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Ice and Steel	By : Skullbearer Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 3083 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
This chapter is dedicated to whoever invented cut-and-paste, they save me having to write out an excessively long name umpteen times and to those wonderful people with no lives at Raistland who wrote out the words of tons of magical spells and so saving me hours of digging through the books to find them
Battle and Treachery
But I know
I want to disappear
I want to die young
And sell my soul
-I Want To Disappear, Marilyn Manson.

The first thing Raistlin noticed was the cold, the unnatural chill bit through his thin robes and made him shudder, the cold of emptiness, of the grave, of death itself.
Rubbing his arms in an effort to stimulate circulation, Raistlin looked around the perfectly circular room.
There was no need for his light spell here, for the place was dully lit from an unseen source; dim light seeming to emanate from the wooden walls of the room.
Raistlin paid this little heed however, attention fixed on the prize ahead of him.
The books he was seeking were piled up on a pedestal in front of him. Black covered, black bound, they fitted Dalamar's description precisely, right down to the inscription on the cover; 'To the Dark Son, from a dark son, by night we are bound.'
Fighting down the urge to just dart in and grab the books, Raistlin stood still, looking around the small room. There was no way the elves would leave such spellbooks without some kind of alarm to warn the guards if anyone came near them.
Carefully, Raistlin stepped forward, eyes sweeping the room, trying to find the tell-tale shimmer of magic that would alert him to the ward's position.
A glimmer on his right made him stop, moving back and turning. The dull light flickered like sunlight on a snail-trail against the ward inscribed onto the wall. As he had thought, an alarm, it was set to go off if anyone came within six feet of the books.
Raistlin crept closer to the sigil until he stood just a foot away from the trigger area, puzzling on how best to remove it. Dispelling it was out of the question, it was too strong for that, yet there was no way to get at the books without passing through the ward.
Well, so much for subtlety. He'd hoped to keep this spell in case he was attacked, but there didn't seem to be anyway of bypassing the ward without burning it off the wall.
Still keeping a few feet away from the alarm, Raistlin whispered the words "Kair tangus moipiar."
The burst of flame from his fingertips made him wince. No, definitely not subtle but it worked, the blaze carbonized the wood to such an extent that the ward was rendered useless.
Again, he held himself stock-still, desperately listening for any signs that he had been discovered.
Nothing, silence.
Raistlin breathed a sigh of relief, thank the true Gods for that.
At last, he made his way toward the small pile of spellbooks, eyes searching for any last trap that might have been set. Nothing, he reached the stash without incident.
Finally, Raistlin reached down with slightly trembling hands and ran on hand over the binding of the top book before picking it up.
The room became even colder.
Raistlin jumped, biting back a cry of shock and spinning round. Was it possible he had overlooked something? Some final trap?
Shivering, senses searching out the room for any reason for the change in temperature, nothing, no glowing wards, no crackle of magic to alert him that a spell had been triggered. Just a cold so intense that Raistlin's breath came out in clouds. Still he tensed, trying to understand what was going on.
When he felt a breath on the back of his neck, he nearly died of shock.
Raistlin jumped away, catching his foot in his robes and sending himself sprawling on the ground, staring.
A man had appeared just behind where he'd stood, chuckling to himself.
Raistlin stared, wondering where this apparition could have come from, there were no other doors save the one he had come through, and he would have heard them approach.
The man was old, he saw, beard and hair shockingly white against the black robes that hung loosely on his shriveled frame. Age and hate had carved their lines on the face, and the eyes sparked with cold intelligence.
A bolt of ice shot up Raistlin's spine, he'd have rather fought the guardian than this old man, whose gnarled grasping hands clearly could summon enormous power to tear the younger mage apart.
He briefly wished he'd kept his spell for this, then nearly laughed at the absurdity. What spell could he cast that would hurt this mage?
"You might as well stand up." The man's words were thin and rasping, "You're not going anywhere without my permission."
Slowly, Raistlin stood up, watching the old man warily. Raistlin wanted to be ready to run if the man made any offensive motion.
