Dragons of the Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis [169]
The companions woke when morning’s pale light crept through the door. After a quick breakfast, they gathered their things and walked down the corridor into the Sla-Mori.
Arriving at the crossroads, they examined both directions, left and right. Riverwind knelt to study the tracks, then rose, his expression puzzled.
“They are human,” he said, “but they are not human. There are animal tracks as well—probably rats. The dwarf was right. I see no sign of draconians or goblins. What is odd, however, is that the animal tracks end right here where the paths cross. They do not go into the right-hand corridor. The other strange tracks do not go to the left.”
“Well, which way do we go?” Tanis asked.
“I say we don’t go either way!” Eben stated. “The entrance is still open. Let’s turn back.”
“Turning back is no longer an option,” Tanis said coldly. “I would give you leave to go yourself, only—”
“Only you don’t trust me,” Eben finished. “I don’t blame you, Tanis Half-Elven. All right, I said I’d help and I meant it. Which way—left or right?”
“The evil comes from the right,” Raistlin whispered.
“Gilthanas?” Tanis asked. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
“No, Tanthalas,” the elf answered. “Legend says that there were many entrances from Sla-Mori into Pax Tharkas, all secret. Only the elven priests were allowed down here, to honor the dead. One way is as good as another.”
“Or as bad,” whispered Tasslehoff to Tika. She gulped and crept over to stand near Caramon.
“We’ll go left,” Tanis said—“since Raistlin feels uneasy about the right.”
Walking by the light of the mage’s staff, the companions followed the dusty, rock-strewn tunnel for several hundred feet, then reached an ancient stone wall rent by a huge hole through which only darkness was visible. Raistlin’s small light showed faintly the distant walls of a great hall.
The warriors entered first, flanking the mage, who held his staff high. The gigantic hall must once have been splendid, but now it had fallen into such decay that its faded splendor seemed pathetic and horrible. Two rows of seven columns ran the length of the hall, though some lay shattered on the floor. Part of the far wall was caved in, evidence of the destructive force of the Cataclysm. At the very back of the room stood two double bronze doors.
As Raistlin advanced, the others spread out, swords drawn. Suddenly Caramon, in the front of the hall, gave a strangled cry. The mage hurried to shine his light where Caramon pointed with a trembling hand.
Before them was a massive throne, ornately carved of granite. Two huge marble statues flanked the throne, their sightless eyes staring forward into the darkness. The throne they guarded was not empty. Upon it sat the skeletal remains of what had once been a male—of what race, none could say, death being the great equalizer. The figure was dressed in regal robes that, even though faded and decayed, still gave evidence of their richness. A cloak covered the gaunt shoulders. A crown gleamed on the fleshless skull. The bone hands, fingers lying gracefully in death, rested on a sheathed sword.
Gilthanas fell to his knees. “Kith-Kanan,” he said in a whisper. “We stand in the Hall of the Ancients, his burial tomb. None have seen this sight since the elven clerics vanished in the Cataclysm.”
Tanis stared at the throne until, slowly, overcome by feelings he did not understand, the half-elf sank to his knees. “Fealan thalos, Im murquanethi. Sai Kith-Kananoth Murtari Larion,” he murmured in tribute to the greatest of the elven kings.
“What a beautiful sword,” Tasslehoff said, his shrill voice breaking the reverent silence. Tanis glared at him sternly. “I’m not going to take it!” the kender protested, looking wounded. “I just mentioned it, as an item of interest.”
Tanis rose to his feet.