Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (16 page)

Finally there was nothing for the companions to do but climb off the griffons’ backs and unload their supplies. Then the bird-lion creatures, with fierce, apologetic dignity, spread their wings and soared away.

“Well, that is that,” said Alhana sharply, ignoring the angry glances she felt cast at her. “We shall simply have to walk, that’s all. The way is not far.”

The companions stood stranded upon the riverbank, staring across the sparkling water into the forest beyond. None of them spoke. All of them were tense, alert, searching for trouble. But all they saw were the aspen trees glistening in the last, lingering rays of sunset. The river murmured as it lapped on the shore. Though the aspens were green still, the silence of winter blanketed the land.

“I thought you said your people fled because they were under siege?” Tanis said to Alhana finally.

“If this land is under control of dragons, I’m a gully dwarf!” Caramon snorted.

“We were!” Alhana answered, her eyes scanning the sunlit forest. “Dragons filled the skies, as in Tarsis! The dragonmen entered our beloved woods, burning, destroying—” Her voice died.

Caramon leaned near Riverwind and muttered, “Wild goose chase!”

The Plainsman scowled. “If it’s nothing more than that, we’ll be fortunate,” he said, his eyes on the elfmaid. “Why did she bring us here? Perhaps it’s a trap.”

Caramon considered this a moment, then glanced uneasily at his brother, who had not spoken or moved or taken his strange eyes from the forest since the griffons left. The big warrior loosened his sword in its scabbard and moved a step nearer Tika. Almost accidentally, it seemed, their two hands clasped. Tika cast a fearful look at Raistlin but held onto Caramon tightly.

The mage just stared fixedly into the wilderness.

“Tanis!” Alhana said suddenly, forgetting herself in her joy and putting her hand on his arm. “Maybe it worked! Maybe my
father defeated them, and we can come home! Oh, Tanis—” She trembled with excitement. “We’ve got to cross the river and find out! Come! The ferry landing’s down around the bend—”

“Alhana, wait!” Tanis called, but she was already running along the smooth, grassy bank, her long full skirts fluttering around her ankles. “Alhana! Damn it. Caramon and Riverwind, go after her. Goldmoon, try to talk some sense into her.”

Riverwind and Caramon exchanged uneasy glances, but they did as Tanis ordered, running along the riverbank after Alhana. Goldmoon and Tika followed more slowly.

“Who knows what’s in these woods?” Tanis muttered. “Raistlin—”

The mage did not seem to hear. Tanis moved closer. “Raistlin?” he repeated, seeing the mage’s abstracted stare.

Raistlin stared at him blankly, as if waking from a dream. Then the mage became aware of someone speaking to him. He lowered his eyes.

“What is it, Raistlin?” Tanis asked. “What do you sense?”

“Nothing, Tanis,” the mage replied.

Tanis blinked. “Nothing?” he repeated.

“It is like an impenetrable fog, a blank wall,” Raistlin whispered. “I see nothing, sense nothing.”

Tanis stared at him intently, and suddenly he knew Raistlin was lying. But why? The mage returned the half-elf’s gaze with equanimity, even a small, twisted smile on his thin lips, as if he knew Tanis didn’t believe him but really didn’t care.

“Raistlin,” Tanis said softly, “suppose Lorac, the elfking, tried to use the dragon orb—what would happen?”

The mage lifted his eyes to stare into the forest. “Do you think that is possible?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tanis said, “from what little Alhana told me, during the Tests in the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar, a dragon orb spoke to Lorac, asking him to rescue it from the impending disaster.”

“And he obeyed it?” Raistlin asked, his voice as soft as the murmuring water of the ancient river.

“Yes. He brought it to Silvanesti.”

“So this is the dragon orb of Istar,” Raistlin whispered. His eyes narrowed, and then he sighed, a sigh of longing. “I know nothing about the dragon orbs,” he remarked, coolly, “except what I told you. But I know this, Half-Elf—none of us will
come out of Silvanesti unscathed, if we come out at all.”

“What do you mean? What danger is there?”

“What does it matter what danger I see?” Raistlin asked, folding his hands in the sleeves of his red robes. “We must enter Silvanesti. You know it as well as I. Or will you forego the chance to find a dragon orb?”

“But if you see danger, tell us! We could at least enter prepared—” Tanis began angrily.

