Brother's Majere Page 27

  “If I make a mistake,” he said to himself coolly, “then it will be my last.” He dumped the contents of the tube into the bottle.

  Replacing the stopper, he turned and regarded the game board, remembering where he had left off before leaving on his mission for the lady of the house.

  Shavas had made a move after he had gone. His champion had been transformed into one of the undead.

  “How very fitting,” Raistlin murmured.

  Heavy double-doors opened on silent hinges, and perfume wafted into the room. Shavas entered. She was wearing a loose, enfolding gown of purest silk, as white as the curve of her shoulders. The cloth flowed with the graceful movement of her body like wandering wisps of cloud. She smiled at Raistlin. Her face glowed with an inner radiance. She looked as if she had just completed some great triumph and now sought relaxing entertainment.

  “I am pleased that you returned, Raistlin,” she said, taking the chair across from the mage. “At last I see we understand each other.”

  “Is that the reason for your apparent happiness, Councillor?”

  “Councillor? Don’t insult me! I am no longer Councillor. There is, after all, nothing left to counsel.” She laughed at her joke.

  “You seem very sure of yourself, my lady,” the mage corrected with emphasis. “The city has not yet fallen.” He moved a priest from its confines behind the lines of his knights and yeomen.

  Shavas placed her fingertips on her own priest, deciding on a move. “There is no one to stop us. The people of Mereklar will soon be dead.” She slid the priest forward.

  Her move put the mage in a precarious position. Raistlin leaned back, considering. “How long have you lived in this city?” he asked without looking up from the board.

  “Oh, many years, many years—in one form or another. I was the first councillor. I will be the last,” the woman replied.

  Raistlin looked up at her. The woman’s beautiful eyes gazed directly into the mage’s face.

  Rising to his feet, Raistlin walked to the sideboard and picked up the brandy bottle. He poured himself a glass.

  “Pour one for me, my love,” said Shavas.

  Raistlin shivered at the sound of the word that slid so glibly from tempting lips. He poured a glass of brandy and handed it to her.

  “A toast,” he said. “To the Lord of the Cats.”

  Shavas gave a small, silvery laugh. “How droll you are!”

  Raistlin lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank the burning liquid. Shavas drank deeply, her eyes gleaming above the rim of the goblet.

  She moved to stand near the mage. Flames from the fire shone through the gossamer of her robes, exposing the curvature of her figure. Languidly, she reached above her head and released the cascading flow of her long brown hair, letting it fall about her face and shoulders.

  “What do you want of me?” Raistlin asked. “I am not like my brother. I am not … attractive.”

  “You are powerful, Raistlin. I always find power attractive. And you could become more powerful over time.”

  “Time? …”

  “Yes. We will have all the time in the world.”

  “And how would we do that?” he asked, taking another drink from his glass.

  “My magic is vast, stronger than almost any you have encountered before. I would be willing to … share it with you.”

  “To what end?”

  Shavas drank the brandy. Emptying her glass, she filled it again from the decanter and wandered about the library, running her fingers across the suits of armor standing guard in the room. Going to a bookcase, she lifted out a volume. The title, Brothers Majere, was stamped in gold on the back.

  “You wear the red robes, mage, but you will not wear them forever. You do not have the patience to stand in the middle. You must make a choice, or your passions will tear you asunder.”

  “That may be, but all in my own time. I repeat, what do you want of me?”

  “It is, rather, what you want of me,” said Shavas, coming close and putting her soft hand on his arm. “I am offering you the chance to control your own destiny. I am offering you an alliance with the Dark Queen!”

  Chapter 26

  “The carriage is gone. Now, I’ll have to walk,” said the kender, disgruntled.

  He started down the street, thinking just between himself and the fish market that it would have been a lot more fun if he and Caramon had come down here together when one of the ugly, twisted creatures popped out of a side street and came to stand in front of him.