Those cold eyes raked over Raistlin, narrowing as if not at all pleased with what he saw.
"Just my luck." Raistlin had to strain to hear the roughly muttered words, "Why, I'd wager you're even weaker than I am! What good will you do me?"
Raistlin said nothing. 'Say nothing, boast nothing, watch and make up your own mind,' Dalamar's words whispered in his mind, memories from months ago in Solace.
"Still-" The old mage continued, looking thoughtful, "-there is hunger in your eyes, in your mind; yes, yes, I see now. Perhaps I judged hastily. We will see. What is your name?"
Raistlin forced himself to meet the man's gaze, fighting down a shiver at the sight of those hungry eyes, he spoke quietly; "My name is Raistlin Majere."
Don't insult him, don't flatter him, not until you understand what he wants.
"And how old are you?"
"I am twenty-one."
"Twenty-one, young, very young. Par-Salian must be getting desperate to throw you into the flames this early. Tell me, Raistlin Majere, how do you think you've done so far in this forge fire?"
Raistlin blinked. Forge fire? What did-
Oh.
The Test, of course, he was taking the Test. He wasn't in Silvanesti, had never been to Silvanesti; he was still in Wayreth. This was all an elaborate illusion.
The man laughed, "Watching their reactions always amuses me, it happens each time. Yes youngling, you are taking the Test. Tell me, how well do you think you've done?"
Raistlin hadn't the first idea, and it was all he could do to keep himself from becoming frantic at the question. Instead, he stared suspiciously at the archmage, wondering which mage had put him in it.
As if he had read his mind, the old man smiled, a truly horrific expression. "No, I am not part of the Test, or at least, not officially."
Not taking his eyes off him, Raistlin asked; "Then why come to meet me here? What do you want?"
"As to your first question," The man said smoothly, "You came to me. Not many would have crept into Silvanesti like a sneaking thief, to steal from another wizard spellbooks so dark even Red robed mages wouldn't touch them. But you did. And here I was, waiting for you."
Raistlin suddenly felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. "There are no spellbooks, are there?"
It seemed absurd to say this when the books were right in front of him, but the man shook his head. "No, only me."
Bitterly disappointed, Raistlin wondered what he was going to say to Dalamar, until he remembered that the Dark elf was in fact waiting for him outside Wayreth forest and knew nothing of the books. "And who are you?" Frustration sharpened his tone.
"My name is not important, and as to your earlier question; I need a favor."
Here we go, Raistlin wondered what the old man could possibly want from him; he was young, of very low rank and the man was quite clearly an archmage of considerable power. What could Raistlin do for him that he couldn't do himself? This was too suspicious to trust.
"What do you want?"
The death's-head grin the man turned on him only made Raistlin even more certain that this was not an offer to trust. "Does it matter?"
One eyebrow was raised, "I should think so."
Shake of the head, "No it doesn't, not to you, not anymore."
Both eyebrows raised now, incredulous. "Why?"
The man smiled again, "Because you are going to die."
Raistlin finally found himself speechless, stomach knotting into an iron ball. He took a few steps back, trying to keep from tripping over his own feet.
The archmage laughed, horribly, "Oh no, not by my hand, no. The Conclave will take care of that."
"Why would they do that?" Raistlin asked, bewildered.
The mage took a step forward leaning in until he and Raistlin were almost nose-to nose.
"You spoke to me," he said softly, "They know this, and they know what may happen if you are allowed to leave with your life. They fear me."
"And who are you, that the Conclave fears you so much?"
"I am Fistandantilus, I think you've heard of me."
"Yes, I have."
Yes, he'd heard of Fistandantilus, an archmage from the days of the Cataclysm. In the desperate years following the Cataclysm that had flattened Istar, he had led an army of dwarves and men against Thorbardin, the underground fortress of the mountain dwarves.
From his magical fortress Zhaman he had loosed his attacks on the besieged city, fighting sword and axe with magic and fire, thousands had died at his hand and at the hand of his army.
