Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (35 page)

I might as well explore while I’m up here, the kender thought with a sigh. Jumping out of the air currents, he landed lightly on the stone floor, then began to look around.

Several torches flared on the walls, illuminating the chamber with a bright white radiance. This room was certainly much larger than the tomb! He was standing at the bottom of a great curving staircase. The huge flagstones of each step—as well as all the other stones in the room—were pure white, much different from the black stone of the tomb. The staircase curved to the right, leading up to what appeared to be another level of the chamber. Above him, he could see a railing overlooking the stairs, apparently there was some sort of balcony up there. Nearly breaking his neck trying to see, Tas thought he could make out swirls and splotches of bright colors shining in the torchlight from the opposite wall.

Who lit the torches, he wondered? What is this place? Part of Huma’s tomb? Or did I fly up into the Dragon Mountain? Who lives here? Those torches didn’t light themselves!

At that thought—just to be safe—Tas reached into his tunic and drew out his little knife. Holding it in his hand, he climbed the grand stairs and came out onto the balcony. It was a huge chamber, but he could see little of it in the flickering torchlight. Gigantic pillars supported the massive ceiling overhead. Another great staircase rose from this balcony level to yet another floor. Tas turned around, leaning against the railing to look at the walls behind him.

“Reorx’s beard!” he said softly. “Look at
that!”

That
was a painting. A mural, to be more precise. It began opposite where Tas was standing, at the head of the stairs, and extended on around the balcony in foot after foot of shimmering color. The kender was not much interested in artwork, but he couldn’t recall ever seeing anything quite so beautiful. Or had he? Somehow, it seemed familiar. Yes, the more he looked at it, the more he thought he’d seen it before.

Tas studied the painting, trying to remember. On the wall directly across from him was pictured a horrible scene of dragons of every color and description descending upon the land.
Towns blazed in flames—like Tarsis—buildings crumbled, people were fleeing. It was a terrible sight, and the kender hurried past it.

He continued walking along the balcony, his eyes on the painting. He had just reached the central portion of the mural when he gasped.

“The Dragon Mountain! That’s it—there, on the wall!” he whispered to himself and was startled to hear his whisper come echoing back to him. Glancing around hastily, he crept closer to the other edge of the balcony. Leaning over the rail, he stared closely at the painting. It indeed showed the Dragon Mountain, where he was now. Only this showed a view of the mountain as if some giant sword had chopped it completely in half vertically!

“How wonderful!” The map-loving kender sighed. “Of course,” he said. “It
is
a map! And that’s where I am! I’ve gone up into the mountain.” He looked around the room in sudden realization. “I’m in the throat of the dragon. That’s why this room is such a funny shape.” He turned back to the map. “There’s the painting on the wall and there’s the balcony I’m standing on. And the pillars …” He turned completely around. “Yes, there’s the grand staircase.” He turned back. “It leads up into the head! And there’s how I came up. Some sort of wind chamber. But who built this … and why?”

Tasslehoff continued on around the balcony, hoping to find a clue in the painting. On the right-hand side of the gallery, another battle was portrayed. But this one didn’t fill him with horror. There were red dragons, and black, and blue, and white—breathing fire and ice—but fighting them were other dragons, dragons of silver and of gold.…

“I remember!” shouted Tasslehoff.

The kender begin jumping up and down, yelling like a wild thing. “I remember! I remember! It was in Pax Tharkas. Fizban showed me. There are
good
dragons in the world. They’ll help us fight the evil ones! We just have to find them. And there are the dragonlances!”

“Confound it!” snarled a voice below the kender. “Can’t a person get some sleep? What is all this racket? You’re making noise enough to wake the dead!”

Tasslehoff whirled around in alarm, his knife in his hand. He could have sworn he was alone up here. But no. Rising up
off a stone bench that stood in a shadowy area out of the torchlight was a dark, robed figure. It shook itself, stretched, then got up and began to climb the stairs, moving swiftly toward the kender. Tas could not have gotten away, even if he had wanted to, and the kender found himself intensely curious about who was up here. He opened his mouth to ask this strange creature what it was and why it had chosen the throat of a Dragon Mountain to nap in, when the figure emerged into the light. It was an old man. It was—

Tasslehoff’s knife clattered to the floor. The kender sagged back against the railing. For the first, last, and only time in his life, Tasslehoff Burrfoot was struck speechless.

