Dragons of Spring Dawning - Margaret Weis [163]
“No, Caramon,” Raistlin whispered. His thin lips parted in a grim smile. “I don’t 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,