"No," said Goldmoon, coming to kneel beside the smith. "He need not die. I am a healer."
"Lady," Gilthanas said impatiently, "there exists no healer on Krynn who could help this man. He has lost more blood than the dwarf has in his whole body! His lifeboat is so faint I can barely feel it. The kindest thing to do is let him die in peace without any of your barbarian rituals!"
Goldmoon ignored him. Placing her hand upon Theros's forehead, she closed her eyes.
"Mishakal," she prayed, "beloved goddess of healing, grace this man with your blessing. If his destiny be not fulfilled, heal him, that he may live and serve the cause of truth."
Gilthanas began to remonstrate once more, reaching out to pull Goldmoon away. Then he stopped and stared in amazement. Blood ceased to drain from the smith's wound and, even as the elf watched, the flesh began to close over it. Warmth returned to the smith's dusky black skin, his breathing grew peaceful and easy, and he appeared to drift into a healthful, relaxed sleep. There were gasps and murmurs of astonishment from the other prisoners in the nearby cages. Tanis glanced around fearfully to see if any of the goblins or draconians had noticed, but apparently they were all preoccupied with hitching the recalcitrant elk to the wagons. Gilthanas subsided back into his corner, his eyes on Goldmoon, his expression thoughtful.
"Tasslehoff, pile up some of that straw," Tanis instructed.
"Caramon, you and Sturm help me move him to a corner."
"Here." Riverwind offered his cloak. "Take this to cover him from the chill."
Goldmoon made certain Theros was comfortable, then returned to her place beside Riverwind. Her face radiated a peace and calm serenity that made it seem as if the reptilian creatures on the outside of the cage were the true prisoners.
It was nearly noon before the caravan got under way. Goblins came by and threw some food into the cages, hunks of meat and bread. No one, not even Caramon, could eat the rancid, stinking meat and they threw it back out. But they devoured the bread hungrily, having eaten nothing since last nightfall. Soon Toede had everything in order and, riding by on his shaggy pony, gave the orders to move out. The gully dwarf, Sestun, trotted after Toede. Seeing the hunk of meat lying in the mud and filth outside the cage, the gully dwarf stopped, grabbed it eagerly, and crammed it into his mouth.
Each wheeled cage was pulled by four elk. Two hobgoblins sat high on crude wooden platforms, one holding the reins of the elk, the other a whip and a sword. Toede took his place at the front of the line, followed by about fifty draconians dressed in armor and heavily armed. Another troop of about twice as many hobgoblins fell into line behind the cages.
After a great deal of confusion and swearing, the caravan finally lurched forward. Some of the remaining residents of Solace stared at them as they drove off. If they knew anyone among the prisoners, they made no sound or gesture of farewell. The faces, both inside and outside the cages, were the faces of those who no longer can feel pain. Like Tika, they had vowed never to cry again.
The caravan traveled south from Solace, down the old road through Gateway Pass. The hobgoblins and draconians grumbled about traveling in the heat of the day, but they cheered up,and moved faster once they marched into the shade of the Pass's high canyon walls. Although the prisoners were chilled in the canyon, they had their own reasons for being grateful- they no longer had to look upon their ravaged homeland.
It was evening by the time they left the canyon's winding roads and reached Gateway. The prisoners strained against the bars for some glimpse of the thriving market town. But now only two low stone walls, melted and blackened, marked where the town might have once stood. No living creature stirred. The prisoners sank back in misery.
Once more out in the open country, the draconians announced their preference for traveling by night, out of the sun's light. Consequently, the caravan made only brief stops until dawn. Sleep was impossible in the filthy cages jolting and jouncing over every rut in the road. The prisoners suffered from thirst and hunger. Those who managed to gag down the food the draconians tossed them soon vomited it back up. They were given only small cups of water two or three times a day.
Goldmoon remained near the injured smithy. Although Theros Ironfeld was no longer at the point of death, he was still very ill. He developed a high fever and, in his delirium, he raved about the sacking of Solace. Theros spoke of draconians whose bodies, when dead, turned into pools of acid, burning the flesh of their victims; and of draconians whose bones exploded after death, destroying everything within a wide radius. Tanis listened to the smith relive horror after horror until he felt sick. For the first time, Tanis realized the enormity of the situation. How could they hope to fight dragons whose breath could kill, whose magic exceeded that of all but the most powerful magic-users who had ever lived? How could they defeat vast armies of these draconians when even the corpses of the creatures had the power to kill?
All we have, Tanis thought bitterly, are the Disks of Mishakal-and what good are they? He had examined the Disks during their journey from Xak Tsaroth to Solace. He had been able to read little of what was written, however. Although Goldmoon had been able to understand those words that pertained to the healing arts, she could decipher little more.
"All will be made clear to the leader of the people," she said with steadfast faith. "My calling now is to find him."
Tanis wished he could share her faith, but as they traveled through the ravaged countryside, he began to doubt that any leader could defeat the might of this Lord Verminaard.
These doubts merely compounded the half-elf's other problems. Raistlin, bereft of his medicine, coughed until he was nearly in as bad a state as Theros, and Goldmoon had two patients on her hands. Fortunately, Tika helped the Plainswoman tend the mage. Tika, whose father had been a magician of sorts, held anyone who could work magic in awe.
In fact, it was Tika's father who inadvertently introduced Raistlin to his calling. Raistlin's father took the twin boys and his stepdaughter, Kitiara, to the local Summer's End festival where the children watched the Wonderful Waylan perform his illusions. Eight-year-old Caramon was soon bored and readily agreed to accompany his teenage half-sister to the event that attracted her-the swordplay. Raistlin, thin and frail even then, had no use for such active sports. He spent the entire day watching Waylan the Illusionist. When the family returned home that evening, Raistlin astounded them by being able to duplicate flawlessly every trick. The next day, his father took the boy to study with one of the great masters of the magic arts.
Tika had always admired Raistlin and she had been impressed by the stories she heard about his mysterious journey to the fabled Towers of High Sorcery. Now she helped care for the mage out of respect and her own innate need to help those weaker than herself. She also tended him (she admitted privately to herself) because her deeds won a smile of gratitude and approval from Raistlin's handsome twin brother.
Tanis wasn't certain which to worry about most-the worsening condition of the mage or the growing romance between the older, experienced soldier and the young and-Tanis believed, despite gossip to the contrary- inexperienced, vulnerable barmaid.
He had another problem as well. Sturm, humiliated at being taken prisoner and hauled through the countryside like an animal to slaughter, lapsed into a deep depression from which Tanis thought he might never escape. Sturm either sat all day, staring out between the bars, or-perhaps worse-he lapsed into periods of deep sleep from which he could not be wakened.