The sound came again-another scream of pain and rage. The mage removed the leather bag from his belt and opened the flap to reveal the wand Shavas had given him, the wand covered in strange, angled runes. Slowly, he drew it out and bolted from the alley, running as swiftly as he dared up Southgate Street, heading for Leman Square.
There he knew he would find him-Bast, the Lord of Cats.
Raistlin turned left down a dark sidestreet, going to the right when he reached the end of the block. He noticed that the lights hovering above the sidewalk appeared to be growing dim, as if their fuel were slowly running out. He went left again, down the main street. Reaching the open area leading to the square, he rounded the final corner and came to a sudden halt.
Wounded and panting, the man in black stood at bay beneath a tree, surrounded by the remaining ministers of Mereklar. Lord Cal advanced on him, a red-glowing wand in his hand.
“Hear me, Lord of the Cats. Our Lady does not want you for her enemy. She bids you and those you rule to join us and find power in the darkness you know so well.”
“Your ‘lady’ cares nothing for us!” Bast spat the words. “She wants only to use us as she uses all who come under her sway.” The Lord of the Cats lifted his head proudly. “We are free. We serve ourselves. So it has been, and so shall it be.”
“Die free, then!” snarled Lord Cal, and raised the wand.
We are free. We serve ourselves.
“Shirak,” called Raistlin, his voice clear and strong.
The Staff of Magius burst into light, shining more brightly than the two converging moons. Bast’s eyes, staring at the mage, shone with red flame. The ministers half-turned, blinking against the brilliance.
“Who-”
“The mage,” said Lord Cal, his lip curling.
“I’ll handle this,” said Lord Alvin in an undertone. “Raistlin Majere, we accused you falsely and we apologize. As you can see, we have the murderous beast cornered. Serve us in our fight, and you will be richly rewarded! Lady Shavas will see to that!”
Raistlin thought of the sickness, the pain, the terrifying moments when he feared he would never be able to draw the next breath. He thought of being always dependent on his brother. He thought of women, gazing at him with expressions of horror or pity. Never expressions of love.
Raistlin thought of the magic, burning in his blood.
“The choice is made,” he murmured.
Yes, said the other. Long ago. Here, then, is your reward.
Raistlin stood before great falls of light, the bands of magic traveling inside the Staff of Magius in the infinite spaces between the runes of the cantrips, a place where ancient knowledge waited for the touch of his summoning gold fingers. He embraced a silver strand with his will, a pass to the past that showed him surmounting a mountain with three other wizards-pictures of another time that he felt with all his senses.
White robe, red robe, and black walked slowly, braving storm and gale and lightning, moving up a path cut into the rock by natural forces to a high plateau. They looked over the whole of the world standing at the edge.
“It is time,” the white robe said.
“To lose our lives for a greater cause,” the red robe said.
“To give our gods greater power than any one of us could command,” the black robe said.
They cast their spell and died, wrenched apart by the powers they summoned, trapped in the three heavenly spheres.
Raistlin watched their actions, the motions they made with their hands, the words uttered above the winds that whipped their clothes with violence, and knew that the might of the Great Eye could be his to command.
He lifted the wand. It began to glow red in his hand.
“He’s ours!” said Lord Cal, laughing, and turned back to face the Lord of the Cats.
A bolt of red shot from Raistlin’s wand and struck Lord Cal in the back. The man screamed in rage and pain, the searing beam melting clothes and flesh. He whirled to face his enemy, but his strength gave out. Writhing in agony, he crumpled to the ground.
Bast lashed out with his right hand, stabbing his fingers into Lord Alvin’s throat, tearing a great wound that severed the man’s head. Alvin fell, dead.
The other minsters, yelling in rage, attacked the Lord of Cats. Raistlin dared not help, fearing that any spell he would cast would harm the man in black.
Bast needed no help, it seemed. He took one of his enemies by the chest with a sweeping kick and killed the other with an open-palmed strike to the forehead, snapping the head back, skull crushed and neck broken.
The night was silent once again.
Raistlin came forward, leaning on the staff.
The bodies of the ministers lay on the ground, reddish liquid appeared black in the moonlight. Around each neck he could see, shining, silver cats’ skulls.
“What are they?” asked the mage.
“See them in their true form,” answered Bast.
The corpses began to undergo a horrible change. Their bodies twisted and contorted, black fur grew from their skin, hands and feet changed to paws-an evil, demented dream of cats.
“Demons,” said Raistlin.
“Agents from the Abyss,” replied Bast.
“The ‘lady’ of whom they spoke-”
“Takhisis, Queen of Darkness.” The Lord of the Cats answered quietly, in awe and reverence.
Raistlin felt a shudder run through his body, a shivering premonition. “Not yet!” he whispered. “Not yet! I am not strong enough.” He drew a deep breath. “And now?”
“That is your decision, mage. Krynn is in peril. The land will know five ages, but the last shall not come if darkness succeeds, coming through the gate.’ The Queen is trying to enter the world. Her way must be stopped.”
Raistlin looked at the Lord of Cats-a demi-god-torn by the demons’ claws. “If you could not withstand them, how can I?”
“The nine sent were the most powerful among their kind. They murdered the true lords and ladies of Mereklar and took their places on the council. They would have opened the gate without hindrance, but for you.”
“But there are ten on the council.”
“Shavas is something you must discover for yourself. Now I must leave.” As Raistlin watched, the Cat Lord’s wounds began to heal. “However, I am compelled to ask you this directly, though I think I know your answer. Will you help us stop the Dark Queen?”
Raistlin looked down at the councillor’s wand, faintly glowing red in his hand.
The choice is made.
He tossed the wand to the ground, brought the metal-shod tip of the staff down hard upon it. The wand splintered, and its red glow faded and died.
“Keep near,” said Bast, and Raistlin found himself in a large chamber. Flickering torches filled the room with a stifling gray light. Men wearing black leather armor stood near a huge stone dais.
Caramon, injured and bleeding, sat on the floor, cradling Earwig in his arms.
Raistlin knelt down swiftly beside his twin.
“Caramon,” he said softly.
The big man lifted his head, too dazed and grief-stricken to be surprised at the sight of his brother.
“It’s Earwig, Raist! You were right about the ring. He was possessed. When I took the ring off, he began to scream. He shot me with that poisoned dart there, but it didn’t kill me.”
Raistlin listened to Caramon’s slightly incoherent account, then reached down on the floor to examine both the poisoned dart and the ring.
Looking at the dart closely, he saw scratch marks on the metal tip. “Much of the poison was worn off before the dart hit you. It appears”-Raistlin glanced at the kender and almost smiled-“that it has been used to pick a lock.”