“F-F-F …” Nothing came out of his throat, only a croak.

“Well, what is it? Speak up!” snapped the old man, looming over him. “You were making enough noise a minute ago. What’s the matter? Something go down the wrong way?”

“F-F-F …” stuttered Tas weakly.

“Ah, poor boy. Afflicted, eh? Speech impediment. Sad, sad. Here—”The old man fumbled in his robes, opening numerous pouches while Tasslehoff stood trembling before him.

“There,” the figure said. Drawing forth a coin, he put it in the kender’s numb palm and closed his small, lifeless fingers over it. “Now, run along. Find a cleric …”

“Fizban!” Tasslehoff was finally able to gasp.

“Where?” The old man whirled around. Raising his staff, he peered fearfully into the darkness. Then something seemed to occur to him. Turning back around, he asked Tas in a loud whisper, “I say, are you sure you saw this Fizban? Isn’t he dead?”

“I know
I
thought so …” Tas said miserably.

“Then he shouldn’t be wandering around, scaring people!” the old man declared angrily. “I’ll have a talk with him. Hey, you!” he began to shout.

Tas reached out a trembling hand and tugged at the old man’s robe. “I—I’m not sure, b-but I think
you’re
Fizban.”

“No, really?” the old man said, taken aback. “I was feeling a bit under the weather this morning, but I had no idea it was as bad as all that.” His shoulders sagged. “So I’m dead. Done for. Bought the farm. Kicked the bucket.” He staggered to a bench and plopped down. “Was it a nice funeral?” he asked. “Did lots of people come? Was there a twenty-one gun salute? I always wanted a twenty-one gun salute.”

“I—uh,” Tas stammered, wondering what a gun was. “Well, it was … more of a … memorial service you might say. You see, we—uh—couldn’t find your—how shall I put this?”

“Remains?” the old man said helpfully.

“Uh … remains.” Tas flushed. “We looked, but there were all these chicken feathers … and a dark elf … and Tanis said we were lucky to have escaped alive.…”

“Chicken feathers!” said the old man indignantly. “What have chicken feathers got to do with my funeral?”

“We—uh—you and me and Sestun. Do you remember Sestun, the gully dwarf? Well, there was that great, huge chain in Pax Tharkas. And that big red dragon. We were hanging onto the chain and the dragon breathed fire on it and the chain broke and we were falling”—Tas was warming up to his story; it had become one of his favorites—“and I knew it was all over. We were going to die. There must have been a seventy-foot drop” (this increased every time Tas told the tale) “and you were beneath me and I heard you chanting a spell—”

“Yes, I’m quite a good magician, you know.”

“Uh, right,” Tas stammered, then continued hurriedly. “You chanted this spell, Featherfall or something like that. Anyway, you only said the first word, ‘feather’ and suddenly”—the kender spread his hands, a look of awe on his face as he remembered what happened then—“there were millions and millions and millions of chicken feathers.…”

“So what happened next?” the old man demanded, poking Tas.

“Oh, uh, that’s where it gets a bit—uh—muddled,” Tas said. “I heard a scream and a thump. Well, it was more like a splatter actually, and I f-f-figured the splatter was you.”

“Me?” the old man shouted. “Splatter!” He glared at the kender furiously. “I never in my life
splattered!”

“Then Sestun and I tumbled down into the chicken feathers, along with the chain. I looked—I really did.” Tas’s eyes filled with tears as he remembered his heartbroken search for the old man’s body. “But there were too many feathers … and there was this terrible commotion outside where the dragons were fighting. Sestun and I made it to the door, and then we found Tanis, and I wanted to go back to look for you some more, but Tanis said no …”

“So you left me buried under a mound of chicken feathers?”

