Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [109]
“Raistlin!” they heard him cry in a strangled voice. “He’s turned into a giant!”
“The kender’s gone mad,” Flint said with gloomy satisfaction. “I always knew it—”
Running forward, the companions found Tas jumping up and down and pointing. They stood by his side, panting for breath.
“By the beard of Reorx,” gasped Flint in awe. “It is Raistlin!”
Looming out of the swirling mist, rising nine feet in the air, stood a stone statue carved in a perfect likeness of the young mage. Accurate in every detail, it even captured his cynical, bitter expression and the carven eyes with their hourglass pupils.
“And there’s Caramon!” Tas cried.
A few feet away stood another statue, this time shaped like the mage’s warrior twin.
“And Tanis …” Laurana whispered fearfully. “What evil magic is this?”
“Not evil,” Silvara said, “unless you bring evil to this place. In that case, you would see the faces of your worst enemies within the stone statues. The horror and fear they generate would not allow you to pass. But you see only your friends, and so you may pass safely.”
“I wouldn’t exactly count Raistlin among my friends,” muttered Flint.
“Nor I,” Laurana said. Shivering, she walked hesitantly past the cold image of the mage. The mage’s obsidian robes gleamed black in the moons’ light. Laurana remembered vividly the nightmare of Silvanesti, and she shuddered as she entered what she saw now was a ring of stone statues—each of them bearing a striking, almost frightening resemblance to her friends. Within that silent ring of stone stood a small temple.
The simple rectangular building thrust up into the fog from an octagonal base of shining steps. It, too, was made of obsidian, and the black structure glistened wet with the perpetual fog. Each feature stood as if it had been carved only days before; no sign of wear marred the sharp, clean lines of the carving. Its knights, each bearing the dragonlance, still charged huge monsters. Dragons screamed silently in frozen death, pierced by the long, delicate shafts.
“Inside this temple, they placed Huma’s body,” Silvara said softly as she led them up the stairs.
Cold bronze doors swung open on silent hinges to Silvara’s touch. The companions stood uncertainly on the stairs that encircled the columned temple. But, as Gilthanas had said, they could sense no evil coming from this place. Laurana remembered vividly the Tomb of the Royal Guard in the Sla-Mori and the terror generated by the undead guards left to keep eternal watch over their dead king, Kith-Kanan. In this temple, however, she felt only sorrow and loss, tempered by the knowledge of a great victory—a battle won at terrible cost, but bringing with it eternal peace and sweet restfulness.
Laurana felt her burden ease, her heart become lighter. Her own sorrow and loss seemed diminished here. She was reminded of her own victories and triumphs. One by one, all the companions entered the tomb. The bronze doors swung shut behind them, leaving them in total darkness.
Then light flared. Silvara held a torch in her hand, apparently taken from the wall. Laurana wondered briefly how she had managed to light it. But the trivial question left her mind as she stood gazing around the tomb in awe.
It was empty except for a bier carved out of obsidian, which stood in the center of the room. Chiseled images of knights supported the bier, but the body of the knight that was supposed to have rested upon it was gone. An ancient shield lay at the foot, and a sword, similar to Sturm’s, lay near the shield. The companions gazed at these artifacts in silence. It seemed a desecration to the sorrowful serenity of the place to speak, and none touched them, not even Tasslehoff.
“I wish Sturm could be here,” murmured Laurana, looking around, tears coming to her eyes. “This must be Huma’s resting place … yet—”
She couldn’t explain the growing sense of uneasiness that was creeping over her. Not fear, it was more like the sensation she had felt upon