Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

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.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Thank you to avirdis for the excellent beta.

Torqueo

Delirium
a million burning books
like torches in our hands
a fabric of ideals
to decorate our homes
-Call the Ships to Port, Covenant.

The darkness under the trees was just as impenetrable as before, but the bare branches gleamed like moon-touched metal. The air was still, but as Dalamar approached the branches stirred warningly, as though sensing something was wrong.
He quickened pace, glancing behind him as the branches seemed to stretch towards him, grasping skeletal fingers in his direction. That moment was all that was needed, and Dalamar started as a branch snagged his robes, he tried to pull free and another one, moving faster than Dalamar could believe of any living thing- let alone a tree- closed around his arm. It didn't hurt, but it held him fast, and tightened when he tried to pull away.
His immediate reaction was to try and pry it off, but it wasn't a hand, and Dalamar could see other branches eagerly reaching out to catch him. He pulled his trapped hand as far back as he could, and cast as fast as possible, trying to ignore the pain as the branches dug into his wrist.
"Kair tangus moipiar!"
Thank Nuitari the spell was short, because even as he cast Dalamar felt the rough touch of the bark coiling around his other hand. It released him quickly however, when the burst of flame hit it full on. The branches trapping him recoiled like snakes, but Dalamar didn't wait to see how badly he'd wounded them. He pulled his robes free, the branches clattering together like fingerbones, and made his escape down the path. He risked a look back, but the trees were still once more, their unmoving branches frozen in place.
The world seemed to flicker, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. The path /twisted/, and Dalamar was no longer in Wayreth, no longer in Abanasinia. He was in Silvanesti, racing down the road through that tormented land, and those skeletal branches were skeleton in truth, the dead limbs of the undead. Lunitari’s gleam on the branches changed to blood, and Dalamar forced himself to slow down, shaking. The illusion, or the impression, faded. He was not in Silvanesti; it was his mind playing tricks, or the mages in the Tower playing a twisted game. Dalamar rubbed his hand over his face furiously, trying to banish the images. He couldn’t allow himself to think about that. It was too easy to remember that place, here of all places. There were too much like each other, and the memory of what had happened last time wouldn’t help.
All the same, he couldn't help but glance down at the path, half-expecting it to warp and writhe and scream, as it had in Silvanost. He looked down, then stopped.
It wasn't a face; it was a shadow, a shadow cast by someone that wasn't there. The sky was so dark that even his own shadow was invisible, but this one was clear, black on black like a hole in the path. It moved, flickering down the path. Dalamar couldn't look away, as though hypnotised. It didn't look dangerous; it looked familiar, although how Dalamar had no idea. It wasn't his, nor did it touch on the trees. It was a shadow cast by an invisible person. Hesitantly, Dalamar waved a hand through the air above the shadow, nothing. The shadow wavered, then shifted, as though the caster was impatient or anxious, then flitted off down the path.
It was Dalamar's turn to hesitate, uncertain. This could be dangerous, a wraith sent to kill him by the Master of the Tower. Or perhaps just get him so lost he'd just give up. But there was something strangely familiar about the shadow, something that didn't quite fit with the hostile surroundings. Slowly, he started after his strange guide. As long as it didn’t stray from the path, he would risk following it.
The shadow was moving at a steady pace, quickly, but nothing he couldn't keep up with. As he approached, the trees rustled warningly, but quietened as the shadow passed. A darkness fell over the moon-tinted trees as it touched them, changing, seeming almost less threatening. Dalamar kept up, his eyes locked on the shade. A passing mage? Was it they whom the Tower had appeared for? Ahead, the path forked, but the shadow moved steadily onwards down the path that seemed to be leading away from the Tower. Dalamar paused, then smiled bitterly. This was a trick, a way to disorientate him. The untaken path was a lie, he remembered how the Tower had looked from outside the wood, and it was definitely leading away from where he remembered the Tower to be. The path the shadow was taking- an unfriendly, dark road over marshy ground- corresponded better to where it would be.
The path grew darker the closer Dalamar came, but the shadow was always darker, always easier to see even while Dalamar could barely make out where he was going. Puddles of water drenched the path, but when Dalamar looked in, his reflection wasn't there, just the reflections of the stars, and of very different trees than those surrounding him. Dalamar swallowed, and looked away. Those were the trees of Silvanesti. Was this a new trick to frighten him away? To draw up the most painful memories of his life? Dalamar smiled, let them try.
