span. The draconians, seeing the big warrior leaving, surged forward again. Tanis fired arrows as fast as he could; one draconian lay on the bridge in a pool of green blood, another toppled over the edge. But the half-elf was growing tired. Worse, he was running out of arrows. And the draconians kept coming. Caramon came to a stop beside Tanis on the span.

“Hurry, Fizban!” pleaded Tasslehoff, wringing his hands.

“There!” Fizban said in satisfaction. “Perfect fit. And the gnomes said I was no engineer.”

Just as he spoke, the golden span carrying Tanis, Caramon, and Tasslehoff dropped firmly into place between the two sections of the broken bridge.

And at that moment, the other half of the wooden bridge—the half still standing, the half that led to safety on the other side of the canyon—creaked, crumbled, and fell into the canyon.

“In the name of the gods!” Caramon gulped in fear, catching hold of Tanis and dragging him back just as the half-elf had been about to set foot on the wooden planking.

“Trapped!” Tanis said hoarsely, watching the logs tumble end over end into the ravine, his soul seeming to plummet with them. On the other side, he could hear Tika scream, her cries blending with the exultant shouts of the draconians.

There was a rending, snapping sound. The draconian’s cries of exultation changed at once to horror and fear.

“Look! Tanis!” Tasslehoff cried in wild excitement. “Look!”

Tanis glanced back in time to see the other part of the wooden bridge tumble into the ravine, carrying with it most of the draconians. He felt the golden span shudder.

“We’ll fall, too!” Caramon roared. “There’s nothing to support—”

Caramon’s tongue froze to the roof of his mouth. With a strangled gulp, he looked slowly from side to side.

“I don’t believe it—” he muttered.

“Somehow, I do...” Tanis drew a shuddering breath.

In the center of the canyon, suspended in midair, hung the magical golden span, glittering in the light of the setting sun as the wooden bridge on either side of it plunged into the ravine. Upon the span stood four figures, staring down at the ruins beneath them—and across the great gaps between them and the sides of the gorge.

For long moments, there was complete, absolute, deathly silence. Then Fizban turned triumphantly to Tanis.

“Wonderful spell,” said the mage with pride. “Got a rope?”

It was well after dark by the time the companions finally got off the golden span. Flinging a rope to Tika, they waited while she and the dwarf fastened it securely to a tree. Then—one by one—Tanis, Caramon, Tas, and Fizban swung off the span and were hauled up the side of the cliff by Berem. When they were all across, they collapsed, exhausted from fatigue. So tired were they that they didn’t even bother to find shelter, but spread their blankets in a grove of scrubby pine trees and set the watch. Those not on duty fell instantly asleep.

The next morning, Tanis woke, stiff and aching. The first thing he saw was the sun shining brightly off the sides of the golden span—still suspended solidly in mid-air.

“I don’t suppose you can get rid of that thing?” he asked Fizban as the old mage helped Tas hand out a breakfast of quith-pa.

“I’m afraid not...” the old man said, eyeing the span wistfully.

“He tried a few spells this morning,” Tas said, nodding in the direction of a pine tree completely covered with cobwebs and another that was burned to a crisp. “I figured he better quit before he turned us all into crickets or something.”

“Good idea,” muttered Tanis, staring gloomily out at the gleaming span. “Well, we couldn’t leave a clearer trail if we painted an arrow on the side of the cliff.” Shaking his head, he sat down beside Caramon and Tika.

“They’ll be after us, too, you can bet,” Caramon said, munching half-heartedly on quith-pa. “Have dragons bring ’em across.” Sighing, he stuck most of the dried fruit back in his pouch.

“Caramon?” said Tika. “You didn’t eat much...”

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled as he stood up. “Guess I’ll scout ahead a ways.” Shouldering his pack and his weapons, he started off down the trail.

Her face averted, Tika began busily packing away her things, avoiding Tanis’s gaze.

“Raistlin?” Tanis asked.

Tika stopped. Her hands dropped into her lap.

“Will he always be like this, Tanis?” she asked helplessly, looking fondly after him. “I don’t understand!”

“I don’t either,” Tanis said quietly, watching the big man disappear into the wilderness. “But, then, I never had a brother or a sister.”

“I understand!” said Berem. His soft voice quivered with a passion that caught Tanis’s attention.

“What do you mean?”

But—at his question—the eager, hungry look on the Everman’s face vanished.

“Nothing—” he mumbled, his face a blank mask.

“Wait!” Tanis rose quickly. “Why do you understand Caramon?” He put his hand on Berem’s arm.

“Leave me alone!” Berem shouted fiercely, flinging Tanis backward.

“Hey, Berem,” Tasslehoff said, looking up and smiling as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “I was sorting through my maps and I found one that has the most interesting story—”

Giving Tanis a hunted glance, Berem shuffled over to where Tasslehoff sat cross-legged on the ground, his sheaf of maps spread out all around him. Hunching down over the maps, the Everman soon appeared lost in wonder, listening to one of Tas’s tales.

“Better leave him alone, Tanis,” Flint advised. “If you ask me, the only reason he understands Caramon is that he’s as crazy as Raistlin.”

“I didn’t ask you, but that’s all right,” Tanis said, sitting down beside the dwarf to eat his own ration of quith-pa. “We’re going to have to be going soon. With luck, Tas will find a map—”

Flint snorted. “Humpf! A lot of good that will do us. The last map of his we followed took us to a sea port without a sea!”

Tanis hid his smile. “Maybe this will be different,” he said. “At least it’s better than following Fizban’s directions.”

“Well, you’re right there,” the dwarf admitted grumpily. Giving Fizban a sideways glance, Flint leaned over near Tanis. “Didn’t you ever wonder how he managed to live through that fall at Pax Tharkas?” he asked in a loud whisper.

“I wonder about a lot of things,” Tanis said quietly. “Like— how are you feeling?”

The dwarf blinked, completely taken aback by the unexpected question. “Fine!” he snapped, his face flushing.

“It’s just, sometimes I’ve seen you rub your left arm,” Tanis continued.

“Rheumatism,” the dwarf growled. “You know it always bothers me in the spring. And sleeping on the ground doesn’t help. I thought you said we should be moving along.” The dwarf busied himself with packing.

“Right.” Tanis turned away with a sigh. “Found anything, Tas?”

“Yes, I think so,” the kender said eagerly. Rolling up his maps, he stashed them in his map case, then slipped the case into a pouch, taking a quick peek at his golden dragon while he was at it. Although seemingly made of metal, the figurine changed position in the oddest way. Right now, it was curled around a golden ring—Tanis’s ring, one Laurana had given him and he had returned to her, when he told her he was in love with Kitiara. Tasslehoff became so absorbed in staring at the dragon and the ring that he nearly forgot Tanis was waiting.

“Oh,” he said, hearing Tanis cough impatiently. “Map. Right. Yes, you see, once when I was just a little kender, my parents and I traveled through the Khalkist Mountains—that’s where we are now—on our way to Kalaman. Usually, you know, we took the northern, longer route. There was a fair, every year, at Taman Busuk, where they sold the most marvelous things, and my father never missed it. But one year—I think it was the year after he’d been arrested and put in the stocks over a misunderstanding with a jeweler—we decided to go through the mountains. My mother’d always wanted to see Godshome, so we—”

“The map?” interrupted Tanis.

“Yes, the map.” Tas sighed. “Here. It was my father’s, I think. Here’s where we are, as near as Fizban and I can figure. And here’s Godshome.”

“What’s that?”

“An old city. It’s in ruins, abandoned during the Cataclysm—”

“And probably crawling with draconians,” Tanis finished.

“No, not that Godshome,” Tas continued, moving his small finger over into the mountains near the dot that marked the city. “This place is also called Godshome. In fact, it was called that long before there was a city, according to Fizban.” Tanis glanced at the old mage, who nodded.

“Long ago, people believed the gods lived there,” he said solemnly. “It is a very holy place.”

“And it’s hidden,” added Tas, “in a bowl in the center of these mountains. See? No one ever goes there, according to Fizban. No one knows about the trail except him. And there is a trail marked on my map, at least into the mountains...”

“No one ever goes there?” Tanis asked Fizban.

The old mage’s eyes narrowed in irritation. “No.”

“No one except you?” Tanis pursued.

“I’ve been lots of place, Half-Elven!” The mage snorted. “Got a year? I’ll tell you about them!” He shook a finger at Tanis. “You don’t appreciate me, young man! Always suspicious! And after everything I’ve done for you—”

“Uh, I wouldn’t remind him about that,” Tas said hurriedly, seeing Tanis’s face darken. “Come along. Old One.”

The two hurried off down the trail, Fizban stomping along angrily, his beard bristling.

“Did the gods really live in this place we’re going to?” Tas asked him to keep him from bothering Tanis.

“How should I know?” Fizban demanded irritably. “Do I look like a god?”

“But—”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk entirely too much?”

“Almost everyone,” Tas said cheerfully. “Did I ever tell you about the time I found a woolly mammoth?

Tanis heard Fizban groan. Tika hurried past him, to catch up with Caramon.

“Coming, Flint?” Tanis called.

“Yes,” the dwarf answered, sitting down suddenly on a rock. “Give me a moment. I’ve dropped my pack. You go on ahead.”

Occupied in studying the kender’s map as he walked, Tanis did not see Flint collapse. He did not hear the odd note in the dwarf’s voice, or see the spasm of pain that briefly contracted the dwarf’s face.

“Well, hurry up,” Tanis said absently. “We don’t want to leave you behind.”

“Aye, lad,” Flint said softly, sitting on the rock, waiting for the pain to subside—as it always did.

Flint watched his friend walk down the trail, still moving somewhat clumsily in the dragonarmor. We don’t want to leave you behind.

“Aye, lad,” Flint repeated to himself. Brushing his gnarled hand quickly across his eyes, the dwarf stood up and followed his friends.

3 Godshome.

It was a long and weary day spent wandering through the mountains aimlessly as near as the impatient half-elf could tell.

The only thing that kept him from throttling Fizban—after they had walked into the second box canyon in less than four hours—was the undeniable fact that the old man kept them headed in the right direction. No matter how lost and turned around they seemed to get, no matter how often Tanis could have sworn they’d passed the same boulder three times, whenever he caught a glimpse of the sun they were still traveling unerringly to the southeast.

But as the day wore on, he saw the sun less and less frequently. Winter’s bitter chill had gone from the air and there was even the faint smell of green and growing things borne on the wind. But soon the sky darkened with lead-gray clouds and it began to rain, a dull, drumming drizzle that penetrated the heaviest cloak.

By mid-afternoon, the group was cheerless and dispirited—even Tasslehoff, who had argued violently with Fizban over directions to Godshome. This was all the more frustrating to Tanis since it was that obvious neither of them knew where they were. (Fizban, in fact, was caught holding the map upside down.) The fight resulted in Tasslehoff stuffing his maps back in his pouch and refusing to get them out again while Fizban threatened to cast a spell that would turn Tasslehoff’s topknot into a horse’s tail.

Fed up with both of them, Tanis sent Tas to the back of the line to cool off, mollified Fizban, and nursed secret thoughts of sealing them both up in a cave.

The calmness that the half-elf had felt in Kalaman was slowly vanishing on this dismal journey. It had been a calmness, he realized now, brought about by activity, the need to make decisions, the comforting thought that he was finally doing something tangible to help Laurana. These thoughts kept him afloat in the dark waters that surrounded him, much as the sea elves had aided him in the Blood Sea of Istar. But now he felt the dark waters begin to close over his head once more.

Tanis’s thoughts were constantly with Laurana. Over and over, he heard Gilthanas’s accusing words—She did this for you! And though Gilthanas had, perhaps, forgiven him, Tanis knew he could never forgive himself. What was happening to Laurana in the Dark Queen’s Temple? Was she still alive? Tanis’s soul shrank from that thought. Of course she was alive! The Dark Queen would not kill her, not as long as she wanted Berem—

Tanis’s eyes focused on the man walking ahead of him, near Caramon. I will do anything to save Laurana, he swore beneath his breath, clenching his fist. Anything! If it means sacrificing myself or—

He stopped. Would he really give up Berem? Would he really trade the Everman to the Dark Queen, perhaps plunge the world into a darkness so vast it would never see light again?

No, Tanis told himself firmly. Laurana would die before she would be part of such a bargain. Then—after he’d walked a few more steps—he’d change his mind. Let the world take care of itself, he thought gloomily. We’re doomed. We can’t win, no matter what happens. Laurana’s life, that’s the only thing that counts ... the only thing . . .

Tanis was not the only gloomy member of the group. Tika walked beside Caramon, her red curls a bright spot of warmth and light in the gray day. But the light was only in the vibrant red of her hair, it had gone out of her eyes. Although Caramon was unfailingly kind to her, he had not held her since that wonderful, brief moment beneath the sea when his love had been hers. This made her angry in the long nights—he had used her, she decided, simply to ease his own pain. She vowed she would leave him when this was over. There was a wealthy young nobleman in Kalaman who had not been able to take his eyes off her... But those were night thoughts. During the day, when Tika glanced at Caramon, and saw him plodding along next to her, his head bowed, her heart melted. Gently she touched him. Looking up at her quickly, he smiled. Tika sighed. So much for wealthy young noblemen.

Flint stumped along, rarely speaking, never complaining. If Tanis had not been wrapped up in his own inner turmoil, he would have noted this as a bad sign.

As for Berem, no one knew what he was thinking—if anything. He seemed to grow more nervous and wary the farther they traveled. The blue eyes that were too young for his face darted here and there like those of a trapped animal.

It was on the second day in the mountains that Berem vanished.

Everyone had been more cheerful in the morning, when Fizban announced that they should arrive in Godshome soon. But gloom quickly followed. The rain grew heavier. Three times in one hour the old mage led them plunging through the brush with excited cries of “This is it! Here we are!” only to find themselves in a swamp, a gorge, and—finally—staring at a rock wall.

It was this last time—the dead end—that Tanis felt his soul start to rip from his body. Even Tasslehoff fell back in alarm at the sight of the half-elf’s rage—distorted face. Desperately Tanis fought to hold himself together, and it was then he noticed.

“Where’s Berem?” he asked, a sudden chill freezing his anger.

Caramon blinked, seemingly coming back from some distant world. The big warrior looked around hastily, then turned to face Tanis, his face flushed with shame. “I-I dunno, Tanis. I-I thought he was next to me.”

“He’s our only way into Neraka,” the half-elf said through clenched teeth, “and he’s the only reason they’re keeping Laurana alive. If they catch him—”

Tanis stopped, sudden tears choking him. Desperately he tried to think, despite the blood pounding in his head.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Flint said gruffly, patting the half-elf on the arm. “We’ll find him.”

“I’m sorry, Tanis,” Caramon mumbled. “I was thinking about—about Raist. I-I know I shouldn’t—”

“How in the name of the Abyss does that blasted brother of yours work mischief when he’s not even here!” Tanis shouted. Then he caught himself. “I’m sorry, Caramon,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Don’t blame yourself. I should have been watching, too. We all should have. We’ve got to backtrack anyway, unless Fizban can take us through solid rock ... no, don’t even consider it, old man.... Berem can’t have gone far and his trail should be easy to pick up. He’s not skilled in wood-lore.”

Tanis was right. After an hour tracing back their own footsteps, they discovered a small animal trail none of them had noticed in passing. It was Flint who saw the man’s tracks in the mud. Calling excitedly to the others, the dwarf plunged into the brush, following the clearly marked trail easily. The rest hurried after him, but the dwarf seemed to have experienced an unusual surge of energy. Like a hunting hound who knows the prey is just ahead of him, Flint trampled over tangleshoot vines and hacked his way through the undergrowth without pause. He quickly outdistanced them.

“Flint!” Tanis shouted more than once. “Wait up!”

But the group fell farther and farther behind the excited dwarf until they lost sight of him altogether. Flint’s trail proved even clearer than Berem’s, however. They had little difficulty following the print of the dwarf’s heavy boots, not to mention the broken tree limbs and uprooted vines that marked his passing.

Then suddenly they were brought to a halt.

They had reached another rock cliff, but this time there was a way through—a hole in the rock formed a narrow tunnel-like opening. The dwarf had entered easily—they could see his tracks—but it was so narrow that Tanis stared at it in dismay.

“Berem got through it,” Caramon said grimly, pointing at a smear of fresh blood the rock.

“Maybe,” Tanis said dubiously. “See what’s on the other side, Tas,” he ordered, reluctant to enter until he was certain he was not being led a merry chase.

Tasslehoff crawled through with ease, and soon they heard his shrill voice exclaiming in wonder over something, but it echoed so they had trouble understanding his words.

Suddenly Fizban’s face brightened. “This is it!” cried the old mage in high glee. “We’ve found it! Godshome! The way in—through this passageway!”

“There’s no other way?” Caramon asked, staring at the narrow opening gloomily.

Fizban appeared thoughtful. “Well, I seem to recall—”

Then, “Tanis! Hurry!” came through quite clearly from the other side.

“No more dead ends. We’ll get through this way,” Tanis muttered, “somehow.”

Crawling on hands and knees, the companions crept into the narrow opening. The way did not become easier; sometimes they were forced to flatten themselves and slither through the mud like snakes. Broad-shouldered Caramon had the worst time, and for a while Tanis thought perhaps they might have to leave the big man behind. Tasslehoff waited for them on the other side, peering in at them anxiously as they crawled. “I heard something, Tanis,” he kept saying. “Flint shouting. Up ahead. And wait until you see this place, Tanis! You won’t believe it!”

But Tanis couldn’t take time to listen or look around, not until everyone was safely through the tunnel. It took all of them, pulling and tugging, to drag Caramon through and when he finally emerged, the skin on his arms and back was cut and bleeding.

“This is it!” Fizban stated. “We’re here.”

The half-elf turned around to see the place called Godshome.

“Not exactly the place I’d choose to live if I were a god,” Tasslehoff remarked in a subdued voice.

Tanis was forced to agree.

They stood at the edge of a circular depression in the center of a mountain. The first thing that struck Tanis when he looked upon Godshome was the overwhelming desolation and emptiness of the place. All along the path up into the mountains, the companions had seen signs of new life: trees budding, grass greening, wild flowers pushing their way through the mud and remnants of snow. But here there was nothing. The bottom of the bowl was perfectly smooth and flat, totally barren, gray and lifeless. The towering peaks of the mountain surrounding the bowl soared above them. The jagged rock of the peaks seemed to loom inward, giving the observer the impression of being pressed down into the crumbling rock beneath his feet. The sky above them was azure, clear, and cold, devoid of sun or bird or cloud, though it had been raining when they entered the tunnel. It was like an eye staring down from gray, unblinking rims. Shivering, Tanis quickly withdrew his gaze from the sky to look once more within the bowl.

Below that staring eye, within the center of the bowl itself, stood a circle of huge, tall, shapeless boulders. It was a perfect circle made up of imperfect rocks. Yet they matched so nearly and stood so close together that when Tanis tried to look between them, he could not make out from where he was standing what the strange stones guarded so solemnly. These boulders were all that was visible in the rock-strewn and silent place.

“It makes me feel so terribly sad,” Tika whispered. “I’m not frightened—it doesn’t seem evil, just so sorrowful! If the gods do come here, it must be to weep over the troubles of the world.”

Fizban turned to regard Tika with a penetrating look and seemed about to speak, but before he could comment, Tasslehoff shouted. “There, Tanis!”

“I see!” The half-elf broke into a run.

On the other side of the bowl, he could see the vague outline of what appeared to be two figures—one short and the other tall—struggling.

“It’s Berem!” screamed Tas. The two were plainly visible to his keen kender eyes. “And he’s doing something to Flint! Hurry, Tanis!”

Bitterly cursing himself for letting this happen, for not keeping closer watch on Berem, for not forcing the man to reveal those secrets he was so obviously holding back, Tanis ran across the stony ground with a speed born of fear. He could hear the others calling to him, but he paid no attention. His eyes were on the two in front of him and now he could see them clearly. Even as he watched, he saw the dwarf fall to the ground. Berem stood over him.

“Flint!” Tanis screamed.

His heart was pounding so that blood dimmed his vision. His lungs ached, there didn’t seem air enough to breath. Still he ran faster, and now he could see Berem turn to look at him. He seemed to be trying to say something—Tanis could see the man’s lips moving—but the half-elf couldn’t hear through the surge of blood beating in his ears. At Berem’s feet lay Flint. The dwarf’s eyes were closed, his head lolled over to one side, his face was ashen gray.

“What have you done?” Tanis shrieked at Berem. “You’ve killed him!” Grief, guilt, despair, and rage exploded within Tanis like one of the old mage’s fireballs, flooding his head with unbearable pain. He could not see, a red tide blurred his sight.

His sword was in his hand, he had no idea how. He felt the cold steel of the hilt. Berem’s face swam within a blood-red sea; the man’s eyes filled—not with terror—but with deep sorrow. Then Tanis saw the eyes widen with pain, and it was only then he knew he had plunged the sword into Berem’s unresisting body, plunged it so deeply that he felt it cleave through flesh and bone and scrape the rock upon which the Everman was leaning.

Warm blood washed over Tanis’s hands. A horrible scream burst in his head, then a heavy weight fell on him, nearly knocking him down.

Berem’s body slumped over him, but Tanis didn’t notice. Frantically he struggled to free his weapon and stab again. He felt strong hands grab him. But in his madness, the half-elf fought them off. Finally pulling his sword free, he watched Berem fall to the ground, blood streaming from the horrible wound just below the green gemstone that glittered with an unholy life in the man’s chest.

Behind him, he heard a deep, booming voice and a woman’s sobbing pleas and a shrill wail of grief. Furious, Tanis spun around to face those who had tried to thwart him. He saw a big man with a grief-stricken face, a red-haired girl with tears streaming down her cheeks. He recognized neither of them. And then there appeared before him an old, old man. His face was calm, his ageless eyes filled with sorrow. The old man smiled gently at Tanis and, reaching out, laid his hand on the half-elf’s shoulder.

His touch was like cool water to a fevered man. Tanis felt reason return. The bloody haze cleared from his vision. He dropped the bloodstained sword from his red hands and collapsed, sobbing, at Fizban’s feet. The old man leaned down and gently patted him.

“Be strong, Tanis,” he said softly, “for you must say good-bye to one who has a long journey before him.”

Tanis remembered. “Flint!” he gasped.

Fizban nodded sadly, glancing at Berem’s body. “Come along. There’s nothing more you can do here.”

Swallowing his tears, Tanis staggered to his feet. Shoving aside the mage, he stumbled over to where Flint lay on the rocky ground, his head resting on Tasslehoff’s lap.

The dwarf smiled as he saw the half-elf approach. Tanis dropped down on his knees beside his oldest friend. Taking Flint’s gnarled hand in his, the half-elf held it fast.

“I almost lost him, Tanis,” Flint said. With his other hand he tapped his chest. “Berem was just about to slip out through that other hole in the rocks over there when this old heart of mine finally burst. He—he heard me cry out, I guess, because the next thing I knew he had me in his arms and was laying me down on the rocks.”

“Then he didn’t—he didn’t—harm you . . .” Tanis could barely speak.

Flint managed a snort. “Harm me! He couldn’t harm a mouse, Tanis. He’s as gentle as Tika.” The dwarf smiled up at the girl, who also knelt beside him. “You take care of that big oaf, Caramon, you hear?” he said to her. “See he comes in out of the rain.”

“I will, Flint.” Tika wept.

“At least you won’t be trying to drown me anymore,” the dwarf grumbled, his eyes resting fondly on Caramon. “And if you see that brother of yours, give him a kick in the robes for me.”

Caramon could not speak. He only shook his head. “I-I’ll go look after Berem,” the big man mumbled. Taking hold of Tika, he gently helped her stand and led her away.

“No, Flint! You can’t go off adventuring without me!” Tas wailed. “You’ll get into no end of trouble, you know you will!”

“It’ll be the first moment of peace I’ve had since we met,” the dwarf said gruffly. “I want you to have my helm—the one with the griffon’s mane.” He glared at Tanis sternly, then turned his gaze back to the sobbing kender. Sighing, he patted Tas’s hand. “There, there, lad, don’t take on so. I’ve had a happy life, blessed with faithful friends. I’ve seen evil things, but I’ve seen a lot of good things, too. And now hope has come into the world. I hate to leave you"—his rapidly dimming vision focused on Tanis—"just when you need me. But I’ve taught you all I know, lad. Everything will be fine. I know... fine...”

His voice sank, he closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Tanis held tightly to his hand. Tasslehoff buried his face in Flint’s shoulder. Then Fizban appeared, standing at Flint’s feet.

The dwarf opened his eyes. “I know you, now,” he said softly, his eyes bright as he looked at Fizban. “You’ll come with me, won’t you? At least at the beginning of the journey ... so I won’t be alone? I’ve walked with friends so long, I feel... kind of funny . . . going off like this ... by myself.”

“I’ll come with you,” Fizban promised gently. “Close your eyes and rest now, Flint. The troubles of this world are yours no longer. You have earned the right to sleep.”

“Sleep,” the dwarf said, smiling. “Yes, that’s what I need. Wake me when you’re ready. . . wake me when it’s time to leav—” Flint’s eyes closed. He drew in a smooth easy breath, then let it out...

Tanis pressed the dwarf’s hand to his lips. “Farewell, old friend,” the half-elf whispered, and he placed the hand on the dwarf’s still chest.

“No! Flint! No!” Screaming wildly, Tasslehoff flung himself across the dwarf’s body. Gently Tanis lifted the sobbing kender in his arms. Tas kicked and fought, but Tanis held him firmly, like a child, and finally Tas subsided—exhausted. Clinging to Tanis, he wept bitterly.

Tanis stroked the kender’s topknot, then—glancing up— stopped.

“Wait! What are you doing, old man?” he cried.

Setting Tas back down on the ground, Tanis rose quickly to his feet. The frail old mage had lifted Flint’s body in his arms and, as Tanis watched in shock, began walking toward the strange circle of stones.

“Stop!” Tanis ordered. “We must give him a proper ceremony, build a cairn.”

Fizban turned to face Tanis. The old man’s face was stern. He held the heavy dwarf gently and with ease.

“I promised him he would not travel alone,” Fizban said simply.

Then, turning, he continued to walk toward the stones. Tanis, after a moment’s hesitation, ran after him. The rest stood as if transfixed, staring at Fizban’s retreating figure.

It had seemed an easy thing to Tanis to catch up with an old man bearing such a burden. But Fizban moved incredibly fast, almost as if he and the dwarf were as light as the air. Suddenly aware of the weight of his own body, Tanis felt as if he were trying to catch a wisp of smoke soaring heavenward. Still he stumbled after them, reaching them just as the old mage entered the ring of boulders, carrying the dwarf’s body in his arms.

Tanis squeezed through the circle of rocks without thinking, knowing only that he must stop this crazed old mage and recover his friend’s body.

Then he stopped within the circle. Before him spread what he first took to be a pool of water, so still that nothing marred its smooth surface. Then he saw that it wasn’t water—it was a pool of glassy black rock! The deep black surface was polished to a gleaming brilliance. It stretched before Tanis with the darkness of night and, indeed, looking down into its black depths, Tanis was startled to see stars! So clear were they that he looked up, half-expecting to see night had fallen, though he knew it was only mid-afternoon. The sky above him was azure, cold and clear, no stars, no sun. Shaken and weak, Tanis dropped to his knees beside the pool and stared once more into its polished surface. He saw the stars, he saw the moons, he saw three moons, and his soul trembled, for the black moon visible only to those powerful mages of the Black Robes was now visible to him—like a dark circle cut out of blackness. He could even see the gaping holes where the constellations of the Queen of Darkness and the Valiant Warrior had once wheeled in the sky.

Tanis recalled Raistlin’s words, “Both gone. She has come to Krynn, Tanis, and He has come to fight her...”

Looking up, Tanis saw Fizban step onto the black rock pool, Flint’s body in his arms.

The half-elf tried desperately to follow, but he could no more force himself to crawl out upon that cold rock surface than he could have made himself leap into the Abyss. He could only watch as the old mage, walking softly as if unwilling to waken a sleeping child in his arms, moved out into the center of glistening black surface.

“Fizban!” Tanis called.

The old man did not stop or turn but walked on among the glittering stars. Tanis felt Tasslehoff creep up next to him. Reaching out, Tanis took his hand and held it fast, as he had held Flint’s.

The old mage reached the center of the rock pool . . . and then disappeared.

Tanis gasped. Tasslehoff leaped past him, starting to run out onto the mirror-like surface. But Tanis caught him.

“No, Tas,” the half-elf said gently. “You can’t go on this adventure with him. Not yet. You must stay with me awhile. I need you now.”

Tasslehoff fell back, unusually obedient, and as he did so, he pointed.

“Look, Tanis!” he whispered, his voice quivering. “The constellation! It’s come back!”

As Tanis stared into the surface of the black pool, he saw the stars of the constellation of the Valiant Warrior return. They flickered, then burst into light, filling the dark pool with their blue-white radiance. Swiftly Tanis looked upward—but the sky above was dark and still and empty.

4 Berem’s story.

“Tanis!” called Caramon’s voice.

“Berem!” Suddenly remembering what he had done, Tanis turned and stumbled over the rock-strewn ground toward Caramon and Tika, who were staring in horror at the blood-smeared rock where Berem’s body lay. As they watched, Berem began to stir, groaning—not in pain—but as if with remembered pain. His shaking hand clutching his chest, Berem rose slowly to his feet. The only sign of his hideous injury was traces of blood upon his skin, and these vanished as Tanis watched.

“He is called the Everman, remember?” Tanis said to the ashen-faced Caramon. “Sturm and I saw him die in Pax Tharkas, buried under a ton of rock. He’s died countless deaths, only to rise again. And he claims he doesn’t know why.” Tanis came forward to stand very close to Berem, staring at the man, who watched him approach with sullen, wary eyes.

“But you do know, don’t you, Berem?” Tanis said. The half-elf’s voice was soft, his manner calm. “You know,” he repeated, “and you’re going to tell us. The lives of more may hang in balance.”

Berem’s gaze lowered. “I’m sorry... about your friend,” he mumbled. “I-I tried to help, but there was nothing—”

“I know.” Tanis swallowed. “I’m sorry . . . about what I did, too. I-I couldn’t see. ... I didn’t understand—”

But as he said the words, Tanis realized he was lying. He had seen, but he had seen only what he wanted to see. How much of what happened in his life was like that? How much of what he saw was distorted by his own mind? He hadn’t understood Berem because he didn’t want to understand Berem! Berem had come to represent for Tanis those dark and secret things within himself he hated. He had killed Berem, the half-elf knew; but in reality, he had driven that sword through himself.

