Dragons of The Dwarven Depths Part 14

Chapter 12.

Death in the Darkness. A Ghostly Messenger.

Sturm had taken only a few steps into the room beyond before he found his way blocked by a heavy beam that had fallen down from the ceiling. Standing in the small pool of light cast by his torch, he saw that he'd encountered destruction so complete he could make out few details of what it was he was even looking at. Fire had swept the room. The floor was ankle-deep in debris, most of it blackened and burnt. Charred lumps might have once been furniture.

Sturm circled around the heavy beam, kicking aside debris, and found another doorway.

"The sounds are coming from out here," he called back softly to his friends.

"From the armory," said Raistlin. "I know where I am now. This was the library What a pity it did not survive!"

He bent down to pick up the remnants of a book. The pages fell out in a shower of ash. The leather cover was all that remained and it was scorched, the corners blackened and curled.

"What a pity," Raistlin repeated softly.

He dropped the book and looked up to find Sturm staring at him "Armory? Library? How do you know so much about this accursed place?" asked the knight.

"Caramon and I lived here once upon a time," Raistlin said sarcastically. "Didn't we, my brother? I'm sure we must have told you."

"C'mon, Raist," Caramon mumbled. "Don't do this."

Sturm continued to regard the mage with suspicion; he might almost have believed him.

"Oh, for mercy's sake!" Raistlin snapped. "How gullible can you be, Sturm Brightblade? There is a perfectly logical explanation. I have seen maps of Zhaman. There. End of mystery."

Raistlin knelt down to pick up another book, only to feel it crumble at his touch. He let the ashes sift through his fingers. Sturm and Caramon had walked over to the door, taking the torch with them. Crouching on the floor, clutching his staff, Raistlin was glad for the darkness, which concealed his shaking hands, the chill sweat beading on his face and trickling down his neck. He was almost sick with terror and wished with all his soul that he had listened to those who warned him not to come to this place. He had lied to Sturm, lied to his brother. Raistlin had never seen a map of Zhaman. He was not even certain such a map existed. He had no idea how he knew where to find the rune on the mountain side. He had never heard of anyone called Pheragas. He did not know how he knew the sounds were coming from the armory or how he knew this room was the library. He had no idea how he knew that far below this level of the fortress was a laboratory...

Raistlin shuddered and clutched at his head with his hand, as though he could reach inside and tear out memories of things he'd never seen, places he'd never been.

"Stop it!" he whispered frantically, "Leave me alone! Why do you torment me?"

"Raist?" Caramon called. "Are you all right?"

Raistlin grit his teeth. He dug his nails into his palms, forcing his hands to quit shaking. He drew in a deep, s.h.i.+vering breath and held tightly to the staff, pressing the cool wood against his burning skin, and closed his eyes. The feeling of dread slowly seeped out of him and he was able to stand.

"I am fine, my brother," he said, knowing that if he did not answer Caramon would come looking for him. He moved slowly across the debris-strewn room to join Sturm and his twin, who were standing by the door, listening to the sounds of battle and arguing about whether they should go investigate or not.

"Some innocent person could be in trouble," Sturm maintained. "We should go see if we can help them."

"What would an innocent person be doing wandering about this place?" Caramon demanded. "It's not our fight, Sturm. We shouldn't go sticking our heads in a goblin's lair. Wait here until it's over, then let's go see what's left."

Sturm frowned. "You stay with your brother. I'm going to at least see-"

A b.e.s.t.i.a.l roar of pain, anguish, and bellowing fury shook the floor, sending dust and debris raining down from the ceiling, drowning out the rest of Sturm's words. The roaring ceased suddenly in an agonized gurgle. The harsh voices shouted in triumph, and the sounds of clas.h.i.+ng swords grew louder. The three friends stared at each other in alarm.

"That sounded like a dragon!" Caramon said.

"I told you, someone is in danger!" Sturm flung down the sack containing his armor, useless to him now, for there was no time to put it on. Caramon opened his mouth to remonstrate, but before he could say a word, his friend had dashed into the darkness.

Caramon looked pleadingly at his twin. "We can't let him go off alone, Raist! We have to help him."

Raistlin's mouth twisted. "I suppose we must, though how we are supposed to fight a dragon with nothing but swords and rose petals is beyond me!"

"It sounds like it's wounded. Those warriors probably have it cornered," Caramon said hopefully, and he dashed off after Sturm.

