Dragons of the Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis [139]
By sunrise of the third day, the draconian army was flagging from the night’s long march and looking forward to a rest. The companions had spent another sleepless night and looked forward to nothing but another chill and dismal day. But the cages suddenly rolled to a stop. Tanis glanced up, puzzled at the change in routine. The other prisoners roused themselves and looked out the cage bars. They saw an old man, dressed in long robes that once might have been white and a battered, pointed hat. He appeared to be talking to a tree.
“I say, did you hear me?” The old man shook a worn walking stick at the oak. “I said move and I meant it! I was sitting on that rock”—he pointed to a boulder—“enjoying the rising sun on my old bones when you had the nerve to cast a shadow over it and chill me! Move this instant, I say!”
The tree did not respond. It also did not move.
“I won’t take any more of your insolence!” The old man began to beat on the tree with his stick. “Move or I’ll, I’ll—”
“Someone shut that loony in a cage!” Fewmaster Toede shouted, galloping back from the front of the caravan.
“Get your hands off me!” the old man shrieked at the draconians who ran up and accosted him. He beat on them feebly with his staff until they took it away from him. “Arrest the tree!” he insisted. “Obstructing sunlight! That’s the charge!”
The draconians threw the old man roughly into the companions’ cage. Tripping over his robes, he fell to the floor.
“Are you all right, Old One?” Riverwind asked as he assisted the old man to a seat.
Goldmoon left Theros’s side. “Yes, Old One,” she said softly. “Are you hurt? I am a cleric of—”
“Mishakal!” he said, peering at the amulet around her neck. “How very interesting. My, my.” He stared at her in astonishment. “You don’t look three hundred years old!”
Goldmoon blinked, uncertain how to react. “How did you know? Did you recognize—? I’m not three hundred—” She was growing confused.
“Of course, you’re not. I’m sorry, my dear.” The old man patted her hand. “Never bring up a lady’s age in public. Forgive me. It won’t happen again. Our little secret,” he said in a piercing whisper. Tas and Tika started to giggle. The old man looked around. “Kind of you to stop and offer me a lift. The road to Qualinost is long.”
“We’re not going to Qualinost,” Gilthanas said sharply. “We’re prisoners, going to the slave mines of Pax Tharkas.”
“Oh?” the old man glanced around vaguely. “Is there another group due by here soon, then? I could have sworn this was the one.”
“What is your name, Old One?” Tika asked.
“My name?” The old man hesitated, frowning. “Fizban? Yes, that’s it. Fizban.”
“Fizban!” Tasslehoff repeated as the cage lurched to a start again. “That’s not a name!”
“Isn’t it?” the old man asked wistfully. “That’s too bad. I was rather fond of it.”
“I think it’s a splendid name,” Tika said, glaring at Tas. The kender subsided into a corner, his eyes on the pouches slung over the old man’s shoulder.
Suddenly Raistlin began to cough and they all turned their attention to him. His coughing spasms had been growing worse and worse. He was exhausted and in obvious pain; his skin burned to the touch. Goldmoon was unable to help him. Whatever was burning the mage up inside, the cleric could not heal. Caramon knelt beside him, wiping away the bloody saliva that flecked his brother’s lips.
“He’s got to have that stuff he drinks!” Caramon looked up in anguish. “I’ve never seen him this bad. If they won’t listen to reason”—the big man scowled—“I’ll break their heads! I don’t care how many there are!”
“We’ll talk