Test of the Twins: Legends, Volume Three (Dragonlance Legends) Read online

  “Name of the gods!” Tas breathed in awe, catching hold of Caramon’s hand (in case the big man should feel frightened). “What’s happening?”

  Caramon didn’t answer. He could feel the anger in the Forest grow more intense, mingled now with an overwhelming fear and sadness. The trees seemed to be prodding them ahead, crowding them, urging them on. The screaming continued for as long as it might take a man to use up his breath, then it quit for the space of a man drawing air into his lungs, then it began again. Caramon felt the sweat chill on his body.

  He kept walking, Tas close by his side. They made slow progress, made worse by the fact that they had no idea if they were making progress at all, since they could not see their destination nor even know if they were headed in the right direction. The only guide they had to the Tower was that shrill, inhuman scream.

  On and on they stumbled and, though Tas helped as best he could, each step for Caramon was agony. The pain of his injuries took possession of him and soon he lost all conception of time. He forgot why they had come or even where they were going. To stagger ahead, one step at a time through the darkness that had become a darkness of the mind and soul, was Caramon’s only thought.

  He kept walking—

  and walking—

  and walking—

  one step, one step, one step …

  And all the time, shrilling in his ears, that horrible, undying scream …

  “Caramon!”

  The voice penetrated his weary, pain-numbed brain. He had a feeling he had been hearing it for some time now, above the scream, but—if so—it hadn’t pierced the fog of blackness that enshrouded him.

  “What?” he mumbled, and now he became aware that hands were grasping him, shaking him. He raised his head and looked around. “What?” he asked again, struggling to regain his grasp of reality. “Tas?”

  “Look, Caramon!” The kender’s voice came to him through a haze, and he shook his head, desperately, to clear away the fog in his brain.

  And he realized he could see. It was light—moonlight! Blinking his eyes, he stared around. “The Forest?”

  “Behind us,” Tas whispered, as though talking about it might suddenly bring it back. “It’s brought us somewhere, at least. I’m just not certain where. Look around. Do you remember this?”

  Caramon looked. The shadow of the Forest was gone. He and Tas were standing in a clearing. Swiftly, fearfully, he glanced around.

  At his feet yawned a dark chasm.

  Behind them, the Forest waited. Caramon did not have to turn to see it, he knew it was there, just as he knew that they would never reenter it and get out alive. It had led them this far, here it would leave them. But where was here? The trees were behind them, but ahead of them lay nothing—just a vast, dark void. They might have been standing on the very edge of a cliff, as Tas had said.

  Storm clouds darkened the horizon, but—for the time being—none seemed close. Up above, he could see the moons and stars in the sky. Lunitari burned a fiery red, Solinari’s silver light glowed with a radiant brilliance Caramon had never seen before. And now, perhaps because of the stark contrast between darkness and light, he could see Nuitari—the black moon, the moon that had been visible only to his brother’s eyes. Around the moons, the stars shone fiercely, none brighter than the strange hourglass constellation.

  The only sounds he could hear were the angry mutterings of the Forest behind him and, ahead of him, that shrill, horrible scream.

  They had no choice, Caramon thought wearily. There was no turning back. The Forest would not permit that. And what was death anyhow except an end to this pain, this thirst, this bitter aching in his heart.

  “Stay here, Tas,” he began, trying to disengage the kender’s small hand as he prepared to step forward into the darkness. “I’m going to go ahead a little way and scout—”

  “Oh, no!” Tas cried. “You’re not going anywhere without me!” The kender’s hand gripped his even more firmly. “Why, just look at all the trouble you got into by yourself in the dwarf wars!” he added, trying to get rid of an annoying choking feeling in his throat. “And when I did get there, I had to save your life.” Tas looked down into the darkness that lay at their feet, then he gritted his teeth resolutely and raised his gaze to meet that of the big man. “I—I think it would be awfully lonely in—in the Afterlife without you and, besides, I can just hear Flint—“Well, you doorknob, what have you gone and done this time? Managed to lose that great hulking hunk of lard, did you? It figures. Now, I suppose I’ll have to leave my nice soft seat here under this tree and set off in search of the muscle-bound idiot. Never did know when to come in out of the rain—”

  “Very well, Tas,” Caramon interrupted with a smile, having a sudden vision of the crotchety old dwarf. “It would never do to disturb Flint. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “Besides,” Tas went on, feeling more cheerful, “why would they bring us all this way just to dump us in a pit?”

