The Soulforge Page 44

  “Liam! Micah!” Raistlin called, and was alarmed when the names echoed back to him.

  Nothing more than echoes. The elves did not answer.

  Trying his best to hear over the rush of blood to his head, Raistlin distinguished faint sounds, as of someone pounding on a door. He gathered by this and the fact that the elves hadn’t responded to his call that the trapdoor had inexplicably slammed shut, leaving him on one side and the elves on the other.

  Raistlin’s first panicked impulse was to use his magic for light. He stopped himself before casting the spell. He would not act on impulse. He would think the situation through calmly, as calmly as possible. He decided that it was best to remain in the darkness. Light would reveal to him whatever was down here. But light would also reveal him to whatever was down here.

  Standing in the dark, he pondered the situation. The first notion that came to him was that the elves had lured him down here to leave him to his death. He abandoned this quickly. The elves had no reason to kill him. They had every reason to want to get into the cellar. They hadn’t lied about the spellbooks, that much he had ascertained from their private conversations. The continued pounding on the trapdoor reassured him. The elves wanted to open that door as much as he wanted it open.

  This decided, he took the precaution of moving, as quietly as he could, to put the stone wall at his back. His sight gone, he relied on his other senses, and almost immediately, now that he was calmer, he could hear breathing. Someone else’s breathing. He was not alone down here.

  It was not the breathing of a fearsome guardian, not the deep, harsh snufflings of an ogre, not the husky, whistling breaths of a hobgoblin. This breathing was thin and raspy, with a slight rattle. Raistlin had heard breathing like this before-in the rooms of the sick, the elderly.

  Although somewhat reassuring, the sound shattered his calculations as to what he might find down in the cellar. The first wild thought was that he was about to meet the owner of the books, Lemuel’s father. Perhaps the old gentleman had chosen to retire to the cellar, to spend his life with his precious books. Either that or Lemuel had locked his father in the cellar, a feat which, considering the father was a respected archmagus, was highly unlikely.

  Raistlin stood in the dark, his fear diminishing by the moment as nothing untoward happened to him, his curiosity increasing. The breathing continued, uneven, fractured, with a gasp now and again. Raistlin could hear no other sounds in the cellar, no jingle of chain mail, creak of leather, rattle of sword. Above, the elves were hard at work. By the sounds of it, they were attacking the trapdoor with an ax.

  And then a voice spoke, very near him. “You’re a sly one, aren’t you?” A pause, then, “Clever, too, and bold. It is not every man who dares stand alone in the darkness. Come! Let’s have a look at you.”

  A candle flared, revealing a plain wooden table, small and round. Two chairs stood opposite each other, the table in between. One of the chairs was occupied. An old man sat in the chair. One glance assured Raistlin that this old man was not Lemuel’s father, the war magus who fought at the side of elves.

  The old man wore black robes, against which his white hair and beard shone with an eerie aura. His face arrested attention; like a landscape, its crevices and seams gave clues to his past. Fine lines spreading from the nose to the brow might have represented wisdom in another. On him, the lines ran deep with cunning. Lines of intelligence around the hawk-black eyes tightened into cynical amusement. Contempt for his fellow beings cracked the thin lips. Ambition was in his outthrust jaw. His hooded eyes were cold and calculating and bright.

  Raistlin did not stir. The old man’s face was a desert of desolation, harsh and deadly and cruel. Raistlin’s fear smote him full force. Far better that he should fight an ogre or hobgoblin. The words to the simple defensive spell that had been on Raistlin’s lips slipped away in a sigh. He imagined himself casting it, could almost hear the old man’s mocking, derisive laughter. Those old hands, large-knuckled, large-boned, and grasping, were empty now, but those hands had once wielded enormous power.

  The old man understood Raistlin’s thoughts as if he’d spoken them aloud. The eyes gazed in Raistlin’s direction, though he stood shrouded in the darkness.

  “Come, Sly One. You who have swallowed my bait. Come and sit and talk with an old man.”

