War of the Twins Page 2

  “Before he returned to claim this Tower as his own,” Caramon said grimly. “And that means the curse is still upon the Tower, Lady Crysania. That means we are in the one place in Krynn where evil reigns supreme. The one place more feared than any other upon the face of the world. The one place where no mortal dare tread, guarded by the Shoikan Grove and the gods know what else! He has brought us here! We have materialized within its heart!”

  Crysania suddenly saw pale faces appear outside the circle of light, as if summoned by Caramon’s voice. Disembodied heads, staring at her with eyes long ago closed in dark and dismal death, they floated in the cold air, their mouths opening wide in anticipation of warm, living blood.

  “Caramon, I can see them!” Crysania choked, shrinking close to the big man. “I can see their faces!”

  “I felt their hands on me,” Caramon said. Shivering convulsively, feeling her shivering as well, he put his arm about her, drawing her close to him. “They attacked me. Their touch froze my skin. That was when you heard me yell.”

  “But why didn’t I see them before? What keeps them from attacking now?”

  “You, Lady Crysania,” Caramon said softly. “You are a cleric of Paladine. These are creatures spawned of evil, created by the curse. They do not have the power to harm you.”

  Crysania looked at the medallion in her hands. The light welled forth still, but—even as she stared at it—it seemed to dim. Guiltily, she remembered the elven cleric, Loralon. She remembered her refusal to accompany him. His words rang in her mind: You will see only when you are blinded by the darkness.…

  “I am a cleric, true,” she said softly, trying to keep the despair from her voice, “but my faith is … imperfect. These things sense my doubts, my weakness. Perhaps a cleric as strong as Elistan would have the power to fight them. I don’t think I do.” The glow dimmed further. “My light is failing, Caramon,” she said, after a moment. Looking up, she could see the pallid faces eagerly drift nearer, and she shrank closer to him. “What can we do?”

  “What can we do! I have no weapon! I can’t see!” Caramon cried out in agony, clenching his fist.

  “Hush!” Crysania ordered, grasping his arm, her eyes on the shimmering figures. “They seem to grow stronger when you talk like that! Perhaps they feed off fear. Those in the Shoikan Grove do, so Dalamar told me.”

  Caramon drew a deep breath. His body glistened with sweat, and he began to shake violently.

  “We’ve got to try to wake up Raistlin,” Crysania said.

  “No good!” Caramon whispered through chattering teeth. “I know—”

  “We have to try!” Crysania said firmly, though she shuddered at the thought of walking even a few feet under that terrible scrutiny.

  “Be careful, move slowly,” Caramon advised, letting her go.

  Holding the medallion high, her eyes on the eyes of the darkness, Crysania crept over to Raistlin. She placed one hand on the mage’s thin, black-robed shoulder. “Raistlin!” she said as loudly as she dared, shaking him. “Raistlin!”

  There was no response. She might as well have tried to rouse a corpse. Thinking of that, she glanced out at the waiting figures. Would they kill him? she wondered. After all, he didn’t exist in this time. The “master of past and present” had not yet returned to claim his property—this Tower.

  Or had he?

  Crysania called to the mage again and, as she did so, she kept her eyes on the undead, who were moving nearer as her light grew weaker.

  “Fistandantilus!” she said to Raistlin.

  “Yes!” Caramon cried, hearing her and understanding. “They recognize that name. What’s happening? I feel a change.…”

  “They’ve stopped!” Crysania said breathlessly. “They’re looking at him now.”

  “Get back!” Caramon ordered, rising to a half-crouch. “Keep away from him. Get that light away from him! Let them see him as he exists in their darkness!”

  “No!” Crysania retorted angrily. “You’re mad! Once the light’s gone, they’ll devour him—”

  “It’s our only chance!”

  Lunging for Crysania blindly, Caramon caught her off guard. He grabbed her in his strong arms and yanked her away from Raistlin, hurling her to the floor. Then he fell across her smashing the breath from her body.

  “Caramon!” She gasped for air. “They’ll kill him! No—” Frantically, Crysania struggled against the big warrior, but he held her pinned beneath him.