And now it was as if that sword wound had spewed out the foul, gangrenous poison corrupting his soul. Now the wound could heal. The grief and sorrow of Flint’s death was like a soothing balm poured inside, reminding him of goodness, of higher values. Tanis felt himself freed at last of the dark shadows of his guilt. Whatever happened, he had done his best to try and help, to try and make things right. He had made mistakes, but he could forgive himself now and go on.

Perhaps Berem saw this in Tanis’s eyes. Certainly he saw grief, he saw compassion. Then, “I am tired, Tanis,” Berem said suddenly, his eyes on the half-elf’s tear-reddened eyes. “I am so very tired.” His glance went to the black pool of rock. “I-I envy your friend. He is at rest now. He has found peace. Am I never to have that?” Berem’s fist clenched, then he shuddered and his head sank into his hands. “But I am afraid! I see the end—it is very close. And I am frightened!”

“We’re all frightened.” Tanis sighed, rubbing his burning eyes. “You’re right—the end is near, and it seems fraught with darkness. You hold the answer, Berem.”

“I’ll—I’ll tell you—what I can,” Berem said haltingly, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “But you’ve got to help me!” His hand clutched Tanis’s. “You must promise to help me!”

“I cannot promise,” Tanis said grimly, “not until I know the truth.”

Berem sat down, leaning his back against the bloodstained rock. The others settled around him, drawing their cloaks close as the wind rose, whistling down the sides of the mountains, howling among the strange boulders. They listened to Berem’s tale without interruption, though Tas was occasionally seized by a fit of weeping and snuffled quietly, his head resting on Tika’s shoulder.

At first Berem’s voice was low, his words spoken reluctantly. Sometimes they could see him wrestling with himself, then he would blurt forth the story as if it hurt. But gradually he began speaking faster and faster, the relief of finally telling the truth after all these years flooding his soul.

“When—when I said I understood how you"—he nodded at Caramon—"felt about—about losing your brother, I spoke the truth. I-I had a sister. We-we weren’t twins, but we were probably as close as twins. She was just a year younger. We lived on a small farm, outside of Neraka. It was isolated. No neighbors. My mother taught us to read and write at home, enough to get by. Mostly we worked on the farm. My sister was my only companion, my only friend. And I was hers.

“She worked hard—too hard. After the Cataclysm, it was all we could to do to keep food on the table. Our parents were old and sick. We nearly starved that first winter. No matter what you have heard about the Famine Times, you cannot imagine.” His voice died, his eyes dimmed. “Ravenous packs of wild beasts and wilder men roamed the land. Being isolated, we were luckier than some. But many nights we stayed awake, clubs in our hands, as the wolves prowled around the outside of the house—waiting. ... I watched my sister—who was a pretty little thing—grow old before she was twenty. Her hair was gray as mine is now, her face pinched and wrinkled. But she never complained.

“That spring, things didn’t improve much. But at least we had hope, my sister said. We could plant seeds and watch them grow. We could hunt the game that returned with the spring. There would be food on the table. She loved hunting. She was a good shot with a bow, and she enjoyed being outdoors. We often went together. That day—”

Berem stopped. Closing his eyes, he began to shake as if chilled. But, gritting his teeth, he continued.

“That day, we’d walked farther than usual. A lightning fire had burned away the brush and we found a trail we’d never seen before. It had been a bad day’s hunting and we followed the trail, hoping to find game. But after a while, I saw it wasn’t an animal trail. It was an old, old path made by human feet; it hadn’t been used in years. I wanted to turn back, but my sister kept going, curious to see where it led.”

Berem’s face grew strained and tense. For a moment Tanis feared he might stop speaking, but Berem continued feverishly, as if driven.

“It led to a-a strange place. My sister said it must have been a temple once, a temple to evil gods. I don’t know. All I know is that there were broken columns lying tumbled about, overgrown with dead weeds. She was right. It did have an evil feel to it and we should have left. We should have left the evil place. ...” Berem repeated this to himself several times, like a chant. Then he fell silent.

No one moved or spoke and, after a moment, he began speaking so softly the others were forced to lean close to hear. And they realized, slowly, that he had forgotten they were there or even where he was. He had gone back to that time.

“But there is one beautiful, beautiful object in the ruins: the base of a broken column, encrusted with jewels!”—Berem’s voice was soft with awe—"I have never seen such beauty! Or such wealth! How can I leave it? Just one jewel! Just one will make us rich! We can move to the city! My sister will have suitors, as she deserves. I-I fall to my knees and I take out my knife. There is one jewel—a green gemstone—that glitters brightly in the sunlight! It is lovely beyond anything I have ever seen! I will take it. Thrusting the knife blade"—here Berem made a swift motion with his hand—"into the stone beneath the jewel, I begin to pry it out.

“My sister is horrified. She cries to me—she commands me to stop.

“This place is holy,” she pleads. “The jewels belong to some god. This is sacrilege, Berem!”

Berem shook his head, his face dark with remembered anger.

“I ignore her, though I feel a chill in my heart even as I pry at the jewel. But I tell her—‘If it belonged to the gods, they have abandoned it, as they have abandoned us!’ But she won’t listen.”

Berem’s eyes flared open, they were cold and frightening to see. His voice came from far away.

“She grabs me! Her fingernails dig into my arm! It hurts!

“ ‘Stop, Berem!’ she commands me—me, her older brother! ‘I will not let you desecrate what belongs to the gods!”

“How dare she talk to me like that? I’m doing this for her! For our family! She should not cross me! She knows what can happen when I get mad. Something breaks in my head, flooding my brain. I can’t think or see. I yell at her—‘Leave me be!’—but her hand grabs my knife hand, jarring the blade, scratching the jewel.

Berem’s eyes flashed with a crazed light. Surreptitiously Caramon laid his hand on his dagger as the man’s hands clenched to fists and his voice rose to an almost hysterical pitch.

“I-I shove her ... not that hard ... I never meant to shove her that hard! She’s falling! I’ve got to catch her, but I can’t. I’m moving too slowly, too slowly. Her head... hits the column. A sharp rock pierces her here"—Berem touched his temple—“blood covers her face, spills over the jewels. They don’t shine anymore. Her eyes don’t shine either. They stare at me, but they don’t see me. And then . . . and then . . .”

His body shuddered convulsively.

“It is a horrible sight, one I see in my sleep every time I close my eyes! It is like the Cataclysm, only during that, all was destroyed! This is a creation, but what a ghastly, unholy creation! The ground splits open! Huge columns begin to reform before my eyes. A temple springs up from a hideous darkness below the ground. But it isn’t a beautiful temple—it is horrible and deformed. I see Darkness rise up before me, Darkness with five heads, all of them twisting and writhing in my sight. The heads speak to me in a voice colder than a tomb.

“ ‘Long ago was I banished from this world, and only through a piece of the world may I enter again. The jeweled column was—for me—a locked door, keeping me prisoner. You have freed me, mortal, and therefore I give you what you seek—the green gemstone is yours!”

“There is terrible, mocking laughter. I feel a great pain in my chest. Looking down, I see the green gemstone embedded in my flesh, even as you see it now. Terrified by the hideous evil before me, stunned by my wicked act, I can do nothing but stare as the dark, shadowy shape begins to grow clearer and clearer. It is a dragon! I can see it now—a five-headed dragon such as I had heard nightmarish tales about when I was a child!

“And I know then that once the dragon enters the world, we are doomed. For at last I understand what I have done. This is the Queen of Darkness the clerics teach us about. Banished long ago by the great Huma, she has long sought to return. Now—by my folly—she will be able again to walk the land. One of the huge heads snakes toward me, and I know I am going to die, for she must not allow any to witness her return. I see the slashing teeth. I cannot move. I don’t care.

“And then, suddenly, my sister stands in front of me! She is alive, but when I try to reach out to her, my hands touch nothing. I scream her name, ‘Jasla!’”

“ ‘Run, Berem!’ she calls. ‘Run! She cannot get past me, not yet! Run!”

“I stand staring for a moment. My sister hovers between me and the Dark Queen. Horrified, I see the five heads rear back in anger, their screams split the air. But they cannot pass my sister. And, even as I watch, the Queen’s shape begins to waver and dim. She is still there, a shadowy figure of evil, but nothing more. But her power is great. She lunges for my sister...

“And then I turn and run. I run and run, the green gemstone burning a hole in my chest. I run until everything goes black.”

Berem stopped speaking. Sweat trickled down his face as if he had truly been running for days. None of the companions spoke. The dark tale might have turned them to stone like the boulders around the black pool.

Finally Berem drew a shuddering breath. His eyes focused and he saw them once more.

“There follows a long span of my life of which I know nothing. When I came to myself, I had aged, even as you see me now. At first I told myself it was a nightmare, a horrible dream. But then I felt the green gemstone burning in my flesh, and I knew it was real. I had no idea where I was. Perhaps I had traveled the length and breadth of Krynn in my wanderings. I longed desperately to return to Neraka. Yet that was the one place I knew I couldn’t go. I didn’t have the courage.

“Long years more I wandered, unable to find peace, unable to rest, dying only to live again. Everywhere I went I heard stories of evil things abroad in the land and I knew it was my fault. And then came the dragons and the dragonmen. I alone knew what they meant. I alone knew the Queen had reached the summit of her power and was trying to conquer the world; The one thing she lacks is me. Why? I’m not certain. Except that I feel like someone who is trying to shut a door another is trying to force open. And I am tired . . .”

Berem’s voice faltered. “So tired,” he said, his head dropping into his hands. “I want it to end!”

The companions sat silently for long moments, trying to make sense of a story that seemed like something an old nursemaid might have told in the dark hours of the night.

“What must you do to shut this door?” Tanis asked Berem.

“I don’t know,” Berem said, his voice muffled. “I only know that I feel drawn to Neraka, yet it’s the one place on the face of Krynn I dare not enter! That’s—that’s why I ran away.”

“But you’re going to enter it,” Tanis said slowly and firmly. “You’re going to enter it with us. We’ll be with you. You won’t be alone.”

Berem shivered and shook his head, whimpering. Then suddenly he stopped and looked up, his face flushed. “Yes!” he cried. “I cannot stand any more! I will go with you! You’ll protect me—”

“We’ll do our best,” Tanis muttered, seeing Caramon roll his eyes, then look away. “We’d better find the way out.”

“I found it.” Berem sighed. “I was nearly through, when I heard the dwarf cry out. This way.” He pointed to another narrow cleft between the rocks. Caramon sighed, glancing ruefully at the scratches on his arms. One by one, the companions entered the cleft.

Tanis was the last. Turning, he looked back once more upon the barren place. Darkness was falling swiftly, the azure blue sky deepening to purple and finally to black. The strange boulders were shrouded in the gathering gloom. He could no longer see the dark pool of rock where Fizban had vanished.

It seemed odd to think of Flint being gone. There was a great emptiness inside of him. He kept expecting to hear the dwarf’s grumbling voice complain about his various aches and pains or argue with the kender.

For a moment Tanis struggled with himself, holding onto his friend as long as he could. Then, silently, he let Flint go. Turning, he crept through the narrow cleft in the rocks, leaving Godshome, never to see it again.

Once back on the trail, they followed it until they came to a small cave. Here they huddled together, not daring to build a fire this near to Neraka, the center of the might of the dragonarmies. For a while, no one spoke, then they began to talk about Flint—letting him go, as Tanis had done. Their memories were good ones, recalling Flint’s rich, adventurous life.

They laughed heartily when Caramon recounted the tale of the disastrous camping trip—how he had overturned the boat, trying to catch a fish by hand, knocking Flint into the water. Tanis recalled how Tas and the dwarf had met when Tas “accidentally” walked off with a bracelet Flint had made and was trying to sell at a fair. Tika remembered the wonderful toys he had made for her. She recalled his kindness when her father disappeared, how he had taken the young girl into his own home until Otik had given her a place to live and work.

All these and more memories they recalled until, by the end of the evening, the bitter sting had gone out of their grief, leaving only the ache of loss.

That is—for most of them.

Late, late in the dark watches of the night, Tasslehoff sat outside the cave entrance, staring up into the stars. Flint’s helm was clutched in his small hands, tears streamed unchecked down his face.

5 Neraka.

As it turned out, the companions discovered it was going to be easy getting into Neraka.

Deadly easy.

“What in the name of the gods is happening?” Caramon muttered as he and Tanis—still dressed in their stolen dragonarmor—stared down into the plains from their hidden vantage point in the mountains west of Neraka.

Writhing black lines snaked across the barren plain towards the only building within a hundred miles—the Temple of the Queen of Darkness. It looked as though hundreds of vipers were slithering down from the mountains, but these were not vipers. These were the dragonarmies, thousands strong. The two men watching saw here and there the flash of sun off spear and shield. Flags of black and red and blue fluttered from tall poles that bore the emblems of the Dragon Highlords. Flying high above them, dragons filled the air with a hideous rainbow of colors—reds, blues, greens, and blacks. Two gigantic flying citadels hovered over the walled Temple compound; the shadows they cast made it perpetual night down below.

“You know,” said Caramon slowly, “it’s a good thing that old man attacked us back there. We would have been massacred if we’d ridden our brass dragons into this mob.”

“Yes,” Tanis agreed absently. He’d been thinking about that “old man,” adding a few things together, remembering what he himself had seen and what Tas had told him. The more he thought about Fizban, the closer he came to realizing the truth. His skin “shivered,” as Flint would have said.

Recalling Flint, a sudden swift aching in his heart made him put thoughts of the dwarf—and the old man—from his mind. He had enough to worry about now, and there would be no old mages to help him out of this one.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Tanis said quietly, “but it’s working for us now, not against us. Remember what Elistan said once? It is written in the Disks of Mishakal that evil turns upon itself. The Dark Queen is gathering her forces, for whatever reason. Probably preparing to deal Krynn a final deathblow. But we can slip in easily among the confusion. No one will notice two guards bringing in a group of prisoners.”

“You hope,” Caramon added gloomily.

“I pray,” Tanis said softly.

The captain of the guard at the gates of Neraka was a sorely harassed man. The Dark Queen had called a Council of War and, for only the second time since the war began, the Dragon Highlords on the continent of Ansalon were gathering together. Four days ago, they began arriving in Neraka and, since then, the captain’s life had been a waking nightmare.

The Highlords were supposed to enter the city by order of rank. Thus Lord Ariakas entered first with his personal retinue—his troops, his bodyguards, his dragons; then Kitiara, the Dark Lady, with her personal retinue—her troops, her bodyguards, her dragons; then Lucien of Takar with his personal retinue, his troops and so forth through all the Highlords down to Dragon Highlord Toede, of the eastern front.

The system was designed to do more than simply honor the higher-ups. It was intended to move large numbers of troops and dragons, as well as all their supplies, into and out of a complex that had never been intended to hold large concentrations of troops. Nor, as distrustful as the Highlords were of each other, could any Highlord be persuaded to enter with a single draconian less than any other Highlord. It was a good system and it should have worked. Unfortunately, there was trouble from the very outset when Lord Ariakas arrived two days late.

Had he done this purposefully to create the confusion he knew must result? The captain did not know and he dared not ask, but he had his own ideas. This meant, of course, that those Highlords who arrived before Ariakas were forced to camp on the plains outside the Temple compound until the Lord made his entry. This provoked trouble. The draconians, goblins, and human mercenaries wanted the pleasures of the camp city that had been hastily erected in the Temple square. They had marched long distances and were justifiably angry when this was denied them.

Many sneaked over the walls at night, drawn to the taverns as flies to honey. Brawls broke out—each Highlord’s troops being loyal to that particular Highlord and no other. The dungeons below the Temple were filled to overflowing. The captain finally ordered his forces to haul the drunks out of the city in wheelbarrows every morning and dump them on the plains where they were retrieved by their irate commanders.

Quarrels started among the dragons, too, as each lead dragon sought to establish dominance over the others. A big green. Cyan Bloodbane, had actually killed a red in a fight over a deer. Unfortunately for Cyan, the red had been a pet of the Dark Queen’s. The big green was now imprisoned in a cave beneath Neraka, where his howls and violent tail-lashings caused many up above to think an earthquake had struck.

The captain had not slept well in two nights. When word reached him early in the morning of the third day that Ariakas had arrived, the captain very nearly gave thanks on his knees. Hurriedly marshalling his staff, he gave orders for the grand entrance to begin. Everything proceeded smoothly until several hundred of Toede’s draconians saw Ariakas’s troops entering the Temple square. Drunk and completely out of the control of their ineffectual leaders, they attempted to crowd in as well. Angry at the disruption, Ariakas’s captains ordered their men to fight back. Chaos erupted.

Furious, the Dark Queen sent out her own troops, armed with whips, steel-link chains, and maces. Black-robed magic-users walked among them, as well as dark clerics. Between the whippings, head-bashings, and spellcasting, order was eventually restored. Lord Ariakas and his troops finally entered the Temple compound with dignity—if not grace.

It might have been mid-afternoon—by now the captain had completely lost track of time (those blasted citadels cut off the sunlight)—when one of the guards appeared, requesting his presence at the front gates.

“What is it?” the captain snarled impatiently, fixing the guard with a piercing gaze from his one good eye (the other had been lost in a battle with the elves in Silvanesti). “Another fight? Knock ’em both over the head and haul ’em to prison. I’m sick—”

“N-not a fight, sir,” stuttered the guard, a young goblin terrified of his human captain. “The watch at the g-gate sent m-me. T-Two officers with p-prisoners want p-permission to enter.”

The captain swore in frustration. What next? He almost told the goblin to go back and let them enter. The place was crawling with slaves and prisoners already. A few more wouldn’t matter. Highlord Kitiara’s troops were gathering outside, ready to come in. He had to be on hand to extend official greetings.

“What kind of prisoners?” he asked irritably, trying hastily to catch up on reams of paperwork before leaving to attend the ceremony. “Drunken draconians? Just take them...”

“I-I think you should c-come, s-sir.” The goblin was sweating, and sweating goblins are not pleasant to be around, “Th-There’s a couple of h-humans, and a k-kender.”

The captain wrinkled his nose. “I said—” He stopped. “A kender?” he said, looking up with considerable interest. “There wasn’t, by any chance, a dwarf?”

“Not as I know of, sir,” answered the poor goblin. “But I might have missed one in the c-crowd, sir.”

“I’ll come,” the captain said. Hastily strapping on his sword, he followed the goblin down to the front gate.

Here, for the moment, peace reigned. Ariakas’s troops were all within the tent city now. Kitiara’s were jostling and fighting, forming ranks to march inside. It was nearly time for the ceremony to begin. The captain cast a swift glance over the group standing before him, just inside the front gates.

Two dragonarmy officers of high rank stood guard over a group of sullen prisoners. The captain studied the prisoners carefully, remembering orders he had received only two days ago. He was to watch, in particular, for a dwarf traveling with a kender. There might possibly be an elflord with them and an elfwoman with long, silver hair—in reality, a silver dragon. These had been the companions of the elfwoman they were holding prisoner, and the Dark Queen expected any or all of them to attempt to rescue her.

Here was a kender, all right. But the woman had curly red hair, not silver, and if she was a dragon, the captain would eat his platemail. The stooped old man with the long scraggly beard was certainly human, not a dwarf or an elflord. All in all, he couldn’t imagine why two dragonarmy officers had bothered taking the motley group prisoner.

“Just slit their throats and be done with it instead of bothering us,” the captain said sourly. “We’re short of prison space as it is. Take them away.”

“But what a waste!” said one of the officers—a giant of a man with arms like tree-trunks. Grabbing the red-headed girl, he dragged her forward. “I’ve heard they’re paying good money in the slave markets for her kind!”

“You’re right there,” the captain muttered, running his good eye over the girl’s voluptuous body which was enhanced—to his mind—by her chain-mail armor. “But I don’t know what you think you’ll get for this lot!” He poked the kender, who gave an indignant cry, and was instantly shushed by the other dragonarmy guard. “Kill ’em—”

The big dragonarmy officer seemed confounded by this argument, blinking in obvious confusion. Before he could reply, however, the other officer—who had been quiet and hidden in the background—stepped forward.

“The human’s a magic-user,” the officer said. “And we believe the kender is a spy. We caught him near Dargaard Keep.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place,” the captain snapped, “instead of wasting my time. Yeah, go ahead and haul ’em inside,” he spoke hurriedly as horns blared. It was time for the ceremony, the massive iron gates were shivering, beginning to swing open. “I’ll sign your papers. Hand them over.”

“We don’t have—” began the big officer.

“What papers do you mean?” the bearded officer cut in, fumbling in a pouch. “Identification—”

“Naw!” said the captain, fuming in impatience. “Your leave of absence from your commander to bring in prisoners.”

“We weren’t given that, sir,” said the bearded officer coolly. “Is that a new order?”

“No, it isn’t,” said the captain, eyeing them suspiciously. “How’d you get through the lines without it? And how do you expect to get back? Or were you going back? Thinking of taking a little trip with the money you’d make from these, were you?”

“Naw!” The big officer flushed angrily, his eyes flaring. “Our commander just forgot, maybe, that’s all. He’s got a lot on his mind, and there’s not much mind there to handle it, if you take my meaning.” He glared at the captain menacingly.

The gates swung open. Horns blared loudly. The captain sighed in frustration. Right now he was supposed to be standing in the center, prepared to greet the Lord Kitiara. He beckoned to some of the Dark Queen’s guards who were standing nearby.

“Take ’em below,” he said, twitching his uniform into place. “We’ll show them what we do to deserters!”

As he hurried off, he saw with pleasure that the Queen’s guards were carrying out their assignments, quickly and efficiently grabbing the two dragonarmy officers and divesting them of their weapons.

Caramon cast an alarmed glance at Tanis as the draconians grasped him by the arms and unbuckled his sword belt. Tika’s eyes were wide with fear—this certainly wasn’t the way things were supposed to be going. Berem, his face nearly hidden by his false whiskers, looked as if he might cry or run or both. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit stunned by the sudden change in plans. Tanis could see the kender’s eyes dart around, seeking escape.

Tanis thought frantically. He believed he had considered every possible occurrence when he had formed this plan for entering Neraka, but he’d obviously missed one. Certainly being arrested as a deserter from the dragonarmies had never crossed his mind! If the guards took them into the dungeons, it would be all over. The moment they took off his helmet, they’d recognize him as half-elven. Then they’d examine the others more closely . . . they’d discover Berem. . .

He was the danger. Without him Caramon and the others might still pull it off. Without him . . .

There was a blaring of trumpets and wild cheering from the crowd as a huge blue dragon bearing a Dragon Highlord entered the Temple gates. Seeing the Highlord, Tanis’s heart constricted with pain and, suddenly, a wild elation. The crowd surged forward roaring Kitiara’s name and, for the moment, the guards were distracted as they looked to see if the Highlord might be in danger. Tanis leaned as near Tasslehoff as he could.

“Tas!” he said swiftly, under the cover of the noise, hoping Tas remembered enough elven to understand him. “Tell Caramon to keep up the act. No matter what I do, he must trust me! Everything depends on that. No matter what I do. Understand?”

Tas stared at Tanis in astonishment, then nodded hesitantly. It had been a long time since he’d been forced to translate elven.

Tanis could only hope he understood. Caramon spoke no elven at all, and Tanis didn’t dare risk speaking Common, even if his voice was swallowed by the noise of the crowd. As it was, one of the guards wrenched his arm painfully, ordering him to be silent.

The noise died down, the crowd was bullied and shoved back into place. Seeing things under control, the guards turned to lead their prisoners away.

Suddenly Tanis stumbled and fell, tripping his guard, who sprawled headlong into the dust.

“Get up, slime!” Cursing, the other guard cuffed Tanis with the handle of a whip, striking him across the face. The half-elf lunged for the guard, grabbing the whip handle and the hand that held it. Tanis yanked with all his strength, and his sudden move sent the guard head over heels. For a split second, he was free.

Hurling himself forward, aware of the guards behind him, aware also of Caramon’s astonished face, Tanis threw himself toward the regal figure riding the blue dragon.

“Kitiara!” he yelled, just as the guards caught hold of him. “Kitiara!” he screamed, a hoarse, ragged shout that seemed torn from his chest. Fighting the guards, he managed to free one hand. With it, he gripped his helmet and tore it off his head, hurling it to the ground.

The Highlord in the night-blue, dragonscale armor turned upon hearing her name. Tanis could see her brown eyes widen in astonishment beneath the hideous dragonmask she wore. He could see the fiery eyes of the male blue dragon turn to gaze at him as well.

“Kitiara!” Tanis shouted. Shaking off his captors with a strength born of desperation, he dove forward again. But draconians in the crowd flung themselves on him, knocking him to the ground, where they held him pinned by his arms. Still Tanis struggled, twisting to look into the eyes of the Highlord.

“Halt, Skie,” Kitiara said, placing a gloved hand commandingly on the dragon’s neck. Skie stopped obediently, his clawed feet slipping slightly on the cobblestones of the street. But the dragon’s eyes, as they glared at Tanis, were filled with jealousy and hatred.

Tanis held his breath. His heart beat painfully. His head ached and blood dribbled into one eye, but he didn’t notice. He waited for the shout that would tell him Tasslehoff hadn’t understood, that his friends had tried to come to his aid. He waited for Kitiara to look behind him and see Caramon—her half-brother—and recognize him. He didn’t dare turn around to see what had happened to his friends. He could only hope Caramon had sense enough—and faith enough in him—to keep out of sight.

And now here came the captain, his cruel one-eyed face distorted in rage. Raising a booted foot, the captain aimed a kick for Tanis’s head, preparing to render this meddlesome troublemaker unconscious.

“Stop,” said a voice.

The captain halted so suddenly that he staggered off-balance.

“Let him go.” The same voice.

Reluctantly, the guards released Tanis and fell back away from him at an imperious gesture from the Dark Lady.

“What is so important, commander, that you disrupt my entrance?” she asked in cool tones, her voice sounding deep and distorted behind the dragonhelm.

Stumbling to his feet, weak with relief, his head swimming from his struggles with the guards, Tanis made his way forward to stand beside her. As he drew nearer, he saw a flicker of amusement in Kitiara’s brown eyes. She was enjoying this; a new game with an old toy. Clearing his throat, Tanis spoke boldly.

“These idiots arrested me for desertion,” he stated, “all because that imbecile Bakaris forgot to give me the proper papers.”

“I’ll see he pays the penalty for having caused you trouble, good Tanthalas,” replied Kitiara. Tanis could hear the laughter in her voice. “How dare you?” she added, whirling to glower at the captain, who cringed as the helmed visage turned toward him.

“I-I was j-just following or-orders, my lord,” he stuttered, shaking like a goblin.

“Be off with you, or you’ll feed my dragon,” Kitiara commanded peremptorily, waving her hand. Then, in the same graceful gesture, she held out her gloved hand to Tanis. “May I offer you a ride, commander? To make amends, of course.”

“Thank you, lord,” Tanis said.

Casting a dark glance at the captain, Tanis accepted Kitiara’s hand and swung himself up beside her on the back of the blue dragon. His eyes quickly scanned the crowd as Kitiara ordered Skie forward once more. For a moment, his agonized search could detect nothing, then he sighed in relief as he saw Caramon and the others being led away by the guards. The big man glanced up at him as they passed, a hurt and puzzled expression on his face. But he kept moving. Either Tas had passed along the message or the big man had sense enough to keep up the act. Or perhaps Caramon trusted him anyway. Tanis didn’t know. His friends were safe now—at least safer than they were with him.

This might be the last time I ever see them, he thought suddenly, with pain. Then he shook his head. He could not let himself dwell on that. Turning away, he discovered Kitiara’s brown eyes regarding him with an odd mixture of cunning and undisguised admiration.

Tasslehoff stood on his tiptoes, trying to see what became of Tanis. He heard shouts and yells, then a moment of silence. Then he saw the half-elf climb onto the dragon and sit beside Kitiara. The procession started up again. The kender thought he saw Tanis look his way, but—if so—it was without recognition. The guards shoved their remaining prisoners through the jostling crowd, and Tas lost sight of his friend.

One of the guards prodded Caramon in his ribs with a short sword.

“So your buddy gets a lift from the Highlord and you rot in prison,” the draconian said, chuckling.

“He won’t forget me,” Caramon muttered.

The draconian grinned and nudged its partner, who was dragging Tasslehoff along, one clawed hand on the kender’s collar. “Sure, he’ll come back for you—if he can manage to find his way out of her bed!”

Caramon flushed, scowling. Tasslehoff shot the big warrior an alarmed glance. The kender hadn’t had a chance to give Caramon Tanis’s last message, and he was terrified the big man would ruin everything, although Tas wasn’t really certain what there was left to ruin. Still. . .

But Caramon only tossed his head in injured dignity. “I’ll be out before nightfall,” he rumbled in his deep baritone. “We’ve been through too much together. He wouldn’t let me down.”

Catching a wistful note in Caramon’s voice, Tas wriggled in anxiety, longing to get close enough to Caramon to explain. But at that moment Tika cried out in anger. Twisting his head, Tas saw the guard rip her blouse; there were already bloody gashes made by its clawing hands on her neck. Caramon shouted, but too late. Tika struck the guard with a backhand on the side of its reptilian face in the best barroom tradition.

Furious, the draconian hurled Tika to the street and raised its whip. Tas heard Caramon suck in his breath and the kender cringed, preparing himself for the end.

“Hey! Don’t damage her!” Caramon roared. “Unless you want to be held accountable. Lord Kitiara told us to get six silver pieces for her, and we won’t do it if she’s marked up!”

The draconian hesitated. Caramon was a prisoner, that was true. But the guards had all seen the welcome reception his friend had received from the Dark Lady. Did they dare take a chance on offending another man who might stand high in her favor? Apparently they decided not. Roughly dragging Tika to her feet, they shoved her forward.

Tasslehoff breathed a sigh of relief, then stole a worried peek back at Berem, thinking that the man had been very quiet. He was right. The Everman might have been in a different world. His eyes, wide open, were fixed in a strange stare. His mouth gaped, he almost appeared half-witted. At least he didn’t look like he was about to cause trouble. It seemed that Caramon was going to continue playing his role and that Tika would be all right. For the time being, no one needed him. Sighing in relief, Tas began to look with interest around the Temple compound, at least as well as he could with the draconian hanging onto his collar.

