collapsed in Tanis’s arms.
“Stay here,” the half-elf said, helping him sit down. “You’re not capable of moving. I’ll try and get through. I’ll go around the block and come in from the back.”
Tanis ran forward, darting in and out of doorways, hidingin the wreckage. He was about a block from the Inn when he heard a hoarse shout. Turning to look, he saw Flint gesturing wildly. Tanis dashed across the street.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Why aren’t you with the others—” The half-elf stopped. “Oh, no,” he whispered.
The dwarf, his face smudged with ash and streaked with tears, knelt beside Tasslehoff. The kender was pinned beneath a beam that had fallen in the street. Tas’s face, looking like the face of a wise child, was ashen, his skin clammy.
“Blasted, rattle-brained kender,” Flint moaned. “Had to go and let a house fall on him.” The dwarf’s hands were torn and bleeding from trying to lift a beam that would take three men or one Caramon to get off the kender. Tanis put his hand to Tas’s neck. The lifebeat was very weak.
“Stay with him!” Tanis said unnecessarily. “I’m going to the Inn. I’ll bring Caramon!”
Flint looked up at him grimly, then glanced over at the Inn. Both could hear the yells of the draconians, see their weapons flash in the glare of the firelight. Occasionally an unnatural light flared from the Inn—Raistlin’s magic. The dwarf shook his head. He knew Tanis was about as capable of returning with Caramon as he was of flying.
But Flint managed to smile. “Sure, lad, I’ll stay with him. Farewell, Tanis.”
Tanis swallowed, tried to answer, then gave up and ran on down the street.
Raistlin, coughing until he could barely stand, wiped blood from his lips and drew a small, black leather pouch from the innermost pockets of his robes. He had just one spell left and barely energy enough to cast it. Now, his hands shaking with fatigue, he tried to scatter the contents of the little pouch into a pitcher of wine he had ordered Caramon to bring him before the battle started. But his hand trembled violently, and his coughing spasms doubled him over.
Then he felt another hand grasp his own. Looking up, he saw Laurana. She took the pouch from his frail fingers. Her own hand was stained with the dark green draconian blood.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Ingredients for a spell.” The mage choked. “Pour it intothe wine.” Laurana nodded and poured in the mixture as instructed. It vanished instantly.
“Don’t drink it,” the mage warned when the coughing spasm passed. Laurana looked at him. “What is it?”
“A sleeping potion,” Raistlin whispered, his eyes glittering.
Laurana smiled wryly. “You don’t think we’re going to be able to get to sleep tonight?”
“Not that kind,” Raistlin answered, staring at her intently. “This one feigns death. The heartbeat slows to almost nothing, the breathing nearly stops, the skin grows cold and pale, the limbs stiffen.”
Laurana’s eyes opened wide. “Why—” she began.
“To be used as a last resort. The enemy thinks you are dead, leaves you on the field—if you are lucky. If not—”
“If not?” she prompted, her face pale.
“Well, a few have been known to waken on their own funeral pyres,” Raistlin said coolly. “I don’t believe that is likely to happen to us, however.”
Breathing more easily, he sat down, ducking involuntarily as a spent arrow fluttered overhead and fell to the floor behind him. He saw Laurana’s hand tremble then and realized she was not as calm as she was forcing herself to appear.
“Are you intending that we take this?” she asked.
“It will save us from being tortured by draconians.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me,” the mage said with a slight smile.
Laurana glanced at him and shivered. Absently, she wiped blood-stained fingers on her leather armor. The blood did not come off, but she didn’t notice. An arrow thudded next to
“Stay here,” the half-elf said, helping him sit down. “You’re not capable of moving. I’ll try and get through. I’ll go around the block and come in from the back.”
Tanis ran forward, darting in and out of doorways, hidingin the wreckage. He was about a block from the Inn when he heard a hoarse shout. Turning to look, he saw Flint gesturing wildly. Tanis dashed across the street.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Why aren’t you with the others—” The half-elf stopped. “Oh, no,” he whispered.
The dwarf, his face smudged with ash and streaked with tears, knelt beside Tasslehoff. The kender was pinned beneath a beam that had fallen in the street. Tas’s face, looking like the face of a wise child, was ashen, his skin clammy.
“Blasted, rattle-brained kender,” Flint moaned. “Had to go and let a house fall on him.” The dwarf’s hands were torn and bleeding from trying to lift a beam that would take three men or one Caramon to get off the kender. Tanis put his hand to Tas’s neck. The lifebeat was very weak.
“Stay with him!” Tanis said unnecessarily. “I’m going to the Inn. I’ll bring Caramon!”
Flint looked up at him grimly, then glanced over at the Inn. Both could hear the yells of the draconians, see their weapons flash in the glare of the firelight. Occasionally an unnatural light flared from the Inn—Raistlin’s magic. The dwarf shook his head. He knew Tanis was about as capable of returning with Caramon as he was of flying.
But Flint managed to smile. “Sure, lad, I’ll stay with him. Farewell, Tanis.”
Tanis swallowed, tried to answer, then gave up and ran on down the street.
Raistlin, coughing until he could barely stand, wiped blood from his lips and drew a small, black leather pouch from the innermost pockets of his robes. He had just one spell left and barely energy enough to cast it. Now, his hands shaking with fatigue, he tried to scatter the contents of the little pouch into a pitcher of wine he had ordered Caramon to bring him before the battle started. But his hand trembled violently, and his coughing spasms doubled him over.
Then he felt another hand grasp his own. Looking up, he saw Laurana. She took the pouch from his frail fingers. Her own hand was stained with the dark green draconian blood.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Ingredients for a spell.” The mage choked. “Pour it intothe wine.” Laurana nodded and poured in the mixture as instructed. It vanished instantly.
“Don’t drink it,” the mage warned when the coughing spasm passed. Laurana looked at him. “What is it?”
“A sleeping potion,” Raistlin whispered, his eyes glittering.
Laurana smiled wryly. “You don’t think we’re going to be able to get to sleep tonight?”
“Not that kind,” Raistlin answered, staring at her intently. “This one feigns death. The heartbeat slows to almost nothing, the breathing nearly stops, the skin grows cold and pale, the limbs stiffen.”
Laurana’s eyes opened wide. “Why—” she began.
“To be used as a last resort. The enemy thinks you are dead, leaves you on the field—if you are lucky. If not—”
“If not?” she prompted, her face pale.
“Well, a few have been known to waken on their own funeral pyres,” Raistlin said coolly. “I don’t believe that is likely to happen to us, however.”
Breathing more easily, he sat down, ducking involuntarily as a spent arrow fluttered overhead and fell to the floor behind him. He saw Laurana’s hand tremble then and realized she was not as calm as she was forcing herself to appear.
“Are you intending that we take this?” she asked.
“It will save us from being tortured by draconians.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me,” the mage said with a slight smile.
Laurana glanced at him and shivered. Absently, she wiped blood-stained fingers on her leather armor. The blood did not come off, but she didn’t notice. An arrow thudded next to
Similar Books
