Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [38]
Sturm put his hand on Flint’s shoulder. “Go back to Tas. He needs you now. There are draconians roaming the streets. We’ll be all—”
Laurana screamed, a terrifying, pitiful sound that pierced Sturm like a spear. Turning, he caught hold of her just as she started to rush into the debris.
“Laurana!” he cried. “Look at that! Look at it!” He shook her in his own anguish. “Nothing could be alive in there!”
“You don’t know that!” she screamed at him in fury, tearing away from his grasp. Falling onto her hands and knees, she tried to lift one of the blackened stones. “Tanis!” she cried. The stone was so heavy, she could only move it a few inches.
Sturm watched, heartsick, uncertain what to do. Then he had his answer. Horns! Nearer and nearer. Hundreds, thousands of horns. The armies were invading. He looked at Elistan, who nodded in sorrowful understanding. Both men hurried over to Laurana.
“My dear,” Elistan began gently, “there is nothing you can do for them. The living need you. Your brother is hurt, so is the kender. The draconians are invading. We must either escape now, and keep fighting these horrible monsters, or waste our lives in useless grief. Tanis gave his life for you, Laurana. Don’t let it be a needless sacrifice.”
Laurana stared up at him, her face black with soot and filth, streaked with tears and blood. She heard the horns, she heard Gilthanas calling, she heard Flint shouting something about Tasslehoff dying, she heard Elistan’s words. And then the rain began, dripping from the skies as the heat of the dragonfire melted the snow, changing it to water.
The rain ran down her face, cooling her feverish skin.
“Help me, Sturm,” she whispered through lips almost too numb to shape the words. He put his arm around her. She stood up, dizzy and sick with shock.
“Laurana!” her brother called. Elistan was right. The living needed her. She must go to him. Though she would rather lie down on this pile of rocks and die, she must go on. That was what Tanis would do. They needed her. She must go on.
“Farewell, Tanthalas,” she whispered.
The rain increased, pouring down gently, as if the gods themselves wept for Tarsis the Beautiful.
Water dripped on his head. It was irritating, cold. Raistlin tried to roll over, out of the way of the water. But he couldn’t move. There was a heavy weight pressing down on top of him. Panicking, he tried desperately to escape. As fear surged through his body, he came fully to consciousness. With knowledge, panic vanished. Raistlin was in control once more and, as he had been taught, he forced himself to relax and study the situation.
He could see nothing. It was intensely dark, so he was forced to rely on his other senses. First, he had to get this weight off. He was being smothered and crushed. Cautiously he moved his arms. There was no pain, nothing appeared broken. Reaching up, he touched a body. Caramon, by the armor—and the smell. He sighed. He might have known. Using all his strength, Raistlin shoved his brother aside and crawled out from under him.
The mage breathed more easily, wiping water from his face. He located his brother’s neck in the darkness and felt for the lifebeat. It was strong, the man’s flesh was warm, his breathing regular. Raistlin lay back down on the floor in relief. At least, wherever he was, he wasn’t alone.
Where was he? Raistlin reconstructed those last few terrifying moments. He remembered the beam splitting and Tanis throwing Laurana out from under it. He remembered casting a spell, the last one he had strength enough to manage. The magic coursed through his body, creating around him and those near him a force capable of shielding them from physical objects. He remembered Caramon hurling himself on top of him, the building collapsing around them, and a falling sensation.
Falling …
Ah, Raistlin understood. We must have crashed through