"What a relief! A cornered, wounded dragon," Raistlin muttered.

He ran through the mental catalog of his spells, searching for one that would do more than irritate the dragon-or give it a good laugh. Choosing one he thought might be suitable, Raistlin hastened after his brother, hoping, at least, to stop Caramon from getting himself slaughtered in some grand and n.o.ble last stand of the Brightblades.

Caramon followed Sturm out of the ruined library and found himself in a wide corridor. This part of the fortress had escaped the worst effects of the blast. The only damages were cracks in the walls and floors and some chunks of the ceiling that had crashed down into the corridor. The dragon's roars sounded as though they were coming from the far end. The bellowings grew louder and more terrifying.

The voices of those battling the beast were growing louder as well. Caramon could not make out the words, but it sounded as if they were jeering their foe and spurring each other on. Sturm was running forward. He had not looked back; he had no idea if Caramon was coming or not.

Caramon advanced more cautiously. Something about this battle struck him as odd. He wished his twin would join him.

Half-turning, Caramon called softly, "Raist, hurry up!"

A hand closed over Caramon's arm, and a voice whispered from the darkness, "I am here, my brother."

Caramon gave a violent start.

"d.a.m.n, Raist! Don't creep up on me like that!"

"We must make haste," Raistlin said grimly, "prevent the knight from getting himself burnt to a cinder."

The two of them hurried forward, following the light of Sturm's torch and the bright gleam of his sword.

"I don't like this," Caramon said.

"I can't think why," Raistlin returned caustically. "The three of us marching boldly to our deaths..."

Caramon shook his head. "It's not that. Listen to those voices, Raist. I've heard them or something like them before."

Raistlin glanced at his twin and saw that Caramon was serious. The two had served together as mercenaries for years, and Raistlin had come to respect his brother's skill and his warrior instincts. Raistlin drew back the folds of his cowl in order to better hear the voices. He looked at Caramon and gave a nod.

"You're right. We have heard those voices before. Fool knight!" Raistlin added bitterly. "We have to stop him before he gets himself killed! You go on. I'll catch up."

Caramon dashed on ahead.

"s.h.i.+rak," Raistlin spoke the word of magic, and the light of his staff flared. He noted in pa.s.sing the remnants of a gigantic iron stair rail spiraling downward.

"That leads to my chambers," he said to himself.

Focused on his spellcasting, he did not realize what he was saying.

"Sturm! Wait up!" Caramon called out when he thought the knight could hear him over the clash of arms.

Sturm halted and turned around. "Well, what is it?" he said impatiently.

"Those voices!" Caramon gasped, huffing from the exertion. "They're draconian. No, listen!" He gripped his friend's arm.

Sturm did listen, his brow furrowing. He lowered his sword. "Why would draconians attack a dragon?"

"Maybe they had a falling out," Caramon said, trying to catch his breath. "Evil turns on its own."

"I am not so certain," said Raistlin, coming up to them. He looked from the knight to his twin. "Do either of you sense the debilitating fear that we have felt before around these beasts?"

"No," Sturm replied, "but the dragon cannot see us."

"That shouldn't make a difference. Back in camp, we felt the terror of the red dragon long before it came into view."

"It's all very strange," Sturm muttered, frowning.

"The one thing we do know is this," said Raistlin. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend'."

"True," said Sturm, smiling slightly. "In that case, we should help the dragon."

"Help the dragon!" Caramon goggled. "Have you both gone crazy?"

Both had, apparently, for Sturm was once more running toward the fight and Raistlin was hastening alongside. Shaking his head, Caramon dashed after his brother and the knight.

The sounds of battle intensified. The draconians' hissing and their guttural voices, could be heard clearly now. They spoke their own language but with a mixture of Common thrown in, so that Caramon could understand about every fourth word. The dragon's roaring diminished, growing weaker. Light flared from the armory, s.h.i.+ning into the corridor.

Sturm had flattened himself against a wall. Edging near the door, he risked a glance into the chamber. What he saw amazed him so he could not move but stood transfixed, staring. Caramon yanked him back.

"Well?" he demanded.

"There is a dragon," said Sturm, awed, "like none I have ever seen or heard of. It is beautiful." He shook himself, came back to reality. "And it is badly hurt."

Caramon went to see for himself.