  “Why, indeed?” Caramon said, reflecting. Gripping his crutch, feeling more confident, he took a step into the darkness, Tas following along behind.

  “Unless,” the kender added with a gulp, “Par-Salian’s still mad at me.…”

  CHAPTER

  6

  he Tower of High Sorcery loomed before them—a thing of darkness, silhouetted against the light of moon and stars, looking as though it had been created out of the night itself. For centuries it had stood, a bastion of magic, the repository of the books and artifacts of the Art, collected over the years.

  Here the mages had come when they were driven from the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas by the Kingpriest, here they brought with them those most valued objects, saved from the attacking mobs. Here they dwelt in peace, guarded by the Forest of Wayreth. Young apprentice magic-users took the Test here, the grueling Test that meant death to those who failed it.

  Here Raistlin had come and lost his soul to Fistandantilus. Here Caramon had been forced to watch as Raistlin murdered an illusion of his twin brother.

  Here Caramon and Tas had returned with the gully dwarf, Bupu, bearing the comatose body of Lady Crysania. Here they had attended a Conclave of the Three Robes—Black, Red, and White. Here they had learned Raistlin’s ambition—to challenge the Queen of Darkness. Here they had met his apprentice and spy for the Conclave—Dalamar. Here the great archmage Par-Salian had cast a time-travel spell on Caramon and Lady Crysania, sending them back to Istar before the mountain fell.

  Here, Tasslehoff had inadvertently upset the spell by jumping in to go with Caramon. Thus, the presence of the kender—forbidden by all the laws of magic—allowed time to be altered.

  Now Caramon and Tas had returned—to find what?

  Caramon stared at the Tower, his heart heavy with foreboding and dread. His courage failed him. He could not enter, not with the sound of that pitiful, persistent screaming echoing in his ears. Better to go back, better to face quick death in the Forest. Besides, he had forgotten the gates. Made of silver and of gold, they still stood, steadfastly blocking his way into the Tower. Thin as cobweb they seemed, looking like black streaks painted down the starlit sky. A touch of a kender’s hand might have opened them. Yet magical spells were wound about them, spells so powerful an army of ogres could have hurled itself against those fragile-seeming gates without effect.

  Still the screaming, louder now and nearer. So near, in fact, that it might have come from—

  Caramon took another step forward, his brow creased in a frown. As he did so, the gate came clearly into view.

  And revealed the source of the screaming.…

  The gates were not shut, nor were they locked. One gate stood fast, as if still spellbound. But the other had broken, and now it swung by one hinge, back and forth, back and forth in the hot, unceasing wind. And, as it blew back and forth slowly in the breeze, it gave forth a shrill, high-pitched shriek.

  “It’s not locked,” said Tas in disappointment. His small hand had already been
reaching for his lockpicking tools.

  “No,” said Caramon, staring up at the squeaking hinge. “And there’s the voice we heard—the voice of rusty metal.” He supposed he should have been relieved, but it only deepened the mystery. “If it wasn’t Par-Salian or someone up there”—his eyes went to the Tower that stood, black and apparently empty before them—“who got us through the Forest, then who was it?”

  “Maybe no one,” Tas said hopefully. “If no one’s here, Caramon, can we leave?”

  “There has to be someone,” Caramon muttered. “Something made those trees let us pass.”

  Tas sighed, his head drooping. Caramon could see him in the moonlight, his small face pale and covered with grime. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, his lower lip quivered, and a tear was sneaking down one side of his small nose.

  Caramon patted him on the shoulder. “Just a little longer,” he said gently. “Hold out just a little longer, please, Tas?”