Within his fortress, Fistandantilus was preparing one final spell, a spell that would split the bones of the mountain and leave Thorbardin open to the sky, and to conquest. The spell had gone wrong, however. It had proved impossible for even the archmage to control it and had shattered Zhaman instead, the fortress collapsed, with only the Skullcap ruin to prove it had ever existed. Thousands of the army died, including the wizard who led it.
Raistlin had always believed there was more to the story than that, and now he was proven right. The archmage had gained his power over hundreds of years, an impossible feat for the human he was, and had been rumored to be able to cheat death.
He had extended his life by the means of a magical bloodstone, using it's power to drain the life from those that would apprentice under him.
Clearly, he had found a way to cheat death again.
"Fistandantilus, most powerful of the magi who have ever lived."
"I am."
And what did such a being want with him? Raistlin had a nasty feeling he knew very well what Fistandantilus desired. He could almost feel the energy it was taking for the mage to hold his body together.
"You're dying." Raistlin said bluntly.
The archmage didn't like this, every line on his face drawing to a dagger-point of anger.
"You are right," he snarled, "I am dying. I am nearly finished. They tell you that my goal was to take over Thorbardin. What rot!" He snorted, "I played for far higher stakes than that. My plan was to enter the Abyss. To overthrow the Dark Queen and take her place on the throne of Godhood!"
Raistlin might have been sympathetic, but the fact that he was now certain that the old man was planning to use his body to fulfill that goal withered his empathy. Bitterly, he wished the books had been real, he might have found something inside to give him a chance.
"Beneath Skullcap is -or shall we say was, for it is gone now- a means for entering the Abyss, that cruel netherworld. Takhisis was aware of me. She feared me and plotted my downfall. True, my body died in the blast, but I had already planned my soul's retreat on another plane of existence, where she could not slay me. But she tries, yes, she tries still, my life-force is almost gone now."
Raistlin scowled "And so you contrive to enter the Test and lure young mages like me into your web, I would guess that I am not the first. How many have died like this, just to prolong your pathetic existence?" If he was going to die, he may as well say what he wanted, it wasn't going to make any difference in the end.
Fistandantilus snarled, "Strong words for one so close to his own death. I do not offer nothing in return, little mage, I have lived long, long enough to know how to manipulate the past."
Raistlin raised one eyebrow, "What are you offering?"
The archmage lay one hand on the stack of books between them, "These are long gone, burnt to ashes by the fearful foolish, as you well know. These are naught but shallow copies, they hold nothing." As if to emphasize his point, Fistandantilus picked up one of the books and opened it, revealing blank parchment. Closing it again, he continued; "So much lost, but it is so easy to reach out to the moment when the flames caught, and-" Magic hissed in the room, and the light seemed to dim slightly "- switch the books."
Fistandantilus opened the book again, revealing page after page of arcane symbols, spell upon spell bound up in that book alone. "These are real, and if you agree you will walk out of the Test with these in hand, if not...well, you won't be walking out at all."
Raistlin fought to keep the longing out of his eyes as he asked; "And why would I want these books?"
"You have searched this place, risked so much in order to obtain copies which do not exist. I am offering you what you came here to seek. You will not get out of this tower unless you take the books, the spells they hold are your only chance of getting out of here alive."
Raistlin remembered the Guardian outside and couldn't refute the archmage's logic. If that creature was to set upon him he doubted he could fight it off with his meager spells.
The Conclave feared Fistandantilus, any sane person would. Enough to force their hand to killing Raistlin? Perhaps, but then was this really a chance he wanted to take? This was no ordinary risk, he was playing this with his life.
/Please, I don't know what I'd do if I lost you./
No choice really.
"I accept your offer."
Fistandantilus smirked, "I thought you might."
He held out the black-bound spellbook.
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Raistlin stood before the door, the four books tucked under his arm, scrolls copied and ready. Of course there was still the chance that he'd been wrong, that Fistandantilus had been lying and that he'd be able to creep out of the tower unscathed and unchallenged...