  Still Raistlin did not move. The words about bait had shaken him.

  “You really might as well come sit down.” The old man smiled, a smile that twisted the lines in his face, sharpening mockery into cruelty. “You’re not going anywhere until I say you may go.” Lifting a knotted finger, he pointed it straight at Raistlin’s heart. “You came to me. Remember that.”

  Raistlin considered his options: He could either remain standing in the darkness, which was obviously not offering him much protection, since the old man seemed to see him clearly. He could make a desperate attempt to escape back up the steps, which would probably be futile and make him look foolish, or he could grasp his courage and assert what dignity remained, confront the old man, and find out what he meant by his strange references to bait.

  Raistlin walked forward. Emerging out of the darkness into the candle’s yellow light, he took a seat opposite the old man. The old man studied Raistlin in the light, did not appear particularly pleased with what he saw.

  “You’re a weakling! A sniveling weakling! I’ve more strength in my body than I see in yours, and my body is nothing but ashes and dust! What good will you do me? This is just my luck! Expecting an eagle, I am given a sparrow hawk. Still”—the old man’s mutterings were only barely audible—“there is hunger in those eyes. If the body is frail, perhaps that is because it feeds the mind. The mind itself is desperate for nourishment, that much I can tell. Perhaps I judged hastily. We will see. What is your name?”

  Raistlin had been clever and glib with the dark elves. In the company of this daunting old man, the young one answered meekly, “I am Raistlin Majere, Archmagus.”

  “Archmagus …” The old man lingered over the word, tasting it in his mouth. “I was once, you know. The greatest of them all. Even now they fear me. But they don’t fear me enough. How old are you?”

  “I have just turned twenty-one.”

  “Young, young to take the Test. I am surprised at Par-Salian. The man is desperate, that much is apparent. And how do you think you’ve done thus far, Raistlin Majere?” The old man’s eyes crinkled, his smile was the ugliest thing Raistlin had ever seen.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean, how have I done? Done—”

  Raistlin caught his breath. He had the sensation of rousing from a dream, one of those dreams that are more real than waking reality. Except that he had not dreamed this.

  He was taking the Test. This was the Test. The elves, the inn, the events, the situations were all contrived. He stared at the candle flame and thought back frantically, wondering, as the old man had asked, how he had done.

  The old man laughed, a chuckle that was like water gurgling beneath the ice. “I never tire of that reaction! It happens every time. One of the few pleasures I have left. Yes, you are taking the Test, young magus. You are right in the middle of it. And, no, I am not part of it. Or rather I am, but not an officially sanctioned part.”

  “You mentioned bait. ‘I came to you,’ that was what you said.” Raistlin kept fast hold of his courage, clenching his hands so that no shiver or tremor should betray his fear.

  The old man nodded. “By your own choices and decisions, yes, you came to me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Raistlin said.

  The old man helpfully explained. “Some mages would have heeded the tinker’s warning, never entered such a disreputable inn. Others, if they had entered, would have refused to have anything to do with dark elves. You went to the inn. You spoke to the elves. You fell in with their dishonest scheme quite readily.” The old man again raised the knotted finger. “Even though you considered the man you
were about to rob a friend.”

  “What you say is true.” Raistlin saw no point in denying it. Nor was he particularly ashamed of his actions. In his mind, any mage, with the possible exception of the most bleached White Robe, would have done the same. “I wanted to save the spellbooks. I would have returned them to the conclave.”

  He was silent a moment, then said, “There are no spellbooks, are there?”

  “No,” replied the old man, “there is only me.”

  “And who are you?” Raistlin asked.

  “My name is not important. Not yet.”

  “Well, then, what do you want of me?”

  The old man made a deprecating gesture with the gnarled and knotted hand. “A little favor, nothing more.”

