Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [4]
He stopped before the two. Stretching forth his frail hand, the mage spoke, “Akular-alan suh Tagolann Jistrathar,” and a pale image of a weapon shimmered into being as Tanis and Sturm watched in astonishment.
It was a footman’s lance, nearly twelve feet long. The point was made of pure silver, barbed and gleaming, the shaft crafted of polished wood. The tip was steel, designed to be thrust into the ground.
“It’s beautiful!” Tanis gasped. “What is it?”
“A dragonlance,” Raistlin answered. Holding the lance in his hand, the mage stepped between the two, who stood aside to let him pass as if unwilling to be touched by him. Their eyes were on the lance. Then Raistlin turned and held it out to Sturm.
“There is your dragonlance, knight,” Raistlin hissed, “without benefit of the Hammer or the Silver Arm. Will you ride with it into glory, remembering that, for Huma, with glory came death?”
Sturm’s eyes flashed. He caught his breath in awe as he reached out to take hold of the dragonlance. To his amazement, his hand passed right through it! The dragonlance vanished, even as he touched it.
“More of your tricks!” he snarled. Spinning on his heel, he stalked away, choking in anger.
“If you meant that as a joke, Raistlin,” Tanis said quietly, “it wasn’t funny.”
“A joke?” the mage whispered. His strange golden eyes followed the knight as Sturm walked into the thick blackness of the dwarven city beneath the mountain. “You should know me better, Tanis.”
The mage laughed—the weird laughter Tanis had heard only once before. Then, bowing sardonically to the half-elf, Raistlin disappeared, following the knight into the shadows.
BOOK 1
1
White–winged ships.
Hope lies across the Plains of Dust.
Tanis Half-Elven sat in the meeting of the Council of Highseekers and listened, frowning. Though officially the false religion of the Seekers was now dead, the group that made up the political leadership of the eight hundred refugees from Pax Tharkas was still called that.
“It isn’t that we’re not grateful to the dwarves for allowing us to live here,” stated Hederick expansively, waving his scarred hand. “We are all grateful, I’m certain. Just as we’re grateful to those whose heroism in recovering the Hammer of Kharas made our move here possible.” Hederick bowed to Tanis, who returned the bow with a brief nod of his head. “But we are not dwarves!” This emphatic statement brought murmurs of approval, causing Hederick to warm to his audience.
“We humans were never meant to live underground!” Loud calls of approval and some clapping of hands.
“We are farmers. We cannot grow food on the side of a mountain! We want lands like the ones we were forced to leave behind. And I say that those who forced us to leave our old homeland should provide us with new!”
“Does he mean the Dragon Highlords?” Sturm whispered sarcastically to Tanis. “I’m certain they’d be happy to oblige.”
“The fools ought to be thankful they’re alive!” Tanis muttered. “Look at them, turning to Elistan—as if it were his doing!” The cleric of Paladine—and leader of the refugees—rose to his feet to answer Hederick.
“It is because we need new homes,” Elistan said, his strong baritone resounding through the cavern, “that I propose we send a delegation south, to the city of Tarsis the Beautiful.”
Tanis had heard Elistan’s plan before. His mind wandered over the month since he and his companions had returned from Derkin’s Tomb with the sacred Hammer.
The dwarven Thanes, now consolidated under the leadership of Hornfel, were preparing to battle the evil coming from the north. The dwarves did not greatly fear this evil. Their mountain kingdom seemed impregnable. And they had kept the promise they made Tanis in return for the Hammer: the refugees from Pax Tharkas could settle in Southgate, the southernmost part of the mountain kingdom of Thorbardin.
Elistan brought the refugees to Thorbardin. They began trying to rebuild their lives, but the arrangement was not totally satisfactory.
They were safe, to be sure, but the refugees, mostly farmers, were