The spectre raised his hand in a commanding gesture, and the tumult ceased as though swallowed by the darkness. “My men demand to know the reason you enter Darken Wood. If it is for evil, you will find that you have brought evil upon yourselves, for you will not live to see the moons rise.”
“No, not evil. Certainly not,” Tasslehoff said hurriedly. “It’s kind of a long story, you see, but we’re obviously not going anywhere in a big hurry and you’re obviously not either, so I’ll tell it to you.
“To begin with, we were in the Inn of the Last Home in Solace. You probably don’t know it. I’m not sure how long it’s been there, but it wasn’t around during the Cataclysm and it sounds like you were. Well, there we were, listening to the old man talking of Huma and he-the old man, not Huma-told Goldmoon to sing her song and she said what song and then she sang and a Seeker decided to be a music critic and Riverwind-that’s the tall man over there- shoved the Seeker into the fire. It was an accident-he didn’t mean to. But the Seeker went up like a torch! You should have seen it! Anyway, the old man handed me the staff and said hit him and I did and the staff turned to blue crystal and the flames died and-”
“Blue crystal!” The spectre’s voice echoed hollowly from Raistlin’s throat as he began to walk toward them. Tanis and Strum both jumped forward, grabbing Tas and dragging him out of the way. But the spectre seemed intent only on examining the group. His flickering eyes focused on Goldmoon. Raising a pale hand, he motioned her forward.
“No!” Riverwind tried to prevent her from leaving his side, but she pushed away gently and walked over to stand before the spectre, the staff in her hand. The ghostly army encircled them.
Suddenly the spectre drew his sword from its pallid sheath. He held it high overhead and white light tinged with blue flame flickered from the blade.
“Look at the staff!” Goldmoon gasped.
The staff glowed pale blue, as if answering the sword.
The ghostly king turned to Raistlin and reached his pale hand toward the entranced mage. Caramon gave a hoarse bellow and broke free of Tanis’s grip. Drawing his sword, he lunged at the undead warrior. The blade pierced the flickering body, but it was Caramon who screamed in pain and dropped, writhing, to the ground. Tanis and Sturm knelt beside him. Raistlin stared ahead, his expression unchanged, unmoving.
“Caramon, where-” Tanis held him, trying frantically to see where the big man was injured.
“My hand!” Caramon rocked back and forth, sobbing, his left hand-his sword hand-thrust tightly under his right arm.
“What’s the matter?” Tanis asked. Then, seeing the warrior’s sword on the ground, he knew; Caramon’s sword was rimed with frost.
Tanis looked up in horror and saw the spectre’s hand close tightly around Raistlin’s wrist. A shudder wracked the mage’s frail body; his face twisted in pain but he did not fall. The mage’s eyes closed, the lines of cynicism and bitterness smoothed away and the peace of death descended on him. Tanis watched in awe, only partially aware of Caramon’s hoarse cries. He saw Raistlin’s face transform again, this time imbued with ecstasy. The mage’s aura of power intensified until it glowed around him with an almost palpable brilliance.
“We are summoned,” Raistlin said. The voice was his own and yet like none Tanis had ever heard him use. “We must go.”
The mage turned his back on them and walked into the woods, the ghostly king’s fleshless hand still grasping his wrist. The circle of undead parted to let him pass.
“Stop them,” Caramon moaned. He staggered to his feet.
“We can’t!” Tanis fought to restrain him, and finally the big man collapsed in the half-elf’s arms, weeping like a child. “We’ll follow him. He’ll be all right. He’s magi, Caramon-we can’t understand. We’ll follow-”
The eyes of the undead flickered with an unholy light as they watched the companions pass them and enter the forest. The spectral army closed ranks behind them.