Sturm was right. The dragon was not like any other dragon Caramon had ever encountered. He had seen dragons with scales that were black as the Dark Queen's heart, dragons with scales red as searing flame, dragons with scales the color of a cobolt sky. This one was different. It was smaller than most and it was beautiful, as Sturm has said. Its scales gleamed like polished bra.s.s.

"What sort of dragon is it?" Caramon turned back to his twin.

"That's what we must find out," said Raistlin, "which means we can't let it die."

"There are four draconians," Sturm reported. "One is badly wounded. The other three are on their feet. They have their backs to us. They're concentrating on finis.h.i.+ng off the dragon. They are armed with bows. They've been loosing arrows at it. We can take them from behind."

"Let me see what I can do," said Raistlin. "Perhaps I can save us time and trouble."

Raistlin drew something from his pouch, crushed it beneath his fingers, spoke the words of magic, and made a motion with his hand.

A ball of blazing fire flew from his fingertips, hurtled across the room, and struck one of the draconians in the back. The magical fire burst on the draconian's scaly skin. The draconian gave a hideous yell and collapsed onto the floor, rolling about in agony as the flames blackened his scales and charred his flesh. His companions scrambled to get away from him, for the flames were spreading, licking at their heels.

"Remember, you two!" Raistlin warned, as Sturm and Caramon charged inside. "Draconians are as dangerous dead as they are alive!"

Sturm shouted his battle-cry, "Arras, Solamni! Arise, Solamnia!"

The draconian started at the yell and was about to turn to face this new foe, just as Sturm's sword slid through its entrails. Sturm yanked his blade out swiftly, before the draconian's corpse could freeze into stone, trapping his weapon. Caramon was taking no chances. Wrapping his fist around his sword's hilt, he bashed his draconian on the back of the neck. The draconian's neck cracked and it fell to the floor, stiff as marble.

"Three dead!" Caramon reported, sucking on bruised knuckles. He hurried over to finish off the wounded draconian, only to find that it had died. The body crumbled to dust as he approached it. "Four dead," he amended.

The battle ended, Sturm hastened over to the dragon. The great beast lay sprawled on the floor, its s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s scales smeared with blood. Raistlin walked over to the dragon as fast as he was able. The magic always took its toll on his body. He felt as weary as though he'd been in battle for three days, instead of three minutes.

"Keep watch on the corridor," he ordered Caramon, as he pa.s.sed his twin. "There were other draconians in this room. These four were left to finish the job."

Caramon looked about at the vast number of spent arrows lying on the floor and nodded his head in grim agreement. He glanced back at the dragon and his heart smote him. The beast was so beautiful, so magnificent. No matter that it was a dragon, it should not be suffering like this. He left to keep a lookout at the door.

Sturm crouched beside the dragon's head. The dragon's eyes were open but fast dimming. His breathing was labored. He gazed at Sturm in wonder.

"A Solamnic knight... Why are you here? Do you... fight with the dwarves?" The dragon roused himself with an effort. "You must slay the foul wizard!"

Sturm glanced up at Raistlin.

"Not me," Raistlin snapped. "The dragon speaks of dwarves fighting... He must mean Fistandantilus!"

"He found me sleeping," the dragon murmured. "He cast a spell on me, made me a prisoner... Now he has sent his demons to slay me..."

The dragon coughed, blood spewing from his mouth.

"What kind of dragon are you?" Raistlin asked. "We have never seen your like."

The gleaming body shuddered. The dragon's ma.s.sive tail thumped the floor, his legs convulsed, wings twitched. He gave a final s.h.i.+ver. Blood poured out of his mouth. The dragon's head lolled. The eyes stared, unseeing.

Raistlin gave an annoyed sigh.

Sturm cast him a reproachful glance, then bowed his head. "Paladine, G.o.d of Light and Mercy, Wisdom and Truth," he prayed, "take the soul of this n.o.ble beast to your blessed realm-"

"Sturm, I heard something!" Caramon came running into the room. He stopped, abashed, when he saw the knight was praying, and looked at his twin. "I heard voices coming from the library."

"Sir Knight," Raistlin said sharply, "leave off your prayer. Paladine knows what to do with a soul. He does not need you to tell him."

Sturm ignored him. He finished his prayer then rose to his feet.

"I heard voices," said Caramon, apologetic, "coming from the corridor. Maybe draconian. I can't tell."

"Go with my brother," said Raistlin. "The magic has drained me. I must rest."

He sank down onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall.