Margaret Weis - THE SOULFORGE

The pain of his swelling jaw made Raistlin's head ache unbearably. The ropes cut into his flesh, the priests pinched his arms. He struggled to remain on his feet, lest he fall and be trampled. It was all so unreal, he felt no fear.

Fear would come later. For now, he was in a nightmare existence, a dreamworld from which there would be no awakening.

The torchlight blinded him. He could see nothing but an occasional face-mouth leering, eyes gleefully staring-illuminated in the light, vanishing swiftly in the darkness, only to be replaced by another. He caught a glimpse of the young woman who had lost the child, saw her face, grieved, pitying, afraid. She reached out her hand to him as if she would have helped, but the priests shoved her brutally back.

The Temple of Belzor loomed in the distance. The stone structure had not been damaged in the fire, apparently, only portions of the interior. A crowd had gathered on the broad expanse of grass in front of the temple to watch a man in blue robes drive a large wooden pole into the ground. Other priests tossed faggots of wood around the stake.

Many of Haven's citizens were assisting the priests to build the pyre. Some of the very same citizens, who had only hours before jeered the priests, laughed at him and mocked him. Raistlin was not surprised. Here again was evidence of the ugliness of mankind. Let them be subjugated, robbed, and hoodwinked by Belzor. He and his followers deserved each other.

The priests and the mob hauled Raistlin down the street leading to the temple. They were very close to the stake now, and where was Caramon? Where were Kit and Tanis? Suppose the priests had managed to intercept them, waylay them? Suppose they were battling for their lives inside the fairgrounds, with no way to reach him? Suppose-chilling thought-they had seen that rescue was hopeless, had given up?

The mob picked up the chant, shouting,."Belzor! Belzor!" in an insane litany. Raistlin's hopes died, his fear sprang horribly to life. Then a voice rang out over the wild chanting and the shrieks and laughter.

"Halt! What is the meaning of this?" Raistlin lifted his head.

Sturm Brightblade stood in the center of the street, blocking the priests' way, standing between the stake and its victim. Illuminated by the light of many torches, Sturm was an impressive sight. He stood tall and unafraid, his long mustaches bristling. His stern face was older than its years. He held naked steel in his hand; torchlight flared along the blade as if the metal had caught fire. He was proud and fierce, calm and dignified, a fixed point in the center of swirling turmoil.

The crowd hushed, from awe and respect. The priests in the vanguard halted, daunted by this young man who was not a knight but who was made knightly by his demeanor, his stance, and his courage. Sturm seemed an apparition, sprung from the legendary time of Huma. Uncertain and uneasy, the priests in front looked to the High Priest in the back for orders.

"You fools!" the High Priest shouted at them in fury. "He's one man and alone! Knock him aside and keep going!"

A rock sailed out from the midst of the watching mob, struck Sturm in the forehead. He clapped his hand over the wound, staggered where he stood. Yet he did not leave his place in the road, nor did he drop his sword. Blood poured from his face, obliterating his vision in one eye. Lifting his sword, he advanced grimly on the priests.

The mob had tasted blood, they were eager for more, so long as it wasn't their own. Several ruffians ran from the crowd, jumped on Sturm from from behind. Yelling and cursing, kicking and pummeling, the men bore him to the ground.

The priests hustled their captive to the stake. Raistlin cast a glance at his friend. Sturm lay groaning in the road, blood covered his torn clothing. And then the mob surged around Raistlin and he could see his friend no more.

He had quite given up hope. Caramon and the others were not coming. The knowledge came to Raistlin that he was going to die, die most horribly and painfully.

The wooden post thrust up from the center of the pile of wood, dry wood that snapped underfoot. The jutting branches caught on Raistlin's robes, tearing the cloth as the priests shoved him near the stake. Roughly they turned him around, so that he faced the crowd, which was all gleaming eyes and gaping, hungry mouths. The dry wood was being doused with liquid- dwarf spirits, by the smell of it. This was not the priests' doing, but some of the more drunken revelers.

The priests tied Raistlin's wrists together behind the stake, then they wound coils of rope around his chest and torso, binding him tightly. He was held fast, and though he struggled with all his remaining strength, he could not free himself. The High Priest had been going to make a speech, but some eager drunk flung a torch on the wood before the priests had finished tying up their prisoner, nearly setting the High Priest himself on fire. He and the others were forced to jump and skip with unseemly haste away from the pyre. The liquor-soaked wood caught quickly. Tongues of flame licked the tinder, began to devour it.

Smoke stung Raistlin's eyes, filled them with tears. He closed them against the flames and the smoke and cursed his feebleness and helplessness. He braced himself to endure the agonizing torment when the flames reached his skin.

"Hullo, Raistlin!" chimed a voice directly behind him. "Isn't this exciting? I've never seen anyone burned at the stake before. 'Course, I would much rather it wasn't you-"

All the while that Tasslehoff prattled, his knife cut rapidly through the knots on the rope that bound Raistlin's wrists.

"The kender!" came hoarse, angry shouts. "Stop him!" "Here, I thought this might help!" Tas said hurriedly. Raistlin felt the hilt of a knife shoved into his hand. "It's from your friend, Lemuel. He says to-"

Raistlin was never to know what Lemuel said, because at that moment an enormous bellow broke over the crowd. People screamed and shouted in alarm. Steel flared in the torchlight. Caramon loomed suddenly in front of Raistlin, who could have broken down and wept with joy at the sight of his brother's face. Oblivious to the pain, Caramon snatched up whole bundles of burning wood and flung them aside.

Tanis had placed his back to Caramon's, swung the flat of his blade, knocking away torches and clubs. Kitiara fought at her lover's side. She was not using the flat of her blade. One priest lay bleeding at her feet. Kit fought with a smile on her lips, her dark eyes bright with the fun of it all.

Flint was there, wrestling with the priests who had hold of Tasslehoff and were trying to drag him into the temple. The dwarf attacked them with such roaring ferocity that they soon let loose of the kender and fled. Sturm appeared, wielding his sword with dispatch, the blood forming a mask on his face.

Haven's citizens, though sorry to see that the wizard wasn't going to go up in flames, were diverted and entertained by the daring rescue. The fickle mob turned against the priests, cheered the heroes. The High Priest fled for the safety of the temple. His cohorts-those who remained standing, at least-followed in haste. The mob hurled rocks and made plans to storm the temple.

Relief and the realization that he was safe, that he was not going to die in the fire, flooded through Raistlin in a tidal surge that left him faint and dazed. He sagged against his bonds.

Caramon snatched the ropes from around Raistlin's body and caught hold of his fainting brother. Lifting Raistlin in his arms, Caramon carried him away from the stake and laid him on the ground.

People crowded around, eager to help save the young man whom they had been just as eager to see burn to death only moments earlier.

"Clear off, you buggers!" Flint roared, waving his arms and glowering. "Give him air."