He was sorry he did. Neraka looked exactly like what it was—a small, ancient impoverished village built to serve those who inhabited the Temple, now overrun by the tent city that had sprouted up around it like fungus.

At the far end of the compound the Temple itself loomed over the city like a carrion bird of prey—its twisted, deformed, obscene structure seeming to dominate even the mountains on the horizon behind. Once anyone set foot in Neraka, his eyes went first to the Temple. After that, no matter where else he looked or what other business occupied him, the Temple was always there, even at night, even in his dreams.

Tas took one look, then hurriedly glanced away, feeling a cold sickness creep over him. But the sights before him were almost worse. The tent city was filled with troops; draconians and human mercenaries, goblins and hobgoblins spilled out of the hastily constructed bars and brothels onto the filthy streets. Slaves of every race had been brought in to serve their captors and provide for their unholy pleasures. Gully dwarves swarmed underfoot like rats, living off the refuse. The stench was overpowering, the sights were like something from the Abyss. Although it was midday, the square was dark and chill as night. Glancing up, Tas saw the huge flying citadels, floating above the Temple in terrible majesty, their dragons circling them in unceasing watchfulness.

When they had first started down the crowded streets, Tas had hoped he might have a chance to break free. He was an expert in melting in with a crowd. He saw Caramon’s eyes flick about, too; the big man was thinking the same thing. But after walking only a few blocks, after seeing the citadels keeping their dreadful watch above, Tas realized it was hopeless. Apparently Caramon reached the same conclusion, for the kender saw the warrior’s shoulders slump.

Appalled and horrified, Tas suddenly thought of Laurana, being held prisoner here. The kender’s buoyant spirit seemed finally crushed by the weight of the darkness and evil all around him, darkness and evil he had never dreamed existed.

Their guards hurried them along, pushing and shoving their way through the drunken, brawling soldiers, down the clogged and narrow streets. Try as he might, Tas couldn’t figure out any way of relaying Tanis’s message to Caramon. Then they were forced to come to a halt as a contingent of Her Dark Majesty’s troops, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, came marching through the streets. Those who did not get out of their way were hurled bodily to the sidewalk by the draconian officers or were simply knocked down and trampled. The companions’ guards hastily shoved them up against a crumbling wall and ordered them to stand still until the soldiers had passed.

Tasslehoff found himself flattened between Caramon on one side and a draconian on the other. The guard had loosened its clawed grip on Tas’s shirt, evidently figuring that not even a kender would be foolish enough to try to escape in this mob. Though Tas could feel the reptile’s black eyes on him, he was able to squirm near enough to Caramon to talk. He hoped he wasn’t overheard, and didn’t expect to be, with all the head-bashing and boot-thumping going on around him.

“Caramon!” Tas whispered. “I’ve got a message. Can you hear me?”

Caramon did not turn, but kept staring straight ahead, his face set rock-hard. But Tas saw one eyelid flutter.

“Tanis said to trust him!” Tas whispered swiftly. “No matter what. And... and to... keep up the act... I think that’s what he said.”

Tas saw Caramon frown.

“He spoke in elven,” Tas added huffily. “And it was hard to hear.”

Caramon’s expression did not change. If anything, it grew darker.

Tas swallowed. Edging closer, he pressed up against the wall right behind the big warrior’s broad back. “That . . . that Dragon Highlord,” the kender said hesitantly. “That . . . was Kitiara, wasn’t it?”

Caramon did not answer. But Tas saw the muscles in the man’s jaw tighten, he saw a nerve begin to twitch in Caramon’s neck.

Tas sighed. Forgetting where he was, he raised his voice. “You do trust him, don’t you, Caramon? Because—”

Without warning, Tas’s draconian guard turned and bashed the kender across the mouth, slamming him into the wall. Dazed with pain, Tasslehoff sank down to the ground. A dark shadow bent over him. His vision fuzzy, Tas couldn’t see who it was and he braced himself for another blow. Then he felt strong, gentle hands lift him by his fleecy vest.

“I told you not to damage them,” growled Caramon.

“Bah! A kender!” The draconian spat.

The troops had nearly all passed by now. Caramon set Tas on his feet. The kender tried to stand up, but for some reason the sidewalk kept sliding out from underneath him.

“I-I’m sorry . . .” he heard himself mumble. “Legs acting funny...” Finally he felt himself hoisted in the air and, with a protesting squeak, was flung over Caramon’s broad shoulder like a meal sack.

“He’s got information,” Caramon said in his deep voice. “I hope you haven’t addled his brain so that he’s lost it. The Dark Lady won’t be pleased.”

“What brain?” snarled the draconian, but Tas—from his upside-down position on Caramon’s back—thought the creature appeared a bit shaken.

They began walking again. Tas’s head hurt horribly, his cheek stung. Putting his hand to it, he felt sticky blood where the draconian’s claws had dug into his skin. There was a sound in his ears like a hundred bees had taken up residence in his brain. The world seemed to be slowly circling around him, making his stomach queasy, and being jounced around on Caramon’s armor-plated back wasn’t helping.

“How much farther is it?” He could feel Caramon’s voice vibrate in the big man’s chest. “The little bastard’s heavy.”

In answer, the draconian pointed a long, bony claw.

With a great effort, trying to take his mind off his pain and dizziness, Tas twisted his head to see. He could manage only a glance, but it was enough. The building had been growing larger and larger as they approached until it filled, not only the vision, but the mind as well.

Tas slumped back. His sight was growing dim and he wondered drowsily why it was getting so foggy. The last thing he remembered was hearing the words, “To the dungeons . . . beneath the Temple of Her Majesty, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness.”

6 Tanis bargains. Gakhan investigates.

“Wine?”

“No.”

Kitiara shrugged. Taking the pitcher from the bowl of snow in which it rested to keep cool, she slowly poured some for herself, idly watching the blood-red liquid run out of the crystal carafe and into her glass. Then she carefully set the crystal carafe back into the snow and sat down opposite Tanis, regarding him coolly.

She had taken off the dragon helm, but she wore her armor still—the night-blue armor, gilded with gold, that fit over her lithe body like scaled skin. The light from the many candles in the room gleamed in the polished surfaces and glinted off the sharp metal edges until Kitiara seemed ablaze in flame. Her dark hair, damp with perspiration, curled around her face. Her brown eyes were bright as fire, shadowed by long, dark lashes.

“Why are you here, Tanis?” she asked softly, running her finger along the rim of her glass as she gazed steadily at him.

“You know why,” he answered briefly.

“Laurana, of course,” Kitiara said.

Tanis shrugged, careful to keep his face a mask, yet fearing that this woman—who sometimes knew him better than he knew himself—could read every thought.

“You came alone?” Kitiara asked, sipping at the wine.

“Yes,” Tanis replied, returning her gaze without faltering.

Kitiara raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.

“Flint’s dead,” he added, his voice breaking. Even in his fear, he still could not think of his friend without pain. “And Tasslehoff wandered off somewhere. I couldn’t find him. I... I didn’t really want to bring him anyway.”

“I can understand,” Kit said wryly. “So Flint is dead.”

“Like Sturm,” Tanis could not help but add through clenched teeth.

Kit glanced at him sharply. “The fortunes of war, my dear,” she said. “We were both soldiers, he and I. He understands. His spirit bears me no malice.”

Tanis choked angrily, swallowing his words. What she said was true. Sturm would understand.

Kitiara was silent as she watched Tanis’s face a few moments. Then she set the glass down with a clink.

“What about my brothers?” she asked. “Where—”

“Why don’t you just take me to the dungeons and interrogate me?” Tanis snarled. Rising out of his chair, he began to pace the luxurious room.

Kitiara smiled, an introspective, thoughtful smile. “Yes,” she said, “I could interrogate you there. And you would talk, dear Tanis. You would tell me all I wanted to hear, and then you would beg to tell me more. Not only do we have those who are skilled in the art of torture, but they are passionately dedicated to their profession.” Rising languorously, Kitiara walked over to stand in front of Tanis Her wine glass in one hand, she placed her other hand on his chest and slowly ran her palm up over his shoulder. “But this is not an interrogation. Say, rather, it is a sister, concerned about her family. Where are my brothers?”

“I don’t know,” Tanis said. Catching her wrist firmly in his hand, he held her hand away from him. “They were both lost in the Blood Sea. ”

“With the Green Gemstone Man?”

“With the Green Gemstone Man.”

“And how did you survive?”

“Sea elves rescued me.”

“Then they might have rescued the others?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am elven, after all. The others were human.”

Kitiara stared at Tanis long moments. He still held her wrist in his hand. Unconsciously, under her penetrating gaze, his fingers closed around it.

“You’re hurting me . . .” Kit whispered softly. “Why did you come, Tanis? To rescue Laurana... alone? Even you were never that foolish—”

“No,” Tanis said, tightening his grasp on Kitiara’s arm. “I came to make a trade. Take me. Let her go.”

Kitiara’s eye opened wide. Then, suddenly, she threw back her head and laughed. With a quick, easy move, she broke free of Tanis’s grip and, turning, walked over to the table to refill her wine glass.

She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Why, Tanis,” she said, laughing again, “what are you to me that I should make this trade?”

Tanis felt his face flush. Still grinning, Kitiara continued.

“I have captured their Golden General, Tanis. I have taken their good-luck charm, their beautiful elven warrior. She wasn’t a bad general, either, for that matter. She brought them the dragonlances and taught them to fight. Her brother brought back the good dragons, but everyone credits her. She kept the Knights together, when they should have split apart long before this. And you want me to exchange her for"—Kitiara gestured contemptuously—"a half-elf who’s been wandering the countryside in the company of kender, barbarians, and dwarves!”

Kitiara began to laugh again, laughing so hard she was forced to sit down and wipe tears from her eyes. “Really, Tanis, you have a high opinion of yourself. What did you think I’d take you back for? Love?”

There as a subtle change in Kit’s voice, her laugh seemed forced. Frowning suddenly, she twisted the wineglass in her hand.

Tanis did not respond. He could only stand before her, his skin burning at her ridicule. Kitiara stared at him, then lowered her gaze.

“Suppose I said yes?” she asked in a cold voice, her eyes on the glass in her hand. “What could you give me in return for what I would lose?”

Tanis drew a deep breath. “The commander of your forces is dead,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I know. Tas told me he killed him. I’ll take his place.”

“You’d serve under ... in the dragonarmies?” Kit’s eyes widened in genuine astonishment.

“Yes.” Tanis gritted his teeth. His voice was bitter. “We’ve lost anyway, I’ve seen your floating citadels. We can’t win, even if the good dragons stayed. And they won’t—the people will send them back. The people never trusted them anyway, not really. I care for only one thing—let Laurana go free, unharmed.”

“I truly believe you would do this,” Kitiara said softly, marveling. For long moments she stared at him. “I’ll have to consider...”

Then, as if arguing with herself, she shook her head. Putting the glass to her lips, she swallowed the wine, set the glass down, and rose to her feet.

“I’ll consider,” she repeated. “But now I must leave you, Tanis. There is a meeting of the Dragon Highlords tonight. They have come from all over Ansalon to attend. You are right, of course. You have lost the war. Tonight we make plans to clench the fist of iron. You will attend me. I will present you to Her Dark Majesty.”

“And Laurana?” Tanis persisted.

“I said I would consider it!” A dark line marred the smooth skin between Kitiara’s feathery eyebrows. Her voice was sharp. “Ceremonial armor will be brought to you. Be dressed and ready to accompany me within the hour.” She started to go, then turned to face Tanis once more. “My decision may depend on how you conduct yourself this evening,” she said softly. “Remember, Half-Elven, from this moment you serve me.”

The brown eyes glittered clear and cold as they held Tanis in their thrall. Slowly he felt the will of this woman press upon him until it was like a strong hand forcing him down onto the polished marble floor. The might of the dragonarmies was behind her, the shadow of the Dark Queen hovered around her, imbuing her with a power Tanis had noticed before.

Suddenly Tanis felt the great distance between them. She was supremely, superbly human. For only the humans were endowed with the lust for power so strong that the raw passion of their nature could be easily corrupted. The humans’ brief lives were as flames that could burn with a pure light like Goldmoon’s candle, like Sturm’s shattered sun. Or the flame could destroy, a searing fire that consumed all in its path. He had warmed his cold, sluggish elven blood by that fire, he had nurtured the flame in his heart. Now he saw himself as he would become—as he had seen the bodies of those who died in the flames of Tarsis—a mass of charred flesh—the heart black and still.

It was his due, the price he must pay. He would lay his soul upon this woman’s altar as another might lay a handful of silver upon a pillow. He owed Laurana that much. She had suffered enough because of him. His death would not free her but his life might.

Slowly, Tanis placed his hand over his heart and bowed.

“My lord,” he said.

Kitiara walked into her private chamber, her mind in a turmoil. She felt her blood pulse through her veins. Excitement, desire, the glorious elation of victory made her more drunk than the wine. Yet beneath was a nagging doubt, all the more irritating because it turned the elation flat and stale. Angrily she tried to banish it from her mind, but it was brought sharply into focus as she opened the door to her room.

The servants had not expected her so soon. The torches had not been lit; the fire was laid, but not burning. Irritably she reached for the bell rope that would send them scurrying in to be berated for their laxness, when suddenly a cold and fleshless hand closed over her wrist.

The touch of that hand sent a burning sensation of cold through her bones and blood until it nearly froze her heart. Kitiara gasped with the pain and started to pull free, but the hand held her fast.

“You have not forgotten our bargain?”

“No, of course not!” Kitiara said. Trying to keep the quiver of fear from her voice, she commanded sternly, “Let me go!”

The hand slowly released its grip. Kitiara hurriedly snatched her arm away, rubbing the flesh that—even in that short span of time—had turned bluish white. “The elfwoman will be yours—when the Queen has finished with her, of course.”

“Of course. I would not want her otherwise. A living woman is of no use to me—not like a living man is of use to you . . .” The dark figure’s voice lingered unpleasantly over the words.

Kitiara cast a scornful glance at the pallid face, the flickering eyes that floated— disembodied—above the black armor of the knight.

“Don’t be a fool, Soth,” she said, pulling the bell rope hastily. She felt a need for light. “I am able to separate the pleasures of the flesh from the pleasures of business—something you were unable to do, from what I know of your life.”

“Then what are your plans for the half-elf?” Lord Soth asked, his voice seeming—as usual—to come from far below ground.

“He will be mine, utterly and completely,” Kitiara said, gently rubbing her injured wrist.

Servants hurried in with hesitant, sideways glances at the Dark Lady, fearing her notorious explosions of wrath. But Kitiara, preoccupied with her thoughts, ignored them. Lord Soth faded back into the shadows as always when the candles were lit.

“The only way to possess the half-elf is to make him watch as I destroy Laurana,” Kitiara continued.

“That is hardly the way to win his love,” Lord Soth sneered.

“I don’t want his love.” Pulling off her gloves and unbuckling her armor, Kitiara laughed shortly. “I want him! As long as she lives, his thoughts will be of her and of the noble sacrifice he has made. No, the only way he will be mine—totally—is to be ground beneath the heel of my boot until he is nothing more than a shapeless mass. Then, he will be of use to me.”

“Not for long,” Lord Soth remarked caustically. “Death will free him.”

Kitiara shrugged. The servants had completed their tasks and vanished quickly. The Dark Lady stood in the light, silent and thoughtful, her armor half-on and half-off, her dragonhelm dangling from her hand.

“He has lied to me,” she said softly, after a moment. Then, flinging the helm down on a table, where it struck and shattered a dusty, porcelain vase. Kit began to pace back and forth. “He has lied. My brothers did not die in the Blood Sea—at least one of them lives, I know. And so does he—the Everman!” Peremptorily, Kitiara flung open the door. “Gakhan!” she shouted.

A draconian hurried into the room.

“What news? Have they found that captain yet?”

“No, lord,” the draconian replied. He was the same one who had followed Tanis from the inn in Flotsam, the same who had helped trap Laurana. “He is off-duty, lord,” the creature added as if that explained everything.

Kitiara understood. “Search every beer tent and brothel until he is found. Then bring him here. Lock him in irons if you have to. I’ll question him when I return from the Highlord’s Assembly. No, wait. . .” Kitiara paused, then added, “You question him. Find out if the half-elf was truly alone—as he said—or if there were others with him. If so—”

The draconian bowed. “You will be informed at once, my lord.”

Kitiara dismissed him with a gesture, and the draconian, bowing again, left, shutting the door behind him. After standing thoughtfully for a moment, Kitiara irritably ran her hand through her curly hair, then began yanking at the straps of her armor once again.

“You will attend me, tonight,” she said to Lord Soth, without looking at the apparition of the death knight which, she assumed, was still in its same place behind her. “Be watchful. Lord Ariakas will not be pleased with what I intend to do.”

Tossing the last piece of armor to the floor, Kitiara pulled off the leather tunic and the blue silken hose. Then, stretching in luxurious freedom, she glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Soth’s reaction to her words. He was not there. Startled, she glanced quickly around the room.

The spectral knight stood beside the dragonhelm that lay on the table amidst pieces of the broken vase. With a wave of his fleshless hand, Lord Soth caused the shattered remains of the vase to rise into the air and hover before him. Holding them by the force of his magic, the death knight turned to regard Kitiara with his flaming orange eyes as she stood naked before him. The firelight turned her tanned skin golden, made her dark hair shine with warmth.

“You are a woman still, Kitiara,” Lord Soth said slowly. “You love...”

The knight did not move or speak, but the pieces of the vase fell to the floor. His pallid boot trod upon them as he passed, leaving no trace of his passing.

“And you hurt,” he said softly to Kitiara as he drew near her. “Do not deceive yourself. Dark Lady. Crush him as you will, the half-elf will always be your master—even in death.”

Lord Soth melded with the shadows of the room. Kitiara stood for long moments, staring into the blazing fire, seeking— perhaps—to read her fortune in the flames.

Gakhan walked rapidly down the corridor of the Queen’s palace, his clawed feet clicking on the marble floors. The draconian’s thoughts kept pace with his stride. It had suddenly occurred to him where the captain might be found. Seeing two draconians attached to Kitiara’s command lounging at the end of the corridor, Gakhan motioned them to fall in behind him. They obeyed immediately. Though Gakhan held no rank in the dragonarmy—not any more—he was known officially as the Dark Lady’s military aide. Unofficially he was known as her personal assassin.

Gakhan had been in Kitiara’s service a long time. When word of the discovery of the blue crystal staff had reached the Queen of Darkness and her minions, few of the Dragon Highlords attached much importance to its disappearance. Deeply involved in the war that was slowly stamping the life out of the northern lands of Ansalon, something as trivial as a staff with healing powers did not merit their attention. It would take a great deal of healing to heal the world, Ariakas had stated, laughing, at a Council of War.

But two Highlords did take the disappearance of the staff seriously: one who ruled that part of Ansalon where the staff had been discovered, and one who had been born and raised in the area. One was a dark cleric, the other a skilled swordswoman. Both knew how dangerous proof of the return of the ancient gods could be to their cause.

They reacted differently, perhaps because of location. Lord Verminaard sent out swarms of draconians, goblins, and hobgoblins with full descriptions of the blue crystal staff and its powers. Kitiara sent Gakhan.

It was Gakhan who traced Riverwind and the blue crystal staff to the village of Que-shu, and it was Gakhan who ordered the raid on the village, systematically murdering most of the inhabitants in a search for the staff.

But he left Que-shu suddenly, having heard reports of the staff in Solace. The draconian traveled to that town, only to find that he had missed it by a matter of weeks. But there he discovered that the barbarians who carried the staff had been joined by a group of adventurers, purportedly from Solace according to the locals he “interviewed.”

Gakhan was faced with a decision at this point. He could try and pick up their trail, which had undoubtedly grown cold during the intervening weeks, or he could return to Kitiara with descriptions of these adventurers to see if she knew them. If so, she might be able to provide him with information that would allow him to plot their movements in advance.

He decided to return to Kitiara, who was fighting in the north. Lord Verminaard’s thousands were much more likely to find the staff than Gakhan. He brought complete descriptions of the adventurers to Kitiara, who was startled to learn that they were her two half-brothers, her old comrades-in-arms, and her former lover. Immediately Kitiara saw the workings of a great power here, for she knew that this group of mismatched wanderers could be forged into a dynamic force for either good or evil. She immediately took her misgivings to the Queen of Darkness, who was already disturbed by the portent of the missing constellation of the Valiant Warrior. At once the Queen knew she had been correct, Paladine had returned to fight her. But by the time she realized the danger, the damage had been done.

Kitiara set Gakhan back on the trail. Step by step, the clever draconian traced the companions from Pax Tharkas to the dwarven kingdom. It was he who followed them in Tarsis, and there he and the Dark Lady would have captured them had it not been for Alhana Starbreeze and her griffons.

Patiently Gakhan kept on their trail. He knew of the group’s separation, hearing reports of them from Silvanesti—where they drove off the great green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, and then from Ice Wall, where Laurana killed the dark elven magic-user, Feal-Thas. He knew of the discovery of the dragon orbs— the destruction of one, the frail mage’s acquisition of the other.

It was Gakhan who followed Tanis in Flotsam, and who was able to direct the Dark Lady to them aboard the Perechon. But here again, as before, Gakhan moved his game piece only to find an opponent’s piece blocking a final move. The draconian did not despair. Gakhan knew his opponent; he knew the great power opposing him. He was playing for high stakes—very high stakes indeed.

Thinking of all this as he left the Dark Majesty’s Temple— where even now the Dragon Highlords were gathering for High Conclave—Gakhan entered the streets of Neraka. It was light now, just at the end of day. As the sun slid down from the sky, its last rays were freed from the shadow of the citadels. It burned now above the mountains, gilding the still snowcapped peaks blood red.

Gakhan’s reptilian gaze did not linger on the sunset. Instead it flicked among the streets of the tent town, now almost completely empty since most of the draconians were required to be in attendance upon their lords this evening. The Highlords had a notable lack of trust in each other and in their Queen. Murder had been done before in her chambers—and would, most likely, be done again.

That did not concern Gakhan, however. In fact, it made his job easier. Quickly he led the other draconians through the foul-smelling, refuse-littered streets. He could have sent them on this mission without him, but Gakhan had come to know his great opponent very well and he had a distinct feeling of urgency. The wind of momentous events was starting to swirl into a huge vortex. He stood in the eye now, but he knew it would soon sweep him up. Gakhan wanted to be able to ride those winds, not be hurled upon the rocks.

“This is the place,” he said, standing outside of a beer tent. A sign tacked to a post read in Common—The Dragon’s Eye, while a placard propped in front stated in crudely lettered Common: “Dracos and goblins not allowed.” Peering through the filthy tent flap, Gakhan saw his quarry. Motioning to his escorts, he thrust aside the flap and stepped inside.

An uproar greeted his entrance as the humans in the bar turned their bleary eyes on the newcomers and—seeing three draconians—immediately began to shout and jeer. The shouts and jeers died almost instantly, however, when Gakhan removed the hood that covered his reptilian face. Everyone recognized Lord Kitiara’s henchman. A pall settled over the crowd thicker than the rank smoke and foul odors that filled the bar. Casting fearful glances at the draconians, the humans hunched their shoulders over their drinks and huddled down, trying to become inconspicuous.

Gakhan’s glittering black gaze swept over the crowd.

“There,” he said in draconian, motioning to a human slouched over the bar. His escorts acted instantly, seizing the one-eyed human soldier, who stared at them in drunken terror.

“Take him outside, in back,” Gakhan ordered.

Ignoring the bewildered captain’s protests and pleadings, as well as the baleful looks and muttered threats from the crowd, the draconians dragged their captive out into the back. Gakhan followed more slowly.

It took only a few moments for the skilled draconians to sober their prisoner up enough to talk—the man’s hoarse screams caused many of the bar’s patrons to lose their taste for their liquor—but eventually he was able to respond to Gakhan’s questioning.

“Do you remember arresting a dragonarmy officer this afternoon on charges of desertion?”

The captain remembered questioning many officers today ... he was a busy man . . . they all looked alike. Gakhan gestured to the draconians, who responded promptly and efficiently.

The captain screamed in agony. Yes, yes! He remembered! But it wasn’t just one officer. There had been two of them.

“Two?” Gakhan’s eyes glittered. “Describe the other officer.”

“A big human, really big. Bulging out of his uniform. And there had been prisoners...”

“Prisoners!” Gakhan’s reptilian tongue flicked in and out of his mouth. “Describe them!”

The captain was only too happy to describe. “A human woman, red curls, breasts the size of...”

“Get on with it,” Gakhan snarled. His clawed hands trembled. He glanced at his escorts and the draconians tightened their grip.

Sobbing, the captain gave hurried descriptions of the other two prisoners, his words falling over themselves.

“A kender,” Gakhan repeated, growing more and more excited. “Go on! An old man, white beard—” He paused, puzzled. The old magic-user? Surely they would not have allowed that decrepit old fool to accompany them on a mission so important and fraught with peril. If not, then who? Someone else they had picked up?

“Tell me more about the old man,” Gakhan ordered.

The captain cast desperately about in his liquor-soaked and pain-stupefied brain. “The old man . . . white beard...”

“Stooped?”

“No ... tall, broad shoulders... blue eyes. Queer eyes—” The captain was on the verge of passing out. Gakhan clutched the man in his clawed hand, squeezing his neck.

“What about the eyes?”

Fearfully the captain stared at the draconian who was slowly choking the life from him. He babbled something.

“Young... too young!” Gakhan repeated in exultation. Now he knew! “Where are they?”

The captain gasped out a word, then Gakhan hurled him to the floor with a crash.

The whirlwind was rising. Gakhan felt himself being swept upwards. One thought beat in his brain like the wings of a dragon as he and his escorts left the tent, racing for the dungeons below the palace.

The Everman... the Everman... the Everman!

7 The Temple of the Queen of Darkness.

“Hurt . . . lemme ’lone . . .”

“I know, Tas. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to wake up. Please, Tas!”

An edge of fear and urgency in the voice pierced the pain-laden mists in the kender’s mind. Part of him was jumping up and down, yelling at him to wake up. But another part was all for drifting back into the darkness that—while unpleasant— was better than facing the pain he knew was lying in wait for him, ready to spring—

“Tas... Tas...” A hand patted his cheek. The whispered voice was tense, tight with terror kept under control. The kender knew suddenly that he had no choice. He had to wake up. Besides, the jumping-up-and-down part of his brain shouted, you might be missing something!

“Thank the gods!” Tika breathed as Tasslehoff’s eyes opened wide and stared up at her. “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Tas said thickly, struggling to sit up. As he had foreseen, pain leaped out of a corner and pounced on him. Groaning, he clutched his head.

“I know... I’m sorry,” Tika said again, stroking back his hair with a gentle hand.

“I’m sure you mean well, Tika,” Tas said miserably, “but would you mind not doing that? It feels like dwarf hammers pounding on me.”

Tika drew back her hand hurriedly. The kender peered around as best he could through one good eye. The other had nearly swollen shut. “Where are we?”

“In the dungeons below the Temple,” Tika said softly. Tas, sitting next to her, could feel her shiver with fear and cold. Looking around, he could see why. The sight made him shudder, too. Wistfully he remembered the good old days when he hadn’t known the meaning of the word of fear. He should have felt a thrill of excitement. He was—after all—someplace he’d never been before and there were probably lots of fascinating things to investigate.

But there was death here, Tas knew; death and suffering. He’d seen too many die, too many suffer. His thoughts went to Flint, to Sturm, to Laurana.... Something had changed inside Tas. He would never again be like other kender. Through grief, he had come to know fear, fear not for himself but for others. He decided right now that he would rather die himself than lose anyone else he loved.

You have chosen the dark path, but you have the courage to walk it, Fizban had said.

Did he? Tas wondered. Sighing, he hid his face in his hands.

“No, Tas!” Tika said, shaking him. “Don’t do this to us! We need you!”

Painfully Tas raised his head. “I’m all right,” he said dully. “Where’s Caramon and Berem?”

“Over there,” Tika gestured toward the far end of the cell. “The guards are holding all of us together until they can find someone to decide what to do with us. Caramon’s being splendid,” she added with a proud smile and a fond glance at the big man, who was slouched, apparently sulking, in a far corner, as far from his ‘prisoners’ as he could get. Then Tika’s face grew fearful. She drew Tas nearer. “But I’m worried about Berem! I think he’s going crazy!”

Tasslehoff looked up quickly at Berem. The man was sitting on the cold, filthy stone floor of the cell, his gaze abstracted, his head cocked as though listening. The fake white beard Tika had made out of goat hair was torn and bedraggled. It wouldn’t take much for it to fall off completely, Tas realized in alarm, glancing quickly out the cell door.

The dungeons were a maze of corridors tunneled out of the solid rock beneath the Temple. They appeared to branch off in all directions from a central guardroom, a small, round, open-ended room at the bottom of a narrow winding staircase that bored straight down from the ground floor of the Temple. In the guardroom, a large hobgoblin sat at a battered table beneath a torch, calmly munching on bread and swilling it down with a jug of something. A ring of keys hanging on a nail above his head proclaimed him the head jailor. He ignored the companions; he probably couldn’t see them clearly in the dim light anyway, Tas realized, since the cell they were in was about a hundred paces away, down a dark and dismal corridor.

Creeping over to the cell door, Tas peered down the corridor in the opposite direction. Wetting a finger, he held it up in the air. That way was north, he determined. Smoking, foul-smelling torches flickered in the dank air. A large cell farther down was filled with draconians and goblins sleeping off drunken revels. At the far end of the corridor beyond their cell stood a massive iron door, slightly ajar. Listening carefully, Tas thought he could hear sounds from beyond the door: voices, low moaning. That’s another section of the dungeon, Tas decided, basing his decision on past experience. The jailor probably left the door ajar so he could make his rounds and listen for disturbances.

“You’re right, Tika,” Tas whispered. “We’re locked in some kind of holding cell, probably awaiting orders.” Tika nodded. Caramon’s act, if not completely fooling the guards, was at least forcing them to think twice before doing anything rash.

“I’m going over to talk to Berem,” Tas said.

“No, Tas"—Tika glanced at the man uneasily—"I don’t think—”

But Tas didn’t listen. Taking one last look at the jailor, Tas ignored Tika’s soft remonstrations and crawled toward Berem with the idea of sticking the man’s false beard back on his face. He had just neared him and was reaching out his small hand when suddenly the Everman roared and leaped straight at the kender.

