The Soulforge Page 36

  One of the priests stood in front of Raistlin’s cell.

  “Here he is! In here!”

  Raistlin clasped his hands together tightly to keep from revealing how he trembled. He faced them defiantly, his face a cold, proud mask to conceal his fear.

  The priests had keys to the cell; the jailer had not put up much of a fight. Ignoring the pleadings and wailings of the kender, who were having a difficult time removing the padlock, the priests opened Raistlin’s cell. They seized hold of him, bound his hands with a length of rope.

  “You’ll not work any more of your foul magic on us,” said one.

  “It’s not my magic you fear,” Raistlin told them, speaking proudly, pleased that his voice did not crack. “It is my words. That is why you want to kill me before I can stand trial. You know that if I have a chance to speak, I will denounce you for the thieves and charlatans that you are.”

  One of the priests struck Raistlin across the face. The blow rocked him backward, knocked loose a tooth and split open his lip. He tasted blood. The cell and the priests wavered in his sight.

  “Don’t knock him unconscious!” scolded the other priest. “We want him wide awake to feel the flames licking him!”

  They took hold of Raistlin by the arms, hustled him out of the cell, moving so rapidly that they nearly swept him off his feet. He stumbled after them, forced to almost run to keep from falling. Whenever he slowed, they jerked him forward, gripping his arms painfully.

  The jailkeep stood huddled by the door, head down and eyes lowered. The young guard, who had apparently made some attempt to defend the prisoner, lay unconscious on the ground, blood forming a pool beneath his head.

  The priests gave a cheer when Raistlin was brought forth. The cheer ceased immediately, at a sharp command from the High Priest. Quietly, with deadly intent, they surrounded Raistlin, looked to their leader for orders.

  “We will take him back to the temple and execute him there. His death will serve as an example to others who may have it in mind to cross us.

  “After the wizard’s dead, we will claim that none of us saw the giant kender. We will send out our claque to make the same pronouncements. Soon those who did see it will begin to doubt their senses. We will maintain that the wizard, frightened of the power of Belzor, started a riot in order that he might slip away unnoticed and murder our priestess.”

  “Will that work?” asked someone dubiously. “People saw what they saw.”

  “They’ll soon change their minds. Seeing the charred body of the wizard in front of the temple will help them reach the right decision. Those who don’t will face the same fate.”

  “What about the wizard’s friends? The dwarf and the half-elf and the rest of them?”

  “Judith knew them, told me all about them. We have nothing to fear. The sister’s a whore. The dwarf’s a drunken sot who cares only for his ale mug. The half-elf’s a mongrel, a sniveling coward like all elves. They won’t cause any trouble. They’ll be only too happy to slink out of town. Start chanting, someone,” the High Priest snapped. “It will look better if we do this in the name of Belzor.”

  Raistlin managed a bleak smile, though it reopened the wound on his split lip. At the thought of his friends, his despair lessened and he grew hopeful. The priests didn’t want him dead nearly as much as they needed the drama of his death, needed it to instill the fear of Belzor in the minds of the populace. This delay could work to his advantage. The noise and the light and the uproar in the town must be noticed, even as far away as the fairgrounds.

  Taking up the chant, shouting praise to Belzor, the priests dragged Raistlin through the streets of Haven. The sound of loud chanting and the light of flaring torches brought people from their beds to the windows. Seeing the spectacle, they hastily donned their clothes, hurried out to watch. The ne’er-do-wells in the taverns left their drinking to see what all the commotion was about. They were quick to join the mob, and fell in behind the priests. Drunken shouts now punctuated the priests’ chanting.

  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 stem 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 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.”

  Someone handed the dwarf a bottle of fine brandy “to give to the brave young man.”

  “Thankee,” Flint said and took a long pull to fortify himself, then handed over the bottle.

  Caramon touched the brandy to Raistlin’s lips. The sting of the liquor on his cut lip and the fiery liquid biting into his throat brought him to consciousness. He gagged, choked, and thrust the brandy bottle away.

  “I have narrowly escaped being burned to death, Caramon! Would you now poison me?” Raistlin coughed and wretched.

  He struggled to his feet, ignoring Caramon’s protestations that he should rest. The mob had surrounded the temple, shouting that the priests of Belzor should all be burned.

  “Was the young man hurt?” came a worried voice. “I have an ointment for burns.”

  “It’s all right, Caramon,” Raistlin said, halting his brother, who was attempting to shoo away the curious. “This is a friend of mine.”

  Lemuel gazed at Raistlin anxiously. “Did they hurt you?”

  “No, sir. I have taken no hurt, thank you. I am only a little dazed by it all.”

