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Alvorecer	By : Skullbearer Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1612 -:- 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
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Alvorecer
Chapter four- For Thought
A pill to make you anybody else
But all the drugs in this world
Won't save her from herself
-Coma White, Marilyn Manson
Even behind the walls and barriers and dams he was locked behind, Raistlin had felt it when life ran back into his body. He didn't know how long had past since he'd felt himself dying, nor how long between the healing and the meeting with the Dark Queen.
Later, Raistlin was sure the thought would sound absurd, but right now, with the chill of the Goddess' presence palpable even through the walls of ice, it was anything but.
A blast of mental energy smashed through Raistlin's thoughts, scattering his sense of self. It took a supreme effort to quite literally pull himself together, an effort Raistlin really didn't want to make.
Something snarled at Raistlin, the part of him that always sounded so like Dalamar, berating him for giving up, telling him to hold himself together, not to give up, to fight back.
Fistandantilus' voice laughed, and brushed aside the fragments of Raistlin's thoughts. The first time the lich had spoken to him since taking control. It wasn't even words, just thoughts. Amplifying his grief until that was all he felt, crippling him with his own emotions.
Raistlin screamed, a cry that never touched his lips. Then grief turned to anger at the manipulation and he tried to draw himself together, drawing on the pain for strength. Fistandantilus paid him no attention, locking fragments of his own thoughts away behind the same barrier which trapped Raistlin, away from the Dark Queen's probing spells. Fragments of treachery, of rebellion, of usurpation.
With the barrier even slightly down, Raistlin could see hazily for the first time in... he didn't know. He'd lost all sense of time. He would gladly have not seen this either.
He couldn't see the Dark Queen, just a mass of malevolent darkness blacker than any he had ever known. He remembered being caught in the Black Dragon's spell, being buried in Tarsis, even the disc of blackness which was all he could see of Nuitari, nothing was darker than this. Raistlin hesitated, wanting to pull away from the sight but not daring. This could be the last chance he had of breaking free of Fistandantilus' control.
But to break free, to what? Back to a body under constant assault from the undead monster locked in his mind? Back to a place where he stood, unarmed, in front of the Dark Queen Herself?
Back to a world where Dalamar was dead?
He didn't know if the last thought had been his or Fistandantilus', because at that moment the lich saw what he was doing and hurled him back behind the mental walls. The world vanished like a candle blinking out as the lich took back control, sealing back the walls until the break was almost invisible.
Then as a final punishment, Fistandantilus tore out a selection of the young mage's worst memories, stripping them of any bluntness time might had afforded them, until they were as raw as the day they were made and drove them back into Raistlin's mind.
-Enjoy-
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The lands south of Kalaman were as bare and featureless as Dalamar felt at that moment. Plain grasslands untamed by plough or hoe, all rough uneven ground and patches of heather without a tree to break the monotony of the horizon. So very unlike the endless seas of green in Abansinia or the mossy clearings in Silvanesti. It was early, and mist still clung to the short grass.
Dalamar didn't notice, his only goal to keep walking, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. He let the rhythm fill his mind, and drive out thought. It was the first time he had been alone for years, and he didn't want to dwell on it any more than he had to.
It was hard going; the ground was muddy and covered in hillocks and mole-hills. It was warmer here too, this far north, and in his winter robes Dalamar was soon sweating. He barely noticed, the removal his cloak his only concession when the sun broke through the mist and started to beat down on his back. Everything felt dulled and detached, as though he was sleepwalking- or drowning- and time completely lost its meaning.
Even if Dalamar had been thinking, he wouldn't have cared; the peace was a relief, far away from the rest of the world. Beyond thought and beyond pain. There would be plenty of time to think later, but for the moment it was a welcome change just to walk, and let the monotony push away the memories of the last few days.
Dalamar's foot slipped.
It really was exactly as though he had been asleep, and waking was anything but pleasant. He stumbled, scratching his hands raw on the ground as his foot caught in a small gully hidden by the long grass. His ankle twisted painfully and the sudden cold of the water soaking through his robes shocked him back to consciousness. Dalamar felt as if someone had slapped him, and the world returned as sharply as though he had. The welcome numbness that had accompanied for that past few days vanished and drew a deep breath, feeling like he was resurfacing from a deep dive.
