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“When we get near,” Sturm shouted—“sneak around to where you can see the pot descending. When it starts to come down, signal me. We’ll attack when it reaches the ground.”

Tasslehoff’s topknot bobbed.

“Tell Flint!” Sturm finished, his voice nearly gone from shouting. Tas nodded again and raced off to find the dwarf. Sturm straightened his aching back with a sigh and continued on down the street. He could see about twenty or twenty-five draconians gathered in the courtyard, watching for the pot that would carry them to safety to begin its descent. Sturm imagined the confusion up on the top—draconians whipping and bullying the panic-stricken gully dwarves, forcing them into the lift. He hoped the confusion would last.

Sturm saw the brothers in the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. He joined them, glancing up nervously as a stone slab crashed down behind him. As Riverwind staggered out of the mist and dust, Sturm started to help him, but the Plainsman looked at the knight as if he had never seen him before in his life.

“Bring Tanis over here,” Sturm said. “You can lay him down and rest a moment. We’re going up in the lift and we’ll have a fight on our hands. Wait here. When we signal—”

“Do what you must,” Riverwind interrupted coldly. He laid Tanis’s body gently on the ground and slumped down beside him, burying his face in his hands.

Sturm hesitated. He started to kneel down by Tanis as Flint came to stand by his side.

“Go on. I’ll check on him,” the dwarf offered.

Sturm nodded thankfully. He saw Tasslehoff skitter across the courtyard and into a doorway. Looking toward the lift, he saw the draconians yelling and cursing into the mist as if they could hurry the pot’s descent.

Flint poked Sturm in the ribs. “How are we going to fight all of them?” he shouted.

“We’re not. You’re going to stay here with Riverwind and Tanis,” Sturm said. “Caramon and I can handle this,” he added, wishing he believed it himself.

“And I,” whispered the mage. “I still have my spells.” The knight did not answer. He distrusted magic and he distrusted Raistlin. Still, he had no choice—Caramon would not go into battle without his brother by his side. Tugging at his moustaches, Sturm restlessly loosened his sword. Caramon flexed his arms, clenching and unclenching his huge hands. Raistlin, his eyes closed, was lost in concentration. Bupu, hidden in a niche in the wall behind him, watched everything with wide, frightened eyes.

The pot swung into view, gully dwarves hanging from its sides. As Sturm hoped, the draconians on the ground began to fight among themselves, none wanting to be left behind. Their panic increased as great cracks ran through the pavement toward them. Water rose through the cracks. The city of Xak Tsaroth would soon be lying at the bottom of Newsea.

As the pot touched ground, the gully dwarves scurried over the sides and fled. The draconians clambered in, hitting and shoving each other.

“Now!” the knight yelled.

“Get out of my way!” the mage hissed. Pulling a handful of sand from one of his pouches, he sprinkled it on the ground and whispered, “Ast tasark sinuralan krynaw,” moving his right hand in an arc in the direction of the draconians. First one, then a few more blinked their eyes and slumped to the ground in sleep, but others remained standing, glancing around in alarm. The mage ducked back into the doorway and, seeing nothing, the draconians turned back to the lift, stepping on the bodies of their sleeping comrades in their frantic rush. Raistlin leaned against the wall, closing his eyes wearily.

“How many?” he asked.

“Only about six.” Caramon drew his sword from its sheath.

“Just get in the damn pot!” Sturm yelled. “We’ll come back for Tanis when the fight’s ended.”

Under cover of the mist, the two warriors—swords drawn—covered the distance to the draconians within a few heartbeats, Raistlin stumbling behind. Sturm shouted his battle cry. At the sound, the draconians spun around in alarm.

And Riverwind raised his head.

The sound of battle penetrated Riverwind’s fog of despair.