But when he looked into the next pool, the smile vanished and Dalamar took a step back. Not his reflection, nor that of the trees, but Raistlin's.
A second look, and he was gone, and all that was left were the trees. But then, in the next pool, a flicker of red.
This was impossible. This was ridiculous. This was the cruellest thing they could do to him. The reflections shattered as Dalamar ran through the pool, water splashing over his boots.
The shadow moved on, and as it passed over a new puddle, Dalamar saw Raistlin's face, turned back towards him. Not Raistlin as he had seen him in Neraka, but not as before either. This was Raistlin as he had been before the Test, pale, reddish hair mussed by a wind that wasn't there, blue eyes showing that mixture of nervousness and slowly building confidence that Dalamar knew so well.
This was impossible. Dalamar felt his lips form the words. This was utterly impossible. "Raistlin?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.
If Raistlin heard him, he didn't react, the shade of his former self moving onwards, a shadow over dry ground now. Dalamar was almost running to keep up. What was this? Why were they doing this? He could see the Tower now, the path snaking slowly but steadily towards it. Was this a sick joke? Had they finally allowed him in but had called the most terrible memory as his guide? Dalamar paused. No, not his most terrible memory. /That/ would have been Raistlin in Neraka. That would have been unbearable. This did hurt, but a deep, bittersweet pain that he didn't want to stop. Raistlin's shadow robes flapped, blown by a wind Dalamar couldn't feel, as he crossed another pool, and again Dalamar saw him, attention fixed in front of him, at the Tower? Was this how Raistlin had come to the Tower when they had called him to his Test?
No. Dalamar bit his lip. The trees he could see in the pools were not those of the forest of Wayreth, they were from Silvanesti. He was seeing Raistlin's Test.
It was all Raistlin had ever told him about his Test, that it had taken place in Silvanesti and that he had been trying to find Dalamar's old spellbooks. And somewhere in there was what Raistlin hadn't told him, somewhere in the strange record Dalamar was seeing was the key to what had happened to his lover. This was easy, too easy and since when had he ever had anything given to him? But Dalamar knew in his heart it was true It was impossible, it was agonising, and it was exactly what he had come here to find.
Had the shadow turned away from the Tower and headed straight for Darken Wood, Dalamar wouldn't have stopped to think before following.
But it didn't. There were no more puddles now, but the shadow was as clear as ever, flitting over the cobbles of the road.
Half-melted cobbles.
Dalamar screwed his eyes and shook his head violently. No. No more. This was a cruel game on the part of the Tower mages, this wasn't Silvanesti.
But it had been. It had been to Raistlin, when he’d walked this path during his Test. He wondered if what he was seeing any more real.
The path ended at the gate, a gate that was a twisted mockery of that of Silvanost. Black with rust, a complete contrast with the gleaming steel of the fenceposts. They were polished to a mirror finished, and when Dalamar looked into the surface, it was Raistlin standing there, staring up at the tower.
The now familiar feeling of a hook pulling at his heart filled Dalamar's chest. Nuitari, what he wouldn't give... Not just to have Raistlin, but to have him like this, free of the pain and sickness that had dogged him ever since the Test. He wanted to step through the mirror surface and pull Raistlin into his arms, and never let go. His hand reached out to touch the smooth, cold surface of the post, the metal fogging from the warmth of his fingers. Raistlin didn't notice, his eyes were fixed on the Tower, that sharp, intense expression on his face as he debated something in his mind. Dalamar followed his gaze. The Towers of High Sorcery were dark and forbidding, not at all as he would have imagined them. Glancing back at Raistlin, he wondered how it had appeared to his lover, or what it was he had seen in its place. A Silvanesti tower, probably.
Raistlin was frowning, dark brows drawing together over blue eyes. His lips moved soundlessly, parting, three syllables. /Paladine?/
Dalamar turned first to the tower, then back at the mirror. Raistlin was still frowning, whatever he had expected hadn't happened, and those lips moved again. /E'li?'/
Dalamar frowned, but Raistlin smiled and his hand reached out as though pushing the gate open. Nothing happened to the twisted gate, but the smile broadened to a grin, and Raistlin stepped forwards and vanished.
The shadow flitted away inside the tower. Dalamar tried to push the gate open but it didn't move.
Heart starting to beat faster, Dalamar snarled a spell of opening, the iron carvings on the gate glowed slightly, but when it pushed at it again, it didn't so much as rattle. Taking hold of the carvings, he pulled hard, but he might as well have been trying to move an oak tree. Raistlin's shade was almost out of sight now, and the thought of losing it, or missing the vital clue that would let him finally understand, Dalamar felt himself start to panic. The fence was high and tipped with sharp spikes at the top, but if it was the only way then he would chance it. The carvings would make good footholds and he scanned them quickly, picking out a route up.
