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Torqueo	By : Skullbearer Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1672 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the book(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Torqueo
Memories
The journey to the Tower of High Sorcery was not one Dalamar remembered in any detail. It had barely been Spring Dawning when he'd left, but somehow two months had gone by, two months he had almost no recollection of. The journey through the war-torn lands of northern Ansalon must surely have produced some memories, but for the life of him, Dalamar couldn't find them. All he knew was that every moment was crystal clear when it happened, as though the insulating layers of his mind had been stripped away, only to blur and fade from memory afterwards.
Like the first days of his exile, or the days after the Nightmare, he was too dazed, too stunned to really take anything in beyond his goal, to do anything but react. It felt, /he/ felt, utterly lost. He had rarely ever tasted failure this sharply, not since Tarsis. He had found Raistlin only to lose him again, and nothing, neither his magic nor his wits had been able to make as much as a speck of difference. The Tower of High Sorcery might be his best chance, but Dalamar couldn't forget that it was also his last.
And, possibly, Raistlin's.
That was what made it the worst of failures, the knowledge that Raistlin had been relying on him, and he had failed. That was what had made it worse than Tarsis and made it so terrible now. He couldn't fail. He simply couldn't but since when had his needs ever mattered to anyone?
It would have been easier not to care, not to care would be not to hurt. But that was long, long ago and even now, Dalamar couldn't wish for it.
He didn't know where Raistlin had gone. The dragon had flown west, and Dalamar couldn't help but wonder if it would have been better to have gone to Palanthas after all, on the off chance that the dragon had been headed there. There had been a Tower there once, Dalamar remembered.
Perhaps now, with the creature possessing him weakened by summoning the dragon, Raistlin could-
Stop. Stop. Raistlin wouldn't have been able to do anything. All he had to do was remember the look of his lover's once-familiar face to know that. If he hadn't been able to fight after discovering Dalamar was alive, and with the creature tired from fighting its way out of the Temple, then being in Palanthas wouldn't help either.
But if the Temple had given the creature the power…
Stop it. He couldn't do that, couldn't allow himself to hope again. He had done it once and almost gotten himself killed. It had only been shock that had kept the creature from killing him with Raistlin's stolen magic. He wouldn't have this advantage again.
So he had left, swallowed his fear and turned away from Palanthas and the west, heading south, towards the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, untold hundreds of miles away. Alone. As he had left Raistlin alone.
The port at Lemish was different from when Dalamar had last seen it, four years ago with Raistlin at his side. It was at once richer and poorer, having prospered and lost along with the Dragonarmies.
The Dragonarmies were here now, what was left of them, fleeing on whatever ship would take them. It took all of Dalamar's remaining steel pieces to buy a place of one heading to New Ports, and he counted himself fortunate. The dishonest Lemishians were charging exorbitant amounts from the desperate, and it had been sheer luck he'd been able to find an Abanasinian trader whose prices were more reasonable.
The crossing, like the journey to Lemish, remained a blur. When there was nothing to occupy his attention it turned inwards, endlessly searching through his memories to find anything- /anything/- he could have done differently.
And there was nothing. There was nothing he could have done. And that was so much worst because he was /helpless/. Anything more would have been suicide, and anything else would be suicide now. There was nothing he could have done that he /hadn't/ done, and nothing he could do that would make the least bit of difference.
He remembered when he had last been on a ship, the last time he had truly seen Raistlin, and he thought about that too. A mage's memory was a curse as well as a blessing, he couldn't forget. He could remember so clearly Raistlin's face, the last night they spent together, curled up like cats in a basket against the wind. Warm together.
He was cold now, though it was spring when before it had still been winter, a cold that crept inside his skin and froze his heart. A cold he had not felt since he'd allowed Raistlin to melt it, all those years ago. A cold like that he'd seen in Raistlin's eyes.