Startled, Tas fell backwards with a shriek. But Berem didn’t even see him. Yelling incoherently, he sprang over Tasslehoff and flung himself bodily against the cell door.

Caramon was on his feet now—as was the hobgoblin.

Trying to appear irritated at having his rest disturbed, Caramon darted a stern glance at Tasslehoff on the floor.

“What did you do to him?” the big man growled out of the side of his mouth.

“N-nothing, Caramon, honest!” Tas gasped. “He-he’s crazy!”

Berem did indeed seem to have gone mad. Oblivious to pain, he flung himself at the iron bars, trying to break them open. When this didn’t work, he grasped the bars in his hands and started to wrench them apart.

“I’m coming, Jasla!” he screamed. “Don’t leave! Forgive—”

The jailor, his pig eyes wide in alarm, ran over to the stairs and began shouting up them.

“He’s calling the guards!” Caramon grunted. “We’ve got to get Berem calmed down. Tika—”

But the girl was already by Berem’s side. Holding onto his shoulder, she pleaded with him to stop. At first the berserk man paid no attention to her, roughly shaking her off him. But Tika petted and stroked and soothed until eventually it seemed Berem might listen. He quit attempting to force the cell door open and stood still, his hands clenching the bars. The beard had fallen to the floor, his face was covered with sweat, and he was bleeding from a cut where he had rammed the bars with his head.

There was a rattling sound near the front of the dungeon as two draconians came dashing down the stairs at the jailor’s call. Their curved swords drawn and ready, they advanced down the narrow corridor, the jailor at their heels. Swiftly Tas grabbed the beard and stuffed it into one of his pouches, hoping they wouldn’t remember that Berem had come in with whiskers.

Tika, still stroking Berem soothingly, babbled about anything that came into her head. Berem did not appear to be listening, but at least he appeared quiet once more. Breathing heavily, he stared with glazed eyes into the empty cell across from them. Tas could see muscles in the man’s arm twitch spasmodically.

“What is the meaning of this?” Caramon shouted as the draconians came up to the cell door. “You’ve locked me in here with a raving beast! He tried to kill me! I demand you get me out of here!”

Tasslehoff, watching Caramon closely, saw the big warrior’s right hand make a small quick gesture toward the guard. Recognizing the signal, Tas tensed, ready for action. He saw Tika tense, too. One hobgoblin and two guards... They’d faced worse odds.

The draconians looked at the jailor, who hesitated. Tas could guess what was going through the creature’s thick mind. If this big officer was a personal friend of the Dark Lady, she would certainly not look kindly on a jailor who allowed one of her close friends to be murdered in his prison cell.

“I’ll get the keys,” the jailor muttered, waddling back down the corridor.

The draconians began to talk together in their own language, apparently exchanging rude comments about the hobgoblin. Caramon flashed a look at Tika and Tas, making a quick gesture of heads banging together. Tas, fumbling in one of his pouches, closed his hand over his little knife. (They had searched his pouches, but—in an effort to be helpful—Tas kept switching his pouches around until the confused guards—after their fourth search of the same pouch—gave up. Caramon had insisted the kender be allowed to keep his pouches, since there were items the Dark Lady wanted to examine. Unless, of course, the guards wanted to be responsible—) Tika kept patting Berem, her hypnotic voice bringing a measure of peace back to his fevered, staring blue eyes.

The jailor had just grabbed the keys from the wall and was starting to walk back down the corridor again when a voice from the bottom of the stairs stopped him.

“What do you want?” the jailor snarled, irritated and startled at the sight of the cloaked figure appearing suddenly, without warning.

“I am Gakhan,” said the voice.

Hushing immediately at the sight of the newcomer, the draconians drew themselves up in respect, while the hobgoblin turned a sickly green color, the keys clinking together in its flabby hand. Two more guards clattered down the stairs. At a gesture from the cloaked figure, they came to stand beside him.

Walking past the quaking hobgoblin, the figure drew closer to the cell door. Now Tas could see the figure clearly. It was another draconian, dressed in armor with a dark cape thrown over its face. The kender bit his lip in frustration. Well, the odds still weren’t that bad—not for Caramon.

The hooded draconian, ignoring the stammering jailor who was trotting along behind him like a fat dog, grabbed a torch from the wall and came over to stand directly in front of the companions’ jail cell.

“Get me out of this place!” Caramon shouted, elbowing Berem to one side.

But the draconian, ignoring Caramon, reached through the bars of the cell and laid a clawed hand on Berem’s shirtfront. Tas darted a frantic look at Caramon. The big man’s face was deathly pale. He made a desperate lunge at the draconian, but it was too late.

With a twist of its clawed hand, the draconian ripped Berem’s shirt to shreds. Green light flared into the jail cell as the torchlight illuminated the gemstone embedded in Berem’s flesh.

“It is he,” Gakhan said quietly. “Unlock the cell.”

The jailor put the key in the cell door with hands that shook visibly. Snatching it away from the hobgoblin, one of the draconian guards opened the cell door, then they surged inside. One guard struck Caramon a vicious blow on the side of the head with the hilt of his sword, felling the warrior like an ox, while another grabbed Tika.

Gakhan entered the cell.

“Kill him"—the draconian motioned at Caramon—"and the girl and the kender.” Gakhan laid his clawed hand on Berem’s shoulder. “I will take this one to Her Dark Majesty.” The draconian flashed a triumphant glance around at the others.

“This night, victory is ours,” he said softly.

Sweating in the dragon-scale armor, Tanis stood beside Kitiara in one of the vast antechambers leading into the Great Hall of Audience. Surrounding the half-elf were Kitiara’s troops, including the hideous skeletal warriors under the command of the death knight, Lord Soth. These stood in the shadows just behind Kitiara. Though the antechamber was crowded—Kitiara’s draconian troops were packed in spear to spear—there was, nevertheless, a vast empty space around the undead warriors. None came near them, none spoke to them, they spoke to no one. And though the room was stifling hot with the crushing press of many bodies, a chill flowed from these that nearly stopped the heart if one ventured too near.

Feeling Lord Soth’s flickering eyes upon him, Tanis could not repress a shudder. Kitiara glanced up at him and smiled, the crooked smile he had once found so irresistible. She stood close to him, their bodies touching.

“You’ll get used to them,” she said coolly. Then her gaze returned to the proceedings in the vast Hall. The dark line appeared between her brows, her hand tapped irritably upon her sword hilt. “Get moving, Ariakas,” she muttered.

Tanis looked over her head, staring through the ornate doorway they would enter when it was their turn, watching in awe that he could not hide as the spectacle unfolded before his eyes.

The Hall of Audience of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, first impressed the viewer with a sense of his own inferiority. This was the black heart which kept the dark blood flowing and—as such—its appearance was fitting. The antechamber in which they stood opened onto a huge circular room with a floor of polished black granite. The floor continued up to form the walls, rising in tortured curves like dark waves frozen in time. Any moment, it seemed, they could crash down and engulf all those within the Hall in blackness. It was only Her Dark Majesty’s power that held them in check. And so the black waves swept upward to a high domed ceiling, now hidden from view by a wispy wall of shifting, eddying smoke—the breath of dragons.

The floor of the vast Hall was empty now, but it would soon be filling rapidly as the troops marched in to take up their positions beneath the thrones of their Highlords. These thrones—four of them—stood about ten feet above the gleaming granite floor. Squat gates opened from the concave walls onto black tongues of rock that licked outward from the walls. Upon these four huge platforms—two to each side—sat the Highlords— and only the Highlords. No one else—not even bodyguards— was allowed beyond the top step of the sacred platforms. Bodyguards and high-ranking officers stood upon stairs that extended up to the thrones from the floor like the ribs of some giant prehistoric beast.

From the center of the Hall rose another, slightly larger platform, curling upward from the floor like a giant, hooded snake—which is exactly what it had been carved to represent. One slender bridge of rock ran from the snake’s ‘head’ to another gate in the side of the Hall. The head faced Ariakas— and the darkness—shrouded alcove above Ariakas.

The ‘Emperor,’ as Ariakas styled himself, sat upon a slightly larger platform at the front of the great Hall, about ten feet above those around it.

Tanis felt his gaze drawn irresistibly to an alcove carved into the rock above Ariakas’s throne. It was larger than the rest of the alcoves and—within it—lurked a darkness that was almost alive. It breathed and pulsed and was so intense that Tanis looked quickly away. Although he could see nothing, he guessed who would soon sit within those shadows.

Shuddering, Tanis turned back to the darkness within the Hall. There was not much left to see. All around the domed ceiling, in alcoves similar though smaller than the Highlords’ alcoves, perched the dragons. Almost invisible, obscured by their own smoking breath, these creatures sat opposite their respective Highlords’ alcoves, keeping vigilant watch—so the Highlords supposed—upon their ‘masters.’ Actually only one dragon in the assemblage was truly concerned over his master’s welfare. This was Skie, Kitiara’s dragon, who—even now—sat in his place, his fiery red eyes staring al the throne of Ariakas with much the same intensity and far more visible hatred than Tanis had seen in the eyes of Skie’s master.

A gong rang. Masses of troops poured into the Hall, all of them wearing the red dragon colors of Ariakas’s troops. Hundreds of clawed and booted feet scraped the floor as the draconians and human guard of honor entered and took their places beneath Ariakas’s throne. No officers ascended the stairs, no bodyguards took their places in front of their lord.

Then the man himself entered through the gate behind his throne. He walked alone, his purple robes of state sweeping majestically from his shoulders, dark armor gleaming in the torchlight. Upon his head glistened a crown, studded with jewels the hue of blood.

“The Crown of Power,” Kitiara murmured, and now Tanis saw emotion in her eyes—longing, such longing as he had rarely seen in human eyes before.

“Whoever wears the Crown, rules,” came a voice behind her. “So it is written.”

Lord Soth. Tanis stiffened to keep from trembling, feeling the man’s presence like a cold skeletal hand upon the back of his neck.

Ariakas’s troops cheered him long and loudly, thumping their spears upon the floor, clashing their swords against their shields. Kitiara snarled in impatience. Finally Ariakas extended his hands for silence. Turning, he knelt in reverence before the shadowy alcove above him, then, with a wave of his gloved hand, the head of the Dragon Highlords made a patronizing gesture to Kitiara.

Glancing at her, Tanis saw such hatred and contempt on her face that he barely recognized her. “Yes, lord,” whispered Kitiara, her eyes now dark and gleaming.

“Whoever wears the Crown, rules. So it is written . . . written in blood!” Half-turning her head, she beckoned to Lord Soth. “Fetch the elfwoman.”

Lord Soth bowed and flowed from the antechamber like a malevolent fog, his skeletal warriors drifting after him. Draconians stumbled over themselves in frantic efforts to get out of his deadly path.

Tanis gripped Kitiara’s arm. “You promised!” he said in a strangled voice.

Staring at him coldly, Kitiara snatched her arm free, easily breaking the half-elf’s strong grasp. But her brown eyes held him, drained him, sucking the life from him until he felt like nothing more than a dried shell.

“Listen to me, Half-Elven,” Kitiara said, her voice cold and thin and sharp. “I am after one thing and one thing only—the Crown of Power Ariakas wears. That is the reason I captured Laurana, that is all she means to me. I will present the elfwoman to Her Majesty, as I have promised. The Queen will reward me—with the Crown, of course—then she will order the elf taken to the Death Chambers far below the Temple. I care nothing for what happens to the elf after that, and so I give her to you. At my gesture, step forward. I will present you to the Queen. Beg of her a favor. Ask that you be allowed to escort the elfwoman to her death. If she approves of you, she will grant it. You may then take the elfwoman to the city gates or wherever you choose, and there you may set her free. But I want your word of honor, Tanis Half-Elven, that you will return to me.”

“I give it,” Tanis said, his eyes meeting Kitiara’s without wavering,

Kitiara smiled. Her face relaxed. It was so beautiful once more, that Tanis, startled by the sudden transformation, almost wondered if he had seen that other cruel face at all. Putting her hand on Tanis’s cheek, she stroked his beard.

“I have your word of honor. That might not mean much to other men, but I know you will keep it. One final warning, Tanis,” she whispered swiftly, “you must convince the Queen that you are her loyal servant. She is powerful, Tanis! She is a goddess, remember that! She can see into your heart, your soul. You must convince her beyond doubt that you are hers. One gesture, one word that rings false, and she will destroy you. There will be nothing I can do. If you die, so does your Lauralanthalasa!”

“I understand,” Tanis said, feeling his body chill beneath the cold armor.

There was a blaring trumpet call.

“There, that is our signal,” Kitiara said. Pulling her gloves on, she drew the dragonhelm over her head. “Go forward, Tanis. Lead my troops. I will enter last.”

Resplendent in her glittering night-blue dragon-scale armor, Kitiara stepped haughtily to one side as Tanis walked through the ornate doorway into the Hall of Audience.

The crowd began to cheer at the sight of the blue banner. Perched above the audience with the other dragons, Skie bellowed in triumph. Aware of thousands of glittering eyes upon him, Tanis firmly put everything out of his mind except what he must do. He kept his eyes fixed on his destination—the platform in the Hall next to Lord Ariakas’s, the platform decorated with the blue banner. Behind him, he could hear the rhythmic stamp of clawed feet as Kit’s guard of honor marched in proudly. Tanis reached the platform and stood at the bottom of the stairs, as he had been ordered. The crowd quieted then and, as the last draconian filed through the door, a murmur began to sweep through the Hall. The crowd strained forward, anxious to see Kitiara’s entrance.

Waiting within the antechamber, allowing the crowd to wait just a few more moments to enhance the suspense, Kit glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she saw Lord Soth enter the antechamber, his guards bearing a white-wrapped body in their fleshless arms. The eyes of the vibrant, living woman and the vacant eyes of the dead knight met in perfect agreement and understanding.

Lord Soth bowed.

Kitiara smiled, then—turning—she entered the Hall of Audience to thunderous applause.

Lying on the cold cell floor, Caramon struggled desperately to remain conscious. The pain was beginning to subside. The blow that struck him down had been a glancing one, slanting off the officer’s helm he wore, stunning him, but not knocking him out.

He feigned unconsciousness, however, not knowing what else to do. Why wasn’t Tanis here, he thought despairingly, once more cursing his own slowness of mind. The half-elf would have a plan, he would know what to do. I shouldn’t have been left with this responsibility! Caramon swore bitterly. Then, quit bellyaching, you big ox! They’re depending on you!, came a voice in the back of his mind. Caramon blinked, then caught himself just as he was about to grin. The voice was so like Flint’s, he could have sworn the dwarf was standing beside him! He was right. They were depending on him. He’d just have to do his best. That was all he could do.

Caramon opened his eyes a slit, peering out between half-closed lids. A draconian guard stood almost directly in front of him, back turned to the supposedly comatose warrior. Caramon could not see Berem or the draconian called Gakhan without twisting his head, and he dared not call attention to himself. He could take out that first guard, he knew. Possibly the second, before the other two finished him. He had no hope of escaping alive, but at least he might give Tas and Tika a chance to escape with Berem.

Tensing his muscles, Caramon prepared to launch himself at the guard when suddenly an agonized scream tore through the darkness of the dungeons. It was Berem screaming, a cry so filled with rage and anger that Caramon started up in alarm, forgetting he was supposed to be unconscious.

Then he froze, watching in amazement as Berem lurched forward, grabbed Gakhan, and lifted him off the stone floor. Carrying the wildly flailing draconian in his hands, the Everman hurtled out of the jail cell and smashed Gakhan into a stone wall. The draconian’s head split apart, cracking like the eggs of the good dragons upon the black altars. Howling in rage, Berem slammed the draconian into the wail again and again, until Gakhan was nothing more than a limp, green bloodied mass of shapeless flesh.

For a moment no one moved. Tas and Tika huddled together, horrified by the gruesome sight. Caramon fought to piece things together in his pain-befuddled mind while even the draconian guards stood staring at their leader’s body in a paralyzed, dreadful fascination.

Then Berem dropped Gakhan’s body to the ground. Turning, he stared at the companions without recognition. He’s completely insane, Caramon saw with a shudder. Berem’s eyes were wide and crazed. Saliva dripped from his mouth. His hands and arms were slimy with green blood. Finally, realizing that his captor was dead, Berem seemed to come to his senses. He gazed around and saw Caramon on the floor, staring up at him in shock.

“She calls me!” Berem whispered hoarsely.

Turning, he ran down the northern corridor, flinging the startled draconians to one side as they tried to stop him. Never pausing to look behind him, Berem slammed into the partially open iron door at the end of the corridor, the force of his passing nearly tearing the door from its hinges. Clanking against the stone with a dull booming sound, the door swung crazily back and forth. They could hear Berem’s wild shrieking echo down the corridor.

By now, two of the draconians had recovered. One of them ran for the stairway, shouting at the top of its lungs. It was in draconian, but Caramon could understand it well enough.

“Prisoner escape! Call out the guards!”

In answer came shouts and the sound of clawed feet scraping at the top of the staircase. The hobgoblin took one look at the dead draconian and fled toward the staircase and his guardroom, adding his panic-stricken shouts to those of the draconian. The other guard, quickly regaining its feet, jumped into the cell. But Caramon was his feet now, too. This was action. This he could understand. Reaching out, the big man grabbed the draconian around the neck. One jerk of the huge hands, and the creature fell lifeless to the floor. Caramon swiftly snatched the sword from the clawed hand as the draconian’s body hardened into stone.

“Caramon! Look out behind you!” Tasslehoff yelled as the other guard, returning from the stairway, dashed into the cell, its sword raised.

Caramon whirled, only to see the creature fall forward as Tika’s boot caught it in the stomach. Tasslehoff plunged his little knife into the second guard’s body, forgetting—in his excitement—to jerk it free again. Glancing at the stone corpse of the other creature, the kender made a frantic dive for his knife. Too late.

“Leave it!” Caramon ordered, and Tas stood up.

Guttural voices could be heard above them, feet scraping and clawing down the stairs. The hobgoblin had reached the stairs and was waving his hands frantically and pointing back at them. His own shouts rose above the noise of the descending troops.

Caramon, sword in hand, glanced uncertainly at the stairs, then down the northern corridor after Berem.

“That’s right! Follow Berem, Caramon,” Tika said urgently. “Go with him! Don’t you see? ‘She’s calling me,’ he said. It’s his sister’s voice! He can hear her calling to him. That’s why he went crazy.”

“Yes ...” Caramon said in a daze, staring down the corridor. He could hear the draconians plunging down the winding stairs, armor rattling, swords scraping against the stone walls. They had only seconds. “Come on—”

Tika grasped Caramon by the arm. Digging her nails into his flesh, she forced him to look at her, her red curls a mass of flaming color in the flickering torchlight.

“No!” she said firmly. “They’ll catch him for certain and then it will be the end! I’ve got a plan. We must split up. Tas and I will draw them off. We’ll give you time. It’ll be all right, Caramon,” she persisted, seeing him shake his head. “There’s another corridor that leads east. I saw it as we came in. They’ll chase us down that way. Now, hurry, before they see you!”

Caramon hesitated, his face twisted in agony.

“This is the end, Caramon!” Tika said. “For good or for evil. You must go with him! You must help him reach her! Hurry, Caramon! You’re the only one strong enough to protect him. He needs you!”

Tika actually shoved the big man. Caramon took a step, then looked back at her.

“Tika . . .” he began, trying to think of some argument against this wild scheme. But before he could finish, Tika kissed him swiftly and—grabbing a sword from a dead draconian—ran from the jail cell.

“I’ll take care of her, Caramon!” Tas promised, dashing after Tika, his pouches bouncing wildly all around him.

Caramon stared after them a moment. The hobgoblin jailor shrieked in terror as Tika ran straight for the creature, brandishing her sword. The jailor made a wild grab for her, but Tika hacked at him so ferociously that the hobgoblin fell dead with a gurgling scream, his throat cut.

Ignoring the body that slumped to the floor, Tika hurried down the corridor, heading east.

Tasslehoff, right behind her, took a moment to stop at the bottom of the stair. The draconians were visible now, and Caramon could hear the kender’s shrill voice shouting taunts at the guards.

“Dog-eaters! Slime-blooded goblin-lovers!”

Then Tas was off, dashing after Tika who had vanished from Caramon’s sight. The enraged draconians—driven wild by the kender’s taunts and the sight of their prisoners escaping—did not take time to look around. They charged after the fleet-footed kender, their curved swords gleaming, their long tongues flicking in anticipation of the kill.

Within moments, Caramon found himself alone. He hesitated another precious minute, staring into the thick darkness of the gloomy cells. He could see nothing. The only thing he could hear was Tas’s voice yelling ‘dog-eaters.’ Then there was silence.

“I’m alone...” thought Caramon bleakly. “I’ve lost them ... lost them all. I must go after them.” He started toward the stairs, then stopped. “No, there’s Berem. He’s alone, too. Tika’s right. He needs me now. He needs me.”

His mind clear at last, Caramon turned and ran clumsily down the northern corridor after the Everman.

8 Queen of Darkness.

“Dragon Highlord Toede.” Lord Ariakas listened with lazy contempt to the calling of the role. Not that he was bored with the proceedings. Quite the contrary. Assembling the Grand Council had not been his idea. He had, in fact, opposed it. But he had been careful not to oppose it too vehemently. That might have made him appear weak; and Her Dark Majesty did not allow weaklings to live. No, this Grand Council would be anything but boring...

At the thought of his Dark Queen, he half-turned and glanced swiftly up into the alcove above him. The largest and most magnificent in the Hall, its great throne remained empty still, the gate that led into it lost in the living, breathing darkness. No stairs ran up to that throne. The gate itself provided the only entrance and exit. And as to where the gate led—well, it was best not to think of such things. Needless to say, no mortal had passed beyond its iron grillwork.

The Queen had not yet arrived. He was not surprised. These opening proceedings were beneath her. Ariakas hunched back in his throne. His gaze went—appropriately enough, he thought bitterly—from the throne of the Dark Queen to the throne of the Dark Lady. Kitiara was here, of course. This was her moment of triumph—so she thought. Ariakas breathed a curse upon her.

“Let her do her worst,” he murmured, only half-listening as the sergeant repeated the name of Lord Toede once more. “I am prepared.”

Ariakas suddenly realized something was amiss. What? What was happening? Lost in his thoughts, he had paid no attention to the proceedings. What was wrong? Silence ... a dreadful silence that followed . . . what? He cast about in his mind, trying to recall what had just been said. Then he remembered and came back from his dark thoughts to stare grimly at the second throne to his left. The troops in the hall, mostly draconian, heaved and swayed like a sea of death below him as all eyes shifted to the same throne.

Though the draconian troops belonging to Lord Toede were present, their banners mingling with the banners of the other draconians standing at attention in the center of the Hall of Audience, the throne itself was empty.

Tanis, from where he stood upon the steps of Kitiara’s platform, followed Ariakas’s gaze, stern and cold beneath the crown. The half-elf’s ears had pricked at the sound of Toede’s name. An image of the hobgoblin came swiftly to his mind as he had seen him standing in the dust of the road to Solace. The vision brought back thoughts of that warm autumn day that had seen the beginning of this long, dark journey. It brought back memories of Flint and Sturm...—Tanis gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate on what was happening. The past was over, finished, and—he hoped fervently—soon forgotten.

“Lord Toede?” Ariakas repeated in anger. The troops in the Hall muttered among themselves. Never before had a Highlord disobeyed a command to attend the Grand Council.

A human dragonarmy officer climbed the stairs leading to the empty platform. Standing on the top step (protocol forbade him proceeding higher), he stammered a moment in terror, facing those black eyes and—worse—the shadowy alcove above Ariakas’s throne. Then, taking a breath, he began his report.

“I-I regret to inform His Lordship and Her D-Dark Majesty"—a nervous glance at the shadowy alcove that was, apparently, still vacant—"that Dragon Highlord To—uh, Toede has met an unfortunate and untimely demise.”

Standing on the top step of the platform where Kitiara sat enthroned, Tanis heard a snort of derision from behind Kit’s dragonhelm. An amused titter ran through the crowd below him while dragonarmy officers exchanged knowing glances.

Lord Ariakas was not amused, however. “Who dared slay a Dragon Highlord?” he demanded furiously, and at the sound of his voice—and the portent of his words—the crowd fell silent.

“It was in K-Kenderhome, lord,” the officer replied, his voice echoing in the vast marble chamber. The officer paused. Even from this distance, Tanis could see the man’s fist clenching and unclenching nervously. He obviously had further bad news to impart and was reluctant to continue.

Ariakas glowered at the officer. Clearing his throat, the man lifted his voice again.

“I regret to report, lord, that Kenderhome has been—” For a moment the man’s voice gave out completely. Only by a valiant effort did he manage to continue. "—lost.”

“Lost!” repeated Ariakas in a voice that might have been a thunderbolt.

Certainly it seemed to strike the officer with terror. Blenching, he stammered incoherently for a moment, then— apparently determining to end it quickly, gasped out, “Highlord Toede was foully murdered by a kender named Kronin Thistleknott, and his troops driven from—”

There was a deeper murmur from the crowd now, growlings of anger and defiance, threats of the total destruction of Kenderhome. They would wipe that miserable race from the face of Krynn—

With his gloved hand, Ariakas made an irritated, sweeping gesture. Silence fell instantly over the assemblage.

And then the silence was broken.

Kitiara laughed.

It was mirthless laughter—arrogant and mocking, and it echoed loudly from the depths of the metal mask.

His face twisted in outrage, Ariakas rose to his feet. He took a step forward and—as he did so—steel flashed among his draconians on the floor as swords slid out of scabbards and spear butts thudded against the floor.

At the sight, Kitiara’s own troops closed ranks, backing up so that they pressed closely around the platform of their lord, which was at Ariakas’s right hand. Instinctively Tanis’s hand closed over the hilt of his sword and he found himself moving a step nearer Kitiara, though it meant setting his foot upon the platform where he was not supposed to trod.

Kitiara did not move. She remained seated, calmly regarding Ariakas with scorn that could be felt, if not seen.

Suddenly a breathless hush descended over the Assemblage, as if the breath in each body was being choked off by an unseen force. Faces paled as those present felt stifled, gasping for air. Lungs ached, vision blurred, heartbeats stilled. And then the air itself seemed sucked from the Hall as a darkness filled it.

Was it actual, physical darkness? Or a darkness in the mind? Tanis could not be certain. His eyes saw the thousands of torches in the Hall flare brilliantly, he saw the thousands of candles sparkle like stars in the night sky. But even the night sky was not darker than the darkness he now perceived.

His head swam. Desperately he tried to breathe, but he might as well have been beneath the Blood Sea of Istar again. His knees trembled, he was almost too weak to stand. His strength failed him, he staggered and fell and, as he sank down, gasping for breath, he was dimly aware of others, here and there, falling to the polished marble floor as well. Lifting his head, though the move was agony, he could see Kitiara slump forward in her chair as though crushed into the throne by an unseen force.

Then the darkness lifted. Cool, sweet air rushed into his lungs. His heart lurched and began pounding. Blood rushed to his head, nearly making him pass out. For a moment he could do nothing but sink back against the marble stairs, weak and dizzy, while light exploded in his head. Then, as his vision cleared, he saw that the draconians remained unaffected. Stoically they stood, all of them staring fixedly at one spot.

Tanis lifted his gaze to the magnificent platform that had remained empty throughout the proceedings. Empty until now. His blood congealed in his veins, his breath nearly stopped again. Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, had entered the Hall of Audience.

Other names she had upon Krynn. Dragonqueen she was called in elven; Nilat the Corrupter, to the barbarians of Plains; Tamex, the False Metal, so she was known in Thorbardin among the dwarves; Mai-tat, She of Many Faces was how they told of her in legends among the sea-faring people of Ergoth. Queen of Many Colors and of None, the Knights of Solamnia called her; defeated by Huma, banished from the land, long ago.

Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, had returned.

But not completely.

Even as Tanis stared at the shadowy form in the alcove overhead with awe, even as the terror pierced his brain, leaving him numb, unable to feel or sense anything beyond sheer horror and fear—he realized that the Queen was not present in her physical form. It was as if her presence in their minds cast a shadow of her being onto the platform. She, herself, was there only as her will forced others to perceive her.

Something was holding her back, blocking her entry into this world. A door—Berem’s words returned in confusion to Tanis’s mind. Where was Berem? Where were Caramon and the others? Tanis realized with a pang that he had nearly forgotten about them. They had been driven from his mind by his preoccupation with Kitiara and Laurana. His head spun. He felt as if he held the key to everything in his hand, if only he could find the time to think about it calmly.

But that was not possible. The shadowy form increased in intensity until its blackness seemed to create a cold hole of nothingness in the granite room. Unable to look away, Tanis was compelled to gaze into that dreadful hole until he had the terrifying sensation he was being drawn into it. At that moment, he heard a voice in his mind.

I have not brought you together to see your petty quarrels and pettier ambitions mar the victory I sense is fast approaching. Remember who rules here, Lord Ariakas.

Lord Ariakas sank to one knee, as did all others in the chamber. Tanis found himself falling to his knees in reverence. He could not help it. Though filled with loathing at the hideous, suffocating evil, this was a goddess—one of the forgers of the world. Since the beginning of time she had ruled... and would rule until time ended.

The voice continued speaking, burning into his mind and into the minds of all present.

Lord Kitiara, you have pleased us well in the past. Your gift to us now pleases us even more. Bring in the elfwoman, that we may look upon her and decide her fate.

Tanis, glancing at Lord Ariakas, saw the man return to his throne, but not before he had cast a venomous look of hatred at Kitiara.

“I will, Your Dark Majesty.” Kitiara bowed, then, “Come with me,” she ordered Tanis as she passed by him on her way down the stairs.

Her draconian troops backed away, leaving a path for her to walk to the center of the room. Kitiara descended the rib-like stairs of the platform, Tanis following. The troops parted to let them pass, then closed ranks again almost instantly.

Reaching the center of the Hall, Kitiara climbed the narrow stairs that jutted forth like spurs from the hooded snake’s sculpted back until she stood in the center of the marble platform. Tanis followed more slowly, finding the stairs narrow and difficult to climb, especially as he felt the eyes of the shadowy form in the alcove delve into his soul.