  The medallion was still clutched in her fingers. Its light glowed weaker and weaker. Twisting her body, she saw Raistlin, lying in darkness now, outside the circle of her light.

  “Raistlin!” she screamed. “No! Let me up, Caramon! They’re going to him.…”

  But Caramon held her all the more firmly, pressing her down against the cold floor. His face was anguished, yet grim and determined, his sightless eyes staring down at her. His flesh was cold against her own, his muscles tense and knotted.

  She would cast another spell on him! The words were on her lips when a shrill cry of pain pierced the darkness.

  “Paladine, help me!” Crysania prayed.…

  Nothing happened.

  Weakly, she tried one more time to escape Caramon, but it was hopeless and she knew it. And now, apparently, even her god had abandoned her. Crying out in frustration, cursing Caramon, she could only watch.

  The pale, shimmering figures surrounded Raistlin now. She could see him only by the light of the horrid aura their decaying bodies cast. Her throat ached and a low moan escaped her lips as one of the ghastly creatures raised its cold hands and laid them upon his body.

  Raistlin screamed. Beneath the black robes, his body jerked in spasms of agony.

  Caramon, too, heard his brother’s cry. Crysania could see it reflected in his deathly, pale face. “Let me up!” she pleaded. But, though cold sweat beaded his forehead, he shook his head resolutely, holding her hands tightly.

  Raistlin screamed again. Caramon shuddered, and Crysania felt his muscles grow flaccid. Dropping the medallion, she freed her arms to strike at him with her clenched fists. But as she did so, the medallion’s light vanished, plunging them both into complete darkness. Caramon’s body was suddenly wrenched off hers. His hoarse, agonized scream mingled with the screams of his brother.

  Dizzily, her heart racing in terror, Crysania struggled to sit up, her hand pawing the floor frantically for the medallion.

  A face came near hers. She glanced up quickly from her search, thinking it was Caramon.…

  It wasn’t. A disembodied head floated near her.

  “No!” she whispered, unable to move, feeling life drain from her hands, her body, her very heart. Fleshless hands grasped her arms, drawing her near; bloodless lips gaped, eager for warmth.

  “Paladi—” Crysania tried to pray, but she felt her soul being sucked from her body by the creature’s deadly touch.

  Then she heard, dimly and far away, a weak voice chanting words of magic. Light exploded around her. The head so near her own vanished with a shriek the fleshless hands loosed their grasp. There was an acrid smell of sulfur.

  “Shirak.” The explosive light was gone. A soft glow lit the room.

  Crysania sat up. “Raistlin!” she whispered thankfully. Staggering to her hands and knees, she crawled forward across the blackened, blasted floor to reach the mage, who lay on his back, breathing heavily. One hand rested on the Staff of Magius. Light radiated from the crystal ball clutched in the golden dragon’s claw atop the staff.

  “Raistlin! Are you all right?”

  Kneeling beside him, she looked into his thin, pale face as he opened his eyes. Wearily, he nodded. Then, reaching up, he drew her down to him. Embracing her, he stroked her soft, black hair. She could feel his heart beat. The strange warmth of his body drove away the chill.

  “Don’t be afraid!” he whispered soothingly, feeling her tremble. “They will not harm us. They have seen me and recognized me. They didn’t hurt you?”

  She
could not speak but only shook her head. He sighed again. Crysania, her eyes closed, lay in his embrace, lost in comfort.

  Then, as his hand went to her hair once more, she felt his body tense. Almost angrily, he grasped her shoulders and pushed her away from him.

  “Tell me what happened,” he ordered in a weak voice.

  “I woke up here—” Crysania faltered. The horror of her experience and the memory of Raistlin’s warm touch confused and unnerved her. Seeing his eyes grow cold and impatient, however, she made herself continue, keeping her voice steady. “I heard Caramon shout—”

  Raistlin’s eyes opened wide. “My brother?” he said, startled. “So the spell brought him, too. I’m amazed I am still alive. Where is he?” Lifting his head weakly, he saw his brother, lying unconscious on the floor. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “I—I cast a spell. He’s blind,” Crysania said, flushing. “I didn’t mean to, it was when he was trying to ki-kill you—in Istar, right before the Cataclysm—”

  “You blinded him! Paladine … blinded him!” Raistlin laughed. The sound reverberated off the cold stones, and Crysania cringed, feeling a chill of horror. But the laughter caught in Raistlin’s throat. The mage began to choke and gag, gasping for breath.

