Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (33 page)

“Don’t worry about my father,” Gilthanas said, smiling, stroking the beautiful hair that shone even in the darkness. “He’ll be stern and grim for a while, but I am the younger brother, no one cares what becomes of me. Porthios will rant and rave and carry on. But we’ll ignore him. We don’t have to live with my people. I’m not sure how I’d fit in with yours, but I could learn. I’m a good shot with a bow. And I’d like our children to grow up in the wilderness, free and happy … what … Silvara, why—you’re crying!”

Gilthanas held her close as she buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing bitterly. “There, there,” he whispered soothingly, smiling in the darkness. Women were such funny creatures. He wondered what he’d said. “Hush, Silvara,” he murmured. “It will be all right.” And Gilthanas fell asleep, dreaming of silver-haired children running in the green woods.

“It is time. We must leave.”

Laurana felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking her. Startled, she woke from a vague, frightening dream that she could not remember to find the Wilder elf kneeling above her.

“I’ll wake the others,” Silvara said, and disappeared.

Feeling more tired than if she hadn’t slept, Laurana packed her things by reflex and stood waiting, shivering, in the darkness. Next to her, she heard the dwarf groan. The damp air was making his joints ache painfully. This journey had been hard on Flint, Laurana realized. He was, after all, what—almost one hundred and fifty years old? A respectable age for
a dwarf. His face had lost some of its color during his illness on the voyage. His lips, barely visible beneath the beard, had a bluish tinge, and occasionally he pressed his hand against his chest. But he always stoutly insisted he was fine and kept up with them on the trail.

“All set!” cried Tas. His shrill voice echoed weirdly in the fog, and he had the distinct feeling he’d disturbed something. “I’m sorry,” he said, cringing. “Gee,” he muttered to Flint, “it’s like being in a temple.”

“Just shut up and start moving!” the dwarf snapped.

A torch flared. The companions started at the sudden, blinding light that Silvara held.

“We must have light,” she said before any could protest. “Do not fear. The vale we are in is sealed shut. Long ago, there were two entrances: one led to human lands where the knights had their outpost, the other led east into the lands of the ogres. Both passes were lost during the Cataclysm. We need have no fear. I have led you by a way known only to myself.”

“And to your people,” Laurana reminded her sharply.

“Yes—my people …” Silvara said, and Laurana was surprised to see the girl grow pale.

“Where are you taking us?” Laurana insisted.

“You will see. We will be there within the hour.”

The companions glanced at each other, then all of them looked at Laurana.

Damn them! she thought. “Don’t look to me for answers!” she said angrily. “What do you want to do? Stay out here, lost in the fog—”

“I won’t betray you!” Silvara murmured despondently. “Please, just trust me a little further.”

“Go ahead,” said Laurana tiredly. “We’ll follow.”

The fog seemed to close around them more thickly, until all that kept the darkness at bay was the light of Silvara’s torch.

No one had any idea of the direction they traveled. The landscape did not change. They walked through tall grass. There were no trees.

Occasionally a large boulder loomed out of the darkness, but that was all. Of night birds or animals, there was no sign. There was a sense of urgency that increased as they walked until all of them felt it, and they hurried their steps, keeping ever within the light of the torch.

Then, suddenly, without warning, Silvara stopped.

“We are here,” she said, and she held the torch aloft. The torch’s light pierced the fog. They could all see a shadowy something beyond. At first, it was so ghostly materializing out of the fog that the companions could not recognize it.

Silvara drew closer. They followed her, curious, fearful.

Then the silence of the night was broken by bubbling sounds like water boiling in a giant kettle. The fog grew denser, the air was warm and stifling.

“Hot springs!” said Theros in sudden understanding. “Of course, that explains the constant fog. And this dark shape—”

“The bridge which leads across them,” Silvara replied, shining the torchlight upon what they could see was a glistening stone bridge spanning the water boiling in the streams below them, filling the night air with its warm, billowing fog.