  Looking up quickly, swallowing that traitor tear and its partner that had just dripped into his mouth, Tas grinned cheerfully. “Sure, Caramon,” he said. Not even the fact that his throat was aching and parched with thirst could keep him from adding, “You know me—always ready for adventure. There’s bound to be lots of magical, wonderful things in there, don’t you think?” he added, glancing at the silent Tower. “Things no one would miss. Not magical rings, of course. I’m finished with magical rings. First one lands me in a wizard’s castle where I met a truly wicked demon, then the next turns me into a mouse. I—”

  Letting Tas prattle on, glad that the kender was apparently feeling back to normal, Caramon hobbled forward and put his hand upon the swinging gate to shove it to one side. To his amazement, it broke off—the weakened hinge finally giving way. The gate clattered to the gray paving stone beneath it with a clang that made both Tas and Caramon cringe. The echoes bounded off the black, polished walls of the Tower, resounding through the hot night and shattering the stillness.

  “Well, now they know we’re here,” said Tas.

  Caramon’s hand once again closed over his sword hilt, but he did not draw it. The echoes faded. Silence closed in. Nothing happened. No one came. No voice spoke.

  Tas turned to help Caramon limp ahead. “At least we won’t have to listen to that awful sound anymore,” he said, stepping over the broken gate. “I don’t mind saying so now, but that shriek was beginning to get on my nerves. It certainly sounded very ungate-like, if you know what I mean. It sounded just like … just like …”

  “Like that,” Caramon whispered.

  The scream split the air, shattering the moonlit darkness, only this time it was different. There were words in this scream—words that could be heard, if not defined.

  Turning his head involuntary, though he knew what he would see, Caramon stared back at the gate. It lay on the stones, dead, lifeless.

  “Caramon,” said Tas, swallowing, “it—it’s coming from there—the Tower.…”

  “End it!” screamed Par-Salian. “End this torment! Do not force me to endure more!”

  How much did you force me to endure, O Great One of the White Robes? came a soft, sneering voice into Par-Salian’s mind. The wizard writhed in agony, but the voice persisted, relentless, flaying his soul like a scourge. You brought me here and gave me up to him—Fistandantilus! You sat and watched as he wrenched the lifeforce from me, draining it so that he might live upon this plane.

  “It was you who made the bargain,” Par-Salian cried, his ancient voice carrying through the empty hallways of the Tower. “You could have refused him—”

  And what? Died honorably? The voice laughed. What kind of choice is that? I wanted to live! To grow in my Art! And I did live. And you, in your bitterness, gave me these hourglass eyes—these eyes that saw nothing but death and decay all around me. Now, you look, Par-Salian! What do you see around you? Nothing but death.… Death and decay … So we are even.

  Par-Salian moaned. The voice continued, mercilessly, pitilessly.

  Even, yes. And now I will grind you into dust. For, in your last tortured moments, Par-Salian, you will witness my triumph. Already my constellation shines in the sky. The Queen dwindles. Soon she will fade and be gone forever. My final foe, Paladine, waits for me now. I see him approach. But he is no challenge—an old man, bent, his face grieved and filled with the sorrow that will prove his undoing. For he is weak, weak and hurt beyond healing, as was Crysania, his poor cleric, who died upon the shifting planes of the Abyss. You will watch me destroy him, Par-Salian, and when that battle is ended, when the constellation of the Platinum Dragon plummets from the sky, when Solinari’s light is extinguished, when you have seen and acknowledged the power of the Black Moon and paid homage to the new and only god—to me—then you will be released, Par-Salian, to find what solace you can in death!

  Astinus of Palanthas recorded the words as he had recorded Par-Salian’s scream, writing the crisp, black, bold letters in slow, unhurried style. He sat before the great Portal in the Tower of High Sorcery, staring into the Portal’s shadowy depths, seeing within those depths a figure blacker even than the darkness around him. All that was visible were two golden eyes, their pupils the shape of hourglasses, staring back at him and at the white-robed wizard trapped next to him.