“It was an
awfully
nice memorial service,” Tas faltered. “Goldmoon spoke, and Elistan. You didn’t meet Elistan, but you remember Goldmoon, don’t you? And Tanis?”

“Goldmoon …” the old man murmured. “Ah, yes. Pretty girl. Big, stern-looking chap in love with her.”

“Riverwind!” said Tas in excitement. “And Raistlin?”

“Skinny fellow. Damn good magician,” the old man said solemnly, “but he’ll never amount to anything if he doesn’t do something about that cough.”

“You
are
Fizban!” Tas said. Jumping up gleefully, he threw his arms around the old man and hugged him tight.

“There, there,” Fizban said, embarrassed, patting Tas on the back. “That’s quite enough. You’ll crumple my robes. Don’t sniffle. Can’t abide it. Need a hankie?”

“No, I’ve got one—”

“Now, that’s better. Oh, I say, I believe that handkerchief’s mine. Those are my initials,”

“Is it? You must have dropped it.”

“I remember you now!” the old man said loudly. “You’re Tassle—Tassle-something-or-other.”

“Tasslehoff. Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the kender replied.

“And I’m—” The old man stopped. “What did you say the name was?”

“Fizban.”

“Fizban. Yes …” The old man pondered a moment, then he shook his head. “I sure thought he was dead.…”

H
ow
did
you survive?” Tas asked, pulling some dried fruit from a pouch to share with Fizban.

The old man appeared wistful. “I really didn’t think I did,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid I haven’t the vaguest notion. But, come to think of it, I haven’t been able to eat a chicken since. Now”—he stared at the kender shrewdly—“what are you doing here?”

“I came with some of my friends. The rest are wandering around somewhere, if they’re still alive.” He sniffed again.

“They are. Don’t worry.” Fizban patted him on the back.

“Do you think so?” Tas brightened. “Well, anyway, we’re here with Silvara—”

“Silvara!” The old man leaped to his feet, his white hair flying out wildly. The vague look faded from his face.

“Where is she?” the old man demanded sternly. “And your friends, where are they?”

“D-downstairs,” stammered Tas, startled at the old man’s transformation. “Silvara cast a spell on them!”

“Ah, she did, did she?” the old man muttered. “We’ll see about that. Come on.” He started off along the balcony, walking so rapidly, Tas had to run to keep up.

“Where’d you say they were?” the old man asked, stopping near the stairs. “Be specific,” he snapped.

“Uh—the tomb! Huma’s tomb! I think it’s Huma’s tomb. That’s what Silvara said.”

“Humpf. Well, at least we don’t have to walk.”

Descending the stairs to the hole in the floor Tas had come up through, the old man stepped out into its center. Tas, gulping a little, joined him, clutching at the old man’s robes. They hung suspended over nothing but darkness, feeling cool air waft up around them.

“Down,” the old man stated.

They began to rise, drifting toward the ceiling of the upper gallery. Tas felt the hair stand up on his head.

“I said
down!”
the old man shouted furiously, waving his staff menacingly at the hole below him.

There was a slurping sound and both of them were sucked into the hole so rapidly that Fizban’s hat flew off. It’s just like the hat he lost in the red dragon’s lair, Tas thought. It was bent and shapeless, and apparently possessed of a mind of its own. Fizban made a wild grab for it, but missed. The hat, however, floated down after them, about fifty feet above.

Tasslehoff peered down, fascinated, and started to ask a question, but Fizban shushed him. Gripping his staff, the old mage began whispering to himself, making an odd sign in the air.

Laurana opened her eyes. She was lying on a cold stone bench, staring at a black, glistening ceiling. She had no idea where she was. Then memory returned. Silvara!

Sitting up swiftly, she flashed a glance around the room. Flint was groaning and rubbing his neck. Theros blinked and looked around, puzzled. Gilthanas, already on his feet, stood at the end of Huma’s tomb, gazing down at something by the door. As Laurana walked over to him, he turned around.
Putting his finger to his lips, he nodded in the direction of the doorway.