The crew left him alone, for which he was grateful. Ship's crews had a tendency to charge their passengers for every little thing, but one look at Dalamar's face and they reconsidered. He ate his own food- which he must have gathered at some point along the way, though he couldn't for the life of him remember where- slept in a corner of the deck and paid no attention to anything but the horizon, as though he could force the ship to move faster through sheer force of will.
He had been to the New Ports before, heading north with Raistlin five years before. The crossing had been bitter, winter cold mixing with the joint aftermaths of Raistlin's Test and Amberyl, but Dalamar would have given anything to be able to go back there with Raistlin than be left here alone. And those memories wouldn't leave him either.
There were other memories pulling at him too, from another time when he had also been alone, but hadn't known any better. It had been spring then too, when he had been travelling north from Tarsis, and he had been travelling like he was now, on his own, living on whatever he could find, barely knowing where he was going save for the direction- then north, now west.
He travelled south first though, following the coast. Cutting inland would mean more memories, and the danger of meeting more remnants of the Dragonarmies. An ancient road led the way, splitting through the Kharolis Mountains, leading to Pax Tharkas, but Dalamar had no wish to follow it. He didn't want to meet anyone who might recognise him- from either side of the war.
He left the road after only a few hours in the mountains and cut straight through. He wasn't the only one avoiding the road, and often he caught glimpses of human or goblin refugees, fleeing south to the wilderness of the Plains of Dust rather than risk staying where the righteous might find them. Once, he and Raistlin had been the ones running, in the Sentinel Peaks further south where they had hidden when their pursuers had been goblins rather than dragons. Dalamar remembered the cave, and the spell they had found. He wondered if they would have found anything else had it not been already ransacked, and if it would have made any difference.
Dalamar left them behind as he travelled further west, through the very mountains they had travelled through last autumn, looking for shelter from the swords of the Dragonarmies after the terror of Pax Tharkas. He had come here at the head of thousands, with Raistlin at his side, he returned here alone, abandoned and helpless, risking everything on one last chance.
And Gods- /Gods/- it hurt. Every memory was a shard of ice piercing his heart. Alone. Alone. Easier not to think, to shut his mind down until he needed it.
He didn't have a map, the Blood Sea had done for it and besides, he needed none. No map could show the position of the Tower of Wayreth. He had no way of finding it, but he /had/ to find it. He had to.
It was a flaw he hadn't considered, in truth hadn't wanted to consider. He had no way of finding the Tower. He hadn't been Tested, and he would only find it if it wanted him to. Even if he did somehow come across it, he would have to make his way through the enchanted grove surrounding it, impossible if the mages didn't want him to.
Well then, Dalamar decided, he would show them impossible. He would try, and they would allow him through or be forced to kill him.
And where would that leave Raistlin? Dalamar snarled at himself. Lost, trapped within his own mind when he could be the only one capable of helping him? How would throwing his life away change anything for his lover? If he was Raistlin's last chance, he couldn't risk death so easily, and certainly not through sheer frustration.
It was colder in the mountains, but food was plentiful. Clear, cold skies and the stone knives of the mountains carving it up on every side filled Dalamar's days, the constant planning of his route keeping his mind occupied and away from the other thoughts crowding in on his mind.
The nights were worse, when it was colder and the loneliness stabbed deeper. Sleeping alone after seven years, coldest and loneliest of all.
Despite this, he made good time. The Kharolis were shrinking in size, trees sprouting on their weathered slopes and filling the valleys, growing lush with game as spring brightened even this place.
And then, one day- Dalamar had lost count how many, but his boots were worn through and his cloak no longer cut out the wind- he reached a cleft between the mountains and was looking down on a vast sea of green, Qualinesti to the north, Wayreth to the south, and the Alhanas river running between them.
He should have felt something, pain at the sight of the elven lands, relief at the sight of Wayreth, but all he could dredge up was exhaustion and dread at what might happen now. From now on, nothing he could do would make any difference. He'd made it here, now it would be up to the Tower to find him.
