Margaret Weis: War of the Twins

Half-blinded by the brilliance, tears ran from Raistlin’s eyes as he stared into the swirling vortex. And then he saw—the Portal was closing.

Hurling his magical staff to the floor, Raistlin unleashed his rage in a bitter, incoherent scream of fury.

Out of the Portal, in answer, came lilting, mocking laughter.

Come home...

A feeling of calmness stole over Raistlin—the cold calm of despair. He had failed. But She would never see him grovel. If he must die, he would die within his magic...

He lifted his head. He rose to his feet. Using all of his great powers—powers of the ancients, powers of his own, powers he had no idea he possessed, powers that rose from somewhere dark and hidden even from himself—Raistlin raised his arms and his voice screamed out once again. But this time it was not an incoherent shriek of frustrated helplessness. This time, his words were clear. This time he shouted words of command that had never been uttered upon this world before.

This time his words were heard and understood.

The field held. He held it! He could feel himself holding onto it. At his command, the Portal shivered and ceased to close.

Raistlin drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then, out of the corner of his eye, somewhere to his right, he saw a flash. The magical time-travel device had been activated!

The field jumped and surged wildly. As the device’s magic grew and spread, its powerful vibrations caused the very rocks of the fortress to begin to sing. In a devastating wave their songs surged around Raistlin. The dragons’ shrieking answered in anger. The ageless voices of the rocks and their timeless voices of the dragons fought, flowed together, and finally combined in a discordant, mind-shattering cacophony.

The sound was deafening, ear splitting. The force of the two powerful spells sundered the ground. The earth beneath Raistlin’s feet shuddered. The singing rocks split wide open. The metallic dragons’ heads cracked...

The Portal itself began to crumble.

Raistlin fell to his knees. The magical field was tearing loose, splitting apart like the bones of the world itself. It was breaking, splintering and, because Raistlin still held onto it, it began to tear him apart as well.

Pain shot through his head. His body convulsed. He writhed in agony.

It was a terrible choice he faced. Let go, and he would fall, fall to his doom, fall into a nothingness to which the most abject darkness was preferable. And yet, if he held it, he knew he would be ripped apart, his body dismembered by the forces of magic he could no longer control.

His muscles ripped from his bones, sinews shredding, tendons snapping.

“Caramon!” Raistlin moaned, but Caramon and Tas had vanished. The magical device, repaired by the one gnome whose inventions worked, had, indeed, worked. They were gone. There was no help.

Raistlin had seconds to live, moments to act. Yet the pain was so excruciating that he could not think.

His joints were being wrested from their sockets, his eyes plucked from his face, his heart torn from his body, his brain sucked from his skull.

He could hear himself screaming and he knew it was his death cry. Still he fought on, as he had fought all his life.

I... will... control...

The words came from his mouth, stained with his blood...

I will control...

Reaching out, his hand closed over the Staff of Magius.

I will!

And then he was hurtling forward into a blinding, swirling, crashing wave of many-colored lights Come home... come home... .