Dalamar pulled his leg out of the hole; his robe was soaked halfway to the knee with murky water that stank of rotting vegetation. He sat back on the hillock, hugging his leg against his chest and rubbing the sore muscle. If Raistlin was here, it would be him doing that, or perhaps crouching behind him, rubbing his shoulder and asking if he was alright. If Raistlin had been there, he wouldn't have given his presence a second thought. Like missing a limb, he only really realised how important Raistlin was to him when the young mage was gone.
Dalamar shoved the thought away impatiently. Dwelling on this wouldn't bring Raistlin back any sooner. As he had in Silvanesti, he held the pain at bay, promising to give it time once he and Raistlin were reunited. He could feel as much as he wished then.
Dalamar shook his head to clear it, and his eyes landing on the creek he had caught his foot in. It was only one of many, he realised. The ground as far as he could see was broken up with them. He could see quite a long way, the mist must have lifted without him realising it, and he could now see that what had at first looked like rough ground was actually now the beginning of a thick marsh. Looking up, his eyes met the rearing towers of the northern Dagaard Mountains- he must be further south than he'd first thought. Still further up and no wonder. The sun was sliding down in the sky now, he must have been walking the whole day and it was now past mid afternoon.
As though the realisation had prompted it, Dalamar's body chose that time to make its complaints heard. His legs hurt and his back ached, he was hungry and thirsty and tired. Dalamar stretched his sore leg out gingerly; it still hurt, but not as badly as before. He settled himself more comfortably on the muddy ground, and pulled out his waterskin. He shook it and winced before laying it aside. He'd best eat first since he'd just be thirsty afterwards if he had a drink now. The waterskin was half-full at best and he wanted to make it last. The marsh here was not like the swamps of Xak Tsaroth, a drowned forest; there was little real water here, but mostly mud. Drinkable water would be hard to find.
Food was dry bread and salt pork that he had to fight to choke down. A mouthful of water finished off the meal and Dalamar forced himself to his feet, tested his sore leg, and started off again.
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If the numbness in his mind had kept him from thinking before, the treacherous ground did the same now. Dalamar had to keep his eyes constantly on the ground, picking out the best path through a labyrinth of gullies and sinkholes. His neck ached and his head pounded, trying to keep himself on dry ground. Even so, he was constantly slipping. Sometimes the creeks were concealed by tufts of grass or the side of a hillock was too muddy and he lost his footing. By the time the sun was setting and Dalamar had found a relatively dry scrap of ground to sleep on, his boots were caked in mud and his robes wet through to the knee.
The ground was firm, and though it was too wet to make a fire, the night was not as cold as Dalamar had been used to. As tired as he was, Dalamar lay awake for a long time, staring out into the darkness of the night. He felt weaker than he had for a long time. His time with Raistlin had weakened him, he realised, the young mage had laid his heart open, and it was so much harder to close it now, so much harder to ice over his emotions and freeze the pain.
He felt horribly vulnerable, alone. Alone. Even when he'd been exiled, he'd not felt so alone. He had always been alone before he met Raistlin, but this was the first time he'd known how it could be different. He had almost forgotten what it felt like after all this time, but now, wet and cold and yes, afraid, he remembered too well.
Dalamar closed his eyes, he'd known what he was getting into when he'd decided to stay with Raistlin, and there was no point in dwelling on the downside of laying himself open. He'd known the dangers of letting himself feel for anyone- anything- other than the magic, and he'd let it happen in the hope that the good would outweigh the bad. And the worst part was that he'd been right, what he'd had did outweigh this, which made everything even more intolerable.
The Dark elf's breath caught and he screwed his eyes shut against the tears picking his eyes. He would not cry. He had shed too many tears already. Tears would not help find Raistlin. Tears would not bring him the answers he needed. Tears would weaken him even more and he had too little water to waste them.