The forest of Wayreth was dark, far darker and gloomier than when he had last come here, in the unspeakably wonderful first years they had spent together. He had been afraid then, scared for Raistlin, cut deep- or so he'd thought- by Caramon's revelation of his past. Had he been able to see what would happen, he would have treasured those moments like the gold they were.
Being here was like being in Darken Wood, and as frightening. He was unwelcome here. Dalamar gritted his teeth, as much from frustration as fear. They would not let him find them, but by Nuitari they would have to throw him out first. He'd go back to Darken Wood if he had to, and if they thought this would frighten him off, they were very, very mistaken.
The first night was almost enough to make him reconsider. The forest was almost pitch-black, with no more than the faintest of starlight to hint at what the darkness hid, far more frightening than if he hadn't been able to see anything at all. He remembered the undead of Darken Wood, and shuddered. If the Forestmaster had been able to call on such creatures, the Master of the Tower would be able to call on far worse.
But nothing came, and eventually Dalamar fell asleep.
The next day was the same, wandering south through the shrouded aspens. He would not leave. If he had to stay until they called him for his Test, so be it. He would not leave. Strange. He had once looked forward to his Test, had even talked about it to Raistlin, when they had thought he would be the first called up. About how it might be, and what they would do to celebrate afterwards, and how Dalamar could sneak spellbooks and scrolls out of the Tower for Raistlin to study. Now, it was a chore at best, an obstacle at worst.
The third, and Dalamar couldn't avoid the doubts any more. True, last time it had been a week before he and Raistlin had found the Tower, but then Raistlin had been called. And Dalamar couldn't ignore what the mages there had done to his lover in his Test. Whatever had happened to Raistlin had happened here, and the mages had let it happen. If they had chosen not to help him, then why would they help him now? And if they hadn't been able to help him, why would it be any different now? Par-Salian had cursed Raistlin, perhaps in order for the young mage to take his life before long. Before now? Before this could happen? Had they known what would happen?
He had to know. He couldn't leave.
The forest was strange, ragged and rough in comparison to the elven woods Dalamar's had grown up in. Rock and boulders filled the valleys, probably fallen from the Kharolis mountains, building strange escarpments that Dalamar examined closely, because any of them could hide a clue for what he was searching for.
That night seemed darker than ever, the early leaves rustled quietly, mixing with the creaking of branches to sound almost like whispers that even he couldn't understand. Not yet. It would have been unnerving had it not been heartening. This place was enchanted, the Tower was here somewhere. He could almost see motion out of the corner of his eyes, flickers in shadows that not even his elvensight was able to penetrate.
The next day dawned darker than the others, darker than any cloudy day could be, as though the sun had never risen and the world was in perpetual twilight. It was colder, winter again, and Dalamar almost expected to see snow on the ground. The magic crackled in the air like electricity before a storm.
There were no stars that night, only the moons looming huge and heavy in the sky. Dalamar barely slept.
Darker still the next, making almost impossible to distinguish between day and night. Dalamar couldn't rely on either the absent sun or nighttime moons, and was forced to guess his way through the wood. He had to use his elvensight as he made his way over the rough roots and stones that littered the earth. The trees were taller now, the ground rockier, and the forest wilder, as though he was the first person to set foot here. For all he knew, he might be. He was trying to break into the Tower of High Sorcery, and there was a reason he had never heard of anyone succeeding.
A cave caught his attention, cored out of a hillside and almost overgrown with the roots of trees. It bore straight through to the other side, but when he reached the end, he could see nothing but more trees, stretching almost mockingly away into the distance.
That night, not even his elvensight could piece the gloom, and, having slept a little during the day, he didn't bother making camp tonight. Not tonight.
He knew it when he saw it, it couldn't have been, could never have been anything else. A long tunnel crafted of intertwining oaks, growing in a way not even elven craftsmanship could force, and beyond that, dark as Nuitari, the twin spires of Wayreth.
Skull Bearer.
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Torqueo