That wistful hope was shattered the moment Raistlin opened and saw the Guardian barring his way out. "I said...Hrr...that you come in. I said nothing about...Hrr...coming out."
Damn.
Raistlin tightened his grip on the scroll he held, "I take it another game is out of the question?"
The Guardian grinned, then threw back it's head in a cry loud enough to alert everyone in a fifteen mile radius of the tower. It nearly deafened Raistlin, who felt the vibrations in his bones as the scream died away. Still grinning, it advanced.
The young mage jumped back away from the door, his hand flew up and he started casting; "Kalith karan, tobanis-kar!"
This was one of Raistlin's own spells, rather than one of the scrolls he held, meant to test his opponent's strength.
Two missiles shot towards the Guardian, who let out a low hacking laugh. Raistlin might as well be throwing stones for all the good it did.
The Guardian drew itself up to it's full terrifying height, and it's own spectral hands danced as it wove a spell.
The initial bolt of magic shot towards him, and Raistlin tensed, marshalling what power he had as an internal barrier against the magic in the hopes it would stop or at least lessen the effects.
It didn't work, Raistlin was blasted off his feet, landing flat on his back some four feet away, every muscle screaming in agony as his flesh burnt on his bones. By the time he'd been able to stagger to his feet, the Guardian had finished casting the next bolt.
Raistlin stood stock still, forcing out the pain and focusing inwards. If he could not stop the power behind the spell, then he would use it.
When the bolt struck home, it hit not the barricading he had used before, but a channeling, a channeling of energy. Raistlin took the magic into himself like a conductor taking in a lightning bolt.
The mage stood ram-rod straight, head thrown back and hands clenched so hard his nails drew blood as the magic flowed through him, whispering over his skin. The pain eased as his wounds closed.
The Guardian gaped at him.
"The spell, now!" came Fistandantilus's command.
Raistlin needed no prompting, his previous spell may have done little damage, but it had affected the Guardian. He lifted the scroll he needed and read it out, extending his hand out as spheres of magic flew from his fingertips, two, four, six, ten. Each slammed into the thunder-struck Guardian and sent it reeling.
This time it was Raistlin's turn to cast while his opponent recovered, and again the spheres hit home, driving the Guardian further back.
Raistlin lifted his hand, to cast again, then paused, staring. His hand glinted golden in the half-light, as if it had been covered it in gold leaf.
The Guardian snarled, grievously wounded by Raistlin's spells but having used the mage's hesitation to prepare it's own spell, it spat out it's incantation, hollow eyes flashing hatred; "Ast kiranann kair soth-arn suh kali jalaran."
Raistlin knew the spell, never mind that he had never heard it before in his life, he knew it. Focusing his mind once again to channel the spell, he hunched over to protect the spellbooks as the fireball engulfed him.
Unharmed, energy blazing through him, Raistlin cast his spell a third time, pouring his stolen power into the incantation.
Weakened, the Guardian stood no chance against the augmented spell, the spheres crashing into it and sending it screaming back into whatever plane of existence it came from.
Raistlin leant back against the wall, brushing sweat from his face. He glanced down at his hand again, under the dirt and soot, he could see that the skin had developed a faint golden patina. Golden armor, he thought, armor against magic, unexpected but very, very welcome.
A crash from above shocked Raistlin back into the present, in the fight with the Guardian he had completely forgotten that the alarm had been sounded.
Raistlin decided that standing here, holding Dark magic spellbooks and with the ruins of the room at his back was not going to convince the elves that Raistlin was innocent.
Although he loathed to get into a fight so soon after the last one, there was, once again, little choice. At least he had a little time to prepare.
Raistlin was pleased to see that he had shielded his scrolls from the worst of the flames, the were only lightly singed around the edges and still clear enough to read. Blowing ash away, Raistlin stepped back into the room behind him. The Guardian's last spell had given him an idea, but he would need space.
The spell on the scroll was powerful, far above the level of the last one and casting it would be risky, but it was a chance Raistlin was willing to take. He could hear the noises drawing closer.