“We’re supposed to cross that!” Flint exclaimed, staring at the black, boiling water in horror. “We’re supposed to cross—”

“It is called the Bridge of Passage,” said Silvara.

The dwarf’s only answer was a strangled gulp.

The Bridge of Passage was a long, smooth arch of pure white marble. Along its sides—carved in vivid relief—long columns of knights walked symbolically across the bubbling streams. The span was so high that they could not see the top through the swirling mists. And it was old, so old that Flint, reverently touching the worn rock with his hand, could not recognize the craftsmanship. It was not dwarven, not elven, not human. Who had done such marvelous work?

Then he noticed there were no hand-rails, nothing but the marble span itself, slick and glistening with the mist rising constantly from the bubbling springs beneath.

“We cannot cross that,” said Laurana, her voice trembling. “And now we are trapped—”

“We
can
cross,” Silvara said. “For we have been summoned.”

“Summoned?” Laurana repeated in exasperation. “By what? Where?”

“Wait,” commanded Silvara.

They waited. There was nothing left for them to do. Each stood staring around in the torchlight, but they saw only the mist rising from the streams, heard only the gurgling water.

“It is the time of Solinari,” Silvara said suddenly, and—swinging her arm—she hurled her torch into the water.

Darkness swallowed them. Involuntarily, they crept closer together. Silvara seemed to have vanished with the light. Gilthanas called for her, but she did not answer.

Then the mist turned to shimmering silver. They could see once more, and now they could see Silvara, a dark, shadowy outline against the silvery mist. She stood at the foot of the bridge, staring up into the sky. Slowly she raised her hands, and slowly the mists parted. Looking up, the companions saw the mists separate like long, graceful fingers to reveal the silver moon, full and brilliant in the starry sky.

Silvara spoke strange words, and the moonlight poured down upon her, bathing her in its light. The moon’s light shone upon the bubbling waters, making them come alive, dancing with silver. It shone upon the marble bridge, giving life to the knights who spent eternity crossing the stream.

But it was not these beautiful sights that caused the companions to clasp each other with shaking hands or to hold each other closely. The moon’s light on the water did not cause Flint to repeat the name of Reorx in the most reverent prayer he ever uttered, or cause Laurana to lean her head against her brother’s shoulder, her eyes dimmed with sudden tears, or cause Gilthanas to hold her tightly, overwhelmed by a feeling of fear and awe and reverence.

Soaring high above them, so tall its head might have torn a moon from the sky, was the figure of a dragon, carved out of a mountain of rock, shining silver in the moonlight.

“Where are we?” Laurana asked in a hushed voice. “What is this place?”

“When you cross the Bridge of Passage, you will stand before the Monument of the Silver Dragon,” answered Silvara softly. “It guards the Tomb of Huma, Knight of Solamnia.”

I
n Solinari’s light, the Bridge of Passage across the bubbling streams of Foghaven Vale gleamed like bright pearls threaded on a silver chain.

“Do not fear,” Silvara said again. “The crossing is difficult only for those who seek to enter the Tomb for evil purposes.”

But the companions remained unconvinced. Fearfully they climbed the few stairs leading them up to bridge itself. Then, hesitantly, they stepped upon the marble arch that rose before them, glistening wet with the steam from the springs. Silvara crossed first, walking lightly and with ease. The rest followed her more cautiously, keeping to the very center of the marble span.

Across from them, on the other side of the bridge, loomed the Monument of the Dragon. Even though they knew they must watch their footing, their eyes seemed constantly drawn
up to it. Many times, they were forced to stop and stare in awe, while below them the hot springs boiled and steamed.

“Why—I bet that water’s so hot you could cook meat in it!” Tasslehoff said. Lying flat on his stomach, he peered over the edge of the highest part of the arched bridge.

“I’ll b-bet it c-could c-cook you,” stuttered the terrified dwarf, crawling across on his hands and knees.