  Crysania watched, helpless, until the spasm passed and Raistlin lay quietly once more. “Go on,” he whispered irritably.

  “I heard him yell, but I couldn’t see in the darkness. The medallion gave me light, though, and I found him and I—I knew he was blind. I found you, too. You were unconscious. We couldn’t wake you. Caramon told me to describe where we were and then I saw”—she shuddered—“I saw those … those horrible—”

  “Continue,” Raistlin said.

  Crysania drew a deep breath, “Then the light from the medallion began to fail—”

  Raistlin nodded.

  “—and those … things came toward us. I called out to you, using the name Fistandantilus. That made them pause. Then”—Crysania’s voice lost its fear and was edged with anger—“your brother grabbed me and threw me down on the floor, shouting something about ‘let them see him as he exists in their own darkness!’ When Paladine’s light no longer touched you, those creature—” She shuddered and covered her face with her hands, still hearing Raistlin’s terrible scream echoing in her mind.

  “My brother said that?” Raistlin asked softly after a moment.

  Crysania moved her hands to look at him, puzzled at his tone of mingled admiration and astonishment. “Yes,” she said coldly after a moment. “Why?”

  “He saved our lives,” Raistlin remarked, his voice once more caustic. “The great dolt actually had a good idea. Perhaps you should leave him blind—it aids his thinking.”

  Raistlin tried to laugh, but it turned to a cough that nearly choked him instead. Crysania started toward him to help him, but he halted her with a fierce look, even as his body twisted in pain. Rolling to his side, he retched.

  He fell back weakly, his lips stained with blood, his hands twitching. His breathing was shallow and too fast. Occasionally a coughing spasm wrenched his body.

  Crysania stared at him helplessly.

  “You told me once that the gods could not heal this malady. But you’re dying, Raistlin! Isn’t there something I can do?” she asked softly, not daring to touch him.

  He nodded, but for a minute could neither speak nor move. Finally, with an obvious effort, he lifted a trembling hand from the chill floor and motioned Crysania near. She bent over him. Reaching up, he touched her cheek, drawing her face close to his. His breath was warm against her skin.

  “Water!” He gasped inaudibly. She could understand him only by reading the movements of his blood-caked lips. “A potion … will help.…” Feebly, his hand moved to a pocket in his robes. “And … and warmth, fire! I … have not … the strength.…”

  Crysania nodded, to show she understood.

  “Caramon?” His lips formed the words.

  “Those—those things attacked him,” she said, glancing over at the big warrior’s motionless body. “I’m not sure if he’s still alive.…”

  “We need him! You … must … heal him!” He could not continue but lay panting for air, his eyes closed.

  Crysania swallowed, shivering. “Are—are you sure?” she asked hesitantly. “He tried to murder you—”

  Raistlin smiled, then shook his head. The black hood rustled gently at the motion. Opening his eyes, he looked up at Crysania and she could see deep within their brown depths. The flame within the mage burned low, giving the eyes a soft warmth much different from the raging fire she had seen before.

  “Crysania …” he breathed, “I … am going … to lose consciousness.… You … will … be alone … in this place of darkness.… My brother … can help.… Warmth …” His eyes closed, but his grasp on Crysania’s hand tightened, as though endeavoring to use her lifeforce to cling to reality. With a violent struggle, he opened his eyes again to look directly into hers. “Don’t leave this room!” he mouthed. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  You will be alone! Crysania glanced around fearfully, feeling suffocated with terror. Water! Warmth! How could she manage? She couldn’t! Not in this chamber of evil!

