Part 15 (1/2)
Caramon was alarmed. ”Raist, you shouldn't stay here alone.”
”Just go, Caramon,” Raistlin said, closing his eyes. ”Sturm needs your help. Besides, you worry me to death with your fussing!”
The light glimmering from the crystal shone on his golden skin. His face was drawn. He began to cough and fumbled for his handkerchief.
”I don't know,” Caramon hesitated.
”He will be safe enough here,” said Sturm. ”The draconians have moved on.”
Caramon cast his twin an uncertain glance. ”You should douse the light, Raist.”
Raistlin waited to hear the running footfalls of Sturm and his brother fade away. When he was certain they were gone, hoping his brother would not take it into his head to come back, Raistlin rose to his feet.
The room had been an armory, as he had said. The stands of old-fas.h.i.+oned plate armor lay dismembered on the floor. The draconians had overturned them, probably searching for loot. Weapons of various types littered the blood-covered floor, most of them either broken or rusted beyond repair. Raistlin cast a cursory glance at them but saw nothing of interest. Draconians were intelligent creatures who knew something of value when they saw it. They would have already appropriated anything worth while.
Raistlin walked over to the object that had caught his interest- a large burlap sack near the pile of dust that had once been a draconian. He laid his staff on the floor and knelt beside the sack, taking care to keep his robes out of the blood.
He poked one of the lumps inside the sack with his finger and felt something hard and solid. The sack was soaked with blood. Raistlin's deft fingers pulled and tugged at the knot of the drawstring that closed the top. He finally pried it loose and opened the sack.
The light from the crystal atop his staff shone on a helm and no ordinary helm at that. The draconian had recognized its value beneath the dust and grime that covered it, and though Raistlin was not one to judge the finer points of armor, even he could see that the helm had been crafted by an expert, designed to both protect the wearer and adorn him.
Raistlin rubbed of some of the dirt from the helm with the hem of his sleeve. Three large red rubies sparkled in the light.
Raistlin glanced inside the sack, saw nothing more of interest, and turned his attention back to the helm. Pa.s.sing his hand over it, he murmured a few words. The helm began to give off a soft, pale glow.
”Ah, so you are are magic... I wonder...” magic... I wonder...”
The hair p.r.i.c.kled on the back of his neck. A s.h.i.+ver crept up from the base of his spine. Someone was in the room with him. Someone was creeping up on him from behind. Moving slowly, Raistlin set down the helm. In the same motion, he took hold of his staff, and twisting to his feet, turned around.
Eyes, pale and cold, surrounded by shadow, gazed out of the darkness. The eyes had no substance, no head, no body. The eyes were not the eyes of the living. Raistlin recognized in that fell gaze the hatred and pain of a soul constrained to dwell in the Abyss, a prisoner of the G.o.d of Death, unable to find rest or relief from the gnawing torment of its terrible existence.
The eyes drifted nearer, abyssal darkness stirring about it, trailing after it.
Raistlin raised his staff, holding it in front of him. The staff was his only protection. He was too weak to cast another spell, even if he could think of any spell that would work against this dread specter. He considered shouting for help, but he feared that this might cause the wraith to attack. Above all, he had to keep the specter from touching him, for the touch of death would drain warmth, drain strength, and drain away his life.
The wraith drifted nearer, and suddenly the staff's light flared in a blaze of dazzling white, nearly blinding Raistlin, who was forced to s.h.i.+eld his eyes with his hand. The wraith halted.
A voice spoke. The voice was dry as bone and soft as ash, and it came from an unseen mouth.
”The Master bids me give you this message, Raistlin Majere. You have found what you seek.”
Raistlin was so astonished he nearly dropped the staff. His hand shook, and the light wavered. The wraith moved closer, and Raistlin tightened his grip, thrusting out the staff. The light shone steadily, and the wraith retreated.
”I don't... understand.” Raistlin's mouth was dry. He had to try twice to speak and then the words came out in a croak.
”Nor will you. Nor are you meant to. Not for a long time. Know that you are in the Master's care.”