“Look, Flint! Watch. I’ve got this piece of meat in my pack. I’ll get a string and we’ll lower it in the water—”

“Get moving!” Flint roared. Tas sighed and closed his pouch.

“You’re no fun to take anywhere,” he complained, and he slid down the other side of the span on the seat of his pants.

But for the rest of the companions, it was a terrifying journey, and all of them sighed in heartfelt relief when they came down off the marble bridge onto the ground below.

None of them had spoken to Silvara as they crossed, their minds being too occupied with getting over the Bridge of Passage alive. But when they reached the other side, Laurana was the first to ask questions.

“Why have you brought us here?”

“Do you not trust me yet?” Silvara asked sadly.

Laurana hesitated. Her gaze went once again to the huge stone dragon, whose head was crowned with stars. The stone mouth was open in a silent cry, and the stone eyes stared fiercely. The stone wings were carved out of the sides of the mountain. A stone claw stretched forth, as massive as the trunks of a hundred vallenwood trees.

“You send the dragon orb away, then bring us to a monument dedicated to a dragon!” Laurana said after a moment, her voice quivering. “What am I to think? And you bring us to this place you
call
Huma’s Tomb. We do not even know if Huma lived, or if he was legend. What is to prove this is his resting place? Is his body within?”

“N-no,” Silvara faltered. “His body disappeared, as did—”

“As did what?”

“As did the lance he carried, the Dragonlance he used to destroy the Dragon of All Colors and of None.” Silvara sighed and lowered her head. “Come inside,” she begged, “and rest for the night. In the morning, all will be made clear, I promise.”

“I don’t think—” Laurana began.

“We’re going inside!” Gilthanas said firmly. “You’re behaving like a spoiled child, Laurana! Why would Silvara lead us into danger? Surely, if there was a dragon living here, everyone on Ergoth would know it! It could have destroyed everyone on the island long ago. I sense no evil about this place, only a great and ancient peace. And it’s a perfect hiding place! Soon the elves will receive word that the orb has reached Sancrist safely. They’ll quit searching, and we can leave. Isn’t that right, Silvara? Isn’t that why you brought us here?”

“Yes,” Silvara said softly. “Th-that was my plan. Now, come, come quickly, while the silver moon still shines. For only then can we enter.”

Gilthanas, his hand holding Silvara’s hand, walked into the shimmering silver fog. Tas skipped ahead of them, his pouches bouncing. Flint and Theros followed more slowly, Laurana more slowly still. Her fears were not eased by Gilthanas’s glib explanation, nor by Silvara’s reluctant agreement. But there was no place else to go and—as she admitted—she was intensely curious.

The grass on the other side of the bridge was smooth and flat with the steamy clouds of moisture, but the ground began to rise as they approached the body of the dragon carved out of the cliff. Suddenly Tasslehoff’s voice floated back to them from the mist where he had run far ahead of the group.

“Raistlin!” they heard him cry in a strangled voice. “He’s turned into a giant!”

“The kender’s gone mad,” Flint said with gloomy satisfaction. “I always knew it—”

Running forward, the companions found Tas jumping up and down and pointing. They stood by his side, panting for breath.

“By the beard of Reorx,” gasped Flint in awe. “It
is
Raistlin!”

Looming out of the swirling mist, rising nine feet in the air, stood a stone statue carved in a perfect likeness of the young mage. Accurate in every detail, it even captured his cynical, bitter expression and the carven eyes with their hourglass pupils.

“And there’s Caramon!” Tas cried.

A few feet away stood another statue, this time shaped like the mage’s warrior twin.

“And Tanis …” Laurana whispered fearfully. “What evil magic is this?”

“Not evil,” Silvara said, “unless you bring evil to this place. In that case, you would see the faces of your worst enemies within the stone statues. The horror and fear they generate would not allow you to pass. But you see only your friends, and so you may pass safely.”

“I wouldn’t exactly count Raistlin among my friends,” muttered Flint.