“Then prepare,” Raistlin whispered softly, and he turned away and began to walk slowly along the sandy beach after his brother.

The companions crossed the river just as the last rays of the sun flickered among the leaves of the aspens on the opposite bank. And then the fabled forest of Silvanesti was gradually swamped by darkness. The shadows of night flowed among the feet of the trees like the dark water flowing beneath the keel of the ferry boat.

Their journey was slow. The ferry—an ornately carved, flat-bottomed boat connected to both shores by an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys, seemed at first to be in good condition. But once they set foot on board and began to cross the ancient river, they discovered that the ropes were rotting. The boat began to decay before their eyes. The river itself seemed to change. Reddish-brown water seeped through the hull, tainted with the faint smell of blood.

They had just stepped out of the boat on the opposite bank and were unloading their supplies, when the frayed ropes sagged and gave way.

The river swept the ferry boat downstream in an instant. Twilight vanished at the same moment, and night swallowed them. Although the sky was clear, without a cloud to mar its dark surface, there were no stars visible. Neither the red nor the silver moon rose. The only light came from the river, which seemed to gleam with an unwholesome brilliance, like a ghoul.

“Raistlin, your staff,” Tanis said. His voice echoed too loudly through the silent forest. Even Caramon cringed.

“Shirak.”
Raistlin spoke the word of command and the crystal globe clutched in the disembodied dragon’s claw flared into light. But it was a cold, pale light. The only thing it seemed to illuminate were the mage’s strange, hourglass eyes.

“We must enter the woods,” Raistlin said in a shaking voice. Turning, he stumbled toward the dark wilderness.

No one else spoke or moved. They stood on the bank, fear overtaking them. There was no reason for it, and it was all the more frightening because it was illogical. Fear crept up on them from the ground. Fear flowed through their limbs, turning the bowels to water, sapping the strength of heart and muscle, eating into the brain.

Fear of what? There was nothing, nothing there! Nothing to be afraid of, yet all of them were more terrified of this nothing than they had been of anything before in their lives.

“Raistlin’s right. We’ve—got to—get into the woods—find shelter …” Tanis spoke with an effort, his teeth chattering. “F-follow Raistlin.”

Shaking, he staggered forward, not knowing if anyone followed, not caring. Behind him, he could hear Tika whimper and Goldmoon trying to pray through lips that would not form words. He heard Caramon shout for his brother to stop and Riverwind cry out in terror, but it didn’t matter. He had to run, get away from here! His only guidance was the light of Raistlin’s staff.

Desperately, he stumbled after the mage into the woods. But when Tanis reached the trees, he found his strength was gone. He was too scared to move. Trembling, he sank down on his knees, then pitched forward, his hands clutching at the ground.

“Raistlin!” His throat was torn by a ragged scream.

But the mage could not help. The last thing Tanis saw was the light from Raistlin’s staff falling slowly to the ground, slowly, and more slowly, released by the young mage’s limp, seemingly lifeless hand.

The trees. The beautiful trees of Silvanesti. Trees fashioned and coaxed through centuries into groves of wonder and enchantment. All around Tanis were the trees. But these trees now turned upon their masters, becoming living groves of horror. A noxious green light filtered through the shivering leaves.

Tanis stared about in horror. Many strange and terrible sights he had seen in his life, but nothing like this. This, he thought, might drive him insane. He turned this way and that, frantically, but there was no escape. All around were the trees—the trees of Silvanesti. Hideously changed.

The soul of every tree around him appeared trapped in torment, imprisoned within the trunk. The twisted branches of the tree were the limbs of its spirit, contorted in agony. The grasping roots clawed the ground in hopeless attempts to flee. The sap of the living trees flowed from huge gashes in the trunk. The rustling of its leaves were cries of pain and terror. The trees of Silvanesti wept blood.

Tanis had no idea where he was or how long he had been here. He remembered he had begun walking toward the Tower of the Stars that he could see rising above the branches of the aspens. He had walked and walked, and nothing had stopped him. Then he’d heard the kender shriek in terror, like the scream of some small animal being tortured. Turning, he saw Tasslehoff pointing at the trees. Tanis, staring horrified at the trees, only eventually comprehended that Tasslehoff wasn’t supposed to be here. And there was Sturm, ashen with fear, and Laurana, weeping in despair, and Flint, his eyes wide and staring.