  For Par-Salian was a prisoner in his own Tower. From the waist up, he was living man—his white hair flowing about his shoulders, his white robes covering a body thin and emaciated, his dark eyes fixed upon the Portal. The sights he had seen had been dreadful and had, long ago, nearly destroyed his sanity. But he could not withdraw his gaze. From the waist up, Par-Salian was living man. From the waist down—he was a marble pillar. Cursed by Raistlin, Par-Salian was forced to stand in the topmost room of his Tower and watch—in bitter agony—the end of the world.

  Next to him sat Astinus—Historian of the World, Chronicler, writing this last chapter of Krynn’s brief, shining history. Palanthas the Beautiful, where Astinus had lived and where the Great Library had stood, was now nothing but a heap of ash and charred bodies. Astinus had come to this, the last place standing upon Krynn, to witness and record the world’s final, terrifying hours. When all was finished, he would take the closed book and lay it upon the altar of Gilean, God of Neutrality. And that would be the end.

  Sensing the black-robed figure within the Portal turning its gaze upon him, when he came to the end of a sentence, Astinus raised his eyes to meet the figure’s golden ones.

  As you were first, Astinus, said the figure, so shall you be last. When you have recorded my ultimate victory, the book will be closed. I will rule unchallenged.

  “True, you will rule unchallenged. You will rule a dead world. A world your magic destroyed. You will rule alone. And you will be alone, alone in the formless, eternal void,” Astinus replied coolly, writing even as he spoke. Beside him, Par-Salian moaned and tore at his white hair.

  Seeing as he saw everything—without seeming to see—Astinus watched the black-robed figure’s hands clench. That is a lie, old friend! I will create! New worlds will be mine. New peoples I will produce—new races who will worship me!

  “Evil cannot create,” Astinus remarked, “it can only destroy. It turns in upon itself, gnawing itself. Already, you feel it eating away at you. Already, you can feel your soul shrivel. Look into Paladine’s face, Raistlin. Look into it as you looked into it once, back on the Plains of Dergoth, when you lay dying of the dwarf’s sword wound and Lady Crysania laid healing hands upon you. You saw the grief and sorrow of the god then as you see it now, Raistlin. And you knew then, as you know now but refuse to admit, that Paladine grieves, not for himself, but for you.

  “Easy will it be for us to slip back into our dreamless sleep. For you, Raistlin, there will be no sleep. Only an endless waking, endless listening for sounds that will never come, endless staring into a void that holds neither light nor darkness, endless shrieking words that no one will hear, no one will answer, endless plotting and scheming that will bear n
o fruit as you turn round and round upon yourself. Finally, in your madness and desperation, you will grab the tail of your existence and, like a starving snake, devour yourself whole in an effort to find food for your soul.

  “But you will find nothing but emptiness. And you will continue to exist forever within this emptiness—a tiny spot of nothing, sucking in everything around itself to feed your endless hunger.…”

  The Portal shimmered. Astinus quickly looked up from his writing, feeling the will behind those golden eyes waver. Staring past the mirrorlike surface, looking deep into their depths, he saw—for the space of a heartbeat—the very torment and torture he had described. He saw a soul, frightened, alone, caught in its own trap, seeking escape. For the first time in his existence, compassion touched Astinus. His hand marking his place in his book, he half-rose from his seat, his other hand reaching into the Portal.…

  Then, laughter … eerie, mocking, bitter laughter—laughter not at him, but at the one who laughed.

  The black-robed figure within the Portal was gone.

  With a sigh, Astinus resumed his seat and, almost at the same instant, magical lightning flickered inside the Portal. It was answered by flaring, white light—the final meeting of Paladine and the young man who had defeated the Queen of Darkness and taken her place.

  Lighting flickered outside, too, stabbing the eyes of the two men watching with blinding brilliance. Thunder crashed, the stones of the Tower trembled, the foundations of the Tower shook. Wind howled, its wail drowning out Par-Salian’s moaning.

  Lifting a drawn, haggard face, the ancient wizard twisted his head to stare out the windows with an expression of horror. “This is the end,” he murmured, his gnarled, wasted hands plucking feebly at the air. “The end of all things.”

  “Yes,” said Astinus, frowning in annoyance as a sudden lurching of the Tower caused him to make an error. He gripped his book more firmly, his eyes on the Portal, writing, recording the last battle as it occurred.