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Dalamar didn't know how long he slept. When he opened his eyes, the first pre-dawn light was just appearing over the edge of the horizon. His throat was painfully dry, and he had to force himself from drinking more than the one mouthful he allowed himself. His robes were damp with dew and he sucked some of it off his sleeve. It wasn't much help, and what he drank tasted of the Blood Sea. Dalamar felt vaguely grateful when the clouds above opened and a light rain started to fall. He drew his cloak closely over his shoulders but didn't pull the hood up, instead tipping his head back and opening his mouth to catch the rain, swallowing a few mouthfuls of rainwater.
Dalamar brushed his damp hair out of his face, feeling a good deal better. He drew his hood over his head and set off again over the marsh.
The rain that had been such a blessing rapidly became yet another problem. The ground had been sodden even before it started, and the excess water was quickly turning the marsh into a sucking bog. The drizzle made everything more than a few feet away seem indistinct, leaving only the vague outline of the mountains and the occasional skeleton of a dead tree. Dalamar could just about make out the first tentative shadows of the Khalkist mountains starting to the east, and the growing heights of the Dagaards to the west. Everything was grey and distant and more than anything, it brought home to the Dark elf just what an impossible task he had decided for himself. Having a task had cleared his mind, but unless he could think of a plan to follow he may as well be wandering in the marsh forever.
He'd had no clear idea before, only wanting to get away, somewhere separate from anyone and everyone. He needed to find Raistlin, he had to find him but where could he start? Certainly not here.
Dalamar rubbed his eyes, he wanted Raistlin. It was absurd to think this here, now, but his thoughts were always clearer if his lover was there to talk to. But Raistlin was not here, and if he wanted to find him again he had to think of something.
Palanthas. If Raistlin was to head anywhere it had to be there. But was Palanthas even free anymore? If it wasn't, there was a good chance that those garrisoning the capitol of Solamnia would have been given their descriptions. Dalamar bit his lip. If Raistlin had been teleported there, he hoped he'd been able to get out. If he hadn't, it would be unlikely he would head there at all, and either way there would be little point in throwing himself into the jaws of the Dragonarmies. Dalamar carefully ignored the possibility that Raistlin might not have been able to get out, just as carefully as he had the knowledge that if he had been in Raistlin's position- alone and believing his lover dead- he might have just given up and not cared either way.
He had to find out what was happening here. He didn't have a map, but was familiar with the lay of the land. If he had been thinking, he wouldn't have been surprised he'd ended up in the marsh. He was in Estwilde, and while he'd never been here before, he had been to nearby Lemish, and knew the area. If he kept travelling south, he would eventually reach Firstwal. It would mean another day's trek over the marsh, but it would be probably the best place to pick up information. The city would be almost certainly overrun by the Dragonarmies, but being this close to Neraka it would be- like Balifor- a routine post for the soldiers stationed there. It wouldn't be too hard to pass as a Black Robe seeking employment by the Dragonarmies, and perhaps ask a few questions as to how the campaign in Solamnia was going. If Palanthas had been overrun, and Raistlin been caught, he would hear about it.
If it was but either he heard nothing about Raistlin, or heard he'd escaped, then it might be best to head the uncounted miles south to the Tower of High Sorcery and try and contact Raistlin from there- although the thought of the distance he'd have to cover was staggering. It would be Dalamar's last choice, if he had nothing else to go on.
If, however, he discovered that Palanthas was free, he would head further south for the Throtl Gap and strike east towards the capitol. It would probably be hard to slip through the Solamnic battle lines, but after the nightmares he had faced recently, the danger of a few Sturm Brightblades was laughable. It didn't matter if there were a hundred dragons standing between him and Palanthas- which there might well be- he would make it, because he could accept no other possibility.
He would get to Palanthas, and he would find Raistlin somehow. Then they would forget about the war, forget Berem and the Dark Queen and everything, and focus only on getting rid of whatever power had Raistlin in its claws.
It was too easy to imagine, seeing himself walking into the great library in Palanthas. He would see Raistlin there, hunched over a pile of tomes, exhausted and as heartsick as Dalamar himself but still driving himself on. Even red-eyed and worn out, the sight of him would steal Dalamar's breath, and he wouldn't be able to do anything but stand there. Raistlin would look up and see him then. He would turn pale with shock and almost fall off his seat. He'd stand, and stumble over to him, and then they would fall into each others arms, weeping in relief and release and hold each other forever.
