Dragonlance 03 - Dragons of Spring Dawning (53 page)

“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 statuelike 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 jowls 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
blood-stained, 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
E’li
. 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.