It took Raistlin far longer than he would have liked the cast the spell, and for one awful moment he feared he's misspoken and that the spell would vanish or worse, go wrong. But when the last syllable was uttered; the ball of flame hung obediently before the door, behind which Raistlin could hear the sound of approaching guards.
The door was thrown open, and the spell went off.
Raistlin never saw the faces of the elven guards, and was quite glad of it. Their screams were bad enough, half drowned in the roar of the detonation, faces swallowed up by the exploding wall of flame which filled the Guardian's room. The fire licked up to where Raistlin stood, he lifted his newly-gilded hand to protect his face from the wave of burning heat.
Finally the heat, and the screams, died away and Raistlin stepped out into the scorched room. The walls were blackened, carbonized bodies lay at odd angles all around, and Raistlin could fell the residual heat through the soles of his boots.
The door was no longer there, now lying in a pile of ash which Raistlin stepped over as he made his way back to the floating staircase.
It hung motionless, a frozen stairway hanging over the long drop. The elves must have had a way to stop the dweomer. Raistlin was grateful, he was feeling deeply rattled and not remotely in the mood for puzzles. He reached the opposite door and opened it.
Fistandantilus was waiting for him.
The archmage's form was wispy and insubstantial, drained from the energy he had put in to retrieve the books Raistlin now held.
Raistlin smiled, how could anyone be scared of that? Dalamar would have laughed.
"I will take my payment now." Fistandantilus's voice was just as weak as his body.
Raistlin lifted his arm to ward off the hand even now reaching for his chest. "Thank you for your valued assistance, Archmagus, but I rescind my part of the bargain."
"What did you say?" Fistandantilus's voice was deadly.
Raistlin forced down his fear, he could do this. He had the books, he had copied the scrolls, he had cast the spells. He could dispel this old wraith.
"These books-" Raistlin ran one hand lovingly over the bindings "- are mine now, as you yourself said, so your assistance is no longer needed. Go back to your plane and await your next victim." Raistlin decided to push his luck a little in taunting the archmage, "And please remember to give my warmest greetings to the tower Guardian when you see it there."
"You break your promise-" Fistandantilus snarled.
Raistlin cut him off with a wave of his hand, "I am no Solamnic knight, no high noble. I am a mage and a Dark elf's lover, what should I care of honor?"
Fighting down the swell of satisfaction, lest he start grinning, Raistlin bowed to the archmage, injecting just a bit of mockery into the motion before sidestepping the old man's insubstantial form and walking down the corridor.
He almost missed Fistandantilus next words, hissed in pure loathing. "Mock me, will you? Your Test is not over yet, my fine young mage and either I will take what's mine or I'll see that Dark elf of yours crying over your grave before the day is out."
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Raistlin had reached the front doors of the tower without meeting a single soul, living or dead. It was with a feeling of great relief that he reached out and took hold of the door handle.
The world melted away.
For one moment, Raistlin thought that his Test was finally over, but when the world waxed back into view he saw that he was not in the Tower of Wayreth, but rather in the last place he'd expected.
On the shore of Crystalmir lake, it's waters shining silver in he moonlight.
Raistlin blinked, it was the spot where he and Dalamar had spent many evenings, whether good; like the Dark elf's Day of Life Gift, or bad; like day Caramon had announced Dalamar's past for the whole of Solace to hear.
Was this still part of the Test? It had to be. Raistlin gritted his teeth and glanced around furtively, he was alone.
Perhaps this was a safe spot? Somewhere to rest after the two grueling battles? Raistlin
hoped so, the adrenalin was wearing off and he felt exhausted.
After one final glance around to make sure he really was alone, with no Guardians, Silvanesti elves or mad liches in sight, Raistlin relaxed, and sat down on the grass. He put down the spellbooks and scrolls and leant back against the tree stump as he had many times before and looking up at the stars. Just a few minutes rest to reorganize his mind and recover from the events of the last hour.