The image was so real, so unbearably wonderful, that Dalamar didn't dare hold it in his mind for very long, it was so painful. The dream had razor edges, and Dalamar bit back tears; he would, in that heartbeat, have given anything for it to come true.
The image was a spur, and Dalamar used it appropriately, pushing himself on as mercilessly as the Raistlin in his daydream had. The mud was deeper now, although the rain had stopped some time ago. It made little difference though, there was nothing to see, just the endless marsh stretching away to the towering mountains on either side of him, and onwards seemingly forever before him.
The Khalkists and the Dagaards were the only landmarks, and fortunately, they were the only ones Dalamar needed. He knew that Firstwal was at the foot of the Dagaard Mountains so he aimed for them.
Night fell, but Dalamar paid it no attention, pushing on regardless. His eyes were keen enough to see where he was going, and he was still far enough away from Firstwal not to risk missing it in the dark. In the first days of his exile in the Plains of Dust he had often pushed on through the night when it snowed, rather than sleeping and risk never waking. Here, where the ground was still more mud than earth, he hadn't been able to find a patch of dry ground and was certainly not about to trust the marsh. It would be too ironic to survive the Blood Sea only to lose his life to an Estwilde bog. Besides, tonight, like so many of those nights after his exile, he simply couldn't face sleep and the dreams that waited for him.
The clouds cleared as the sun finally sank below the horizon, a cold night, but if he kept moving, he wouldn't feel it so much. The Dagaards finally swallowed the sun, and the shadows deepened to black. Dalamar pulled his cloak more closely around him, it had dried out somewhat and he was grateful for it as the night grew colder. The muddy hem of his robes clung unpleasantly to his legs, and Dalamar wondered what sort of impression he'd make upon arriving at Firstwal- he should reach it tomorrow morning if he kept walking all night- A dishevelled Dark elf, exhausted and soaked through with mud. Hardly the desired result and not one that would convince the Dragonarmy guards of the truth of his story. They would probably believe him a deserter and order him arrested. He would have to clean himself up as best he could, although that would mean using up yet more of his precious water-
Dalamar stopped, shook his head and laughed. He must be truly in a terrible state to forget what he was! To be so lost in grief to forget the power that was his right! Dalamar paused and ran one hand over the spell components still strapped to his waist, and touching his worn backpack and the spellbooks it contained. The pouches were waterproofed and the spellbooks ensorcelled against mundane damage- including water- they would be fine. He had been able to retain only a few spells in his mind, but they would be enough to help improve his appearance. It was tempting to cast some small cantrip to clean himself now, but it wouldn't make any difference, come the morning, he would be just as filthy as he was now.
Dalamar pulled his hood off, and looked up. The moons had risen, and Nuitari was just visible between the Khalkist Mountains. It was gibbous tonight, waxing towards full- a good sign; his magic would be all the stronger. Dalamar drew a deep breath, as though breathing in his patron's power, drawing strength from the magic, and soldiered on, step by step onwards.
That he could have been so distracted by Raistlin to forget the magic worried him. He remembered how, when they first met, Raistlin had been so disturbed to begin with. He had seen how much he would have to give for them to continue together, and what it would mean. Dalamar had seen it in his eyes, but hadn’t realised himself how much the other mage's presence would come to matter to him... Perhaps even more than the magic?
No. Never that much. But equal to it? Yes. So much more dangerous too. He would never- could never- lose the magic, but as recent events had proved, he could lose Raistlin. And be as destroyed by the loss as much as he would be if he lost his magic. Such a fragile pillar, to rely on to support his existence.
And if it came for him to choose?
Dalamar prayed that day would never come, because it was not a choice he could ever imagine making. He shoved the thought from his mind. Realistically, it was not a choice he would ever have to face, not even in his Test. It wasn't as though practising the magic and loving Raistlin were mutually exclusive. Still, the fear lingered.