Dalamar paused. Despite the voice in his mind screaming at him to hurry up, he made himself stop. There was something about these carvings...
The gate in Silvanost had been a work of beauty, that of the Nightmare one of horror but this was different, although it had elements of both. Rather than images of animals and monsters, it was a map, skeletal trees and serpentine paths leading to the strange, stylised Tower in the centre. Dalamar could see the gate, could see himself, and even a strange darkness that Dalamar realised must be Raistlin. He reached out to touch it, and his hand tingled as it brushed over the iron. The gate rattled and Dalamar snatched his hand back. It stopped. Taking a deep breath, Dalamar touched the gate again. The dark spot had changed place, although he hadn't seen it move. This time the rattle was slighter when he touched it, but Dalamar didn't pull his hand away, he traced his fingers back to the image of the gate within the gate, and pushed.
It swung open.
Dalamar's patience evaporated and he ran towards the towers. The Tower of Sorcery was in fact two towers, surrounded by a protective wall. The courtyard was deserted, the dulled stones swallowing the moons' light as though drawing in magic. Dalamar's worn boots didn't so much as whisper over the stones, running to where he had last seen the shadow. It was the right-hand tower, the only one with a visible door. The door was half open, a sliver of light emanating from the crack. For a heartbeat, the light thinned as the shadow slipped across it. Dalamar's shoulder hit the smooth red wood, and he barely managed to turn his head away to avoid cracking it on the dragon-headed door knocker.
The door flew open and Dalamar almost staggered into the corridor, breathing hard.
The door slammed shut behind him.
The corridor was as empty as the courtyard had been, but warm and well furnished. After the darkness outside, the light was almost dazzling, and Dalamar's eyes ached in abrupt adjustment. The light didn't emanated from anywhere, but seemed to come from everywhere at once. Despite this, the shadow beside him was clear and well-defined against the wall.
A clatter ahead pulled Dalamar’s attention away from the shadow, footsteps on a hard floor. The floor here was lined with plush carpets which swallowed Dalamar's footsteps as he started. So, someone else was here too.
He paused, and glanced at his shadowy companion. Raistlin's shade paid him no more attention than before, but moved forwards, towards the noise. In sharp relief on the polished wood of the wall, its identity was clearer than ever. Raistlin's face, his robes, even the way he moved his hands. It brought a stab of pain to Dalamar's heart as he followed.
There were windows on the left hand wall, and Dalamar spend up his pace, he wanted to see Raistlin again, if only through this shade. He was faster than the shadow, and waited by the window. Again, his reflection was invisible.
Raistlin's wasn't, and again Dalamar felt his heart jump at the sight of that achingly familiar face. This time he didn't move on, but waiting, looking curiously through the window, a small smile on his face. Perhaps it was just chance that made his look as though he was staring straight at Dalamar’s face.
The reflection blinked, dark lashes fluttering over blue eyes, then turned to walk on, more slowly this time.
The next window, Dalamar knew he should be concentrating on just following the shadow, should be focusing on what he would see in the window rather than how much he just wanted to see Raistlin again. Like his fears in coming to Silvanesti, to have the pain stop for such a brief while when it was sure to start again, worse than ever.
Raistlin's eyes, clear and blue, so different from those he remembered, but still Raistlin. There was something in his eyes Dalamar would always recognise, something that was gone from the creature he had seen in Neraka. Dalamar swallowed, wanting to look away but unable to tear himself away. Raistlin shook his head irritably, as though reprimanding himself for wasting time, and hurried on.
The corridor turned right sharply, and there were no more windows, this corridor was longer, and emptier. The walls were rougher, and there were no more carpets. This was where the footsteps had come from, and he spotted a flicker of movement ahead of him, though it was gone too fast to make out what.
The shadow was moving faster, and Dalamar sped up to keep up. The corridor seemed to go on forever, and in its emptiness, he felt as insubstantial as Raistlin's shade, his boots made no more sound on hard floor than on the carpets, and, clear as the shadow was, his was nowhere to be seen.
Then, suddenly, Raistlin stepped out in front of him.
