“Enough!” The mage pulled his cowl farther down over his head, as if the cloth could shut out the monologue.
“Ah, let him come along, Raist,” said the warrior. “It’d be company for us. You know we get bored, just talking to each other.”
16
BROtrjens Majene
“I know I get bored just talking to you, my brother. But I do not think the situation will be alleviated by taking on a kender!”
The mage started off down the road, leaning heavily on his staff and walking slowly, as if he had just been through a recent illness.
“What did he say?” the kender asked, coming to walk beside the warrior.
“I’m not sure,” said the warrior, shaking his head. “But I don’t think it was a compliment.”
“Oh, well,” said the kender, twirling his forked stick in the air until it made a shrill, whistling sound. “I’m not much used to compliments anyway. Where did you say we were going?”
“Mereklar.”
“Mereklar. Never heard of it,” stated the kender happily.
The boy saw the three well on their way before he ran to an old, dilapidated inn that huddled in the woods near the crossroads. A man sat at a table, an untasted drink in his hand.
The boy went up to the man and told what he had seen.
“A warrior, a mage, and a kender. All three heading for Mereklar. And now that I’ve done what you wanted, where’s my money?” the child demanded boldly. “You promised.”
The man asked a few questions, wanting to know what color robes the mage was wearing and if the warrior appeared to be very old and battle-hardened.
“No,” said the boy, considering. “He’s only about the age of my big brother. Twenty or so if he’s a day. But his weapons seemed well used. I don’t think you’ll pick him off so easily.”
17
DRAQONLANCE PneluOes
The man fished a steel piece from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Rising from his seat with unusual haste, considering he’d been sitting in the inn for three days— ever since he’d posted the sign—the man ran out into the woods and was soon lost to sight in the shadows.
IS
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awoke fnoM Deep sluMben fo f/?e SOUN&
of pipes—a haunting, eerie sound that reminded him of a time of everlasting pain, a time of torture and torment. Propping himself up on weak elbows from his red, tattered sleeping roll, he stared into the embers of the fire.
The dying coals only served to remind Raistlin of his ill health. How long had it been since he took the test? How much time had passed since the wizards in the Tower of High Sorcery had demanded this sacrifice in return for his magic? Months. Only months. Yet it seemed to him that he’d been suffering like this all his life.
Lying back down, Raistlin lifted his hands up in front
DRAQONLANCE Puelubes
of his face, examining the bones, veins, and sinews, barely discernible in the dimly lit grove. The firelight gave his flesh an unearthly reddish tinge, reflecting off his golden skin—the gold skin he had earned in his gambit for personal power, gold skin he had earned fighting for his life.
Smiling grimly, Raistlin clenched his hand into a fist. He’d won. He’d been victorious. He had defeated them all.
But his moment of triumph was short-lived. He began to cough uncontrollably, the spasms shaking and convulsing him like a battered puppet.
The pipes played on while Raistlin managed to catch his breath. He fumbled at his waist to find a small burlap bag filled with herbs. Holding this over his nose and mouth, he breathed the sickly sweet scent of crushed leaves and boiled twigs. The spasms eased, and Raistlin dared let himself hope that this time he’d found a cure. He refused to believe he would be this feeble all of his life.
The herbs left a bitter taste on his lips. He stashed the pungent bag away in a purse under his cloth belt, which was a darker red than the rest of his robes from constant use and wear. He didn’t look for the blood that was beginning to slowly dry on the medicine pouch. He knew it would be there.