It was the hiss and inaudible crackle of magic that alerted Raistlin to the danger. He jumped to his feet and looked around for the source, eyes alighting on a strange procession making it's way across the lake.
Black, a floating sea of black was undulating it's way towards him, Raistlin stared, eyes straining to make out what it was.
The cold was his first clue, the chill of death washed over him again, cold he had only felt while in the presence of the dead. The dark came closer, and Raistlin saw that it was made up of shadows, many individual shadows. A little closer, and he caught sight of one and realized the truth.
They were the animated shades of the elves he had slain in the tower.
Raistlin barely had time to snatch up his books and scrolls before they were upon him.
A dark tendril that had once been a warm, solid limb caught hold of his arm and Raistlin shuddered as the cold entered his bones, a wave of weakness nearly making him drop the precious spellbooks.
Another one, touching the back of his neck. Raistlin screamed in pain as the cold invaded his mind, freezing thought.
Another, and he thought he could hear Fistandantilus's laughter in his mind as the dark hand closed on his wrist.
When the fourth reached out, Raistlin was on his knees, no longer able to hold himself up, he was rapidly losing consciousness. Gods! That he come so far only to end here!
Come through battle and through fire, through the tower...
The tower...
Raistlin's mind clutched at the thought like a drowning man to a rope, the tower...
Something inside the tower...something...he felt dizzy, woozy, his breath rattled in his lungs.
A picture, a tapestry....
A golden-haired woman riding a dragon....no, not that one, a mage, a mage fighting off shadows, shadows like the ones which were even now taking their revenge beyond death.
Fighting them off...
What spell? Raistlin tried to force his sluggish mind to obey him. What spell?
The spell....
Raistlin staggered to his feet and threw one hand into the air "Shirak!"
The shadows leaped back, unable to go near the sphere of burning light wreathing Raistlin's hand. The young mage stumbled back against a tree, his whole being focused on keeping the light bright and unwavering.
The shadows gathered on the edge of the light, circling like vultures.
Oh, sweet Gods he was tired, but he just needed to make one final effort, then it would be over. He fumbled for his scrolls with fingers gone numb from cold, finally unrolling the one he needed. Raistlin scanned it , repeating it over and over in his mind until he had it right. He had to get it right first time.
"Dulak." The light went out and the shades once again slid towards Raistlin.
Raistlin shut his eyes and his hands moved clumsily, shaping the magic. "Shirki muan parbilakir ast!"
If the screams had been bad the first time, they were far worse now as the shades were dragged back into whatever afterlife they had been called from. Raistlin fell to his knees, head bowed, hands over his ears.
He might have blacked out for a moment, he didn't know. But when the screams had died and he'd looked up again, Fistandantilus's face was inches from his own.
There was not even the merest shred of the illusion left now, the old man's face was little more than a skull, bones showing clearly through the skin, maggot holes pock-marked what flesh was left and his breath was putrid.
"Not so arrogant now, youngling?"
Raistlin felt a wave of despair sweep through him, so Fistandantilus had come, as he had said, to claim what was his. And this time Raistlin hadn't the strength to oppose him.
The archmage reached out a skeletal hand, while the other clutched a bloodstone pendant around his fleshless neck. The talons touched Raistlin's chest, running teasingly against the skin, tearing his robes to ribbons before plunging into seize his heart, pausing only to rip and tear at the surrounding tissues as punishment for his arrogance.
Raistlin screamed in pain and fury. Finding strength from some source, he focused his mind on his own hand, on the armor that had served him so well this far, it would serve him once more.
He punched his hand through Fistandantilus's own chest, to grasp hold of the archmage's black, rotted heart.
The old lich's eyes went wide in shock, Raistlin smiled, feeling blood drip from his mouth as he spoke. "You may take my life....but I accept only equal trade..."
Then his eyes rolled back and everything went black.

Damn that was a long chapter! Not to mention easily the hardest I've ever written. Please review, I'd hate to think that I've stayed up until 5am for nothing.

Skull Bearer.
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Ice and Steel