Dragons of the Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis [134]
“I will insure its safety,” the mage whispered.
“How?” the knight asked, withdrawing from Raistlin’s touch as from a poisonous snake.
“I do not explain my ways to you,” Raistlin hissed. “Trust me or not, as you choose.”
Sturm hesitated.
“This is ridiculous!” shrieked Toede. “Kill the knight! Kill them if they cause more trouble. I’m losing sleep!”
“Very well!” Sturm said in a strangled voice. Walking over, he reverently laid the sword down on the pile of weapons. Its ancient silver scabbard, decorated with the kingfisher and rose, gleamed in the light.
“Ah, truly a beautiful weapon,” Toede said. He had a sudden vision of himself walking into audience with Lord Verminaard, the sword of a Solamnic knight hanging at his side. “Perhaps I should take that into custody myself. Bring it—”
Before he could finish, Raistlin stepped forward swiftly and knelt beside the pile of weapons. A bright flash of light sprang from the mage’s hand. Raistlin closed his eyes and began to murmur strange words, holding his outstretched hands above the weapons and packs.
“Stop him!” yelled Toede. But none dared.
Finally Raistlin ceased speaking and his head slumped forward. His brother hurried to help.
Raistlin stood. “Know this!” the mage said, his golden eyes staring around the common room. “I have cast a spell upon our belongings. Anyone who touches them will be slowly devoured by the great worm, Catyrpelius, who will rise from the Abyss and suck the blood from your veins until you are nothing more than a dried husk.”
“The great worm Catyrpelius!” breathed Tasslehoff, his eyes shining. “That’s incredible. I’ve never heard of—”
Tanis clapped his hand over the kender’s mouth.
The goblins backed away from the pile of weapons, which seemed to almost glow with a green aura.
“Get those weapons, somebody!” ordered Toede in a rage.
“You get ’em,” muttered a goblin.
No one moved. Toede was at a loss. Although he was not particularly imaginative, a vivid picture of the great worm, Catyrpelius, reared up in his mind. “Very well,” he muttered, “take the prisoners away! Load them into the cages. And bring those weapons, too, or you’ll wish that worm what’s-its-name was sucking your blood!” Toede stomped off angrily.
The goblins began to shove their prisoners toward the door, prodding them in the back with their swords. None, however, touched Raistlin.
“That’s a wonderful spell, Raist,” Caramon said in a low voice. “How effective is it? Could it—”
“It’s about as effective as your wit!” Raistlin whispered and held up his right hand. As Caramon saw the tell-tale black marks of flashpowder, he smiled grimly in sudden understanding.
Tanis was the last to leave the Inn. He cast a final look around. A single light swung from the ceiling. Tables were overturned, chairs broken. The beams of the ceiling were blackened from the fires, in some cases burned through completely. The windows were covered with greasy black soot.
“I almost wish I had died before I saw this.”
The last thing he heard as he left were two hobgoblin captains arguing heatedly about who was going to move the enchanted weapons.
3
The slave caravan.
A strange old magician.
The companions spent a chill, sleepless night, penned up in an iron-barred cage on wheels in the Solace Town Square. Three cages were chained to one of the posts driven into the ground around the clearing. The wooden posts were black from flame and heat, the bases scorched and splintered. No living thing grew in the clearing; even the rocks were black and melted.
When day dawned, they could see other prisoners in the other cages. The last slave caravan leaving Solace for Pax Tharkas, it was to be personally led by the Fewmaster himself, Toede having decided to take this opportunity to impress Lord Verminaard who was in residence at Pax