  “Raistlin!” she begged, grasping his frail hand in both her hands and resting her cheek against it. “Raistlin, please don’t leave me!” she whispered, cringing at the touch of his cold flesh. “I can’t do what you ask! I haven’t the power! I can’t create water out of dust—”

  Raistlin’s eyes opened. They were nearly as dark as the room in which he lay. Moving his hand, the hand she held, he traced a line from her eyes down her cheek. Then the hand went limp, his head lolled to one side.

  Crysania raised her own hand to her skin in confusion, wondering what he meant by such a strange gesture? It had not been a caress. He was trying to tell her something, that much had been apparent by his insistent gaze. But what? Her skin burned at his touch … bringing back memories.…

  And then she knew.

  I can’t create water out of dust.…

  “My tears!” she murmured.

  CHAPTER

  2

  itting alone in the chill chamber, kneeling beside Raistlin’s still body, seeing Caramon lying nearby, pale and lifeless, Crysania suddenly envied both of them fiercely. How easy it would be, she thought, to slip into unconsciousness and let the darkness take me! The evil of the place—which had seemingly fled at the sound of Raistlin’s voice—was returning. She could feel it on her neck like a cold draft. Eyes stared at her from the shadows, eyes that were kept back, apparently, only by the light of the Staff of Magius, which still gleamed. Even unconscious, Raistlin’s hand rested on it.

  Crysania lay the archmage’s other hand, the hand she held, gently across his chest. Then she sat back, her lips pressed tightly together, swallowing her tears.

  “He’s depending on me,” she said to herself, talking to dispel the sounds of whispering she heard around her. “In his weakness, he is relying on my strength. All my life,” she continued, wiping tears from her eyes and watching the water gleam on her fingers in the staff’s light, “I have prided myself on my strength. Yet, until now, I never knew what true strength was.” Her eyes went to Raistlin. “Now, I see it in him! I will not let him down!

  “Warmth,” she said, shivering so much that she could barely stand. “He needs warmth. We all do.” She sighed helplessly. “Yet how am I to do that! If we were in Ice Wall Castle, my prayers alone would be enough to keep us warm. Paladine would aid us. But this chill is not the chill of ice or snow.

  “It is deeper than that—freezing the spirit more than the blood. Here, in this place of evil, my faith might sustain me, but it will never warm us!”

  Thinking of this and glancing around the room dimly seen by the light of the staff, Crysania saw the shadowy forms of tattered curtains hanging from the windows. Made of heavy velvet, they were large enough to cover all of them. Her spirits rose, but sank almost
instantly as she realized they were far across the room. Barely visible within the writhing darkness, the windows were outside of the staff’s circle of bright light.

  “I’ll have to walk over there,” she said to herself, “in the shadows!” Her heart almost failed her, her strength ebbed. “I will ask Paladine’s help.” But, as she spoke, her gaze went to the medallion lying cold and dark on the floor.

  Bending down to pick it up, she hesitated, fearing for a moment to touch it, remembering in sorrow how its light had died at the coming of the evil.

  Once again, she thought of Loralon, the great elven cleric who had come to take her away before the Cataclysm. She had refused, choosing instead to risk her life, to hear the words of the Kingpriest—the words that called down the wrath of the gods. Was Paladine angry? Had he abandoned her in his anger, as many believed he had abandoned all of Krynn following the terrible destruction of Istar? Or was his divine guidance simply unable to penetrate the chill layers of evil that shrouded the accursed Tower of High Sorcery?

  Confused and frightened, Crysania lifted the medallion. It did not glow. It did nothing. The metal felt cold in her hand. Standing in the center of the room, holding the medallion, her teeth chattering, she willed herself to walk to a window.

  “If I don’t,” she muttered through stiff lips, “I’ll die of the cold. We’ll all die,” she added, her gaze going back to the brothers. Raistlin wore his black velvet robes, but she remembered the icy feel of his hand in hers. Caramon was still dressed as he had been for the gladiator games in little more than golden armor and a loincloth.

  Lifting her chin, Crysania cast a defiant glance at the unseen, whispering things that lurked around her, then she walked steadfastly out of the circle of magical light shed by Raistlin’s staff.

  Almost instantly, the darkness came alive! The whispers grew louder and, in horror, she realized she could understand the words!