  Now it was Raistlin who smiled, and his smile was bitter. “Excuse me, sir, but you must be aware that since I am taking the Test, I am of very low ranking. You appear to be—or have been—a wizard of immense skill and power. I have nothing that you could possibly want.”

  “Ah, but you do!” The old man’s eyes gleamed with a hungry, devouring light, a flame that made the candle’s flame dim and feeble by contrast. “You live!”

  “For the time being,” Raistlin said dryly. “Perhaps not much longer. The dark elves will not believe me when I tell them there are no ancient spellbooks down here. They will think that I have magically spirited them away for my own use.” He glanced around. “I don’t suppose there is any way to escape from this cellar.”

  “There is a way—my way,” said the old man. “My way is the only way. You are quite right, the dark elves will kill you. They’re not thieves as they pretend, you know. They are high-ranking wizards. Their magic is exceptionally powerful.”

  Raistlin should have recognized that at once.

  “Not giving up, are you?” the old man asked with a sneer.

  “I am not.” Raistlin lifted his head, gazed steadily at the old man. “I was thinking.”

  “Think away, young magus. You’re going to have to think hard to overcome three-to-one odds. Make that twelve-to-one, since each dark elf is four times as powerful as yourself.”

  “This is the Test,” Raistlin said. “It is all illusion. Admittedly some magi die taking the Test, but that is through their own failure or inadvertence. I have done nothing wrong. Why should the conclave kill me?”

  “You have talked to me,” the old man said softly. “They are aware of that, and that may well prove your downfall.”

  “Who are you, then,” Raistlin asked impatiently, “that they fear you so?”

  “My name is Fistandantilus. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

  “Yes,” said Raistlin.

  Long ago, in the turbulent and desperate years following the Cataclysm, an army of hill dwarves and humans laid siege to Thorbardin, the great underground city of the mountain dwarves. Leading this army, instrumental in its formation, intending to use the army to achieve his own driving ambition, was a wizard of the Black Robes, a wizard of immense power, a renegade wizard openly defying the conclave. His name was Fistandantilus.

  He built a magical fortress known as Zhaman and from there launched his attack against the dwarven stronghold.

  Fistandantilus fought the dwarves with his magic, his armies fought with ax and sword. Many thousands died on the plains or in the mountain passes, but the wizard’s army faltered. And the dwarves of Thorbardin claimed victory.

  According to the minstrels, Fistandantilus plotted one last spell, a spell of catastrophic power that would split the mountain, lay Thorbardin open to conquest. Unfortunately the spell was too powerful. Fistandantilus could not control it. The spell shattered the fortress of Zhaman. It collapsed in upon itself and was now known as Skullcap. Thousands of his own army died in the blast, including the wizard who had cast it.

  That is what the minstrels sang, and that is what most people believed. Raistlin had always imagined there was more to the story than that. Fistandantilus had gained his power over hundreds of years. He was not elven, but human. He had, so it was rumored, found a way to cheat death. He extended his life by murdering his young apprentices, drawing out their life-force by means of a magical bloodstone. He had not been able to survive the shattering effects of his own magic, however. At least, that’s what the world supposed. Evidently Fistandantilus had once again cheated death. Yet he would not do so for long.

  “Fistandantilus—the greatest of all magi,” Raistlin said. “The most powerful wizard who has ever lived.”

  “I am,” said Fistandantilus.

  “And you are dying,” Raistlin observed.

  The old man did not like this. His brows contracted, the lines of his face drew together in a dagger point of anger, his outrage bubbled beneath the surface. But every breath was a struggle. He was expending an enormous amount of magical energy merely to hold this form together. The fury ceased to boil, a pot under which the fire was put out.

  “You speak the truth. I am dying,” he muttered, frustrated, impotent. “I am nearly finished. They tell you that my goal was to take over Thorbardin.” He smiled disdainfully. “What rot! I played for far greater stakes than the acquisition of some stinking, filthy dwarven hole in the ground. My plan was to enter the Abyss. To overthrow the Dark Queen, remove Takhisis from her throne. I sought godhood!”