Standing at the center of the ghastly platform, Kitiara turned and gestured toward the ornate gate opening onto the far end of the narrow bridge that connected the platform with the main walls of the Hall of Audience.

A figure appeared in the doorway—a dark figure dressed in the armor of a Knight of Solamnia. Lord Soth entered the Hall, and—at his coming—the troops fell back from either side of that narrow bridge as if a hand had reached up from the grave and tossed them away. In his pallid arms, Lord Soth bore a body bound in a white winding cloth, the kind used for embalming the dead. The silence in the room was such that the dead knight’s booted footsteps could almost be heard ringing upon the marble floor, though all gathered there could see the stone through the transparent, fleshless body.

Walking forward, bearing his white-swathed burden, Lord Soth crossed the bridge and walked slowly up to stand upon the snake’s head. At another gesture from Kitiara, he laid the bundle of white upon the floor at the Dragon Highlord’s feet. Then he stood and suddenly vanished, leaving everyone blinking in horror, to wonder if he had really existed or if they had seen him only in their fevered imaginations.

Tanis could see Kitiara smile beneath her helm, pleased at the impact made by her servant. Then, drawing her sword, Kitiara leaned down and slit the bindings that wrapped the figure like a cocoon. Giving them a yank, she pulled them loose, then stepped back to watch her captive struggle in the web.

Tanis caught sight of a mass of tangled, honey-colored hair, the flash of silver armor. Coughing, nearly suffocated by her constricting bindings, Laurana fought to free herself from the entangling white cloths. There was tense laughter as the troops watched the prisoner’s feeble thrashings—this was obviously an indication of more amusement to come. Reacting instinctively, Tanis took a step forward to help Laurana. Then he felt Kitiara’s brown eyes upon him, watching him, reminding him—

“If you die—she dies!”

His body shaking with chills, Tanis stopped, then stepped back. Finally Laurana staggered dizzily to her feet. For a moment she stood staring around vaguely, not comprehending where she was, blinking her eyes to see in the harsh, flaring torchlight. Her gaze focused at last upon Kitiara, smiling at her from behind the dragonhelm.

At the sight of her enemy, the woman who had betrayed her, Laurana drew herself to her full height. For a moment, her fear was forgotten in her anger. Imperiously she glanced beneath her, then above her, her gaze sweeping the great Hall. Fortunately, she did not look behind her. She did not see the bearded half-elf dressed in dragonarmor, who was watching her intently. Instead she saw the troops of the Dark Queen, she saw the Highlords upon their thrones, she saw the dragons perched above them. Finally, she beheld the shadowy form of the Queen of Darkness herself.

And now she knows where she is, Tanis thought in misery, seeing Laurana’s face drain of color. Now she knows where she is and what is about to befall her.

What stories they must have told her, down in those dungeons below the Temple. Tormenting her with tales of the Death Chambers of the Queen of Darkness. She had probably been able to hear the screams of others, Tanis guessed, feeling his soul ache at her obvious terror. She had listened to their screams in the night, and now, within hours, maybe minutes, she would join them.

Her face deathly pale, Laurana turned back to look at Kitiara as if she were the only fixed point in a swirling universe. Tanis saw Laurana’s teeth clench, biting her lips to keep control. She would never show her fear to this woman, she would never show her fear to any of them.

Kitiara made a small gesture.

Laurana followed her gaze.

“Tanis...”

Turning, she saw the half-elf, and, as Laurana’s eyes met his, Tanis saw hope shine. He felt her love for him surround him and bless him like the dawning of spring after winter’s bitter darkness. For at last Tanis realized his own love for her was the bond between his two warring halves. He loved her with the unchanging, eternal love of his elven soul and with the passionate love of his human blood. But the realization had come too late, and now he would pay for the realization with his life and his soul.

One look, that was all he could give Laurana. One look that must carry the message of his heart, for he could feel Kitiara’s brown eyes on him, watching him intently. And other eyes were on him, too, dark and shadowy as they might be.

Aware of those eyes, Tanis forced his face to reveal nothing of his inner thoughts. Exerting all his control, he clenched his jaw, setting the muscles rigid, keeping his gaze carefully expressionless. Laurana might have been a stranger. Coldly he turned away from her and, as he turned, he saw hope’s light flicker and die in her luminous eyes. As if a cloud had obscured the sun, the warmth of Laurana’s love turned to bleak despair, chilling Tanis with its sorrow.

Gripping the hilt of his sword firmly to keep his hand from trembling, Tanis turned to face Takhisis, Queen of Darkness.

“Dark Majesty,” cried Kitiara, grasping Laurana by the arm and dragging her forward, “I present my gift to you—a gift that will give us victory!”

She was momentarily interrupted by tumultuous cheers. Raising her hand, Kitiara commanded silence, then she continued.

“I give you the elfwoman, Lauralanthalasa, Princess of the Qualinesti Elves, leader of the foul Knights of Solamnia. It was she who brought back the dragonlances, she who used the dragon orb in the High Clerist’s Tower. It was by her command that her brother and a silver dragon traveled to Sanction where—through the ineptness of Lord Ariakas—they managed to break into the sacred temple and discover the destruction of the good dragon eggs.” Ariakas took a menacing step forward, but Kitiara coolly ignored him. “I give her to you, my Queen, to treat her as you believe her crimes against you merit.”

Kitiara flung Laurana in front of her. Stumbling, the elfwoman fell to her knees before the Queen. Her golden hair had come loose from its bindings and tumbled about her in a shining wave that was—to Tanis’s fevered mind—the only light in the vast dark chamber.

You have done well. Lord Kitiara, came the Dark Queen’s unheard voice, and you will be well rewarded. We will have the elf escorted to the Death Chambers, then I will grant your reward.

“Thank you, Majesty.” Kitiara bowed. “Before our business concludes, I have two favors I beg you grant me.” Thrusting out her hand, she caught Tanis in her strong grip. “I would first present one who seeks service in your great and glorious army.”

Kitiara laid a hand on Tanis’s shoulder, indicating with a firm pressure that he was to kneel. Unable to purge that last glimpse of Laurana from his mind, Tanis hesitated. He could still turn from the darkness. He could stand by Laurana’s side and they would face the end together.

Then he sneered,

How selfish have I become, he asked himself bitterly, that I would even consider sacrificing Laurana in an attempt to cover my own folly? No, I alone will pay for my misdeeds. If I do nothing more that is good in this life, I will save her. And I will carry that knowledge with me as a candle to light my path until the darkness consumes me!

Kitiara’s grip on him tightened painfully, even through the dragonscale armor. The brown eyes behind the dragonhelm began to smolder with anger.

Slowly, his head bowed, Tanis sank to his knees before Her Dark Majesty.

“I present your humble servant, Tanis Half-Elven,” Kitiara resumed coolly, although Tanis thought he could detect a note of relief in her voice. “I have named him commander of my armies, following the untimely death of my late commander, Bakaris.”

Let our new servant come forward, came the voice into Tanis’s mind.

Tanis felt Kit’s hand on his shoulder as he rose, drawing him near. Swiftly she whispered, “Remember, you are Her Dark Majesty’s property now, Tanis. She must be utterly convinced or even I will not be able to save you, and you will not be able to save your elfwoman.”

“I remember,” Tanis said without expression. Shaking free of Kitiara’s grip, the half-elf walked forward to stand on the very edge of the platform, below the Dark Queen’s throne.

Raise your head. Look upon me, came the command.

Tanis braced himself, asking for strength from deep inside him, strength he wasn’t certain he possessed. If I falter, Laurana is lost. For the sake of love, I must banish love. Tanis lifted his eyes.

His gaze was caught and held. Mesmerized, he stared at the shadowy form, unable to free himself. There was no need to fabricate awe and a horrible reverence, for that came to him as it comes to all mortals who glimpse Her Dark Majesty. But even as he felt compelled to worship, he realized that—deep inside—he was free still. Her power was not complete. She could not consume him against his will. Though Takhisis fought not to reveal this weakness, Tanis was conscious of the great struggle she waged to enter the world.

Her shadowy form wavered before his eyes, revealing herself in all her guises, proving she had control over none. First she appeared to him as the five-headed dragon of Solamnic legend. Then the form shifted and she was the Temptress—a woman whose beauty men might die to possess. Then the form shifted once again. Now she was the Dark Warrior, a tall and powerful Knight of Evil, who held death in his mailed hand.

But even as the forms shifted, the dark eyes remained constant, staring into Tanis’s soul, eyes of the five dragon heads, eyes of the beautiful Temptress, eyes of the fearful Warrior. Tanis felt himself shrivel beneath the scrutiny. He could not bear it, he did not have the strength. Abjectly he sank once more to his knees, groveling before the Queen, despising himself as behind him he heard an anguished, choking cry.

9 Horns of doom.

Lumbering down the northern corridor in search of Berem, Caramon ignored the startled yells and calls and grasping hands of prisoners reaching out from the barred cells. But there was no sight of Berem and no sign of his passing. He tried asking the other prisoners if they had seen him, but most were so unhinged by the tortures they had endured that they made no sense and, eventually, his mind filled with horror and pity, Caramon left them alone. He kept walking, following the corridor that led him ever downward. Looking around, he wondered in despair how he would ever find the crazed man. His only consolation was that no other corridors branched off from this central one. Berem must have come this way! But if so, where was he?

Peering into cells, stumbling around corners, Caramon almost missed a big hobgoblin guard, who lunged out at him. Swinging his sword irritably, annoyed at the interruption, Caramon swept the creature’s head off and was on his way before the body hit the stone floor.

Then he heaved a sigh of relief. Hurrying down a staircase, he had nearly stepped on the body of another dead hobgoblin. It’s neck had been twisted by strong hands. Plainly, Berem had been here, and not long ago. The body was not yet cold.

Certain now he was on the man’s trail, Caramon began to run. The prisoners in the cells he passed were nothing but blurs to the big warrior as he ran by. Their voices shrilled in his ears, begging for freedom.

Let them loose, and I’d have an army, Caramon thought suddenly. He toyed with the idea of stopping a moment and unlocking the cell doors, when suddenly he heard a terrible howling sound and shouting coming from somewhere ahead of him.

Recognizing Berem’s roar, Caramon plunged ahead. The cells came to an end, the corridor narrowed to a tunnel that cut a deep spiral well into the ground. Torches glimmered on the walls, but they were few and spaced far between. Caramon ran down the tunnel, the roar growing louder as he drew closer. The big warrior tried to hurry, but the floor was slick and slimy, the air became danker and heavy with moisture the farther down he went. Afraid he might slip and fall, he was forced to slow his pace. The shouts were closer, just ahead of him. The tunnel grew lighter, he must be coming near the end.

And then he saw Berem. Two draconians were slashing at him, their swords gleaming in the torchlight. Berem fought them off with his bare hands as light from the green gemstone lit the small, enclosed chamber with an eerie brilliance.

It was a mark of Berem’s insane strength that he had held them off this long. Blood ran freely from a cut across his face and flowed from a deep gash in his side. Even as Caramon dashed to his aid, slipping in the muck, Berem grasped a draconian’s sword blade in his hand just as its point touched his chest. The cruel steel bit into his flesh, but he was oblivious to pain. Blood poured down his arm as he turned the blade and—with a heave—shoved the draconian backwards. Then he staggered, gasping for breath. The other draconian guard closed in for the kill.

Intent upon their prey, the guards never saw Caramon. Leaping out of the tunnel, Caramon remembered just in time not to stab the creatures or he risked losing his sword. Grabbing one of the guards in his huge hands, he twisted its head, neatly snapping its neck. Dropping the body, he met the other draconian’s savage lunge with a quick chopping motion of his hand to the creature’s throat. It pitched backwards.

“Berem, are you all right?” Caramon turned and was starting to help Berem when he suddenly felt a searing pain rip through his side.

Gasping in agony, he staggered around to see a draconian behind him. Apparently it had been hiding in the shadows, perhaps at hearing Caramon’s coming. Its sword thrust should have killed, but it was aimed in haste and slanted off Caramon’s mail armor. Scrabbling for his own sword, Caramon stumbled backwards to gain time.

The draconian didn’t intend giving him any. Raising its blade, it lunged at Caramon.

There was a blur of movement, a flash of green light, and the draconian fell dead at Caramon’s feet.

“Berem!” Caramon gasped, pressing his hand over his side. Thanks! How—”

But the Everman stared at Caramon without recognition. Then, nodding slowly, he turned and started to walk away.

“Wait!” Caramon called. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the big man jumped over the draconian bodies and hurled himself after Berem. Clutching his arm, he dragged the man to a stop. “Wait, damn it!” he repeated, holding on to him.

The sudden movement took its toll. The room swam before his eyes, forcing Caramon to stand still a moment, fighting the pain of his injury. When he could see again, he looked around, getting his bearings.

“Where are we?” he asked without expecting an answer, just wanting Berem to hear the sound of his voice.

“Far, far below the Temple,” Berem replied in a hollow tone. “I am close. Very close now.”

“Yeah,” Caramon agreed without understanding. Keeping a fast hold on Berem, he continued to look around. The stone stairs he had come down ended in a small circular chamber. A guardroom, he realized, seeing an old table and several chairs sitting beneath a torch on the wall. It made sense. The draconians down here must have been guards. Berem had stumbled on them accidentally. But what could the draconians have been guarding?

Caramon glanced quickly around the small stone chamber but saw nothing. The room was perhaps twenty paces in diameter, carved out of rock. The spiral stone stairs ended in this room and—across from them—an archway led out. It was toward this archway Berem had been walking when Caramon caught hold of him. Peering through the arch, Caramon saw nothing. It was dark beyond, so dark Caramon felt as if he were staring into the Great Darkness the legends spoke of. Darkness that had existed in the void long before the gods created light.

The only sound he could hear was the gurgling and splash of water. An underground stream, he thought, which accounted for the humid air. Stepping back a pace, he examined the archway above him.

It was not carved out of the rock as was the small chamber they were in. It had been built of stone, crafted by expert hands. He could see vague outlines of elaborate carvings that had once decorated it, but he could make nothing out, time and the moisture in the air had long ago worn them away.

As he studied the arch, hoping for a clue to guide him, Caramon nearly fell as Berem clutched at him with sudden, fierce energy.

“I know you!” the man cried.

“Sure,” Caramon grunted. “What in the name of the Abyss are you doing down here?”

“Jasla calls...” Berem said, the wild look glazing his eyes once more. Turning, he stared into the darkness beyond the archway. “In there, I must go.... Guards... tried to stop me. You come with me.”

Then Caramon realized that the guards must have been guarding this arch! For what reason? What was beyond? Had they recognized Berem or were they simply acting under orders to keep everyone out? He didn’t know the answers to any of these questions, and then it occurred to him that the answers didn’t matter. Neither did the questions.

“You have to go in there,” he said to Berem. It was a statement, not a question. Berem nodded and took a step forward eagerly. He would have walked straight into the darkness if Caramon hadn’t jerked him back.

“Wait, we’ll need light,” the big man said with a sigh. “Stay put!” Patting Berem on the arm, then keeping his gaze fixed on him, Caramon backed up until his groping hand came into contact with a torch on the wall. Lifting it from its sconce, he returned to Berem.

“I’ll go with you,” he said heavily, wondering how long he could keep going before he collapsed from pain and loss of blood. “Here, hold that a minute.” Handing Berem the torch, he tore off a strip of cloth from the ragged remains of Berem’s shirt and bound it firmly around the wound in his side. Then, taking the torch back, he led the way beneath the arch.

Passing between the stone supports, Caramon felt something brush across his face. “Cobweb!” he muttered, pawing at it in disgust. He glanced around fearfully, having a dread of spiders. But there was nothing there. Shrugging, he thought no more of it and continued through the arch, drawing Berem after him.

The air was split with trumpet blasts.

“Trapped!” Caramon said grimly.

“Tika!” Tas gasped proudly as they ran down the gloomy dungeon corridor. “Your plan worked.” The kender risked a glance over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said breathlessly, “I think they’re all following us!”

“Wonderful,” muttered Tika. Somehow she hadn’t expected her plan to work quite so well. No other plans she had ever made in her life had worked out. Wouldn’t you know this would be a first? She, too, cast a quick glance over her shoulder. There must be six or seven draconians chasing after them, their long curved swords in the clawed hands.

Though the claw-footed draconians could not run as swiftly as either the girl or the kender, they had incredible endurance. Tika and Tas had a good head start, but it wasn’t going to last. She was already panting for breath, and there was a sharp pain in her side that made her want to double over in agony.

But every second I keep running gives Caramon a little more time, she told herself. I draw the draconians just that much farther away.

“Say, Tika"—Tas’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth, his face, cheerful as always, was pale with fatigue—"do you know where we’re going?”

Tika shook her head. She hadn’t breath left to speak. She felt herself slowing, her legs were like lead. Another look back showed her that the draconians were gaining. Quickly she glanced around, hoping to find another corridor branching off from this main one, or even a niche, a doorway—any kind of hiding place. There was nothing. The corridor stretched before them, silent and empty. There weren’t even any cells. It was a long, narrow, smooth, and seemingly endless stone tunnel that sloped gradually upwards.

Then a sudden realization nearly brought her up short. Slowing, gasping for breath, she stared at Tas, who was only dimly visible in the light of smoking torches.

“The tunnel... it’s rising . . .” She coughed.

Tas blinked at her uncomprehendingly, then his face brightened.

“It leads up and out!” he shouted jubilantly. “You’ve done it, Tika!”

“Maybe...” Tika said, hedging.

“Come on!” Tas yelled in excitement, finding new energy. Grabbing Tika’s hand, he pulled her along. “I know you’re right, Tika! Smell"—he sniffed—"fresh air! We’ll escape . . . and find Tanis... and come back and... rescue Caramon—”

Only a kender could talk and run headlong down a corridor being chased by draconians at the same time, Tika thought wearily. She was being carried forward by sheer terror now, she knew. And soon that would leave her. Then she would collapse here in the tunnel, so tired and aching she wouldn’t care what the draconians—

Then, “Fresh air!” she whispered.

She had honestly thought Tas was lying just to keep her going. But now she could feel a soft whisper of wind touch her cheek. Hope lightened her leaden legs. Glancing back, she thought she saw the draconians slowing. Maybe they realize they’ll never catch us now! Exultation swept over her.

“Hurry, Tas!” she yelled. Together they both raced with renewed energy up the corridor, the sweet air blowing stronger and stronger all the time.

Running headfirst around a corner, they both came up short so suddenly that Tasslehoff skidded on some loose gravel and slammed up against a wall.

“So this is why they slowed down,” Tika said softly.

The corridor came to an end. Two barred wooden doors sealed it shut. Small windows set into the doors, covered with iron gratings, allowed the night air to blow into the dungeon. She and Tas could see outside, they could see freedom—but they could not reach it.

“Don’t give up!” Tas said after a moment’s pause. Recovering quickly, he ran over and pulled on the doors. They were locked.

“Drat,” Tas muttered, eyeing the doors expertly. Caramon might have been able to batter his way through them, or break the lock with a blow of his sword. But not the kender, not Tika.

As Tas bent down to examine the lock, Tika leaned against a wall, wearily closing her eyes, blood beat in her head, the muscles in her legs knotted in painful spasms. Exhausted, she tasted the bitter salt of tears in her mouth and realized she was sobbing in pain and anger and frustration.

“Don’t, Tika!” Tas said, hurrying back to pat her hand. “It’s a simple lock. I can get us out of here in no time. Don’t cry, Tika. It’ll only take me a little while, but you ought to be ready for those draconians if they come. Just keep them busy—”

“Right,” Tika said, swallowing her tears. Hurriedly she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then, sword in hand, she turned to face the corridor behind them while Tas took another look at the lock.

It was a simple, simple lock, he saw with satisfaction, guarded by such a simple trap he wondered why they even bothered.

Wondered why they even bothered... Simple lock... simple trap... The words rang in his mind. They were familiar! He’d thought them before.... Staring up at the doors in astonishment, Tas realized he’d been here before! But no, that was impossible.

Shaking his head irritably, Tas fumbled in his pouch for his tools. Then he stopped. Cold fear gripped the kender and shook him like a dog shakes a rat, leaving him limp.

The dream!

These had been the doors he saw in the Silvanesti dream! This had been the lock. The simple, simple lock with the simple trap! And Tika had been behind him, fighting . . . dying...

“Here they come, Tas!” Tika called, gripping her sword in sweating hands. She cast him a quick glance over her shoulder. “What are you doing? What are you waiting for?”

Tas couldn’t answer. He could hear the draconians now, laughing in their harsh voices as they took their time reaching their captives, certain the prisoners weren’t going any place. They rounded the corner and Tas heard their laughter grow louder when they saw Tika holding the sword.

“I-I don’t think I can, Tika,” Tas whimpered, staring at the lock in horror.

“Tas,” said Tika swiftly and grimly, backing up to talk to him without taking her eyes off her enemies, “we can’t let ourselves be captured! They know about Berem! They’ll try to make us tell what we know about him, Tas! And you know what they’ll do to us to make us talk—”

“You’re right.” said Tas miserably. “I’ll try.”

You’ve got the courage to walk it... Fizban had told him. Taking a deep breath, Tasslehoff pulled a thin wire out of one of his pouches. After all, he told his shaking hands sternly, what is death to a kender but the greatest adventure of all? And then there’s Flint out there, by himself. Probably getting into all sorts of scraps.... His hands now quite steady, Tas inserted the wire carefully into the lock and set to work.

Suddenly there was a harsh roar behind him; he heard Tika shout and the sound of steel clashing against steel.

Tas dared a quick look. Tika had never learned the art of swordsmanship, but she was a skilled barroom brawler. Hacking and slashing with the blade, she kicked and gouged and bit and battered. The fury and ferocity of her attack drove the draconians back a pace. All of them were slashed and bleeding; one wallowed in green blood on the floor, its arm hanging uselessly.

But she couldn’t hold them off much longer. Tas turned back to his work, but now his hands trembled, the slender tool slipped out of his clammy grasp. The trick was to spring the lock without springing the trap. He could see the trap—a tiny needle held in place by a coiled spring.

Stop it! he ordered himself. Was this any way for a kender to act? He inserted the wire again carefully, his hands steady once more. Suddenly, just as he almost had it, he was jostled from behind.

“Hey,” he shouted irritably at Tika, turning around. “Be a little more careful—” He stopped short. The dream! He had said those exact words. And—as in the dream—he saw Tika, lying at his feet, blood flowing into her red curls.

“No!” Tas shrieked in rage. The wire slipped, his hand struck the lock.

There was a click as the lock opened. And with the click came another small sound, a brittle sound, barely heard; a sound like “snick,” The trap was sprung.

Wide-eyed, Tas stared at the tiny spot of blood on his finger, then at the small golden needle protruding from the lock. The draconians had him now, grasping him by the shoulder. Tas ignored them. It didn’t matter anyway. There was a stinging pain in his finger and soon the pain would spread up his arm and throughout his body.

When it reaches my heart, I won’t feel it anymore, he told himself dreamily. I won’t feel anything.

Then he heard horns, blaring horns, brass horns. He had heard those horns before. Where? That’s right. It was in Tarsis, right before the dragons came.

And then the draconians that had been hanging on to him were gone, running frantically back down the corridor.

“Must be some sort of general alarm,” Tas thought, noticing with interest that his legs wouldn’t hold him up anymore. He slid down to the floor, down beside Tika. Reaching out a shaking hand, he gently stroked her pretty red curls, now matted with blood. Her face was white, her eyes closed.

“I’m sorry, Tika,” Tas said, his throat constricting. The pain was spreading quickly, his fingers and feet had gone numb. He couldn’t move them. “I’m sorry, Caramon. I tried, I truly tried—” Weeping quietly, Tas sat back against the door and waited for the darkness.

Tanis could not move and—for a moment, hearing Laurana’s heartbroken sob—he had no wish to move. If anything, he begged a merciful god to strike him dead as he knelt before the Dark Queen. But the gods granted him no such favor. The shadow lifted as the Queen’s attention shifted elsewhere, away from him. Tanis struggled to his feet, his face flushed with shame. He could not look at Laurana, he dared not even meet Kitiara’s eyes, knowing well the scorn he would see in their brown depths.

But Kitiara had more important matters on her mind. This was her moment of glory. Her plans were coming together. Thrusting out her hand, she caught Tanis in her strong grip as he was about to come forward to offer himself as escort to Laurana. Coldly, she shoved him backward and moved to stand in front of him.

“Finally, I wish to reward a servant of my own who helped me capture the elfwoman. Lord Soth has asked that he be granted the soul of this Lauralanthalasa, that he might thus gain his revenge over the elfwoman who—long ago—cast the curse upon him. If he be doomed to live in eternal darkness, then he asks that this elfwoman share his life within death.”

“No!” Laurana raised her head, fear and horror penetrating her numb senses. “No,” she repeated in a strangled voice.

Taking a step backwards, she looked about her wildly for some escape, but it was impossible. Below her, the floor writhed with draconians, staring up at her eagerly. Choking in despair, she glanced once at Tanis. His face was dark and forbidding; he was not looking at her, but stared with burning eyes at the human woman. Already regretting her wretched outburst, Laurana determined that she would die before she gave way to any further weakness in front of either of them, ever again. Drawing herself up proudly, she lifted her head, in control once more.

Tanis did not even see Laurana. Kitiara’s words beat like blood in his head, clouding his vision and his thoughts. Furious, he took a step forward to stand near Kitiara. “You betrayed me!” he choked. “This was not part of the plan!”

“Hush!” ordered Kit in a low voice. “Or you will destroy everything!”

“What—”

“Shut up!” Kitiara snapped viciously.

Your gift pleases me well, Lord Kitiara. The dark voice penetrated Tanis’s anger. I grant your requests. The elfwoman’s soul will be given to Lord Soth, and we accept the half-elf into our service. In recognition of this, he will lay his sword at the feet of Lord Ariakas.

“Well, go on!” demanded Kitiara coldly, her eyes on Tanis. The eyes of everyone in the room were on the half-elf.

His mind swam. “What?” he muttered. “You didn’t tell me this! What do I do?”

“Ascend the platform and lay your sword at Ariakas’s feet,” Kitiara answered swiftly, escorting him to the edge of the platform. “He will pick it up and return it to you, then you will be an officer in the dragonarmies. It is ritual, nothing more. But it buys me time.”

“Time for what? What do you have planned?” Tanis asked harshly, his foot on the stair leading down. He caught hold of her arm. “You should have told me—”

“The less you know the better, Tanis.” Kitiara smiled charmingly, for the sake of those watching. There was some nervous laughter, a few crude jokes at what appeared to be a lover’s parting. But Tanis saw no answering smile in Kit’s brown eyes. “Remember who stands next to me upon this platform,” Kitiara whispered. Caressing the hilt of her sword. Kit gave Laurana a meaningful glance. “Do nothing rash.” Turning away from him, she walked back to stand beside Laurana.

Trembling in fear and rage, his thoughts whirling in confusion, Tanis stumbled down the stairs leading from the snake’s-head platform. The noise of the assembly rolled around him like the crash of oceans. Light flashed off spearpoints, the torch flames blurred in his vision. He set his foot upon the floor and began to walk toward Ariakas’s platform without any clear idea of where he was or what he was doing. Moving by reflex alone, he made his way across the marble floor.

The faces of the draconians who made up Ariakas’s guard of honor floated around him like a hideous nightmare. He saw them as disembodied heads, rows of gleaming teeth, and flicking tongues. They parted before him, the stairs materialized at his feet as if rising out of fog.

Lifting his head, he stared up bleakly. At the top stood Lord Ariakas, a huge man, majestic, armed with power. All the light in the room seemed to be drawn into the Crown upon his head. Its brilliance dazzled the eyes, and Tanis blinked, blinded, as he began to climb the steps, his hand on his sword.

Had Kitiara betrayed him? Would she keep her promise? Tanis doubted it. Bitterly he cursed himself. Once more he had fallen under her spell. Once more he had played the fool, trusting her. And now she held all the game pieces. There was nothing he could do ... or was there?

An idea came to Tanis so suddenly he stopped, one foot on one step, the other on the step below.

Idiot! Keep walking, he commanded, feeling everyone staring at him. Forcing himself to retain some outward semblance of calm, Tanis climbed up another step and another. As he drew closer and closer to Lord Ariakas, the plan became clearer and dearer.

Whoever holds the Crown, rules! The words rang in Tanis’s mind.

Kill Ariakas, take the Crown! It will be simple! Tanis’s gaze flashed around the alcove feverishly. No guards stood beside Ariakas, of course. No one but Highlords were allowed on the platforms. But he didn’t even have guards on the stairs as did the other Highlords. Apparently the man was so arrogant, so secure in his power, he had dispensed with them.

Tanis’s thoughts raced. Kitiara will trade her soul for that Crown. And as long as I hold it, she will be wine to command! I can save Laurana... we can escape together! Once we are safely out of here, I can explain things to Laurana, I can explain everything! I’ll draw my sword, but instead of placing it at Lord Ariakas’s feet, I will run it through him! Once the Crown is in my hand, no one will dare touch me!

Tanis found himself shaking with excitement. With an effort, he forced himself to calm down. He could not look at Ariakas, fearing the man might see his desperate plan in his eyes.

He kept his gaze upon the stairs, therefore, and he knew he was near Lord Ariakas only when he saw five steps remained between himself and the top of the platform. Tanis’s hand twitched upon the sword. Feeling himself under control, he raised his gaze to look into the man’s face and, for an instant, was almost unnerved at the evil revealed there. It was a face made passionless by ambition, a face that had seen the deaths of thousands of innocents as the means only to an end.

Ariakas had been watching Tanis with a bored expression, a smile of amused contempt on his face. Then he lost interest in the half-elf completely, having other matters to worry about. Tanis saw the man’s gaze go to Kitiara, pondering. Ariakas had the look of a player leaning across a game board, contemplating his next move, trying to guess what his opponent intends.

Filled with revulsion and hatred, Tanis began to slide the blade of his sword from its scabbard. Even if he failed in his attempt to save Laurana, even if they both died within these walls, at least he would accomplish some good in the world by killing the Commander of the Dragonarmies.

But as he heard Tanis draw his sword, Ariakas’s eyes flashed back to the half-elf once again. Their black stare penetrated Tanis’s soul. He felt the man’s tremendous power overwhelm him, hitting him like a blast of heat from a furnace. And then realization struck Tanis a blow almost physical in its impact, nearly causing him to stagger on the stairs.