Tanis embraced Laurana, and his arms encompassed flesh and blood, but still he knew she
was not there
—even as he held her, and the knowledge was terrifying.

Then, as he stood there in the grove that was like a prison of the damned, the horror increased. Animals bounded out from among the tormented trees and fell upon the companions.

Tanis drew his sword to strike back, but the weapon shook in his trembling hand, and he was forced to avert his eyes for the living animals had themselves been twisted and misshapen into hideous aspects of undying death.

Riding among the misshapen beasts were legions of elven warriors, their skull-like features hideous to behold. No eyes glittered in the hollow sockets of their faces, no flesh covered the delicate bones of their hands. They rode among the companions with brightly burning swords that drew living blood. But when any weapon struck them, they disappeared into nothing.

The wounds they inflicted, however, were real. Caramon, battling a wolf with snakes growing out of its body, looked up to see one of the elven warriors bearing down on him, a shining spear in his fleshless hand. He screamed to his brother for help.

Raistlin spoke, “
Ast kiranann kair Soth-aran/Suh kali Jalaran.”
A ball of flame flashed from the mage’s hands to burst directly upon the elf—without effect. Its spear, driven by incredible
force, pierced Caramon’s armor, entering his body, nailing him to the tree behind.

The elven warrior yanked his weapon free from the big man’s shoulder. Caramon slumped to the ground, his life’s blood mingling with the tree’s blood. Raistlin, with a fury that surprised him, drew the silver dagger from the leather thong he wore hidden on his arm and flung it at the elf. The blade pricked its undead spirit and the elven warrior, horse and all, vanished into air. Yet Caramon lay upon the ground, his arm hanging from his body by only a thin strip of flesh.

Goldmoon knelt to heal him, but she stumbled over her prayers, her faith failing her amid the horror.

“Help me, Mishakal,” Goldmoon prayed. “Help me to help my friend.”

The dreadful wound closed. Though blood still seeped from it, trickling down Caramon’s arm, death loosed its grip on the warrior. Raistlin knelt beside his brother and started to speak to him. Then suddenly the mage fell silent. He stared past Caramon into the trees, his strange eyes widening with disbelief.

“
You!”
Raistlin whispered.

“Who is it?” Caramon asked weakly, hearing a thrill of horror and fear in Raistlin’s voice. The big man peered into the green light but could see nothing. “Who do you mean?”

But Raistlin, intent upon another conversation, did not answer.

“I need your aid,” the mage said sternly. “Now, as before.”

Caramon saw his brother stretch out his hand, as though reaching across a great gap, and was consumed with fear without knowing why.

“No, Raist!” he cried, clutching at his brother in panic. Raistlin’s hand dropped.

“Our bargain remains. What? You ask for more?” Raistlin was silent a moment, then he sighed. “Name it!”

For long moments, the mage listened, absorbing. Caramon, watching him with loving anxiety, saw his brother’s thin metallic-tinged face grow deathly pale. Raistlin closed his eyes, swallowing as though drinking his bitter herbal brew. Finally he bowed his head.

“I accept.”

Caramon cried out in horror as he saw Raistlin’s robes, the red robes that marked his neutrality in the world, begin to
deepen to crimson, then darken to a blood red, and then darken more—to black.

“I accept this,” Raistlin repeated more calmly, “with the understanding that the future can be changed. What must we do?”

He listened. Caramon clutched his arm, moaning in agony.

“How do we get through to the Tower alive?” Raistlin asked his unseen instructor. Once more he attended carefully, then nodded. “And I will be given what I need? Very well. Farewell then, if such a thing is possible for you on your dark journey.”

Raistlin rose to his feet, his black robes rustling around him. Ignoring Caramon’s sobs and Goldmoon’s terrified gasp as she saw him, the mage went in search of Tanis. He found the half-elf, back against a tree, battling a host of elven warriors.

Calmly, Raistlin reached into his pouch and drew forth a bit of rabbit fur and a small amber rod. Rubbing these together in his left palm, he held forth his right hand and spoke.
“Ast kiranann kair Gadurm Sotharn/Suh kali Jalaran.”

Bolts of lightning shot from his fingertips, streaking through the green-tinted air, striking the elven warriors. As before, they vanished. Tanis stumbled backward, exhausted.

Raistlin stood in the center of a clearing of the distorted, tormented trees.