  “Hullo,” said the kender brightly, extending a hand. “My name’s Earwig—”

  The creature raised its hand. It was holding a most fascinating-looking device, a wand of some sort. It began to glow bright red. Thinking the creature was offering the wand to him—since it was pointing it at him—the kender reached out and took it. “Thank you,” he said.

  The creature, with a snarl, tried to snatch the wand back.

  “Hey!” said Earwig. “You gave it to me! Gully dwarf-giver!” he taunted.

  The creature flew into a rage and came at Earwig, teeth bared, slavering.

  “No! You’re not getting this back!”

  The kender swung the hoopak. Thwack! It caught the creature on the side of its head. It tumbled to the street and lay there, unmoving.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” said Earwig, nudging it with the toe of his boot. “Well, let that be a lesson to you,” he added.

  “Now, let’s see you turn red and glow!” He looked at the wand expectantly. Nothing happened. The kender shook it. Still nothing.

  “Broken!” he said in disgust. “Here, you can have it back after all,” he said and tossed the wand onto the body of the creature, who was just beginning to stir and sit up groggily.

  Thinking that Caramon might be wanting him, the kender continued on his way.

  Arriving in the center of the city, Earwig discovered an army of the ugly creatures marching about in the street, shouting and singing in terrible-sounding voices. The kender was feeling disgruntled and out-of-sorts and didn’t particularly want to talk to anybody, so he ducked into a doorway to take a look around. Across from where he was standing was a tall, domed building.

  “Say!” exclaimed Earwig. “That’s where Lady Shavas is supposed to have her house. Drat! Maybe I’ve come the wrong way.”

  But he looked at the streets and recognized them. Yes, he was definitely in the center of town.

  “I should go tell her,” said the thoughtful kender, completely forgetting what Raistlin had told him about the Dark Queen’s temple. “Lady Shavas might not know her house is gone.”

  Earwig stepped out from the doorway and was about to cross the street (eyeing with interest some of the pouches the creatures were carrying), when he heard a smothered cry, almost right behind him.

  “Earwig. Over here!”

  “Caramon?” The kender squinted into the shadows and saw a glint of metal.

  “Caramon?” he called loudly. “Is that you?”

  An arm reached out, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him into an alleyway.

  “Hey! Don’t! You’ll wrinkle my—”

  “Shut up!” Caramon clapped his hand over the kender’s mouth.

  The warrior, holding the wriggling kender tightly, peered out into the street. The marching demons were making a great deal of noise and didn’t appear to have heard anything.

  “Shhhh!” he whispered, letting go of Earwig slowly.

  The kender stared at him, face flushing in anger. “You’ve been fighting again!” Earwig cried, stamping his foot. “Without me!”

  “I’m sorry,” Caramon growled. “Keep your voice down! Have you seen the Cat Lord?”

  “Sure,” said Earwig.

  Caramon brightened. “You have? Where?”

  “Right there.” The kender pointed.

  Caramon turned, hand on his sword. Bast stood in the shadows, a graceful form, his skin a deeper shade of black against the darkness.
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br />   Leaning back against the wall, Caramon drew a deep breath. His shoulder burned, but his fear was stronger than the pain, driving it somewhere deep inside of him. He hated this place. He would have traded this army of demons for six armies of goblins, with a regiment of hobgoblins thrown in.

  “Where is the whatever-it-is that we’re supposed to break? In that building?”

  “No. The temple is used as a tunnel between the worlds. The Dark Queen’s altar is beneath the city.”

  “In the same place that big stone disk was in,” Earwig stated helpfully.

  “Correct,” said the Cat Lord. “I will show you how to go there, but I cannot assist you in more than that.”

  Seeing Caramon scowl, Bast added, “My forces and I will be fighting in the city above. Already, the demon army marches down the streets of Mereklar, headed for the gates that, if they should open, would let them out onto an unsuspecting world. Time grows short, the Great Eye burns in the heavens. Follow me!”