That aura of power surrounding him . . . Ariakas was a magic-user!

Blind stupid fool! Tanis cursed himself. For now, as he drew nearer, he saw a shimmering wall surrounding the Lord. Of course, that’s why there were no guards! Among this crowd, Ariakas would trust no one. He would use his own magic to guard himself!

And he was on his guard, now. That much Tanis could read clearly in the cold, passionless eyes.

The half-elf’s shoulders slumped. He was defeated.

And then, “Strike, Tanis! Do not fear his magic! I will aid you!”

The voice was no more than a whisper, yet so clear and so intense, Tanis could practically feel hot breath touch his ear. His hair raised on the back of his neck, a shudder convulsed his body.

Shivering, he glanced hastily around. There was no one near him, no one except Ariakas! He was only three steps away, scowling, obviously anxious for this ceremony to come to an end. Seeing Tanis hesitate, Ariakas made a peremptory motion for the half-elf to lay his sword at his feet.

Who had spoken? Suddenly Tanis’s eyes were caught by the sight of a figure standing near the Queen of Darkness. Robed in black, it had escaped his notice before. Now he stared at it, thinking it seemed familiar. Had the voice come from that figure? If so, the figure made no sign or movement. What should he do? he wondered frantically.

“Strike, Tanis!” whispered once more in his brain. “Swiftly!”

Sweating, his hand shaking, Tanis slowly drew his sword. He was level with Ariakas now. The shimmering wall of the Lord’s magic surrounded him like a rainbow glittering off sparkling water.

I have no choice, Tanis said to himself. If it is a trap, so be it. I choose this way to die.

Feigning to kneel, holding his sword hilt—first to lay it upon the marble platform, Tanis suddenly reversed his stroke. Turning it into a killing blow, he lunged for Ariakas’s heart.

Tanis expected to die. Gritting his teeth as he struck, he braced himself for the magic shield to wither him like a tree struck by lightning.

And lightning did strike, but not him! To his amazement, the rainbow wall exploded, his sword penetrated. He felt it hit solid flesh. A fierce cry of pain and outrage nearly deafened him.

Ariakas staggered backwards as the sword blade slid into his chest. A lesser man would have died from that blow, but Ariakas’s strength and anger held Death at bay. His face twisted in hatred, he struck Tanis across the face, sending him reeling to the floor of the platform.

Pain burst in Tanis’s head. Dimly, he saw his sword fall beside him, red with blood. For a moment, he thought he was going to lose consciousness and that would mean his death, his death and Laurana’s. Groggily he shook his head to clear it. He must hang on! He must gain the Crown! Looking up, he saw Ariakas looming above him, hands lifted, prepared to cast a spell that would end Tanis’s life.

Tanis could do nothing. He had no protection against the magic and somehow he knew that his unseen helper would help no more. It had already achieved what it desired.

But powerful as Ariakas was, there was a greater power he could not conquer. He choked, his mind wavered, the words of magic spell were lost in a terrible pain. Looking down, he saw his own blood stain the purple robes, the stain grew larger and larger with each passing moment as his life poured from his severed heart. Death was coming to claim him. He could stave it off no longer. Desperately Ariakas battled the darkness, crying out at the last to his Dark Queen for help.

But she abandoned weaklings. As she had watched Ariakas strike down his father, so she watched Ariakas himself fall, her name the last sound to pass his lips.

There was uneasy silence in the Hall of Audience as Ariakas’s body tumbled to the floor. The Crown of Power fell from his head with a clatter and lay within a tangle of blood and thick, black hair.

Who would claim it?

There was a piercing scream. Kitiara called out a name, called to someone.

Tanis could not understand. He didn’t care anyway. He stretched out his hand for the Crown.

Suddenly a figure in black armor materialized before him.

Lord Soth!

Fighting down a feeling of sheer panic and terror, Tanis kept his mind focused on one thing. The Crown was only inches beyond his fingers. Desperately he lunged for it. Thankfully he felt the cold metal bite into his flesh just as another hand—a skeletal hand—made a grab for it, too.

It was his! Soth’s burning eyes flared. The skeletal hand reached out to wrest the prize away. Tanis could hear Kitiara’s voice, shrieking incoherent commands.

But as he lifted the blood-stained piece of metal above his head, as his eyes fixed unafraid upon Lord Soth, the hushed silence in the Hall was split by the sound of horns, harsh blaring horns.

Lord Soth’s hand paused in mid-air, Kitiara’s voice fell suddenly silent.

There was a subdued, ominous murmur from the crowd. For an instant, Tanis’s pain-clouded mind thought the horns might be sounding in his honor. But then, turning his head to peer dimly into the Hall, he saw faces glancing around in alarm. Everyone—even Kitiara—looked at the Dark Queen.

Her Dark Majesty’s shadowy eyes had been on Tanis, but now their gaze was abstracted. Her shadow grew and intensified, spreading through the Hall like a dark cloud. Reacting to some unspoken command, draconians wearing her black insignia ran from their posts around the edge of the Hall and disappeared through the doors. The black-robed figure Tanis had seen standing beside the Queen vanished.

And still the horns blared. Holding the Crown in his hand, Tanis stared down at it numbly. Twice before, the harsh blaring of the horns had brought death and destruction. What was the terrible portent of the dread music this time?

10 “Whoever Wears the Crown, Rules.”

So loud and startling was the sound of the horns that Caramon nearly lost his footing on the wet stone. Reacting instinctively, Berem caught him. Both men stared around them in alarm as the blaring trumpet calls dinned loudly in the small chamber. Above them—up the stairs—they could hear answering trumpet calls.

“The arch! It was trapped!” Caramon repeated. “Well, that s done it. Every living thing in the Temple knows we’re here, wherever here is! I hope to the gods you know what you’re doing!”

“Jasla calls—” Berem repeated. His momentary alarm at the blaring trumpets dissipating, he continued forward, tugging Caramon along behind him.

Holding the torch aloft, not knowing what else to do or where else to go, Caramon followed. They were in a cavern apparently cut through the rock by flowing water. The archway led to stone stairs and these stairs, Caramon saw, led straight down into a black, swiftly flowing stream. He flashed the torch around, hoping that there might be a path along the edge of the stream. But there was nothing, at least within the perimeter of his torchlight.

“Wait—” he cried, but Berem had already plunged into the black water. Caramon caught his breath, expecting to see the man vanish in the swirling depths. But the dark water was not as deep as it looked, it came only to Berem’s calves.

“Come!” He beckoned Caramon.

Caramon touched the wound in his side again. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, the bandage was moist but not soaked. The pain was still intense, however. His head ached, and he was so exhausted from fear and running and loss of blood that he was light-headed. He thought briefly of Tika and Tas, even more briefly of Tanis. No, he must put them out of his mind.

The end is near, for good or for evil, Tika had said. Caramon was beginning to believe it himself. Stepping into the water, he felt the strong current sweeping him forward and he had the giddy feeling that the current was time, sweeping him ahead to—what? His own doom? The end of the world? Or hope for a new beginning?

Berem eagerly sloshed ahead of him, but Caramon dragged him back again.

“We’ll stick together,” the big man said, his deep voice echoing in the cavern. “There may be more traps, worse than that one.”

Berem hesitated long enough for Caramon to join him. Then they moved slowly, side by side, through the rushing water, testing each footstep, for the bottom was slick and treacherous with crumbling stone and loose rock.

Caramon was wading forward, breathing easier, when something struck his leather boot with such force it nearly knocked his feet out from under him. Staggering, he caught hold of Berem.

“What was that?” he growled, holding the flaring torch above the water.

Seemingly attracted by the light, a head lifted out of the shining wet blackness. Caramon sucked in his breath in horror, and even Berem was momentarily taken aback.

“Dragons!” Caramon whispered. “Hatchlings!” The small dragon opened its mouth in a shrill scream. Torchlight gleamed on rows of razor-sharp teeth. Then the head vanished and Caramon felt the creature strike at his boot once more. Another one hit his other leg; he saw the water boil with flailing tails.

His leather boots kept them from hurting him now, but, Caramon thought, if I fall, the creatures will strip the flesh from my bones!

He had faced death in many forms, but none more terrifying than this. For a moment he panicked. I’ll turn back, he thought frantically. Berem can go on alone. After all, he can’t die.

Then the big warrior took hold of himself. No, he sighed. They know we’re down here now. They’ll send someone or something to try and stop us. I’ve got to hold off whatever it is until Berem can do whatever he’s supposed to do.

That last thought made no sense at all, Caramon realized. It was so ludicrous it was almost funny and, as if mocking his decision, the quiet was broken by the sound of clashing steel and harsh shouts, coming from behind them.

This is insane! he admitted wearily. I don’t understand! I may die down here in the darkness and for what? Maybe I’m down here with a crazy man! Maybe I’m going crazy!

Now Berem became aware of the guards coming after them. This frightened him more than dragons, and he plunged ahead. Sighing, Caramon forced himself to ignore the slithering attacks at his feet and legs as he waded forward through the black, rushing water, trying to keep up with Berem.

The man stared constantly ahead into the darkness, occasionally making moaning sounds and wringing his hands in anxiety. The stream led them around a curve where the water grew deeper. Caramon wondered what he would do if the water rose higher than his boots. The dragon young were still frantically chasing after them, the warm smell of human blood and flesh driving them into a frenzy. The sounds of sword and spear rattling grew louder.

Then something blacker than night flew at Caramon, striking him in the face. Flailing, trying desperately to keep from falling into that deadly water, he dropped his torch. The light vanished with a sizzle as Berem made a wild grab for him and caught him. The two held onto each other for a moment, staring—lost and confused—into the darkness.

If he had been struck blind, Caramon could not have been more disoriented. Though he had not moved, he had no idea what direction he faced, he couldn’t remember a thing about his surroundings. He had the feeling that if he took one more step, he would plunge into nothingness and fall forever. . .

“There it is!” Berem said, catching his breath with a strangled sob. “I see the broken column, the jewels gleaming on it! And she is there! She is waiting for me, she has waited all these years! Jasla!” he screamed, straining forward.

Peering ahead into the darkness, Caramon held Berem back, though he could feel the man’s body quivering with emotion. He could see nothing ... or could he?

Yes! A deep sense of thankfulness and relief flooded his pain-racked body. He could see jewels sparkling in the distance, shining in the blackness with a light it seemed even this heavy darkness could not quench.

It was just a short distance ahead of them, not more than a hundred feet. Relaxing his grip on Berem, Caramon thought, Perhaps this is a way out—for me, at least. Let Berem join this ghostly sister of his. All I want is a way out, a way to get back to Tika and Tas.

His confidence returning, Caramon strode forward. A matter of minutes and it would be over ... for good ... or for...

“Shirak” spoke a voice.

A bright light flared.

Caramon’s heart ceased to beat for an instant. Slowly, slowly he lifted his head to look into that bright light, and there he saw two golden, glittering, hourglass eyes staring at him from the I depths of a black hood.

The breath left his body in a sigh that was like the sigh of a dying man.

The blaring trumpets ceased, a measure of calm returned to the Hall of Audience. Once more, the eyes of everyone in the Hall—including the Dark Queen—turned to the drama on the platform.

Gripping the Crown in his hand, Tanis rose to his feet. He had no idea what the horn calls portended, what doom might be about to fall. He only knew that he must play the game out to its end, bitter as that may be.

Laurana ... she was his one thought. Wherever Berem and Caramon and the others were, they were beyond his help. Tanis’s eyes fixed on the silver-armored figure standing on the snake-headed platform below him. Almost by accident, his gaze flicked to Kitiara, standing beside Laurana, her face hidden behind the hideous dragonmask. She made a gesture.

Tanis felt more than heard movement behind him, like a chill wind brushing his skin. Whirling, he saw Lord Soth coming toward him, death burning in the orange eyes.

Tanis backed up, the Crown in his hand, knowing he could not fight this opponent from beyond the grave.

“Stop!” he shouted, holding the Crown poised above the floor of the Hall of Audience. “Stop him, Kitiara, or with my last dying strength I will hurl this into the crowd.”

Soth laughed soundlessly, advancing upon him, the skeletal hand that could kill by a touch alone outstretched.

“What ‘dying strength?’ ” the death knight asked softly. “My magic will shrivel your body to dust, the Crown will fall at my feet.”

“Lord Soth,” rang out a clear voice from the platform from the center of the Hall, “halt. Let him who won the Crown bring it to me!”

Soth hesitated. His hand still reaching for Tanis, his flaming eyes turned their vacant gaze upon Kitiara, questioning.

Removing the dragonhelm from her head, Kitiara looked only at Tanis. He could see her brown eyes gleaming and her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“You will bring me the Crown, won’t you, Tanis?” Kitiara called,

Tanis swallowed. “Yes,” he said, licking his dry lips. “I will bring you the Crown.”

“My guards!” Kitiara ordered, waving them forward. “An escort. Anyone who touches him will die by my hand. Lord Soth, see that he reaches me safely.”

Tanis glanced at Lord Soth, who slowly lowered his deadly hand. “He is your master, still, my lady,” Tanis thought he heard the death knight whisper with a sneer.

Then Soth fell into step beside him, the ghostly chill emanating from the knight nearly congealing Tanis’s blood. Together they descended the stairs, an odd pair—the pallid knight in the blackened armor, the half-elf clutching the bloodstained Crown in his hand.

Ariakas’s officers, who had been standing at the foot of the stairs, weapons drawn, fell back, some reluctantly. As Tanis reached the marble floor and passed by them, many gave him black looks. He saw the flash of a dagger in one hand, an unspoken promise in the dark eyes.

Their own swords drawn, Kitiara’s guards fell in around him, but it was Lord Soth’s deathly aura that obtained safe passage for him through the crowded floor. Tanis began to sweat beneath his armor. So this is power, he realized. Whoever has the Crown, rules—but that could all end in the dead of night with one thrust of an assassin’s dagger!

Tanis kept walking, and soon he and Lord Soth reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to the platform shaped like the head of the hooded snake. At the top stood Kitiara, beautiful in triumph. Tanis climbed the spurlike stairs alone, leaving Soth standing at the bottom, his orange eyes burning in their hollow sockets. As Tanis reached the top of the platform, the top of the snake’s head, he could see Laurana, standing behind Kitiara. Laurana’s face was pale, cool, composed. She glanced at him— and at the bloodstained Crown—then turned her head away. He had no idea what she was thinking or feeling. It didn’t matter. He would explain—

Running over to him, Kitiara grasped him in her arms. Cheers resounded in the Hall.

“Tanis!” she breathed. “Truly you and I were meant to rule together! You were wonderful, magnificent! I will give you anything . . . anything—”

“Laurana?” Tanis asked coldly, under the cover of the noise. His slightly slanted eyes, the eyes that gave away his heritage, stared down into Kitiara’s brown eyes.

Kit flicked a glance at the elfwoman, whose gaze was so fixed, whose skin was so pale she might have been a corpse.

“If you want her.” Kitiara shrugged, then drew closer, her voice for him alone—“But you will have me, Tanis. By day we will command armies, rule the world. The nights, Tanis! They will be ours alone, yours and mine.” Her breath came fast, her hands reached up to stroke his bearded face. “Place the Crown on my head, beloved.”

Tanis stared down into the brown eyes, he saw them filled with warmth and passion and excitement. He could feel Kitiara’s body pressed against his, trembling, eager. Around him, the troops were shouting madly, the noise swelling like a wave. Slowly Tanis raised the hand that held the Crown of Power, slowly he lifted it—not to Kitiara’s head—but to his own.

“No, Kitiara,” he shouted so that all could hear. “One of us will rule by day and by night—me.”

There was laughter in the Hall, mixed with angry rumblings. Kitiara’s eyes widened in shock, then swiftly narrowed.

“Don’t try it,” Tanis said, catching her hand as she reached for the knife at her belt. Holding her fast, he looked down at her. “I’m going to leave the Hall now,” he said softly, speaking for her ears alone, “with Laurana. You and your troops will escort us out of here. When we are safely outside this evil place, I will give you the Crown. Betray me, and you will never hold it. Do you understand?”

Kitiara’s lips twisted in a sneer. “So she is truly all you care about?” she whispered caustically.

“Truly,” Tanis replied. Gripping her arm harder, he saw pain in her eyes. “I swear this on the souls of two I loved dearly— Sturm Brightblade and Flint Fireforge. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you,” Kitiara said in bitter anger. Looking up at him, reluctant admiration flared once more in her eyes. “You could have had so much . . .”

Tanis released her without a word. Turning, he walked over to Laurana, who was standing with her back to them, gazing sightlessly above the crowd. Tanis gripped her arm. “Come with me,” he commanded coldly. The noise of the crowd rose up around him while above him, he was aware of the dark shadowy figure of the Queen, watching the flux of power intently, waiting to see who would emerge strongest.

Laurana did not flinch at his touch. She did not react at all. Moving her head slowly, the honey-blonde hair falling in a tangled mass around her shoulders, she looked at him. The green eyes were without recognition, expressionless. He saw nothing in them, not fear, not anger.

It will be all right, he told her silently, his heart aching. I will explain—

There was a flash of silver, a blur of golden hair. Something struck Tanis hard in the chest. He staggered backwards, grasping for Laurana as he stumbled. But he could not hold her. Shoving him aside, Laurana sprang at Kitiara, her hand grabbing for the sword Kit wore at her side. Her move caught the human woman completely by surprise. Kit struggled briefly, fiercely, but Laurana already had her hands upon the hilt. With a smooth movement, she yanked Kit’s sword from the scabbard and jabbed the sword hilt into Kitiara’s face, knocking her to the platform. Turning, Laurana ran to the edge.

“Laurana, stop!” Tanis shouted. Jumping forward to catch her, he suddenly felt the point of her sword at his throat.

“Don’t move, Tanthalas,” Laurana ordered. Her green eyes were dilated with excitement, she held the sword point with unwavering steadiness. “Or you will die. I will kill you, if I have to.”

Tanis took a step forward. The sharp blade pierced his skin. Helpless, he stopped. Laurana smiled sadly.

“You see, Tanis? I’m not the lovesick child you knew. I’m not my father’s daughter, living in my father’s court. I’m not even the Golden General. I am Laurana. And I will live or die on my own without your help ”

“Laurana, listen to me!” Tanis pleaded, taking another step toward her, reaching up to thrust aside the sword blade that cut into his skin.

He saw Laurana’s lips press together tightly, her green eyes glinted. Then, sighing, she slowly lowered the sword blade to his armor-plated chest. Tanis smiled. Laurana shrugged and, with a swift thrust, shoved him backwards off the platform.

Arms flailing wildly in the air, the half-elf tumbled to the floor below. As he fell, he saw Laurana—sword in hand—jump off after him, landing lightly on her feet.

He hit the floor heavily, knocking the breath from his body. The Crown of Power rolled from his head with a clatter and went skittering across the polished granite floor. Above him, he could hear Kitiara shriek in rage.

“Laurana!” He gasped without breath to shout, looking for her frantically. He saw a flash of silver...

“The Crown! Bring me the Crown!” Kitiara’s voice dinned in his ears.

But she was not the only one shouting. All around the Hall of Audience, the Highlords were on their feet, ordering their troops forward. The dragons sprang into the air. The Dark Queen’s five-headed body filled the Hall with shadow, exulting in this test of strength that would provide her with the strongest commanders—the survivors.

Clawed draconian feet, booted goblin feet, steel-shod human feet trampled over Tanis. Struggling to stand, fighting desperately to keep from being crushed, he tried to follow that silver flash. He saw it once, then it was gone, lost in the melee. A twisted face appeared in front of him, dark eyes flashed. A spear butt smashed into his side.

Groaning, Tanis collapsed to the floor as chaos erupted in the Hall of Audience.

11 “Jasla calls—”

Raistlin! It was a thought, not spoken. Caramon tried to talk, but no sound came from his throat.

“Yes, my brother,” said Raistlin, answering his brother’s thoughts, as usual. “It is I-the last guardian, the one you must pass to reach your goal, the one Her Dark Majesty commanded be present if the trumpets should sound.” Raistlin smiled derisively. “And I might have known it would be you who foolishly tripped my spelltrap...”

“Raist,” Caramon began and choked.

For a moment he could not speak. Worn out from fear and pain and loss of blood, shivering in the cold water, Caramon found this almost too much to bear. It would be easier to let the dark waters close over his head, let the sharp teeth of the young dragons tear his flesh. The pain could not be nearly so bad. Then he felt Berem stir beside him. The man was staring at Raistlin vaguely, not understanding. He tugged on Caramon’s arm.

“Jasla calls. We must go.”

With a sob, Caramon tore his arm away from the man’s grasp. Berem glared at him angrily, then turned and started ahead on his own.

“No, my friend, no one’s going anywhere.” Raistlin raised his thin hand and Berem came to a sudden, staggering stop. The Everman lifted his gaze to the gleaming golden eyes of the mage, standing above him on a rock ledge. Whimpering, wringing his hands, Berem gazed ahead longingly at the jeweled column. But he could not move. A great and terrible force stood blocking his path, as surely as the mage stood upon the rock.

Caramon blinked back sudden tears. Feeling his brother’s power, he fought against despair. There was nothing he could do... except try and kill Raistlin. His soul shriveled in horror. No, he would die himself first!

Suddenly Caramon raised his head. So be it. If I must die, I’ll die fighting—as I had always intended. Even if it means dying by my own brother’s hand. Slowly Caramon’s gaze met that of his twin. “You wear the Black Robes now?” he asked through parched lips. “I can’t see... in this light...”

“Yes, my brother,” Raistlin replied, raising the Staff of Magius to let the silver light shine upon him. Robes of softest velvet fell from his thin shoulders, shimmering black beneath the light, seeming darker than the eternal night that surrounded them.

Shivering as he thought of what he must do, Caramon continued, “And your voice, it’s stronger, different. Like you . . . and yet not like you . . .”

“That is a long story, Caramon,” Raistlin replied. “In time, you may come to hear it. But now you are in a very bad situation, my brother. The draconian guards are coming. Their orders are to capture the Everman and take him before the Dark Queen. That will be the end of him. He is not immortal, I assure you. She has spells that will unravel his existence, leaving him little more than thin threads of flesh and soul, wafting away on the winds of the storm. Then she will devour his sister and—at last—the Dark Queen will be free to enter Krynn in her full power and majesty. She will rule the world and all the planes of heaven and the Abyss. Nothing will stop her.”

“I don’t understand—”

“No, of course not, dear brother,” Raistlin said, with a touch of the old irritation and sarcasm. “You stand next to the Everman, the one being in all of Krynn who can end this war and drive the Queen of Darkness back to her shadowy realm. And you do not understand.”

Moving nearer the edge of the rock ledge upon which he stood, Raistlin bent down, leaning on his staff. He beckoned his brother near. Caramon trembled, unable to move, fearing Raistlin might cast a spell upon him. But his brother only regarded him intently.

“The Everman has only to take a few more steps, my brother, and he will be reunited with the sister who has endured unspeakable agonies during these long years of waiting for his return to free her from her self-imposed torment.”

“And what will happen then?” Caramon faltered, his brother’s eyes holding him fast with a simple power greater than any magic spell.

The golden, hourglass eyes narrowed, Raistlin’s voice grew soft. No longer forced to whisper, the mage yet found whispering more compelling.

“The wedge will be removed, my dear brother, and the door will slam shut. The Dark Queen will be left howling in rage in the depths of the Abyss.” Raistlin lifted his gaze and made a gesture with his pale, slender hand. “This . . . the Temple of Istar reborn, perverted by evil... will fall.”

Caramon gasped, then his expression hardened into a scowl.

“No, I am not lying.” Raistlin answered his brother’s thoughts. “Not that I can’t lie when it suits my purposes. But you will find, dear brother, that we are close enough still so that I cannot lie to you. And, in any case, I have no need to lie—it suits my purpose that you know the truth.”

Caramon’s mind floundered. He didn’t understand any of this. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Behind him, echoing back down the tunnel, he could hear the sound of draconian guards on the stairs. His expression grew calm, his face set in firm resolve.

“Then you know what I must do, Raist,” he said. “You may be powerful, but you still have to concentrate to work your magic. And if you work it against me, Berem will be free of your power. You can’t kill him"—Caramon hoped devoutly Berem was listening and would act when it was time—"only your Dark Queen can do that, I suppose. So that leaves—”

“You, my dear brother,” Raistlin said softly. “Yes, I can kill you...”

Standing, he raised his hand and—before Caramon could yell or think or even fling up his arm—a ball of flame lit the darkness as if a sun had dropped into it. Bursting full upon Caramon, it smote him backwards into the black water.

Burned and blinded by the brilliant light, stunned by the force of the impact, Caramon felt himself losing consciousness, sinking beneath the dark waters. Then sharp teeth bit into his arm, tearing away the flesh. The searing pain brought back his failing senses. Screaming in agony and terror, Caramon fought frantically to rise out of the deadly stream.

Shivering uncontrollably, he stood up. The young dragons, having tasted blood, attacked him, striking at his leather boots in frenzied frustration. Clutching his arm, Caramon looked over quickly at Berem and saw, to his dismay, that Berem hadn’t moved an inch.

“Jasla! I am here! I will free you!” Berem screamed, but he stood, frozen in place by the spell. Frantically he beat upon the unseen wall that blocked his path. The man was nearly insane with grief.

Raistlin watched calmly as his brother stood before him, blood streaming from the slashed skin on his bare arms.

“I am powerful, Caramon,” Raistlin said, staring coldly into the anguished eyes of his twin. “With Tanis’s unwitting help, I was able to rid myself of the one man upon Krynn who could have bested me. Now I am the most powerful force for magic in this world. And I will be more powerful still... with the Dark Queen gone!”

Caramon looked at his brother dazedly, unable to comprehend. Behind him, he heard splashes in the water and the draconians shouting in triumph. Too stupefied to move, he could not take his eyes from his brother. Only dimly, when he saw Raistlin raise his hand and make a gesture toward Berem, did Caramon begin to understand.

At that gesture, Berem was freed. The Everman cast one quick backward glance at Caramon and at the draconians plunging through the water, their curved swords flashing in the light of the staff. Finally he looked at Raistlin, standing upon the rock in his long black robes. Then—with a joyful cry that rang through the tunnel—Berem leaped forward toward the jeweled column.

“Jasla, I am coming!”

“Remember, my brother"—Raistlin’s voice echoed in Caramon’s mind—"this happens because I choose it to happen!”

Looking back, Caramon could see the draconians screaming in rage at the sight of their prey escaping. The dragons tore at his leather boots, his wounds hurt horribly, but Caramon didn’t notice. Turning again, he watched Berem run toward the jeweled column as if he were watching a dream. Indeed, it seemed less real than a dream.

Perhaps it was his fevered imagination, but as the Everman neared the jeweled column, the green jewel in his chest seemed to glow with a light more brilliant than Raistlin’s burst of flame. Within that light, the pale, shimmering form of a woman appeared inside the jeweled column. Dressed in a plain, leather tunic, she was pretty in a fragile, winsome way, very like Berem in the eyes that were too young for her thin face.

Then, just as he neared her, Berem came to a stop in the water. For an instant nothing moved. The draconians stood still, swords clutched in their clawed hands. Dimly, not understanding, they began to realize that somehow their fate hung in the balance, that everything turned upon this man.

Caramon no longer felt the chill of the air or the water or the pain of his wounds. He no longer felt fear, despair, or hope. Tears welled up in his eyes, there was a painful burning sensation in his throat. Berem faced his sister, the sister he had murdered, the sister who had sacrificed herself so that he—and the world—might have hope. By the light of Raistlin’s staff, Caramon saw the man’s pale, grief-ravaged face twist in anguish.

“Jasla,” he whispered, spreading his arms, “can you forgive me?”

There was no sound except the hushed swirl of the water around them, the steady dripping of moisture from the rocks, as it had fallen from time immemorial.

“My brother, between us, there is nothing to forgive.” The image of Jasla spread her arms wide in welcome, her winsome face filled with peace and love.

With an incoherent cry of pain and joy, Berem flung himself into his sister’s arms.

Caramon blinked and gasped. The image vanished. Horrified, he saw the Everman hurl his body upon the jeweled stone column with such force that his flesh was impaled on the sharp edges of the jagged rock. His last scream was a terrible one, terrible—yet triumphant.

Berem’s body shook convulsively. Dark blood poured over the jewels, quenching their light.

“Berem, you’ve failed. It was nothing! All—” Yelling hoarsely, Caramon plunged toward the dying man, knowing that Berem wouldn’t die. This was all crazy! He would—

Caramon stopped.

The rocks around him shuddered. The ground shook beneath his feet. The black water ceased its swift flow and was suddenly sluggish, uncertain, sloshing against the rocks. Behind him, he heard the draconians shouting in alarm.

Caramon stared at Berem. The body lay crushed upon the rocks. It stirred slightly, as if breathing a final sigh. Then it did not move. For an instant two pale figures shimmered inside the jeweled column. Then they were gone.

The Everman was dead.

Tanis lifted his head from the floor of the Hall to see a hobgoblin, spear raised, about to plunge it into his body. Rolling quickly, he grabbed the creature’s booted foot and yanked. The hobgoblin crashed to the floor where another hobgoblin, this one dressed in a different colored uniform, smashed its head open with a mace.

Hurriedly Tanis rose to his feet. He had to get out of here! He had to find Laurana. A draconian rushed at him. He thrust his sword through the creature impatiently, remembering just in time to free it before the body turned to stone. Then he heard a voice shout his name. Turning he saw Lord Soth, standing beside Kitiara, surrounded by his skeletal warriors. Kit’s eyes were fixed on Tanis with hatred, she pointed at him. Lord Soth made a gesture, sending his skeletal followers flowing from the snake-headed platform like a wave of death, destroying everything within their path.

Tanis turned to flee but found himself entangled in the mob.

Frantically he fought, aware of the chill force behind him. Panic flooded his mind, nearly depriving him of his senses.

And then, there was a sharp cracking sound. The floor trembled beneath his feet. The fighting around him stopped abruptly as everyone concentrated on standing upright. Tanis looked around uncertainly, wondering what was happening.

A huge chunk of mosaic-covered stone tumbled from the ceiling, falling into a mass of draconians, who scrambled to get out of the way. The stone was followed by another, and yet another. Torches fell from the walls, candles dropped down and were extinguished in their own wax. The rumbling of the ground grew stronger. Half-turning, Tanis saw that even the skeletal warriors had halted, flaming eyes seeking those of their leader in fear and questioning.

