Raistlin drew forth a small round globe from the folds of his black robes. The dragon orb.
Caramon felt his strength seep from him. Placing his hand upon the bandage, he found it soaked-sticky with blood. His head swam, the light from his brother’s staff wavered before his eyes. Far away, as if in a dream, he heard the draconians shake loose from their terror and start toward him. The ground shook beneath his feet, or perhaps it was his legs trembling.
“Kill me, Raistlin.” Caramon looked at his brother with eyes that had lost all expression. Raistlin paused, his golden eyes narrowed. “Don’t leave me to die at their hands,” Caramon said calmly, asking a simple favor. “End it for me now, quickly. You owe me that much—” The golden eyes flared.
“Owe you!” Raistlin sucked in a hissing breath. “Owe you!” he repeated in a strangled voice, his face pale in the staff’s magical light. Furious, he turned and extended his hand toward the draconians. Lightning streaked from his fingertips, striking the creatures in the chest. Shrieking in pain and astonishment, they fell into the water that quickly became foaming and green with blood as the baby dragons cannibalized their cousins.
Caramon watched dully, too weak and sick to care. He could hear more swords rattling, more voices yelling. He slumped forward, his feet lost their footing, the dark waters surged over him...
And then he was on solid ground. Blinking, he looked up. He was sitting on the rock beside his brother. Raistlin knelt beside him, the staff in his hand.
“Raist!” Caramon breathed, tears coming to his eyes. Reaching out a shaking hand, he touched his brother’s arm, feeling the velvet softness of the black robes.
Coldly, Raistlin snatched his arm away. “Know this, Caramon,” he said, and his voice was as chill as the dark waters around them, “I will save your life this once, and then the slate is clean. I owe you nothing more.”
Caramon swallowed. “Raist,” he said softly, “I-I didn’t mean—”
Raistlin ignored him. “Can you stand?” he asked harshly.
“I-I think so,” Caramon said, hesitantly. “Can’t-can’t you just use that—that thing—to get us out of here?” He gestured at the dragon orb.
“I could, but you wouldn’t particularly enjoy the journey, my brother. Besides, have you forgotten those who came with you?”
“Tika! Tas!” Caramon gasped. Gripping the wet rocks, he pulled himself to his feet. “And Tanis! What about—”
“Tanis is on his own. I have repaid my debt to him tenfold,” Raistlin said. “But perhaps I can discharge my debts to others.”
Shouts and yells sounded at the end of the passage, a dark mass of troops surged into the dark water, obeying the final commands of their Queen.
Wearily Caramon put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but a touch of his brother’s cold, bony fingers stopped him.
“No, Caramon,” Raistlin whispered. His thin lips parted in a grim smile. “I don’t you need you now. I won’t need you anymore . . . ever. Watch!”
Instantly, the underground cavern’s darkness was lit to day-like brilliance with the fiery power of Raistlin’s magic. Caramon, sword in hand, could only stand beside his black-robed brother and watch in awe as foe after foe fell to Raistlin’s spells. Lightning crackled from his fingertips, flame flared from his hands, phantasms appeared—so terrifyingly real to those looking at them that they could kill by fear alone.
Goblins fell screaming, pierced by the lances of a legion of knights, who filled the cavern with their war chants at Raistlin’s bidding, then disappeared at his command. The baby dragons fled in terror back to the dark and secret places of their hatching, draconians withered black in the flames. Dark clerics, who swarmed down the stairs at their Queen’s last bidding, were impaled upon a flight of shimmering spears, their last prayers changed to wailing curses of agony.
Finally came the Black Robes, the eldest of the Order, to destroy this young upstart. But they found to their dismay that—old as they were—Raistlin was in some mysterious way older still. His power was phenomenal, they knew within an instant that he could not be defeated. The air was filled with the sounds of chanting and one by one, they disappeared as swiftly as they had come—many bowing to Raistlin in profound respect as they departed upon the wings of wish spells.
And then it was silent, the only sound the sluggish lapping of water. The Staff of Magius cast its crystal light. Every few seconds a tremor shook the Temple, causing Caramon to glance above them in alarm. The battle had apparently lasted only moments, although it seemed to Caramon’s fevered mind that he and his brother had been in this horrible place all their lives.
When the last mage melted into the blackness, Raistlin turned to face his brother.
“You see, Caramon?” he said coldly.
Wordlessly, the big warrior nodded, his eyes wide.
The ground shook around them, the water in the stream sloshed up on the rocks. At the cavern’s end, the jeweled column shivered, then split. Rivulets of rock dust trickled down onto Caramon’s upturned face as he stared at the crumbling ceiling.
“What does it mean? What’s happening?” he asked in alarm.
“It means the end,” Raistlin stated. Folding his black robes around him, he glanced at Caramon in irritation. “We must leave this place. Are you strong enough?”
“Yeah, give me a moment,” Caramon grunted. Pushing himself away from the rocks, he took a step forward, then staggered, nearly falling.
“I’m weaker than I thought,” he mumbled, clutching his side in pain. “Just let me... catch my breath.” Straightening, his lips pale, sweat trickling down his face, Caramon took another step forward.
Smiling grimly, Raistlin watched his brother stumble toward him. Then the mage held out his arm.
“Lean on me, my brother,” he said softly.
The vast vaulted ceiling of the Hall of Audience split wide. Huge blocks of stone crashed down into the Hall, crushing everything that lived beneath them. Instantly the chaos in the Hall degenerated into terror-stricken panic. Ignoring the stern commands of their leaders, who reinforced these commands with whips and sword thrusts, the draconians fought to escape the destruction of the Temple, brutally slaughtering anyone— including their own comrades—who got in their way. Occasionally some extremely powerful Dragon Highlord would manage to keep his bodyguard under control and escape. But several fell, cut down by their own troops, crushed by falling rock, or trampled to death.
Tanis fought his way through the chaos and suddenly saw what he had prayed the gods to find—a head of golden hair that gleamed in Solinari’s light like a candle flame.
“Laurana!” he cried, though he knew he could not be heard in the tumult. Frantically he slashed his way toward her. A flying splinter of rock tore into one cheek. Tanis felt warm blood flow down his neck, but the blood, the pain had no reality and he soon forgot about it as he clubbed and stabbed and kicked the milling draconians in his struggle to reach her. Time and again, he drew near her, only to be carried away by a surge in the crowd.
She was standing near the door to one of the antechambers, fighting draconians, wielding Kitiara’s sword with the skill gained in long months of war. He almost reached her as—her enemies defeated—she stood alone for a moment.
“Laurana, wait!” he shouted above the chaos.
She heard him. Looking over at him, across the moonlit room, he saw her eyes calm, her gaze unwavering.
“Farewell, Tanis,” Laurana called to him in elven. “I owe you my life, but not my soul.”
With that, she turned and left him, stepping through the doorway of the antechamber, vanishing into the darkness beyond.
A piece of the Temple ceiling crashed to the stone floor, showering Tanis with debris. For a moment, he stood wearily, staring after her. Blood dripped into one eye. Absently he wiped it away, then, suddenly, he began to laugh. He laughed until tears mingled with the blood. Then he pulled himself together and, gripping his bloodstained sword, disappeared into the darkness after her.