  Raistlin was awed listening to this, awed and amazed. Awed, amazed, and sympathetic.

  “Beneath Skullcap is … or shall we say was, for it is gone now”—Fistandantilus paused, looked extremely cunning—“a means of entering the Abyss, that cruel netherworld. Takhisis was aware of me. She feared me and plotted my downfall. True, my body died in the blast, but I had already planned my soul’s retreat on another plane of existence. Takhisis could not slay me, for she could not reach me, but she never ceases to try. I am under constant assault and have been for centuries. I have little energy left. The life-force I carried with me is almost gone.”

  “And so you contrive to enter the Test and lure young mages like me into your web,” said Raistlin. “I would guess that I am not the first. What has happened to those who came before me?”

  Fistandantilus shrugged. “They died. I told you. They spoke to me. The conclave fears that I will enter into the body of a young mage, take him over and so return to the world to complete what I began. They cannot allow that, and so each time they see to it that the threat is eliminated.”

  Raistlin gazed steadily at the old man, the dying old man. “I don’t believe you. The mages died, but it was not the conclave who killed them. It was you. That is how you’ve managed to live for so long-if you call it living.”

  “Call it what you will, it is preferable to the great nothingness I see reaching out for me,” Fistandantilus said with a hideous grin. “The same nothingness that is reaching out for you, young mage.”

  “I have little choice, it seems,” Raistlin replied bitterly. “Either I die at the hands of three wizards or I am to be sucked dry by a lich.”

  “It was your decision to come down here,” Fistandantilus replied.

  Raistlin lowered his gaze, refused to allow the old man’s probing hawk eyes to gain admittance to his soul. He stared at the wooden table and was reminded of the table in his master’s laboratory, the table on which the child Raistlin had written, so triumphantly, I, Magus. He considered the odds he faced, thought about the dark elves, wondered at their magic, wondered if what the old man had said about them was true or if it was all lies, lies intended to trap him. He wondered about his own ability to survive, wondered if the conclave would kill him simply because he had spoken to Fistandantilus.

  Raistlin lifted his gaze, met the hawk eyes. “I accept your offer.”

  Fistandantilus’s thin lips parted in a smile that was like the grin of a skull. “I thought you might. Show me your spellbook.”

  5

  RAISTLIN STOOD AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CELLAR STAIRS, WAITING for the old man to release the trapdoor from the enchantment that held it shut. He wondered that
he felt no fear, only the razor-edged pain of anticipation.

  The elves had halted their assault on the cellar doors; they had figured out that magic held them. He allowed himself the hope that perhaps they had gone. The next moment he laughed at himself for his foolishness. This was his Test. He would be required to prove his ability to use magic in battle.

  Now! came a voice in Raistlin’s head.

  Fistandantilus had disappeared. The physical form the old man had taken had been illusory, conjured up for Raistlin’s benefit. Now that the form was no longer required, the old man had abandoned it.

  The cellar doors swung violently open, falling with a resounding boom on the stone-flagoned floor.

  Raistlin trusted that the elves would be caught off guard by the sudden opening of the door. He planned to use these few moments of confusion to launch his own attack.

  To his dismay, he discovered that the dark elves had been prepared for just such an occurrence. They were waiting for him.

  An elven voice spoke the language of magic. Light blazed, a globe of fire illuminated Liam’s face. The instant the door flew open, the flaming ball, trailing sparks like the blazing tail of a comet, hurtled through the air.

  Raistlin was not prepared for this attack; he had not imagined the dark elves would react so quickly. There was no escape. The flaming ball would fill the room with fiery death. Instinctively he flung his left arm up to protect his face, knowing all the while there could be no protection.

  The fireball burst on him, over him, around him. It burst harmlessly, its effects dissipated, showering him with sparks and globs of flame that struck his hands and his astonished face and then vanished in a sizzle, as if they were falling into standing water.

  “Your spell! Quickly!” came the command.