The floor suddenly canted away from beneath his feet. Grabbing hold of a column for support, Tanis stared about in wonder. And then darkness fell upon him like a crushing weight.

He has betrayed me!

The Dark Queen’s anger beat in Tanis’s mind, the rage and fear so strong that it nearly split his skull. Crying aloud in pain, he grasped his head. The darkness increased as Takhisis— seeing her danger—sought desperately to keep the door to the world ajar. Her vast darkness quenched the light of every flame. Wings of night filled the Hall with blackness.

All around Tanis, draconian soldiers stumbled and staggered in the impenetrable darkness. The voices of their officers raised to try and quell the confusion, to stem the rising panic they sensed spreading among their troops as they felt the force of their Queen withdrawn. Tanis heard Kitiara’s voice ring out shrilly in anger, then it was cut off abruptly.

A horrible, rending crash followed by screams of agony gave Tanis his first indication that the entire building seemed likely to fall in on top of them.

“Laurana!” Tanis screamed. Trying desperately to stand, he staggered forward blindly, only to be hurled to the stone floor by milling draconians. Steel clashed. Somewhere he heard Kitiara’s voice again, rallying her troops.

Fighting despair, Tanis stumbled to his feet again. Pain seared his arm. Furious, he thrust aside the sword blow aimed at him in the darkness, kicking with all his strength at the creature attacking him. Then a rending, splitting sound quelled the battle. For one breathless instant, everyone in the Temple looked upward into the dense darkness. Voices hushed in awe. Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, hung over them in her living form upon this plane. Her gigantic body shimmered in a myriad colors. So many, so blinding, so confusing, the senses could not comprehend her awful majesty and blotted the colors from the minds of mortals—Many Colors and None—so Takhisis seemed. The five heads each opened wide their gaping mouths, fire burned in the multitude of eyes, as if each were intent upon devouring the world.

All is lost, Tanis thought in despair. This is the moment of her ultimate victory. We have failed.

The five heads reared up in triumph... The domed ceiling split apart.

The Temple of Istar began to twist and writhe, rebuilding, reforming, returning to the original shape it had known before darkness perverted it.

Within the Hall itself, the darkness wavered and then was shattered by the silver beams of Solinari, called by the dwarves. Night Candle.

12 A debt repaid.

“And now, my brother, farewell.”

Raistlin drew forth a small round globe from the folds of his black robes. The dragon orb.

Caramon felt his strength seep from him. Placing his hand upon the bandage, he found it soaked-sticky with blood. His head swam, the light from his brother’s staff wavered before his eyes. Far away, as if in a dream, he heard the draconians shake loose from their terror and start toward him. The ground shook beneath his feet, or perhaps it was his legs trembling.

“Kill me, Raistlin.” Caramon looked at his brother with eyes that had lost all expression. Raistlin paused, his golden eyes narrowed. “Don’t leave me to die at their hands,” Caramon said calmly, asking a simple favor. “End it for me now, quickly. You owe me that much—” The golden eyes flared.

“Owe you!” Raistlin sucked in a hissing breath. “Owe you!” he repeated in a strangled voice, his face pale in the staff’s magical light. Furious, he turned and extended his hand toward the draconians. Lightning streaked from his fingertips, striking the creatures in the chest. Shrieking in pain and astonishment, they fell into the water that quickly became foaming and green with blood as the baby dragons cannibalized their cousins.

Caramon watched dully, too weak and sick to care. He could hear more swords rattling, more voices yelling. He slumped forward, his feet lost their footing, the dark waters surged over him...

And then he was on solid ground. Blinking, he looked up. He was sitting on the rock beside his brother. Raistlin knelt beside him, the staff in his hand.

“Raist!” Caramon breathed, tears coming to his eyes. Reaching out a shaking hand, he touched his brother’s arm, feeling the velvet softness of the black robes.

Coldly, Raistlin snatched his arm away. “Know this, Caramon,” he said, and his voice was as chill as the dark waters around them, “I will save your life this once, and then the slate is clean. I owe you nothing more.”

Caramon swallowed. “Raist,” he said softly, “I-I didn’t mean—”

Raistlin ignored him. “Can you stand?” he asked harshly.

“I-I think so,” Caramon said, hesitantly. “Can’t-can’t you just use that—that thing—to get us out of here?” He gestured at the dragon orb.

“I could, but you wouldn’t particularly enjoy the journey, my brother. Besides, have you forgotten those who came with you?”

“Tika! Tas!” Caramon gasped. Gripping the wet rocks, he pulled himself to his feet. “And Tanis! What about—”

“Tanis is on his own. I have repaid my debt to him tenfold,” Raistlin said. “But perhaps I can discharge my debts to others.”

Shouts and yells sounded at the end of the passage, a dark mass of troops surged into the dark water, obeying the final commands of their Queen.

Wearily Caramon put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but a touch of his brother’s cold, bony fingers stopped him.

“No, Caramon,” Raistlin whispered. His thin lips parted in a grim smile. “I don’t you need you now. I won’t need you anymore . . . ever. Watch!”

Instantly, the underground cavern’s darkness was lit to day-like brilliance with the fiery power of Raistlin’s magic. Caramon, sword in hand, could only stand beside his black-robed brother and watch in awe as foe after foe fell to Raistlin’s spells. Lightning crackled from his fingertips, flame flared from his hands, phantasms appeared—so terrifyingly real to those looking at them that they could kill by fear alone.

Goblins fell screaming, pierced by the lances of a legion of knights, who filled the cavern with their war chants at Raistlin’s bidding, then disappeared at his command. The baby dragons fled in terror back to the dark and secret places of their hatching, draconians withered black in the flames. Dark clerics, who swarmed down the stairs at their Queen’s last bidding, were impaled upon a flight of shimmering spears, their last prayers changed to wailing curses of agony.

Finally came the Black Robes, the eldest of the Order, to destroy this young upstart. But they found to their dismay that—old as they were—Raistlin was in some mysterious way older still. His power was phenomenal, they knew within an instant that he could not be defeated. The air was filled with the sounds of chanting and one by one, they disappeared as swiftly as they had come—many bowing to Raistlin in profound respect as they departed upon the wings of wish spells.

And then it was silent, the only sound the sluggish lapping of water. The Staff of Magius cast its crystal light. Every few seconds a tremor shook the Temple, causing Caramon to glance above them in alarm. The battle had apparently lasted only moments, although it seemed to Caramon’s fevered mind that he and his brother had been in this horrible place all their lives.

When the last mage melted into the blackness, Raistlin turned to face his brother.

“You see, Caramon?” he said coldly.

Wordlessly, the big warrior nodded, his eyes wide.

The ground shook around them, the water in the stream sloshed up on the rocks. At the cavern’s end, the jeweled column shivered, then split. Rivulets of rock dust trickled down onto Caramon’s upturned face as he stared at the crumbling ceiling.

“What does it mean? What’s happening?” he asked in alarm.

“It means the end,” Raistlin stated. Folding his black robes around him, he glanced at Caramon in irritation. “We must leave this place. Are you strong enough?”

“Yeah, give me a moment,” Caramon grunted. Pushing himself away from the rocks, he took a step forward, then staggered, nearly falling.

“I’m weaker than I thought,” he mumbled, clutching his side in pain. “Just let me... catch my breath.” Straightening, his lips pale, sweat trickling down his face, Caramon took another step forward.

Smiling grimly, Raistlin watched his brother stumble toward him. Then the mage held out his arm.

“Lean on me, my brother,” he said softly.

The vast vaulted ceiling of the Hall of Audience split wide. Huge blocks of stone crashed down into the Hall, crushing everything that lived beneath them. Instantly the chaos in the Hall degenerated into terror-stricken panic. Ignoring the stern commands of their leaders, who reinforced these commands with whips and sword thrusts, the draconians fought to escape the destruction of the Temple, brutally slaughtering anyone— including their own comrades—who got in their way. Occasionally some extremely powerful Dragon Highlord would manage to keep his bodyguard under control and escape. But several fell, cut down by their own troops, crushed by falling rock, or trampled to death.

Tanis fought his way through the chaos and suddenly saw what he had prayed the gods to find—a head of golden hair that gleamed in Solinari’s light like a candle flame.

“Laurana!” he cried, though he knew he could not be heard in the tumult. Frantically he slashed his way toward her. A flying splinter of rock tore into one cheek. Tanis felt warm blood flow down his neck, but the blood, the pain had no reality and he soon forgot about it as he clubbed and stabbed and kicked the milling draconians in his struggle to reach her. Time and again, he drew near her, only to be carried away by a surge in the crowd.

She was standing near the door to one of the antechambers, fighting draconians, wielding Kitiara’s sword with the skill gained in long months of war. He almost reached her as—her enemies defeated—she stood alone for a moment.

“Laurana, wait!” he shouted above the chaos.

She heard him. Looking over at him, across the moonlit room, he saw her eyes calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Farewell, Tanis,” Laurana called to him in elven. “I owe you my life, but not my soul.”

With that, she turned and left him, stepping through the doorway of the antechamber, vanishing into the darkness beyond.

A piece of the Temple ceiling crashed to the stone floor, showering Tanis with debris. For a moment, he stood wearily, staring after her. Blood dripped into one eye. Absently he wiped it away, then, suddenly, he began to laugh. He laughed until tears mingled with the blood. Then he pulled himself together and, gripping his bloodstained sword, disappeared into the darkness after her.

“This is the corridor they went down, Raist-Raistlin.” Caramon stumbled over his brother’s name. Somehow, the old nickname no longer seemed to suit this black-robed, silent figure.

They stood beside the jailor’s desk, near the body of the hobgoblin. Around them, the walls were acting crazily, shifting, crumbling, twisting, rebuilding. The sight filled Caramon with vague horror, like a nightmare he could not remember. So he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his brother, his hand clutched Raistlin’s thin arm thankfully. This, at least was flesh and blood, reality in the midst of a terrifying dream.

“Do you know where it leads?” Caramon asked, peering down the eastern corridor.

“Yes,” Raistlin replied without expression.

Caramon felt fear clutch at him. “You know ... something’s happened to them—”

“They were fools,” Raistlin said bitterly. “The dream warned them"—he glanced at his brother—“as it warned others. Still, I may be in time, but we must hurry. Listen!”

Caramon glanced up the stairwell. Above him he could hear the sounds of clawed feet racing to stop the escape of the hundreds of prisoners set free by the collapse of the dungeons. Caramon put his hand on his sword.

“Stop it,” Raistlin snapped. “Think a moment! You’re dressed in armor still. They’re not interested in us. The Dark Queen is gone. They obey her no longer. They are only after booty for themselves. Keep beside me. Walk steadily, with purpose.”

Drawing a deep breath, Caramon did as he was told. He had regained some of his strength and was able to walk without his brother’s help now. Ignoring the draconians—who took one look at them, then surged past—the two brothers made their way down the corridor. Here the walls still changed their shapes, the ceiling shook, and the floors heaved. Behind them they could hear ghastly yells as the prisoners fought for their freedom.

“At least no one will be guarding this door,” Raistlin reflected, pointing ahead.

“What do you mean?” Caramon asked, halting and staring at his brother in alarm.

“It’s trapped,” Raistlin whispered. “Remember the dream?” Turning deathly pale, Caramon dashed down the corridor toward the door. Shaking his hooded head, Raistlin followed slowly after. Rounding the corner, he found his brother crouching beside two bodies on the floor.

“Tika!” Caramon moaned. Brushing back the red curls from the still, white face, he felt for the lifebeat in her neck. His eyes closed a moment in thankfulness, then he reached out to touch the kender. “And Tas . . . No!”

Hearing his name, the kender’s eyes opened slowly, as if the lids were too heavy for him to lift.

“Caramon...” Tas said in a broken whisper. “I’m sorry...."

“Tas!” Caramon gently gathered the small, feverish body into his big arms. Holding him close, he rocked him back and forth. “Shh, Tas, don’t talk.”

The kender’s body twitched in convulsions. Glancing around in heartbroken sorrow, Caramon saw Tasslehoff’s pouches lying on the floor, their contents scattered like toys in a child’s playroom. Tears filled Caramon’s eyes.

“I tried to save her ... ” Tas whispered, shuddering with pain, “but I couldn’t...”

“You saved her, Tas!” Caramon said, choking. “She’s not dead. Just hurt. She’ll be fine.”

“Really?” Tas’s eyes, burning with fever, brightened with a calmer light, then dimmed. “I’m-I’m afraid I’m not fine, Caramon. But-but it’s all right, really. I-I’m going to see Flint. He’s waiting for me. He shouldn’t be out there, by himself. I don’t know how ... he could have left without me anyway....”

“What’s the matter with him?” Caramon asked his brother as Raistlin bent swiftly over the kender, whose voice had trailed off into incoherent babbling.

“Poison,” said Raistlin, his eyes glancing at the golden needle shining in the torchlight. Reaching out, Raistlin gently pushed on the door. The lock gave and the door turned on its hinges, opening a crack.

Outside, they could hear shrieks and cries as the soldiers and slaves of Neraka fled the dying Temple. The skies above resounded with the roars of dragons. The Highlords battled among themselves to see who would come out on top in this new world. Listening, Raistlin smiled to himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hand clutching his arm.

“Can you help him?” Caramon demanded.

Raistlin flicked a glance at the dying kender. “He is very far gone,” the mage said coldly. “It will sap some of my strength, and we are not out of this yet, my brother.”

“But you can save him?” Caramon persisted. “Are you powerful enough?”

“Of course,” Raistlin replied, shrugging.

Tika stirred and sat up, clutching her aching head. “Caramon!” she cried happily, then her gaze fell upon Tas. “Oh, no...” she whispered. Forgetting her pain, she laid her bloodstained hand upon the kender’s forehead. The kender’s eyes flared open at her touch, but he did not recognize her. He cried out in agony.

Over his cries, they could hear the sound of clawed feet, running down the corridor.

Raistlin looked at his brother. He saw him holding Tas in the big hands that could be so gentle.

Thus he has held me, Raistlin thought. His eyes went to the kender. Vivid memories of their younger days, of carefree adventuring with Flint . . . now dead. Sturm, dead. Days of warm sunshine, of the green budding leaves on the vallenwoods of Solace . . . Nights in the Inn of the Last Home... now blacked and crumbling, the vallenwoods burned and destroyed.

“This is my final debt,” Raistlin said. “Paid in full.” Ignoring the look of thankfulness that flooded Caramon’s face, he instructed, “Lay him down. You must deal with the draconians. This spell will take all my concentration. Do not allow them to interrupt me.”

Gently Caramon laid Tas down on the floor in front of Raistlin. The kender’s eyes had fixed in his head, his body was stiffening in its convulsive struggles. His breath rattled in his throat.

“Remember, my brother,” Raistlin said coldly as he reached into one of the many secret pockets in his black robes, “you are dressed as a dragonarmy officer. Be subtle, if possible.”

“Right.” Caramon gave Tas a final glance, then drew a deep breath. “Tika,” he said, “stay still. Pretend you’re unconscious—”

Tika nodded and lay back down, obediently closing her eyes. Raistlin heard Caramon clanking down the corridor, he heard his brother’s loud, booming voice, then the mage forgot his brother, forgot the approaching draconians, forgot everything as he concentrated upon his spell.

Removing a luminous white pearl from an inner pocket, Raistlin held it firmly in one hand while he took out a gray-green leaf from another. Prizing the kender’s clenched jaws open, Raistlin placed the leaf beneath Tasslehoff’s swollen tongue. The mage studied the pearl for a moment, calling to mind the complex words of the spell, reciting them to himself mentally until he was certain he had them in their proper order and knew the correct pronunciation of each. He would have one chance, and one chance only. If he failed, not only would the kender die, but he might very well die himself.

Placing the pearl upon his own chest, over his heart, Raistlin closed his eyes and began to repeat the words of the spell, chanting the lines six times, making the proper changes in inflection each time. With a thrill of ecstasy, he felt the magic flow through his body, drawing out a part of his own life force, capturing it within the pearl.

The first part of the spell complete, Raistlin held the pearl poised above the kender’s heart. Closing his eyes once more, he recited the complex spell again, this time backwards. Slowly he crushed the pearl in his hand, scattering the iridescent powder over Tasslehoff’s rigid body. Raistlin’s chanting came to an end. Wearily he opened his eyes and watched in triumph as the lines of pain faded from the kender’s features, leaving them filled with peace.

Tas’s eyes flew open.

“Raistlin! I—plooey!” Tas spit out the green leaf. “Yick! What kind of nasty thing was that? And how did it get into my mouth?” Tas sat up dizzily, then he saw his pouches. “Hey! Who’s been messing with my stuff?” Glancing up at the mage accusingly, his eyes opened wide. “Raistlin! You have on Black Robes! How wonderful! Can I touch them? Oh, all right. You needn’t glare at me like that. It’s just that they look so soft. Say, does this mean you’re truly bad now? Can you do something evil for me, so I can watch? I know! I saw a wizard summon a demon once. Could you do that? Just a small demon? You could send him right back. No?” Tas sighed in disappointment. “Well— Hey, Caramon, what are those draconians doing with you? And what’s the matter with Tika? Oh, Caramon, I—”

“Shut up!” Caramon roared. Scowling ferociously at the kender, he pointed at Tas and Tika. “The mage and I were bringing these prisoners to our Highlord when they turned on us. They’re valuable slaves, the girl especially. And the kender is a clever thief. We don’t want to lose them. They’ll fetch a high price in the market in Sanction. Since the Dark Queen’s gone, it’s every man for himself, eh?”

Caramon nudged one of the draconians in the ribs. The creature snarled in agreement, its black reptilian eyes fastened greedily on Tika.

“Thief!” shouted Tas indignantly, his shrill voice ringing through the corridor. “I’m—” He gulped, suddenly falling silent as a supposedly comatose Tika gave him a swift poke in the ribs.

“I’ll help the girl,” Caramon said, glaring at the leering draconian. “You keep an eye on the kender and, you over there, help the mage. His spell-casting has left him weak.”

Bowing with respect before Raistlin, one of the draconians helped him to his feet. “You two"—Caramon was marshaling the rest of his troops—"go before us and see that we don’t have any trouble reaching the edge of town. Maybe you can come with us to Sanction,” Caramon continued, lifting Tika to her feet. Shaking her head, she pretended to regain consciousness.

The draconians grinned in agreement as one of them grabbed hold of Tas by the collar and shoved him toward the door.

“But my things!” wailed Tas, twisting around.

“Keep moving!” Caramon growled.

“Oh, well,” the kender sighed, his eyes lingering fondly on his precious possessions lying scattered on the bloodstained floor. “This probably isn’t the end of my adventuring. And—after all—empty pockets hold more, as my mother used to say.”

Stumbling along behind the two draconians, Tas looked up into the starry heavens. “I’m sorry, Flint,” he said softly, “Just wait for me a little longer.”

13 Kitiara.

As Tanis entered the antechamber, the change was so startling that for a minute it was almost incomprehensible. One moment he had been fighting to stand on his feet in the midst of a mob, the next he was in a cool dark room, similar to the one he and Kitiara and her troops had waited in before entering the Hall of Audience.

Glancing around swiftly, he saw he was alone. Although every instinct urged him to rush out of this room in his frantic search, Tanis forced himself to stop, catch his breath, and wipe away the blood gumming his eye shut. He tried to remember what he had seen of the entry into the Temple. The antechambers that formed a circle around the main Hall of Audience, themselves connected to the front part of the temple by a series of winding corridors. Once, long ago in Istar, these corridors must have been designed in some sort of logical order. But the distortion of the Temple had twisted them into a meaningless maze. Corridors ended abruptly when he expected them to continue, while those that led nowhere seemingly went on forever.

The ground rocked beneath his feet as dust drifted down from the ceiling. A painting fell from the wall with a crash. Tanis had no idea of where Laurana might be found. He had seen her come in here, that was all.

She had been imprisoned in the Temple, but that was below ground. He wondered if she had been at all cognizant of her surroundings when they brought her in, if she had any idea how to get out. And then Tanis realized that he himself had only a vague idea of where he was. Finding a torch still burning, he grabbed it and flashed it about the room. A tapestry-covered door swung open, hanging on a broken hinge. Peering through it, he saw it led into a dimly lit corridor. Tanis caught his breath. He knew, now, how to find her! A breath of air stirred in the hallway—fresh air, pungent with the odors of spring, cool with the blessed peace of night— touched his left cheek. Laurana must have felt that breath, she would guess that it must lead out of the Temple. Quickly Tanis ran down the hallway, ignoring the pain in his head, forcing his weary muscles to respond to his commands.

A group of draconians appeared suddenly in front of him, coming from another room. Remembering he still wore the dragonarmy uniform, Tanis stopped them.

“The elfwoman!” he shouted. “She must not escape. Have you seen her?”

This group hadn’t, apparently, by the tone of the hurried snarls. Nor had the next group Tanis encountered. But two draconians wandering the halls in search of loot had seen her, so they said. They pointed vaguely in the direction Tanis was already heading. His spirits rose.

By now, the fighting within the Hall had ended. The Dragon Highlords who survived had made good their escapes and were now among their own forces stationed outside the Temple walls. Some fought. Some retreated, waiting to see who came out on top. Two questions were on everyone’s mind. The first—would the dragons remain in the world or would they vanish with their Queen as they had following the Second Dragon War?

And, second—if the dragons remained, who would be their master?

Tanis found himself pondering these questions confusedly as he ran through the halls, sometimes taking wrong turns and cursing bitterly as he confronted a solid wall and was forced to retrace his steps to where he could once again feel the air upon his face.

But eventually he grew too tired to ponder anything. Exhaustion and pain were taking their toll. His legs grew heavy, it was an effort to take a step. His head throbbed, the cut over his eye began to bleed again. The ground shook continually beneath his feet. Statues toppled from their bases, stones fell from the ceiling, showering him with clouds of dust.

He began to lose hope. Even though he was certain he was traveling in the only direction she could possibly have taken, the few draconians he passed now had not seen her. What could have happened? Was she— No, he wouldn’t think of that. He kept going, conscious either of the fragrant breath of air on his face or of smoke billowing past him.

The torches had started fires. The Temple was beginning to burn.

Then, while negotiating a narrow corridor and climbing over a pile of rubble, Tanis heard a sound. He stopped, holding his breath. Yes, there it was again—just ahead. Peering through the smoke and dust, he gripped his sword in his hand. The last group of draconians he had met were drunk and eager to kill. A lone human officer had seemed like fair game, until one of them remembered having seen Tanis with the Dark Lady. But the next time he might not be so lucky.

Before him, the corridor lay in ruins, part of the ceiling having caved in. It was intensely dark—the torch he held provided the only light—and Tanis wrestled with the need for light and the fear of being seen by it. Finally he decided to risk keeping it burning. He would never find Laurana if he had to wander around this place in the darkness.

He would have to trust to his disguise once again.

“Who goes there?” he roared out in a harsh voice, shining his torchlight boldly into the ruined hallway.

He caught a glimpse of flashing armor and a figure running, but it ran away from him—not toward him. Odd for a draconian... his weary brain seemed to be stumbling along about three paces behind him. He could see the figure plainly now, lithe and slender and running much too quickly... “Laurana!” he shouted, then in elven, “Quisalas!” Cursing the broken columns and marble blocks in his path, Tanis stumbled and ran and stumbled and fell and forced his aching body to obey him until he caught up with her. Grasping her by the arm, he dragged her to a stop, then could only hold onto her tightly as he slumped against a wall.

Each breath he took was fiery pain. He was so dizzy he thought for a moment he might pass out. But he grasped her with a deathlike grip, holding her with his eyes as well as his hand.

Now he knew why the draconians hadn’t seen her. She had stripped off the silver armor, covering it with draconian armor she had taken from a dead warrior. For a moment she could only stare at Tanis. She had not recognized him at first, and had nearly run him through with her sword. The only thing that had stopped her was the elven word, quisalas, beloved. That— and the intense look of anguish and suffering on his pale face. “Laurana,” Tanis gasped in a voice as shattered as Raistlin’s had once been, “don’t leave me. Wait... listen to me, please!” With a twist of her arm, Laurana broke free of his grip. But she did not leave him. She started to speak, but another shudder of the building silenced her. As dust and debris poured down around them, Tanis pulled Laurana close, shielding her. They clung to each other fearfully, and then it was over. But they were left in darkness. Tanis had dropped the torch. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said, his voice shaking. “Are you injured?” Laurana asked coldly, trying to free herself from his grasp once more. “If so, I can help you. If not, then I suggest we forego any further farewells. Whatever—”

“Laurana,” Tanis said softly, breathing heavily, “I don’t ask you to understand—I don’t understand. I don’t ask for forgiveness—I can’t even forgive myself. I could tell you that I love you, that I have always loved you. But that wouldn’t be true, for love must come from within one who loves himself, and right now I can’t bear to see my own reflection. All I can tell you, Laurana, is that—”

“Shh” Laurana whispered, putting her hand over Tanis’s mouth. “I heard something.”

For long moments they stood, pressed together in the darkness, listening. At first they could hear nothing but the sound of their own breathing. They could see nothing, not even each other, as close as they were. Then torchlight flared, blinding them, and a voice spoke.

“Tell Laurana what, Tanis?” said Kitiara in a pleasant voice. “Go on.”

A naked sword gleamed in her hand. Wet blood—both red and green—glistened on the blade. Her face was white with stone dust, a trickle of blood ran down her chin from a cut on her lip. Her eyes were shadowed with weariness, but her smile was still as charming as ever. Sheathing her bloody sword, she wiped her hands upon her tattered cloak, then ran them absently through her curly hair.

Tanis’s eyes closed in exhaustion. His face seemed to age; he looked very human. Pain and exhaustion, grief and guilt would forever leave their mark on the eternal elven youthfulness. He could feel Laurana stiffen, her hand move to her sword.

“Let her go, Kitiara,” Tanis said quietly, gripping Laurana firmly. “Keep your promise and I’ll keep mine. Let me take her outside the walls. Then I’ll come back—”

“I really believe you would,” Kitiara remarked, staring at him in amused wonder. “Hasn’t it occurred to you yet, Half-Elf, that I could kiss you and kill you without drawing a deep breath in between? No, I don’t suppose it has. I might kill you right now, in fact, simply because I know it would be the worst thing I could do to the elfwoman.” She held the flaming torch near Laurana. “There—look at her face!” Kitiara sneered. “What a weak and debilitating thing love is!”

Kitiara’s hand tousled her hair again. Shrugging, she glanced around. “But I haven’t time. Things are moving. Great things. The Dark Queen has fallen. Another will rise to take her place. What about it, Tanis? I have already begun to establish my authority over the other Dragon Highlords.” Kitiara patted her sword hilt. “Mine will be a vast empire. We could rule toge—”

She broke off abruptly, her gaze shifting down the corridor from which she had just come. Although Tanis could neither see nor hear what had attracted her attention, he felt a bone-numbing chill spread through the hallway. Laurana gripped him suddenly, fear overwhelming her, and Tanis knew who approached even before he saw the orange eyes flicker above the ghostly armor.

“Lord Soth,” murmured Kitiara. “Make your decision quickly, Tanis.”

“My decision was made a long time ago, Kitiara,” Tanis said calmly. Stepping in front of Laurana, he shielded her as best as he could with his own body. “Lord Soth will have to kill me to reach her, Kit. And even though I know my death will not stop him—or you—from killing her when I have fallen, with my last breath, I will pray to Paladine to protect her soul. The gods owe me one. Somehow I know that this—my final prayer— will be granted.”

Behind him, Tanis felt Laurana lay her head against his back, he heard her sob softly and his heart eased, for there was not fear in her sob, but only love and compassion and grief for him.

Kitiara hesitated. They could see Lord Soth coming down the shattered corridor, his orange eyes flickering pinpoints of light in the darkness. Then she laid her bloodstained hand upon Tanis’s arm. “Go!” she commanded harshly. “Run quickly, back down the corridor. At the end is a door in the wall. You can feel it. It will lead you down into the dungeons. From there you can escape.”

Tanis stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment.

“Run!” Kit snapped, giving him a shove.

Tanis cast a glance at Lord Soth.

“A trap!” whispered Laurana.

“No,” Tanis said, his eyes going back to Kit. “Not this time. Farewell, Kitiara.”

Kitiara’s nails dug into his arm.

“Farewell, Half-Elven,” she said in a soft, passionate voice, her eyes shining brightly in the torchlight. “Remember, I do this for love of you. Now go!”

Flinging her torch from her, Kitiara vanished into the darkness as completely as if she had been consumed by it.

Tanis blinked, blinded by the sudden blackness, and started to reach his hand out for her. Then he withdrew it. Turning, his hand found Laurana’s hand. Together they stumbled through the debris, groping their way along the wall. The chill fear that flowed from the death knight numbed their blood. Glancing down the corridor, Tanis saw Lord Soth coming nearer and nearer, his eyes seeming to stare straight at them. Frantically Tanis felt the stone wall, his hands searching for the door. Then he felt the cold stone give way to wood. Grasping the iron handle, he turned it. The door opened at his touch. Pulling Laurana after him, the two plunged through the opening, the sudden flaring of torches lighting the stairs nearly as blinding as the darkness had been above.

Behind him, Tanis heard Kitiara’s voice, hailing Lord Soth. He wondered what the death knight, having lost his prey, would do to her. The dream returned to him vividly. Once again he saw Laurana falling . . . Kitiara falling . . . and he stood helpless, unable to save either. Then the image vanished.

Laurana stood waiting for him on the stairway, the torchlight shining on her golden hair. Hurriedly he slammed the door shut and ran down the stairs after her.

“That is the elfwoman,” said Lord Soth, his flaming eyes easily tracking the two as they ran from him like frightened mice. “And the half-elf.”

“Yes,” said Kitiara without interest. Drawing her sword from its scabbard, she began to wipe off the blood with the hem of her cloak.

“Shall I go after them?” Soth asked.

“No. We have more important matters to attend to now,” Kitiara replied. Glancing up at him, she smiled her crooked smile. “The elfwoman would never be yours anyway, not even in death. The gods protect her.”

Soth’s flickering gaze turned to Kitiara. The pale lips curled in derision. “The half-elven man remains your master still.”

“No, I think not,” Kitiara replied. Turning, she looked after Tanis as the door shut behind him. “Sometimes, in the still watches of the night, when he lies in bed beside her, Tanis will find himself thinking of me. He will remember my last words, he will be touched by them. I have given them their happiness. And she must live with the knowledge that I will live always in Tanis’s heart. What love they might find together, I have poisoned. My revenge upon them both is complete. Now, have you brought what I sent you for?”

