Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

“What… what was that?” Tika quavered.

Tas reflected. “I think it was a Stalig Mite.” he said in hushed tones.

“A what kind of mite?” Tika whispered, her hands shaking so that the flame of the torch bounced all over the cavern.

“A Stalig Mite,” Tas said solemnly. “I’ve heard stories about them. They live in caves, and they’re huge and quite ferocious. I’m sorry to tell you this, Tika, but you should prepare yourself for the worst. That sound we heard was probably the Stalig Mite devouring Caramon.”

“No!” Tika cried wildly. “I don’t believe—” She paused, eying the kender. “Wait a minute. I’ve never heard of a Stalig Mite.”

“You should really get out more, Tika.”

“You mean stalagmite!” Tika was so mad she very nearly threw the torch at him.

“That’s what I said.” Tas was hurt. “Stalig Mite. Found only in caves.”

“A stalagmite is a rock formation found in caves, you doorknob! What do you mean scaring me like that?” Tika wiped sweat from her forehead.

“Are you sure?” Tas was loathe to give up the idea of a ferocious man-eating Stalig Mite.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Tika sounded very cross.

“Well, if that noise wasn’t made by a Stalig Mite devouring Caramon, then what was it?” Tas asked practically.

Tika had no answer for that, and she wished he hadn’t brought it up. She turned around. “Maybe we should go back…”

“We’ve been back, Tika,” Tas pointed out. “We know what’s back there—a lot of very dark darkness—and we don’t know what’s up ahead. Maybe Caramon hasn’t been eaten by a rock formation, but he and his brother could still be in trouble and need our help. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we—you and I—rescued Caramon and Raistlin? They’d respect us then. No more pulling my topknot or slapping my hand when all I wanted to do was to touch his stupid old staff.”

Tika envisioned Raistlin humbled and meek, thanking her profusely for saving his life, and Caramon hugging her tightly, telling her over and over how proud he was of her. Tas was right. Behind them was nothing but darkness.

Fearful but resolute, Tika continued on her way through the tunnel, accompanied by Tasslehoff, who was hoping Tika turned out to be wrong about the Stalig Mites.

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, shivering 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 bestial 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 clashing 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 noble last stand of the Brightblades.