The spectral eyes closed. The darkness dissipated. Raistlin's arm began to shake uncontrollably and he was forced to lower the staff. He was completely unnerved, and when a voice spoke behind him, he nearly crawled out of his skin.
The voice was Sturm's. ”Who were you talking to?” The knight's tone was ugly and suspicious. ”I heard you talking to someone.”
”I was talking to myself,” said Raistlin. He thrust the helm into the sack, hoping the knight had not caught sight of it. He asked sharply, ”What of those voices my brother heard? Where is Caramon?”
Sturm was not going to be distracted. His eye had caught sight of the gleaming metal.
”What is that you hold?” he demanded. ”Why are you trying to hide it? Let me see it!”
Raistlin sighed. ”I am not trying to hide anything. I found an ancient dwarven helm inside this sack. I know little about armor, but it looks to be of some value. You can judge for yourself.” He handed over the sack. ”Where is Caramon?”
”Entertaining guests,” said Sturm.
He opened the sack, pulled out the helm, and held it to the light. He breathed a soft sigh.
”Beautiful workmans.h.i.+p. I've never seen the like.” He glowered at Raistlin. ”Of 'some' value! This is worth a king's ransom. Such a helm would be worn only by one of royal blood, a prince or perhaps the king himself.”
”That would explain it...” Raistlin murmured. He added off-handedly, ”You should handle it carefully. I think it might be enchanted.”
He was thinking of the wraith's words. You have found what you seek You have found what you seek. What had he come here seeking? Raistlin hardly knew. He had told Tanis he was searching for the key to the Thorbardin. Was that true? Or had it been an excuse? Or did the truth lie somewhere in between...
”Entertaining guests?” Raistlin repeated, the knight's strange remark having suddenly penetrated the fog of his thought. ”What do you mean? He's not in trouble.”
”That depends on what you mean by trouble,” Sturm replied, and he gave a low chuckle.
Concerned, Raistlin started to go to his twin's aid, only to find Caramon standing in the doorway. His brother's face was flushed red.
”Hey, Raist,” he said, with a sheepish grin, ”look who's here.”
Tika appeared at Caramon's side. She gave Raistlin a smile that quickly evaporated beneath the mage's cold stare.
He opened his mouth but was interrupted by Ta.s.slehoff bounding into the room, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement.
”Hullo, Raistlin! We came to rescue you, but I guess you don't need rescuing. Caramon thought we were draconians and nearly skewered us. Wow, is that a dragon? Is it dead? Poor thing! Can I touch it?”
Raistlin fixed his brother with a piercing glare.
”Caramon,” he said in frozen tones, ”we need to talk.”
Chapter 13.
A Royal Guest. The Way Out. A Dread Discovery.
Sturm ran his hands over the helm, marveling at the crafts-mans.h.i.+p. He was vaguely aware of the tension in the room, of Raistlin berating his brother in low and angry tones, of Caramon's feet shuffling and his aggrieved replies that it wasn't his fault, of Tika grabbing Ta.s.slehoff by the collar and yanking him out of the room, muttering something about searching for the way out of this horrible place. Sturm was conscious of all that was going on, but he paid no attention to any of it. He could not take his eyes and his thoughts from the helm.
His fingertips carefully brushed the grime off the gemstones so that they gleamed more brightly. One in particular caught his eye-a ruby as large a child's fist, set in the center of the helm. Sturm pictured what the helm would look like polished, s.h.i.+ning. He was tempted, suddenly, to try it on.
He did not know where this notion came from. He would not, of course, have traded his own helm that had been his father's and his grandfather's before him for all the steel coins in Krynn, and this helm would not fit him anyway. It had been made for a dwarf and was therefore too large for a human. His head would rattle around inside like a pea in a walnut sh.e.l.l, yet Sturm wanted to put it on. Perhaps he wanted to see what it felt like to wear a king's ransom, perhaps he wanted to judge the quality of the craftsmans.h.i.+p, or perhaps the helm was speaking to him, urging him to place it over his head, draw it down over his long fair hair that was already starting to gray, though he was not more than twenty-nine years old.