Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

"It's Berem!" the kender shouted frantically. "And he's doing something to Flint! Hurry, Tanis!"

Flint took a step and staggered. His eyes rolled up in his head. His legs buckled. Berem caught the dwarf in his arms and laid him down gently on the rocks, then hovered over him, uncertain what to do.

Hearing the sounds of feet pounding toward him, Berem stood up. He seemed relieved. Help was coming.

"What have you done?" Tanis raved. "You've killed him!"

He drew his sword and plunged the blade into Berem's body.

Berem shuddered and cried out. He sagged forward, his body impaled on the sword, falling onto Tanis, his weight nearly carrying them both to the ground. Blood washed over Tanis's hands. He yanked his blade free and turned, ready to fight Caramon, who was trying to pull him away. Berem was moaning on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound. Tika was sobbing.

Flint had seen none of it. He was leaving the world, starting on his soul's next long journey. Tasslehoff took hold of the dwarf's hand and urged him to get up.

"Leave me be, you doorknob," Flint grumbled weakly. "Can't you see I'm dying?"

Tasslehoff gave a grief-stricken wail and fell to his knees. "You're not dying, Flint! Don't say that."

"I should know if I'm dying or not!" Flint said irately, glowering.

"You thought you were dying before, and you were just seasick," Tas said, wiping his nose. "Maybe you're… you're…" He glanced around at the stone floor of the vale. "Maybe you're ground-sick…"

"Ground-sick!" Flint snorted. Then, seeing the kender's misery, the dwarf's expression softened. "There, there, lad. Don't waste time blubbering like a gully dwarf. Run and fetch Tanis for me."

Tasslehoff gave a snuffle and did as he was told.

Berem's eyelids fluttered. He gave another moan and sat up. He put his hand to his chest. The emerald, soaked with blood, sparkled in the sunlight.

Hope lives. No matter the mistakes we make, no matter our blunders and misunderstandings, no matter the grief and sorrow and loss, no matter how deep the darkness, hope lives.

Raistlin left his place by the pillars and came, unseen, to stand over Flint, who lay with his eyes closed. For a moment, the dwarf was alone. Some distance away, Caramon was trying to restore Tanis to sanity. Tasslehoff was tugging on Fizban's sleeve, trying to make him understand. Fizban understood all too well.

Raistlin knelt beside the dwarf. Flint's face was ashen and contorted with pain. His hands clenched. Sweat covered his brow.

"You never liked me," said Raistlin. "You never trusted me. Yet you were good to me, Flint. I cannot save your life. But I can ease the pain of dying, give you time to say good-bye."

Raistlin reached into his pouch and drew out a small vial containing juice distilled from poppy seeds. He poured a few drops into the dwarf's mouth. The lines of pain eased. Flint's eyes opened.

As his friends gathered around Flint to say good-bye, Raistlin was there with them, though none of them ever knew it. He told himself more than once that he should leave, that he had work to do, that his ambitious plans for his future hung in the balance. But he remained with his friends and his brother.

Raistlin stayed until Flint sighed and closed his eyes and the last breath left the dwarf's body. Raistlin chanted the magic beneath his breath. The corridor opened before him.

He walked into it and did not look back.

Kitiara reached Neraka early on the morning of the twenty-fifth, fearing she was late for the council meeting, only to find that Ariakas himself had not yet arrived. The plans for the meeting were thrown into confusion, for none of the other Highlords or their armies could enter the city ahead of the Emperor. Ariakas did not trust his fellow Highlords. If they were allowed inside Neraka, they might shut its gates and fill its walls with warriors and try to keep him out.

Kitiara had been expecting to move into her luxurious quarters in the temple. Instead, she was forced to camp outside the city walls, living in a tent that was so small and cramped, she could not pace about, as she was wont to do when she needed to think.

Kitiara was in a foul mood. She was still suffering a headache from where she'd hit her head on the stone floor of the vault. She was glad for the excuse to leave Dargaard Keep. Though she felt like crap, she had summoned Skie and flown to join her army. The thought of challenging Ariakas for the Crown of Power had eased the pain in her head. But she had arrived here only to discover that no one knew where Ariakas was or when he would deign to grace them with his presence. And that left Kitiara nothing to do except fume and complain to her aide-de-camp, a bozak draconian named Gakhan.

"Ariakas is doing this deliberately to unsettle the rest of us," Kitiara muttered. She was sitting hunched over a small table, her head in her hands, massaging her throbbing temples. "He's trying to intimidate us, Gakhan, and I won't stand for it."

Gakhan made a noise, a kind of snort and sneer. The bozak grinned, his tongue flicked out of his mouth.

Kitiara raised her head and looked at him sharply. "You've heard something. What's going on?"

Gakhan had been with Kitiara since before the beginning of the war. Though officially known as her aide-de-camp, his unofficial title was Kitiara's Knife. Gakhan was loyal to Kitiara and to his Queen, in that order. Some said he was in love with the Blue Lady, though they were always careful to say that behind his back, never to his face. The bozak was smart, secretive, resourceful, and extremely dangerous. He had earned his nickname.

Gakhan glanced out the tent flap, then drew it shut and tied it securely. He leaned over Kitiara and spoke softly, "My lord Ariakas is late because he was wounded. He very nearly died."

Kitiara stared at the bozak. "What? How?"

"Keep your voice down, my lord," the draconian said solemnly. "News like this, should it leak out, might embolden the Emperor's enemies."

"Yes, of course, you are right," said Kit with equal solemnity. "Do you trust your source for this… um… disturbing information?" "Completely," said Gakhan.

Kitiara smiled. "I need details. Ariakas has not been in battle lately, so I assume someone tried to assassinate him." "And very nearly succeeded."

"Who was it?"

Gakhan paused to build the suspense, then said with a grin, "His witch!"

"Iolanthe?" Kitiara said loudly, forgetting in her astonishment that she was supposed to be circumspect.

Gakhan cast her a warning glance, and Kit lowered her voice. "When did this happen?"

"The Night of the Eye, my lord."

"But that's not possible. Iolanthe died that night." Kitiara gestured to some dispatches. "I have the reports-"

"Fabricated, my lord. It seems that Talent Orren-"

Kitiara glared at him. "Orren? What does he have to do with this? I want to know about Iolanthe."

Gakhan bowed. "If you will be patient, my lord. It seems that Orren found out about the plot to kill him and his fellow members of Hidden Light. He sent word around among the troops that the Church was going to try to 'clean up' the city of Neraka. Orders had been given to burn the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll. Naturally, the soldiers were not pleased. When the death squads arrived to carry out their orders, they found armed soldiers guarding the taverns. Orren and his friends escaped."

"What has this to do with Iolanthe?" Kit demanded impatiently.

"She is a member of Hidden Light."

Kitiara stared. "That's impossible. She saved my life!"

"I believe she had some thought of serving you at the time, my lord. She grew disenchanted with you, however, after you wanted to take away the magic. She had been doing odd jobs for Orren. The two became lovers, and she threw in her lot with him."