Still, Tanis hesitated.
“Strike, Tanis! Swiftly!” Raistlin urged.
Tanis stared straight at Raistlin, but whether he could see him or not, whether he would act or not, Raistlin could not tell. Tanis started to lay the sword down on the floor; then, resolve hardening his expression, he shifted his stance and aimed a blow at Ariakas.
Raistlin and Caramon had often fought together, combining sorcery and steel. As Tanis’s sword arm started to rise, Raistlin cast his spell.
“Bentuk-nir daya sihir, colang semua pesona dalam. Perubahan ke sihir-nir!” Raistlin cried and, drawing a rune in the air, he hurled the spell at Ariakas.
The magic flowed through Raistlin and burst from him, crackling out of his fingertips, blazing through the air. The magic struck the rainbow shield, dispelling it. Tanis’s sword met no obstacle. Wyrmsbane pierced Ariakas’s black, dragon-scale breastplate, sliced through flesh and muscle and bone, and sank deep into his chest.
Ariakas roared, more in astonishment than in pain. The agony of dying and the terrible knowledge that he was dying would come to him with his next and final breath. Raistlin did not linger to see the end. He did not care who would win the Crown of Power. For the moment, the Dark Queen was intent upon the struggle. He had to make good his escape.
But the powerful spell he had cast had weakened him. He stifled a cough in the sleeve of his robes and, grabbing the staff, ran along the bridge, heading back toward the antechamber. He had almost reached the entrance when a mass of draconian guards blocked his way.
“The foul assassin!” Raistlin gasped, gesturing. “A wizard. I tried to stop him—”
The draconian didn’t wait, but shoved Raistlin aside, slamming him back into the walls. Soldiers flowed around him, dashing down the bridge.
They would soon realize they had been duped, and they would be back. Raistlin, coughing, fumbled in his pouch and took out the dragon orb. He barely had breath enough left to chant the words.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of Caramon’s cell. The door was open. The cell was empty. A charred patch on the floor was all that remained of a bozak draconian. A pile of greasy ash denoted the demise of a baaz draconian. Caramon and Berem, Tika and Tas were gone. Raistlin heard guttural voices shouting that the prisoners had escaped.
But where had they gone?
Raistlin swore under his breath and looked around for some clue. At the end of the corridor, an iron door had been torn off its hinges.
Jasla was calling, and Berem had answered.
Raistlin leaned on the staff and drew in a ragged breath. He could breathe easier; his strength was returning. He was about to go in pursuit of Berem when a hand snaked out of the shadows. Cold fingers closed painfully over his wrist. Long nails scraped his skin and dug into his flesh.
“Not so fast, young magus,” said Fistandantilus. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”
The voice was real and close, no longer in his head. Raistlin could feel the old man’s breath warm on his cheek. The breath came from a living body, not a live corpse.
The hand held him fast. The bony fingers with their long, yellowed nails tightened their grip. Raistlin could not see the face, for it was hidden in the shadows. He had no need to see it. He knew the face as well or better than he knew his own. In some ways, the face was his own.
“Only one of us can be the master,” said Fistandantilus.
The green bloodstone mottled with red striations glistened in the light of the Staff of Magius.
17
The last battle. The bloodstone.
Raistlin was caught completely off-guard. A second before, he had been triumphing in his victory over Ariakas, and between the space of one shuddering breath and another, he was held fast in the grip of his most implacable foe, a wizard Raistlin had duped and cheated and sought to destroy.
Raistlin stared, mesmerized, at the bloodstone pendant dangling from the bony hand. When Fistandantilus had been a living man, he had murdered countless young mages, sucking out their lives with the bloodstone and giving the life-force to himself.
In desperation, Raistlin cast the only spell that came to his terrified mind—an elementary spell, one of the first he had ever learned. “Kair tangus miopiar!”
His hand flared with fire. Raistlin realized the moment he spoke that the spell would be useless against Fistandantilus. The magical flames could only harm the living. He was despairing, cursing himself, when, to his amazement, Fistandantilus snarled and snatched his hand away.
“You are flesh and blood!” Raistlin gasped, and he was heartened. He was fighting a live enemy, one that might be strong, but also one who could be killed.
Falling back, Raistlin clasped the Staff of Magius in both hands and raised it in front of him, using it as both shield and weapon. He remembered the times Caramon had insisted his twin learn to defend himself with the staff and how he had always tried to get out of it.
“I will soon be your flesh and your blood,” said Fistandantilus, his fleshless lips parting in a ghastly smile. “A reward from my Queen.”
“Your Queen!” Raistlin almost laughed. “A Queen you plotted to overthrow.’
“All is forgiven between us,” said Fistandantilus. “On one condition—that I destroy you. Did you honestly think your actions, your plans, would escape my notice? In return for your demise, I will become you—or rather, your young body will house me.”
He cast a disparaging glance over Raistlin’s thin frame and sniffed. “Not the best body I have inhabited, but one that is powerful in magic. And with my knowledge and wisdom, you will become more powerful still. I hope that will be a final comfort to you in your last moments.”
Raistlin lashed out with the Staff of Magius, aiming a blow at the wizard’s hooded head. But he was not particularly skilled as a fighter, not like Caramon. His strike was clumsy and slow. Fistandantilus ducked. He caught hold of the staff, and jerked it out of Raistlin’s hands.
The staff’s magic crackled. Fistandantilus cried in rage and flung the staff halfway down the corridor. Raistlin heard the crystal globe crack as the staff struck the stone floor. The glow of magic dimmed.
Raistlin glanced back over his shoulder and marked where the staff lay. He fell back a step, his hand fumbling beneath his robes for the pouches that held the dragon orb and his spell components. Fistandantilus saw what he intended. He pointed at the pouches and spoke words of magic. Like iron to lodestone, the pouches flew out of Raistlin’s hands and into the hands of the old man.
“Bat dung and rose petals!” Fistandantilus cast the pouches disdainfully to the floor. “When I am you, you will have no need of such ingredients. The Master of Past and Present will craft magnificent magic. Too bad you will not be there to see it.”
Fistandantilus extended his hands, fingers spread, and began to chant, “Kalith karan, tobanis-kar…”
Raistlin recognized the spell and hurled himself to the floor. Blazing arrows of fire shot from the old man’s fingertips and sizzled over Raistlin’s head. The scorching heat burned his hair. The Staff of Magius lay just beyond reach. The crystal globe had cracked, but the magical light continued to shine and he saw, in its light, something sparkle.
He was about to try to make a grab for it when he heard footsteps behind him—Fistandantilus coming to finish him off. Raistlin gave a moan and tried to rise, only to collapse onto the floor again.
Fistandantilus laughed, amused at his struggles. “When I am in your body, Majere, I will hunt down and slay your imbecile brother, who is now trying to fight his way to the Foundation Stone. Caramon will think, in his final, despairing moments, that his beloved twin was his murderer. But then that’s nothing new to poor Caramon, is it? He’s already seen you kill him!”