  “This ointment”—Lemuel held up a small jar. “I made it myself. It comes from the aloe—”

  “Thank you,” said Raistlin, accepting the jar. “I don’t need it, but I believe that my brother could use it.”

  He cast a glance at Caramon’s hands, which were burned and blistered. Caramon flushed and grinned self-consciously, thrust his hands behind his back.

  “Thank you for the knife,” Raistlin added, offering to return it. “Fortunately I had no need to use it.”

  “Keep it! It’s the least I can do. Thanks to you, young man, I won’t have to leave my home.”

  “But you have given me your books,” Raistlin argued, holding out the knife.

  Lemuel waved the knife away. “It belonged to my father. He would have wanted a magus like you to have it. It certainly does me no good, although I did find it useful to aerate the soil around my gardenias. There’s a quaint sort of leather thong that goes with it. He used to wear the knife concealed on his arm. A wizard’s last defense, he called it.”

  The knife was a very fine one, made of sharp steel. By the slight tingle he experienced holding it, Raistlin guessed that it had been imbued with magic. He thrust the knife into his belt and shook hands most warmly with Lemuel.

  “We’ll be stopping by later for those books,” Raistlin said.

  “I should be very pleased if you and your friends would take tea with me,” Lemuel replied, with a polite bow.

  After more bows and further introductions and promises to drop by on their way out of town, Lemuel departed, eager to put his uprooted plants back in the ground.

  This left the companions alone. The citizens who had surrounded the temple were dispersing. Rumor had it that the priests of Belzor had escaped by way of certain underground passages and were fleeing for their lives into the mountains. There was talk of forming a hunting party to go after them. It was now almost dawn. The morning was raw and chill. The drunks were dull-headed and sleepy. Men recalled that they had to work in the fields, women suddenly remembered their children left home alone. The citizens of Haven straggled off, left the priests to the goblins and ogres in the mountains.

  The companions turned their steps back to the fairgrounds. The fair lasted for one more day, but Flint had already announced his intention of leaving.

  “I’ll not spend one minute longer than need be in this foul city. The people here are daft. Just plain daft. First snakes, then hangings, now burnings. Daft,” he muttered into his beard. “Just plain daft.”

  “You’ll miss a day’s sales,” Tanis observed.

  “I don’t want their money,” the dwarf said flatly. “Likely it’s cursed. I’m seriously considering giving away what I’ve already taken.”

  He didn’t, of course. The strongbox containing the money would be the first object the dwarf packed, stowing it securely and secretly underneath the wagon’s seat.

  “I want to thank you all,” Raistlin said as they walked along the empty streets. “And I want to apologize for putting you at risk. You were right, Tanis. I underestimated these people. I didn’t realize how truly dangerous they were. I will know better next time.”

  “Let’s hope there isn’t a next time,” Tanis said, smiling.

 
“And I want to thank you, Kitiara,” Raistlin said.

  “For what?” Kit smiled her crooked smile. “For rescuing you?”

  “Yes,” said Raistlin dryly. “For rescuing me.”

  “Anytime!” Kit said, laughing and slapping him on the shoulder. “Anytime.”

  Caramon looked upset at this, and solemn. He turned his head away.

  Battle suited Kitiara. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittered, her lips were red, as if she had drunk the blood she spilled. Kit, still laughing, took hold of Tanis’s arm, hugged him close. “You are a very fine swordsman, my friend. You could earn a good living with that blade of yours. I’m surprised you haven’t considered something in the mercenary line.”

  “I earn a good living now. A safe living,” he added, but he was smiling at her, pleased by her admiration.

  “Bah!” Kit said scornfully. “Safety’s for fat old men! We fight well together, side by side. I’ve been thinking …”

  She drew Tanis away, lowered her voice. Apparently the quarrel between the two was forgotten.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me, too, Raistlin?” Tasslehoff cried, dancing around Raistlin. “Look at this.” The kender sadly twitched his topknot over his shoulder. The smell of burnt hair was very strong. “I got a bit singed, but the fight was worth it, even if I didn’t get to see you being burned at the stake. I’m pretty disappointed about that, but I know you couldn’t help it.” Tas gave Raistlin an conciliatory hug.

  “Yes, Tas, I do thank you,” Raistlin said and removed his new knife from the kender’s hand. “And I want to thank you, Sturm. What you did was extremely brave. Foolhardy, but brave.”

  “They had no right to try to execute you without first giving you a fair trial. They were wrong, and it was my duty to stop them. However …”

  Sturm came to a halt in the road. Standing stiffly, his hand pressed against his injured ribs, he faced Raistlin. “I have given the matter serious thought as we’ve been walking, and I must insist that you turn yourself over to the High Sheriff of Haven.”

  “Why should I? I’ve done nothing wrong.”