  Caramon, groaning, heaved himself from the wall on which he’d been leaning.

  “You really look bad, Caramon,” said Earwig in concern. “Are you sure you can make it? Here, you can lean on my hoopak.”

  Caramon glanced at the frail wooden stick and, smiling, shook his head. “I’ll make it. I have to.”

  “Now! This way,” urged Bast.

  He slid around the corner and the companions followed, keeping to the shadows. The Cat Lord moved like part of the night, and even the kender’s light footfalls sounded loud compared to Bast’s. Caramon rattled and jangled, his breath came in grunting gasps, and he gritted his teeth against the pain that every move jarred through his body. After traversing several blocks, they either left the creatures behind or the demons were moving up into the city of Mereklar.

  “I know this street,” said Caramon suddenly.

  “You should.” The man in black bent down. Lifting a metal grating from the stone, he pointed down into a black hole. Caramon could hear the sound of running water.

  “This tunnel will lead you where you must go,” said the Cat Lord. “You must destroy the altar as quickly as possible. It will detect any tampering and alert its mistress.”

  “You mean it’s alive?” the kender questioned with interest.

  “In a manner of speaking. Good-bye, warrior and kender. I will not see you again. Your own gods be with you.”

  “Wait!” Caramon yelled, reaching out his hand. But he grasped hold of air. The Lord of Cats was gone, vanishing as silently as the night into day.

  “What did you want with him?” asked Earwig, preparing to jump into the sewer.

  “I wanted to ask him how to get back home,” said Caramon softly.

  Demons dropped from their world through the gate to the real city of Mereklar, landing on their feet with perfect agility. They gazed about with yellow eyes, finally freed from their other-world prison. Mereklar was theirs. They would soon take the rest of Krynn.

  They moved forward in small packs, heading toward the city gates, prepared to break out and flood the world with darkness. They had no fear. Their enemy, the cats that once guarded the city, were now dead.

  But the gates were closed and would not open, guarded by magic built into them by the gods of good.

  Forming into ranks, demon attack groups knelt and pointed their wands at the heavy portcullises enclosing the city, firing red streams at the thick metal plates in an attempt to burn them down. Their power, however, had no effect, though they tried for a long time. Sheathing their weapons, they attempted to force the gates with their great strength, but the might of the city’s builders kept them safe.

  At Westgate, a commander recalled its troops from their work and sent for reinforcements. The demons retreated at the order, some snarling and baring their teeth in anger.

  The commander sniffed at the air, turning its head, checking the air for a scent it recognized, a scent it feared and hated. Moving up to the gate, it glared into the darkness outside the city wall—darkness lit by the Great Eye. Its muzzle twitched in alarm.

  “Weapons out—”

  The sweep of a claw cut through its back, rending the flesh from the bone in a spray of watery blood. The demon fell to the ground, lifeless. A huge tiger stood over its body, the demon’s fur hanging from its paw. The enemy fired its deadly bolts at the beast, but it had vanished.

  “Find it!” a demon yelled, pointing up the street.

  Five of the troops obeyed the command, running after the tiger with the speed of darkness, rounding corners and searching through hidden alleys and side streets.

  Within minutes, their bodies were thrown into the avenue, dismembered, rent and torn by giant claws.

  The demons were furious. Red explosions concussed the air, scattering boxes, wood, and metal. The invisible enemy did not appear to have been hit. More demons were struck down, and the creatures began to mill about in frustration.

  “Reinforcements!” cried one, waving up the street.

  Another contingent of demons moved cautiously toward their position, searching the darkness with keen yellow eyes, sniffing at the air in distaste. They surged over a carriage, surrounding it, using it as a point of cover. Eventually they reached the first group, and a demon wearing a harness with a gold medallion in the center asked what had happened.

  In reply, some of the demons pointed to their dead leader. “We were told the cats were dead,” it said, snarling.

  “I guess someone made a mistake,” said another.