“I have, Dark Lady,” Lord Soth replied. With a spoken word of magic, he brought forth an object and held it out to her in his skeletal hand. Reverently, he set it at her feet.

Kitiara caught her breath, her eyes gleamed in the darkness nearly as bright as Lord Soth’s. “Excellent! Return to Dargaard Keep. Gather the troops. We will take control of the flying citadel Ariakas sent to Kalaman. Then we will fall back, regroup, and wait.”

The hideous visage of Lord Soth smiled as he gestured to the object that glittered in his fleshless hand. “This is now rightfully yours. Those who opposed you are either dead, as you commanded, or fled before I could reach them.”

“Their doom is simply postponed,” Kitiara said, sheathing her sword. “You have served me well, Lord Soth, and you will be rewarded. There will always be elfmaidens in this world, I suppose.”

“Those you command to die shall die. Those you allow to live,” Soth’s glance flickered to the door "—shall live. Remember this—of all who serve you, Dark Lady, I alone can offer you undying loyalty. This I do now, gladly. My warriors and I will return to Dargaard Keep as you ask. There we will await our summons.”

Bowing to her, he took her hand in his skeletal grasp. “Farewell, Kitiara,” he said, then paused. “How does it feel, my dear, to know that you have brought pleasure to the damned? You have made my dreary realm of death interesting. Would that I had known you as living man!” The pallid visage smiled. “But, my time is eternal. Perhaps I will wait for one who can share my throne—”

Cold fingers caressed Kitiara’s flesh. She shuddered convulsively, seeing unending, sleepless nights yawn chasm-like before her. So vivid and terrifying was the image that Kitiara’s soul shriveled in fear as Lord Soth vanished into the darkness.

She was by herself in the darkness and for a moment she was terrified. The Temple shuddered around her. Kitiara shrank back against the wall, frightened and alone. So alone! Then her foot touched something on the floor of the Temple. Reaching down, her fingers closed around it thankfully. She lifted it in her hands.

This was reality, hard and solid, she thought, breathing in relief.

No torchlight glittered on its golden surface or flared from its red-hued jewels. Kitiara did not need the flare of torches to admire what she held.

For long moments she stood in the crumbling hallway, her fingers running over the rough metal edges of the bloodstained Crown.

Tanis and Laurana ran down the spiral stone stairs to the dungeons below. Pausing beside the jailor’s desk, Tanis glanced at the body of the hobgoblin.

Laurana stared at him. “Come on,” she urged, pointing to the east. Seeing him hesitate, looking north, she shuddered. “You don’t want to go down there! That is where they... took me—” She turned away quickly, her face growing pale as she heard cries and shouts coming from the prison cells.

A harried-looking draconian ran by. Probably a deserter, Tanis guessed, seeing the creature snarl and cringe at the sight of an officer’s armor.

“I was looking for Caramon,” Tanis muttered. “They must have brought him here.”

“Caramon?” exclaimed Laurana in astonishment. “What—”

“He came with me,” Tanis said. “So did Tika and Tas and ... Flint—” He stopped, then shook his head. “Well, if they were here, they’re gone now. Come on.”

Laurana’s face flushed. She glanced back up the stone stairs, then at Tanis again.

“Tanis—” she began, faltering. He placed his hand over her mouth.

“There will be time to talk later. Now we must find our way out!”

As if to emphasize his words, another tremor shook the Temple. This one was sharper and stronger than the others, throwing Laurana up against a wall. Tanis’s face, white with fatigue and pain, grew even paler as he fought to keep his footing.

A loud rumble and a shattering crash came from the northern corridor. All sound in the prison cells ceased abruptly as a great cloud of dust and dirt billowed out into the hallway.

Tanis and Laurana fled. Debris showered down around them as they ran east, stumbling over bodies and piles of jagged broken stone.

Another tremor rocked the Temple. They could not stand. Falling on hands and knees, they could do nothing but watch in terror as the corridor slowly shifted and moved, bending and twisting like a snake.

Crawling under a fallen beam, they huddled together, watching the floor and walls of the corridor leap and heave like waves upon the ocean. Above them, they could hear strange sounds, as of huge stones grinding together—not collapsing so much as shifting position. Then the tremor ceased. All was quiet.

Shakily they got to their feet and began running again, fear driving their aching bodies far beyond endurance. Every few minutes another tremor rocked the Temple’s foundations. But as often as Tanis expected the roof to cave in upon their heads, it remained standing. So strange and terrifying were the inexplicable sounds above them that they both might have welcomed the collapse of the ceiling as a relief.

“Tanis!” cried Laurana suddenly. “Air! Night air!”

Wearily, summoning the last of their strength, the two made their way through the winding corridor until they came to a door swinging open on its hinges. There was a reddish blood stain on the floor and—

“Tas’s pouches!” Tanis murmured. Kneeling down, he sorted through the kender’s treasures that lay scattered all over the floor. Then his heart sank. Grieving, he shook his head.

Laurana knelt beside him, her hand closed over his.

“At least he was here, Tanis. He got this far. Maybe he escaped.”

“He would never have left his treasures,” Tanis said. Sinking down on the shaking floor, the half-elf stared outside into Neraka. “Look,” he said to Laurana harshly, pointing. “This is the end, just as it was the end for the kender. Look!” he demanded angrily, seeing her face settling into its stubborn calm, seeing her refusing to admit defeat.

Laurana looked.

The cool breeze on her face seemed a mockery to her now, for it brought only smells of smoke and blood and the anguished cries of the dying. Orange flames lit the sky where wheeling dragons fought and died as their Highlords sought to escape or strove for mastery. The night air blazed with the crackling of lightning bolts and burned with flame. Draconians roamed the streets, killing anything that moved, slaughtering each other in their frenzy.

“So evil turns upon itself,” Laurana whispered, laying her head on Tanis’s shoulder, watching the terrible spectacle in awe.

“What was that?” he asked wearily.

“Something Elistan used to say,” she replied. The Temple shook around them.

“Elistan!” Tanis laughed bitterly. “Where are his gods now? Watching from their castles among the stars, enjoying the show? The Dark Queen is gone, the Temple destroyed. And here we are—trapped. We wouldn’t live three minutes out there—”

Then his breath caught in his throat. Gently he pushed Laurana away from him as he leaned over, his hand searching through Tasslehoff’s scattered treasures. Hurriedly he swept aside a shining piece of broken blue crystal, a splinter of vallenwood, an emerald, a small white chicken feather, a withered black rose, a dragon’s tooth, and a piece of wood carved with dwarven skill to resemble the kender. Among all of these was a golden object, sparkling in the flaming light of the fire and destruction outside.

Picking it up, Tanis’s eyes filled with tears. He held it tightly in his hand, feeling the sharp edges bite into his flesh.

“What is it?” asked Laurana, not understanding, her voice choked with fear.

“Forgive me, Paladine,” Tanis whispered. Drawing Laurana close beside him, he held his hand out, opening his palm.

There in his hand lay a finely carved, delicate ring, made of golden, clinging ivy leaves. And wrapped around the ring, still bound in his magical sleep, was a golden dragon.

14 The end. For good or for evil.

“We’re outside the city gates,” Caramon muttered to his twin in a low voice, his eyes on the draconians who were looking at him expectantly. “You stay with Tika and Tas. I’m going back to find Tanis. I’ll take this lot with me—”

“No, my brother,” Raistlin said softly, his golden eyes glittering in Lunitari’s red light. “You cannot help Tanis. His fate is in his own hands.” The mage glanced up at the flaming, dragon-filled skies. “You are still in danger yourself, as are those dependent upon you.”

Tika stood wearily beside Caramon, her face drawn with pain. And though Tasslehoff grinned as cheerfully as ever, his face was pale and there was an expression of wistful sorrow in his eyes that had never been seen in the eyes of a kender before. Caramon’s face grew grim as he looked at them.

“Fine,” he said. “But where do we go from here?”

Raising his arm, Raistlin pointed. The black robes shimmered, his hand stood out starkly against the night sky, pale and thin, like bare bone.

“Upon that ridge shines a light—”

They all turned to look, even the draconians. Far across the barren plain Caramon could see the dark shadow of a hill rising from the moonlit wasteland. Upon its summit gleamed a pure white light, shining brightly, steadfast as a star.

“One waits for you there,” Raistlin said.

“Who? Tanis?” Caramon said eagerly.

Raistlin glanced at Tasslehoff. The kender’s face had not turned from the light, he gazed at it fixedly.

“Fizban...” he whispered.

“Yes,” Raistlin replied. “And now I must go.”

“What?” Caramon faltered. “But—come with me... us... you must! To see Fizban—”

“A meeting between us would not be pleasant.” Raistlin shook his head, the folds of his black hood moving around him.

“And what about them?” Caramon gestured at the draconians.

With a sigh, Raistlin faced the draconians. Lifting his hand, he spoke a few strange words. The draconians backed up, expressions of fear and horror twisting their reptilian faces. Caramon cried out, just as lightning sizzled from Raistlin’s fingertips. Screaming in agony, the draconians burst into flame and fell, writhing, to the ground. Their bodies turned to stone as death took them.

“You didn’t need to do that, Raistlin,” Tika said, her voice trembling. “They would have left us alone.”

“The war’s over,” Caramon added sternly.

“Is it?” Raistlin asked sarcastically, removing a small black bag from one of his hidden pockets. “It is weak, sentimental twaddle like that, my brother, which assures the war’s continuation. These"—he pointed at the statue-like bodies—“are not of Krynn. They were created using the blackest of black rites. I know. I have witnessed their creation. They would not have ‘left you alone.’ ” His voice grew shrill, mimicking Tika’s.

Caramon flushed. He tried to speak, but Raistlin coldly ignored him and finally the big man fell silent, seeing his brother lost in his magic.

Once more Raistlin held the dragon orb in his hand. Closing his eyes, Raistlin began to chant softly. Colors swirled within the crystal, then it began to glow with a brilliant, radiant beam of light.

Raistlin opened his eyes, scanning the skies, waiting. He did not wait long. Within moments, the moons and stars were obliterated by a gigantic shadow. Tika fell back in alarm. Caramon put his arm around her comfortingly, though his body trembled and his hand went to his sword.

“A dragon!” said Tasslehoff in awe. “But it’s huge. I’ve never seen one so big ... or have I?” He blinked. “It seems familiar, somehow.”

“You have,” Raistlin said coolly, replacing the darkening crystal orb back in his black pouch, “in the dream. This is Cyan Bloodbane, the dragon who tormented poor Lorac, the Elven King.”

“Why is he here?” Caramon gasped.

“He comes at my command,” Raistlin replied. “He has come to take me home.”

The dragon circled lower and lower, its gigantic wingspan spreading chilling darkness. Even Tasslehoff (though he later refused to admit it) found himself clinging to Caramon, shivering, as the monstrous green dragon settled to the ground.

For a moment Cyan glanced at the pitiful group of humans huddled together. His red eyes flared, his tongue flickered from between slavering jaws as he stared at them with hatred. Then—constrained by a will more powerful than his own— Cyan’s gaze was wrenched away, coming to rest in resentment and anger upon the black-robed mage.

At a gesture from Raistlin, the dragon’s great head lowered until it rested in the sand.

Leaning wearily upon the Staff of Magius, Raistlin walked over to Cyan Bloodbane and climbed up the huge, snaking neck.

Caramon stared at the dragon, fighting the dragonfear that overwhelmed him. Tika and Tas both clung to him, shivering in fright. Then, with a hoarse cry, he thrust them both away and ran toward the great dragon.

“Wait! Raistlin!” Caramon cried raggedly. “I’ll go with you!”

Cyan reared his great head in alarm, eyeing the human with a flaming gaze.

“Would you?” Raistlin asked softly, laying a soothing hand upon the dragon’s neck. “Would you go with me into darkness?”

Caramon hesitated, his lips grew dry, fear parched his throat. He could not speak, but he nodded, twice, biting his lip in agony as he heard Tika sobbing behind him.

Raistlin regarded him, his eyes golden pools within the deep blackness. “I truly believe you would,” the mage marveled, almost to himself. For a moment Raistlin sat upon the dragon’s back, pondering. Then he shook his head, decisively.

“No, my brother, where I go, you cannot follow. Strong as you are, it would lead you to your death. We are finally as the gods meant us to be, Caramon—two whole people, and here our paths separate. You must learn to walk yours alone, Caramon"—for an instant, a ghostly smile flickered across Raistlin’s face, illuminated by the light from the staff—"or with those who might choose to walk with you. Farewell, my brother.”

At a word from his master, Cyan Bloodbane spread his wings and soared into the air. The gleam of light from the staff seemed like a tiny star amidst the deep blackness of the dragon’s wingspan. And then it, too, winked out, the darkness swallowing it utterly.

“Here come those you have waited for,” the old man said gently.

Tanis raised his head.

Into the light of the old man’s fire came three people—a huge and powerful warrior, dressed in dragonarmy armor, walking arm in arm with a curly-haired young woman. Her face was pale with exhaustion and streaked with blood, and there was a look of deep concern and sorrow in her eyes as she gazed up at the man beside her. Finally, stumbling after them, so tired he could barely stand, came a bedraggled kender in ragged blue leggings.

“Caramon!” Tanis rose to his feet.

The big man lifted his head. His face brightened. Opening his arms, he clasped Tanis to his breast with a sob. Tika, standing apart, watched the reunion of the two friends with tears in her eyes. Then she caught sight of movement near the fire.

“Laurana?” she said hesitantly.

The elfwoman stepped forward into the firelight, her golden hair shining brightly as the sun. Though dressed in bloodstained, battered armor, she had the bearing, the regal look of the elven princess Tika had met in Qualinesti so many months ago.

Self-consciously, Tika put her hand to her filthy hair, felt it matted with blood. Her white, puffy-sleeved barmaid’s blouse hung from her in rags, barely decent; her mismatched armor was all that held it together in places. Unbecoming scars marred the smooth flesh of her shapely legs, and there was far too much shapely leg visible.

Laurana smiled, and then Tika smiled. It didn’t matter. Coming to her swiftly, Laurana put her arms around her, and Tika held her close.

All alone, the kender stood for a moment on the edge of the circle of firelight, his eyes on the old man who stood near it. Behind the old man, a great golden dragon slept sprawled out upon the ridge, his flanks pulsing with his snores. The old man beckoned Tas to come closer.

Heaving a sigh that seemed to come from the toes of his shoes, Tasslehoff bowed his head. Dragging his feet, he walked slowly over to stand before the old man.

“What’s my name?” the old man asked, reaching out his hand to touch the kender’s topknot of hair.

“It’s not Fizban,” Tas said miserably, refusing to look at him.

The old man smiled, stroking the topknot. Then he drew Tas near him, but the kender held back, his small body rigid. “Up until now, it wasn’t,” the old man said softly.

“Then what is it?” Tas mumbled, his face averted.

“I have many names,” the old man replied. “Among the elves I am Eli. The dwarves call me Thak. Among the humans I am known as Skyblade. But my favorite has always been that by which I am known among the Knights of Solamnia—Draco Paladin”

“I knew it!” Tas groaned, flinging himself to the ground. “A god! I’ve lost everyone! Everyone!” He began to weep bitterly.

The old man regarded him fondly for a moment, even brushing a gnarled hand across his own moist eyes. Then he knelt down beside the kender and put his arm around him comfortingly. “Look, my boy,” he said, putting his finger beneath Tas’s chin and turning his eyes to heaven, “do you see the red star that shines above us? Do you know to what god that star is sacred?”

“Reorx,” Tas said in a small voice, choking on his tears.

“It is red like the fires of his forge,” the old man said, gazing at it. “It is red like the sparks that fly from his hammer as it shapes the molten world resting on his anvil. Beside the forge of Reorx is a tree of surpassing beauty, the like of which no living being has ever seen. Beneath that tree sits a grumbling old dwarf, relaxing after many labors. A mug of cold ale stands beside him, the fire of the forge is warm upon his bones. He spends all day lounging beneath the tree, carving and shaping the wood he loves. And every day someone who comes past that beautiful tree starts to sit down beside him.

“Looking at them in disgust, the dwarf glowers at them so sternly that they quickly get to their feet again.

“ ‘This place is saved,’ the dwarf grumbles. There’s a lame-brained doorknob of a kender off adventuring somewhere, getting himself and those unfortunate enough to be with him into no end of trouble. Mark my words. One day he’ll show up here and he’ll admire my tree and he’ll say, “Flint, I’m tired. I think I’ll rest awhile here with you.” Then he’ll sit down and he’ll say, “Flint, have you heard about my latest adventure? Well, there was this black-robed wizard and his brother and me and we went on a journey through time and the most wonderful things happened—” and I’ll have to listen to some wild tale—’ and so he grumbles on. Those who would sit beneath the tree hide their smiles and leave him in peace.”

“Then... he’s not lonely?” Tas asked, wiping his hand across his eyes.

“No, child. He is patient. He knows you have much yet to do in your life. He will wait. Besides he’s already heard all your stories. You’re going to have to come up with some new ones.”

“He hasn’t heard this one yet,” Tas said in dawning excitement. “Oh, Fizban, it was wonderful! I nearly died—again. And I opened my eyes and there was Raistlin in Black Robes!” Tas shivered in delight. “He looked so—well—evil! But he saved my life! And—oh!” He stopped, horrified, then hung his head. “I’m sorry. I forgot. I guess I shouldn’t call you Fizban anymore.”

Standing up, the old man patted him gently. “Call me Fizban. From now on, among the kender, that shall be my name.” The old man’s voice grew wistful. “To tell the truth, I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

The old man walked over to Tanis and Caramon, and stood near them for a moment, eavesdropping on their conversation.

“He’s gone, Tanis,” Caramon said sadly. “I don’t know where. I don’t understand. He’s still frail, but he isn’t weak. That horrible cough is gone. His voice is his own, yet different. He’s—”

“Fistandantilus,” the old man said.

Both Tanis and Caramon turned. Seeing the old man, they both bowed reverently.

“Oh, stop that!” Fizban snapped. “Can’t abide all that bowing. You’re both hypocrites anyway. I’ve heard what you said about me behind my back—” Tanis and Caramon both flushed guiltily. “Never mind.” Fizban smiled. “You believed what I wanted you to believe. Now, about your brother. You are right. He is himself and he is not. As was foretold, he is the master of both present and past.”

“I don’t understand.” Caramon shook his head. “Did the dragon orb do this to him? If so, perhaps it could be broken or—”

“Nothing did this to him” Fizban said, regarding Caramon sternly. “Your brother chose this fate himself.”

“I don’t believe it! How? Who is this Fistan-whatever? I want answers—”

“The answers you seek are not mine to give,” Fizban said. His voice was mild still, but there was a hint of steel in his tone that brought Caramon up short. “Beware of those answers, young man,” Fizban added softly. “Beware still more of your questions!” Caramon was silent for long moments, staring into the sky after the green dragon, though it had long since disappeared.

“What will become of him now?” he asked finally.

“I do not know,” Fizban answered. “He makes his own fate, as do you. But I do know this, Caramon. You must let him go.” The old man’s eyes went to Tika, who had come to stand beside them. “Raistlin was right when he said your paths had split. Go forward into your new life in peace.”

Tika smiled up at Caramon and nestled close. He hugged her, kissing her red curls. But even as he returned her smile and tousled her hair, his gaze strayed to the night sky, where—above Neraka—the dragons still fought their flaming battles for control of the crumbling empire.

“So this is the end,” Tanis said. “Good has triumphed.”

“Good? Triumph?” Fizban repeated, turning to stare at the half-elf shrewdly. “Not so, Half-Elven. The balance is restored. The evil dragons will not be banished. They remain here, as do the good dragons. Once again the pendulum swings freely.”

“All this suffering, just for that?” Laurana asked, coming to stand beside Tanis. “Why shouldn’t good win, drive the darkness away forever?”

“Haven’t you learned anything, young lady?” Fizban scolded, shaking a bony finger at her. “There was a time when good held sway. Do you know when that was? Right before the Cataclysm!”

“Yes"—he continued, seeing their astonishment—"the Kingpriest of Istar was a good man. Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t, because both of you have seen what goodness like that can do. You’ve seen it in the elves, the ancient embodiment of good! It breeds intolerance, rigidity, a belief that because I am right, those who don’t believe as I do are wrong.

“We gods saw the danger this complacency was bringing upon the world. We saw that much good was being destroyed, simply because it wasn’t understood. And we saw the Queen of Darkness, lying in wait, biding her time, for this could not last, of course. The overweighted scales must tip and fall, and then she would return. Darkness would descend upon the world very fast.

“And so—the Cataclysm. We grieved for the innocent. We grieved for the guilty. But the world had to be prepared, or the darkness that fell might never have been lifted.” Fizban saw Tasslehoff yawn. “But enough lectures. I’ve got to go. Things to do. Busy night ahead.” Turning away abruptly, he tottered toward the snoring golden dragon.

“Wait!” Tanis said suddenly. “Fizban—er—Paladine, were you ever in the Inn of the Last Home, in Solace?”

“An inn? In Solace?” The old man paused, stroking his beard. “An inn... there are so many. But I seem to recall spicy potatoes... That’s it!” The old man peered around at Tanis, his eyes glinting. “I used to tell stories there, to the children. Quite an exciting place, that inn. I remember one night—a beautiful young woman came in. A barbarian she was, with golden hair. Sang a song about a blue crystal staff that touched off a riot.”

“That was you, shouting for the guards!” Tanis exclaimed. “You got us into this!”

“I set the stage, lad,” Fizban said cunningly. “I didn’t give you a script. The dialogue has been all yours.” Glancing at Laurana, then back to Tanis, he shook his head. “Must say I could have improved it a bit here and there, but then—never mind.” Turning away once more, he began yelling at the dragon. “Wakeup, you lazy, flea-bitten beast!”

“Flea-bitten!” Pyrite’s eyes flared open. “Why, you decrepit old mage! You couldn’t turn water into ice in the dead of winter!”

“Oh, can’t I?” Fizban shouted in a towering rage, poking at the dragon with his staff. “Well, I’ll show you.” Fishing out a battered spellbook, he began flipping pages. “Fireball... Fireball ... I know it’s in here somewhere.”

Absentmindedly, still muttering, the old mage climbed up onto the dragon’s back.

“Are you quite ready?” the ancient dragon asked in icy tones, then—without waiting for an answer—spread his creaking wings. Flapping them painfully to ease the stiffness, he prepared to take off.

“Wait! My hat!” Fizban cried wildly.

Too late. Wings beating furiously, the dragon rose unsteadily into the air. After wobbling, hanging precariously over the edge of the cliff, Pyrite caught the night breeze and soared into the night sky.

“Stop! You crazed—”

“Fizban!” Tas cried.

“My hat!” wailed the mage.

“Fizban!” Tas shouted again. “It’s—”

But the two had flown out of hearing. Soon they were nothing more than dwindling sparks of gold, the dragon’s scales glittering in Solinari’s light.

“It’s on your head,” the kender murmured with a sigh.

The companions watched in silence, then turned away.

“Give me a hand with this, will you, Caramon?” Tanis asked. Unbuckling the dragonarmor, he sent it spinning, piece by piece, over the edge of the ridge. “What about yours?”

“I think I’ll keep mine a while longer. We’ve still a long journey ahead of us, and the way will be difficult and dangerous.” Caramon waved a hand toward the flaming city. “Raistlin was right. The dragonmen won’t stop their evil just because their Queen is gone.” “Where will you go?” Tanis asked, breathing deeply. The night air was soft and warm, fragrant with the promise of new growth. Thankful to be rid of the hated armor, he sat down wearily beneath a grove of trees that stood upon the ridge overlooking the Temple. Laurana came to sit near him, but not beside him. Her knees were drawn up beneath her chin, her eyes thoughtful as she gazed out over the plains.

“Tika and I have been talking about that,” Caramon said, the two of them sitting down beside Tanis. He and Tika glanced at each other, neither seeming willing to speak. After a moment, Caramon cleared his throat. “We’re going back to Solace, Tanis. And I-I guess this means we’ll be splitting up since"—he paused, unable to continue.

“We know you’ll be returning to Kalaman,” Tika added softly, with a glance at Laurana. “We talked of going with you. After all, there’s that big citadel floating around still, plus all these renegade dragonmen. And we’d like to see Riverwind and Goldmoon and Gilthanas again. But—”

“I want to go home, Tanis,” Caramon said heavily. “I know it’s not going to be easy going back, seeing Solace burned, destroyed,” he added, forestalling Tanis’s objections, “but I’ve, thought about Alhana and the elves, what they have to go back to in Silvanesti. I’m thankful my home isn’t like that—a twisted nightmare. They’ll need me in Solace, Tanis, to help rebuild.

They’ll need my strength. I-I’m used to... being needed....” Tika laid her cheek on his arm, he gently tousled her hair.

Tanis nodded in understanding. He would like to see Solace again, but it wasn’t home. Not any more. Not without Flint and Sturm and... and others. “What about you, Tas?” Tanis asked the kender with a smile as he came trudging up to the group, lugging a waterskin he had filled at a nearby creek. “Will you come back to Kalaman with us?”

Tas flushed. “No, Tanis,” he said uncomfortably. “You see, since I’m this close—I thought I’d pay a visit to my homeland. We killed a Dragon Highlord, Tanis"—Tas lifted his chin proudly—"all by ourselves. People will treat us with respect now. Our leader, Kronin, will most likely become a hero in Krynnish lore.”

Tanis scratched his beard to hide his smile, refraining from telling Tas that the Highlord the kenders had killed had been the bloated, cowardly Fewmaster Toede.

“I think one kender will become a hero,” Laurana said seriously. “He will be the kender who broke the dragon orb, the kender who fought at the siege of the High Clerist’s Tower, the kender who captured Bakaris, the kender who risked everything to rescue a friend from the Queen of Darkness.”

“Who’s that?” Tas asked eagerly, then, “Oh!” Suddenly realizing who Laurana meant, Tas flushed pink to the tips of his ears and sat down with a thud, quite overcome.

Caramon and Tika settled back against a tree trunk, both faces—for the moment—were filled with peace and tranquility. Tanis, watching them, envied them, wondering if such peace would ever be his. He turned to Laurana, who was sitting straight now, gazing beyond into the flaming sky, her thoughts far away.

“Laurana,” Tanis said unsteadily, his voice faltering as her beautiful face turned to his, “Laurana, you gave this to me once"—he held the golden ring in his palm—"before either of us knew what true love or commitment meant. It now means a great deal to me, Laurana. In the dream, this ring brought me back from the darkness of the nightmare, just as your love saved me from the darkness in my own soul.” He paused, feeling a sharp pang of regret even as he talked. “I’d like to keep it, Laurana, if you still want me to have it. And I would like to give you one to wear, to match it.”

Laurana stared at the ring long moments without speaking, then she lifted it from Tanis’s palm and—with a sudden motion—threw it over the ridge. Tanis gasped, half-starting to his feet. The ring flashed in Lunitari’s red light, then it vanished into the darkness.

“I guess that’s my answer,” Tanis said. “I can’t blame you.”

Laurana turned back to him, her face calm. “When I gave you that ring, Tanis, it was the first love of an undisciplined heart. You were right to return it to me, I see that now. I had to grow up, to learn what real love was. I have been through flame and darkness, Tanis. I have killed dragons. I have wept over the body of one I loved.” She sighed. “I was a leader. I had responsibilities. Flint told me that. But I threw it all away, I fell into Kitiara’s trap. I realized—too late—how shallow my love really was. Riverwind’s and Goldmoon’s steadfast love brought hope to the world. Our petty love came near to destroying it.”

“Laurana,” Tanis began, his heart aching.

Her hand closed over his.

“Hush, just a moment more,” she whispered. “I love you, Tanis. I love you now because I understand you. I love you for the light and the darkness within you. That is why I threw the ring away. Perhaps someday our love will be a foundation strong enough to build upon. Perhaps someday I will give you another ring and I will accept yours. But it will not be a ring of ivy leaves, Tanis.”

“No,” he said, smiling. Reaching out, he put his hand on her shoulder, to draw her near. Shaking her head, she started to resist. “It will be a ring made half of gold and half of steel.” Tanis clasped her more firmly.

Laurana looked into his eyes, then she smiled and yielded to him, sinking back to rest beside him, her head on his shoulder.

“Perhaps I’ll shave,” said Tanis, scratching his beard.

“Don’t,” murmured Laurana, drawing Tanis’s cloak around her shoulders. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

All that night the companions kept watch together beneath the trees, waiting for the dawn. Weary and wounded, they could not sleep, they knew the danger had not ended.

From their vantage point, they could see bands of draconians fleeing the Temple confines. Freed from their leaders, the draconians would soon turn to robbery and murder to ensure their own survival. There were Dragon Highlords still. Though no one mentioned her name, the companions each knew one had almost certainly managed to survive the chaos boiling around the Temple. And perhaps there would be other evils to contend with, evils more powerful and terrifying than the friends dared imagine.

But for now there were a few moments of peace, and they were loath to end them. For with the dawn would come farewells.

No one spoke, not even Tasslehoff. There was no need for words between them. All had been said or was waiting to be said. They would not spoil what went before, nor hurry what was to come. They asked Time to stop for a little while to let them rest. And, perhaps, it did.

Just before dawn, when only a hint of the sun’s coming shone pale in the eastern sky, the Temple of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, exploded. The ground shivered with the blast. The light was brilliant, blinding, like the birth of a new sun.

Their eyes dazzled by the flaring light, they could not see clearly. But they had the impression that the sparkling shards of the Temple were rising into the sky, being swept upward by a vast heavenly whirlwind. Brighter and brighter the shards gleamed as they hurtled into the starry darkness, until they shone as radiantly as the stars themselves.

And then they were stars. One by one, each piece of the shattered Temple took its proper place in the sky, filling the two black voids Raistlin had seen last autumn, when he looked up from the boat in Crystalmir Lake.

Once again, the constellations glittered in the sky.

Once again, the Valiant Warrior—Paladine—the Platinum Dragon—took his place in one half of the night sky while opposite him appeared the Queen of Darkness, Takhisis, the Five-Headed, Many-Colored Dragon. And so they resumed their endless wheeling, one always watchful of the other, as they revolved eternally around Gilean, God of Neutrality, the Scales of Balance.