Dalamar stopped dead. Raistlin was looking at him, a strange, intense look, as though trying to read him. He waited, and Dalamar reached out a tentative hand, barely daring to hope... Then his fingers touched cold glass, another window, or a mirror. Beyond Raistlin's reflection, the corridor stretched on, and in the distance, he could see a figure. The same figure whose footsteps he'd heard. A Black Robe.
Raistlin frowned again, then turned his back on Dalamar as though to follow the figure, then vanished.
Dalamar stepped forwards and touched the glass, then started as his own reflection finally appeared. He was pale, surely paler than he was now. His skin was the colour of parchment, his skin and robes drained of what little colour they had, a portrait in black and white. Dalamar had to stare at his hands to make sure his own body hadn't done the same.
The glass under his fingers chilled suddenly and he snatched his hands back. The reflection winked, then reached towards him, the hand piercing the skin of the mirror.
The colourless fingers touched Dalamar's arm, the touch was as cold as the mirror and again Dalamar flinched back. The mirror-Dalamar's fingers glinted red, like blood-stained glass and colour started to return to its face. Dalamar jumped back again, Raistlin's shadow was disappearing down the corridor, he had to end this fight as quickly as possible.
"Kair tangus moipiar!"
/"Kair tangus moipiar!"/ His reflection mouthed, soundlessly, hands perfectly mirroring Dalamar's.
The blast of flame caught it in the face at the same time as it's caught Dalamar, like his reflection; that of the spell was colourless. The reflection just smiled through the smoke, unharmed, but Dalamar reeled, the touch of the creature's spell was as cold as its hands. Again, the reflection smiled, life returning to its eyes.
Dalamar couldn’t breathe properly, his chest clenching tight against the wave of icy cold that swept through him. He backed away again, discarding spellcasting. If this creature had been called by the Tower mages to stop him, even his most powerful spells would have no effect. He drew his dagger, his reflection copying his motions. He hesitated. If he struck it, it would strike him, and he wasn't about to gamble his life that he would survive the blow when his reflection wouldn't. He tried to look beyond it, at the mirror where Raistlin's shadow was moving further away.
The mirror!
Dalamar thrust his dagger back in its sheath and raised his hands for another spell. "Ast kiranann kair gadunrm soth-arn suh kali jalaran!"
The reflection copied him, but as his spell wasn't aimed at it, its spell missed too. The colourless lightning bolt sailed harmlessly down the corridor. Dalamar's, however, smashed headlong into the mirror.
The lightning bolt itself did no damage, but the concussive blast of exploding air cracked the glass. The reflection also cracked, the image splintering, but not falling apart. It froze, momentarily unable to move.
The moment was all Dalamar needed, darting past the reflection with his dagger back in his hand. The hilt smashed into the mirror, and the glass fell apart. The reflection did the same.

Behind the mirror was another corridor, the same corridor Dalamar had seen, but with mirrors lining both walls. Not waiting for them to start spawning reflections, Dalamar started to run. He kept his eyes on the mirrors, but there was no sign of motion, his reflection was no longer there and this time, Dalamar was relieved. He risked a glance aside, and spotted the strange figure again, this time turning a corner out of sight.
When he drew his attention back to the mirrors, he stopped dead. Raistlin.
Raistlin wasn’t walking, but standing still, the mirror no longer reflecting the corridor, but a scene that must have come from Raistlin's Test.
His young lover was standing over a pile of books, and Dalamar recognised them with a jolt as the very books he had brought back for his Test, the very books he still had in his bag. They were stacked in a pile, and Raistlin stood over them, a small, satisfied smile on his face. He had been hunting these books, and had finally found them. He ran a hand lovingly over the binding, then picked up the topmost book.
Suddenly Raistlin spun around, as though startled by some sudden noise or motion. It was like watching a sickening play, knowing something terrible must be about to happen but being utterly powerless to stop it.
Like in Silvanesti. Like in the Nightmare.
But unlike the Nightmare, Dalamar was able to see what happened next. He was able to see the old man materialise out of the darkness. He was able to see the cruel expression, the hunched posture, the grasping hands, the terrible smile. And most of all, he was able to see the cold, dead eyes.
Eyes he had seen before.
Dalamar couldn't move. His chest constricted until he couldn't even breathe. This was it; this was what- who- he had been searching for. It was those eyes which started out from Raistlin's face, that mouth that pulled Raistlin's, those hands that manipulated his lover's body like a puppet, and that dead mind that controlled him now. This was it. This was him, and Dalamar tore his attention away from the dead mage in time to see Raistlin name him, his lips moving to shape /"Fistandantilus"/.

Skull Bearer.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Torqueo