  “Yeah, I wonder what other mistakes they’ve made this night. You stay here and wait for additional troops. When they arrive, work on opening that gate.” It turned, directing the forces into position. “Form into squads and find the enemy. I want them dead!”

  Twisted bodies gathered together into groups of five with a quickness and efficiency the Knights of Solamnia would have envied. They appeared to need no further guidance than a single order, cooperating perfectly with one another. After a moment they moved out, lithe forms, shadow in shadows.

  None of them came back.

  Several demons began to edge forward of their own volition, unwilling to wait when the promise of battle called to them, but the commander told them to stay, hissing the words between clenched fangs. “Hold your position!”

  Fifteen men and women stepped out from the alleys and boulevards. They held no weapons. Blood dripped from their hands. Their eyes glistened with triumph. They made no sound of running, their movements smooth and fluid.

  “Hah! Humans!” spat one demon.

  It and its fellows released a barrage of red beams that surged through the air—deadly bolts reaching out for their targets, striking ground and building, sending up clouds of dust and dirt. But the attackers were upon them in an instant, closing the distance with incredible speed.

  “These are not humans!” the leader yelled. “They are the enemy!”

  Lions leaped toward their victims, bringing five down immediately under their great weight, killing five more within seconds. The demons fell back, battling with claw and fang and red-glowing wand, yellow eyes flaring. The demons lost half their number within the first minute; the lions, five.

  Rallying his forces, the commander ordered, “Pull back and regroup! They cannot win!”

  The demon troops immediately obeyed, fighting back-to-back until they reached their rapidly forming lines. They pushed forward again, the shock of impact sending the giant cats back to the gate. There were few left. They knew they could not hold.

  “Destroy them! Now!”

  But the demons hesitated. The city stood silent, waiting. Both sides ceased their battle, listening.

  A sound of distant thunder filled the fields outside the great walls, thunder that moved closer and closer until it was upon the gates themselves. Suddenly, a thousand cats burst through the portcullis, their small bodies sliding easily between the great plates mounted on the bars, the barriers spaced together so closely that only their slim forms would fit. They
ran past their larger brethren and attacked the demons, tiny claws and fangs digging into the twisted bodies, inflicting wounds that dark magic could not heal.

  The demons at the gate were destroyed, their bodies lying torn on the perfect white stone, and more cats ran over and past them, advancing on silent paws to fulfill the prophecy.

  “There it is, Caramon,” Earwig said, pointing his hoopak toward the stone dais. “The altar!”

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” the fighter replied, standing in the cavern’s entrance, his eyes attempting to pierce the dimness ahead.

  The kender started to dart forward, but Caramon laid a restraining hand on the small shoulder. “Wait a minute. There might be guards. Can you see anything?”

  Earwig stared with all his might. “No, nothing.”

  “I don’t either. But I think I hear something.”

  “Caramon,” said Earwig after a moment. “I can’t hear anything because your heart’s beating too loudly. Do you think you could make it stop?”

  “What do you want me to do? Drop dead? Besides, that’s not my heartbeat! It’s the same noise I’m hearing, and it sounds like cogs grinding together.”

  “Are you sure?” said Earwig skeptically. “It sounds just like a heartbeat to me.”

  “Yes, I’m sure!” Caramon snapped. “Well, come on. We can’t stand here all night.”

  The two moved forward. The cavern was much the same as the one Earwig had discovered in the city above. There were the same flickering torches, the same stone dais. But, reaching the entrance, they saw something on top of the dais—the altar used to create the gate between the Abyss and Krynn.

  It appeared to be a large box, uneven on all sides, adorned with gold and silver and bronze. Strange, evil-looking figures had been engraved on its shining surface.

  “Wow!” Earwig cried and, before Caramon could stop him, the kender dashed into the room.

  “No! Wait!” the fighter yelled.

  “What? What is it?” Earwig cried in excitement, spinning around. “What’s wrong?”