Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Sturm crouched beside the dragon’s head. The dragon’s eyes were open but fast dimming. His breathing was labored. He gazed at Sturm in wonder.

“A Solamnic knight… Why are you here? Do you… fight with the dwarves?” The dragon roused himself with an effort. “You must slay the foul wizard!”

Sturm glanced up at Raistlin.

“Not me,” Raistlin snapped. “The dragon speaks of dwarves fighting… He must mean Fistandantilus!”

“He found me sleeping,” the dragon murmured. “He cast a spell on me, made me a prisoner… Now he has sent his demons to slay me…”

The dragon coughed, blood spewing from his mouth.

“What kind of dragon are you?” Raistlin asked. “We have never seen your like.” The gleaming body shuddered. The dragon’s massive tail thumped the floor, his legs convulsed, wings twitched. He gave a final shiver. Blood poured out of his mouth. The dragon’s head lolled. The eyes stared, unseeing.

Raistlin gave an annoyed sigh.

Sturm cast him a reproachful glance, then bowed his head. “Paladine, God of Light and Mercy, Wisdom and Truth,” he prayed, “take the soul of this noble beast to your blessed realm—”

“Sturm, I heard something!” Caramon came running into the room. He stopped, abashed, when he saw the knight was praying, and looked at his twin. “I heard voices coming from the library.”

“Sir Knight,” Raistlin said sharply, “leave off your prayer. Paladine knows what to do with a soul. He does not need you to tell him.”

Sturm ignored him. He finished his prayer then rose to his feet.

“I heard voices,” said Caramon, apologetic, “coming from the corridor. Maybe draconian. I can’t tell.”

“Go with my brother,” said Raistlin. “The magic has drained me. I must rest.” He sank down onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall.

Caramon was alarmed. “Raist, you shouldn’t stay here alone.”

“Just go, Caramon,” Raistlin said, closing his eyes. “Sturm needs your help. Besides, you worry me to death with your fussing!”

The light glimmering from the crystal shone on his golden skin. His face was drawn. He began to cough and fumbled for his handkerchief.

“I don’t know,” Caramon hesitated.

“He will be safe enough here,” said Sturm. “The draconians have moved on.” Caramon cast his twin an uncertain glance. “You should douse the light, Raist.” Raistlin waited to hear the running footfalls of Sturm and his brother fade away. When he was certain they were gone, hoping his brother would not take it into his head to come back, Raistlin rose to his feet.

The room had been an armory, as he had said. The stands of old-fashioned plate armor lay dismembered on the floor. The draconians had overturned them, probably searching for loot. Weapons of various types littered the blood-covered floor, most of them either broken or rusted beyond repair. Raistlin cast a cursory glance at them but saw nothing of interest. Draconians were intelligent creatures who knew something of value when they saw it. They would have already appropriated anything worth while.

Raistlin walked over to the object that had caught his interest—a large burlap sack near the pile of dust that had once been a draconian. He laid his staff on the floor and knelt beside the sack, taking care to keep his robes out of the blood.

He poked one of the lumps inside the sack with his finger and felt something hard and solid. The sack was soaked with blood. Raistlin’s deft fingers pulled and tugged at the knot of the drawstring that closed the top. He finally pried it loose and opened the sack. The light from the crystal atop his staff shone on a helm and no ordinary helm at that. The draconian had recognized its value beneath the dust and grime that covered it, and though Raistlin was not one to judge the finer points of armor, even he could see that the helm had been crafted by an expert, designed to both protect the wearer and adorn him.

Raistlin rubbed of some of the dirt from the helm with the hem of his sleeve. Three large red rubies sparkled in the light.

Raistlin glanced inside the sack, saw nothing more of interest, and turned his attention back to the helm. Passing his hand over it, he murmured a few words. The helm began to give off a soft, pale glow.

“Ah, so you are magic… I wonder…”

The hair prickled on the back of his neck. A shiver crept up from the base of his spine. Someone was in the room with him. Someone was creeping up on him from behind. Moving slowly, Raistlin set down the helm. In the same motion, he took hold of his staff, and twisting to his feet, turned around.

Eyes, pale and cold, surrounded by shadow, gazed out of the darkness. The eyes had no substance, no head, no body. The eyes were not the eyes of the living. Raistlin recognized in that fell gaze the hatred and pain of a soul constrained to dwell in the Abyss, a prisoner of the God of Death, unable to find rest or relief from the gnawing torment of its terrible existence. The eyes drifted nearer, abyssal darkness stirring about it, trailing after it. Raistlin raised his staff, holding it in front of him. The staff was his only protection. He was too weak to cast another spell, even if he could think of any spell that would work against this dread specter. He considered shouting for help, but he feared that this might cause the wraith to attack. Above all, he had to keep the specter from touching him, for the touch of death would drain warmth, drain strength, and drain away his life.

The wraith drifted nearer, and suddenly the staff’s light flared in a blaze of dazzling white, nearly blinding Raistlin, who was forced to shield his eyes with his hand. The wraith halted. A voice spoke. The voice was dry as bone and soft as ash, and it came from an unseen mouth.

“The Master bids me give you this message, Raistlin Majere. You have found what you seek.” Raistlin was so astonished he nearly dropped the staff. His hand shook, and the light wavered. The wraith moved closer, and Raistlin tightened his grip, thrusting out the staff. The light shone steadily, and the wraith retreated.

“I don’t… understand.” Raistlin’s mouth was dry. He had to try twice to speak and then the words came out in a croak.

“Nor will you. Nor are you meant to. Not for a long time. Know that you are in the Master’s care.”

The spectral eyes closed. The darkness dissipated. Raistlin’s arm began to shake uncontrollably and he was forced to lower the staff. He was completely unnerved, and when a voice spoke behind him, he nearly crawled out of his skin.

The voice was Sturm’s. “Who were you talking to?” The knight’s tone was ugly and suspicious.

“I heard you talking to someone.”

“I was talking to myself,” said Raistlin. He thrust the helm into the sack, hoping the knight had not caught sight of it. He asked sharply, “What of those voices my brother heard? Where is Caramon?”

Sturm was not going to be distracted. His eye had caught sight of the gleaming metal.

“What is that you hold?” he demanded. “Why are you trying to hide it? Let me see it!” Raistlin sighed. “I am not trying to hide anything. I found an ancient dwarven helm inside this sack. I know little about armor, but it looks to be of some value. You can judge for yourself.” He handed over the sack. “Where is Caramon?”

“Entertaining guests,” said Sturm.

He opened the sack, pulled out the helm, and held it to the light. He breathed a soft sigh.

“Beautiful workmanship. I’ve never seen the like.” He glowered at Raistlin. “Of ‘some’ value! This is worth a king’s ransom. Such a helm would be worn only by one of royal blood, a prince or perhaps the king himself.”

“That would explain it…” Raistlin murmured. He added off-handedly, “You should handle it carefully. I think it might be enchanted.”