Dalamar stumbled over a hillock and cursed, for a moment he considered summoning light, then discarded the idea. Doing so would alert everything in a mile radius to his presence and while the marsh had so far appeared deserted, he didn't want to push his luck. He didn't need the light, and wanted to cast simply for the sheer sake of casting, of reminding himself of what he was, but to waste his energy in such a foolish way would hardly help him.
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The night seemed endless, as had all nights when Dalamar hadn't let himself sleep. Solinari rose reluctantly, marking midnight and making it far easier to see by. Lunitari lurked along the edges of the horizon, half-full and sending Dalamar's bloody shadow criss-crossing across the marsh. Nuitari remained below the Khalkists, although Dalamar knew from memory that it would rise to the peak of the night sky when it was full. For tonight thought, his patron's moon seemed to be caught between the clutching fingers of the mountains.
The moons set slowly shortly before dawn, and for a few moments Dalamar had to stop, having to wait for even his eyes to adapt to this deeper darkness. He had lost track of how far he had gone, and was relieved when the faint pre-dawn light silhouetted the shape of a walled city in the distance.
The sun rose slowly, and Dalamar was able to make out the weathered walls of Estwilde's northern city.
The town was perched on a rocky outcropping which rose up to join the Dagaards, seeming almost to be part of the mountains itself. The ground seemed to grow drier the closer it was to the city, but Dalamar couldn't muster the energy to be relieved.
As the sun's warmth reached the ground, the mud seemed to steam and Firstwal seemed as though it was floating on a bank of clouds- and just as unreachable. Like a mirage, the further Dalamar walked, the more distant the city seemed to be.
He felt more tired than he had during the night- if that was possible- his robes were heavy with mud, and he wondered if it might be worth stopping and cleaning himself with the cantrip at this point. The town did look closer now, and as Dalamar thought this over, the next step took him at long last onto dry land. He'd finally reached the low hills running alongside the mountains.
Dalamar looked up, the city was still uncounted miles away, but it looked as though the going would be relatively dry from now on. He drank the last of the water, and focused his mind on casting.
The spell was the first spell Dalamar had cast for longer than he cared to think. He'd memorised it in anticipation of a wet voyage on the Perechon, and hadn't even planned to use it on himself at all, Raistlin always got sick easily and wet robes wouldn't help.
Dalamar forced awake the pain the memory evoked, and focused on the spell. It was a cantrip, the least of spells, and used no spell components, but the familiar warmth of casting, the sweet exhilaration of the magic did more to warm him than the effect of the spell. The mud sloughed off his robes, peeled off his boots and cloak. The damp that seemed to have been ingrained in the fabric evaporated, leaving his clothes as warm and dry as if they'd been lying the sun for hours.
The delight of casting vanished and Dalamar stumbled, exhaustion hitting him as hard as if he'd been hit by an iron bar. His eyes itched with tiredness and his head swam. Dalamar rubbed his eyes irritably and continued walking, checking through the contents of his belt pouch as he went. He had lost a lot of the steel he'd kept there, probably by being thrown around on the Blood Sea- unless the sea elves were not as honourable as they'd seemed- but he'd had more than a fair amount to begin with. Tanis and the others had paid for the first half of the voyage on the Perechon, he and Raistlin would have paid the rest had they arrived in Kalaman. Again Dalamar pulled his mind away from the jagged edges of those thoughts and counted through what money he had. Twenty, thirty steel maybe. Enough to buy food for the long journey to wherever he was going. Not enough to head to Wayreth- if it came to that- but hopefully enough to make it to Palanthas.
But first, Dalamar decided firmly as the walls of the fortified city came into view at long last, he would find a cheap inn and book a room for the night. However much he wanted to go and keep going without rest or food, he needed both badly. Without them, he wouldn't make it very far.
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The gates of Firstwal were not ornately decorated, nor where they graceful, they were what they had been built to be: Imposing and impenetrable. Scour marks along the reddish iron shown that they had proven themselves many times, but the gate guard proved that they had failed at least once.
The grotesque face of a draconian peered between a crack in the gates, its brassy jaws- full of grey teeth- grimacing in annoyance.
Dalamar forced his face to remain impassive beneath his drawn hood; he'd known the town would probably be overrun- had counted on it in fact. The draconian's irritation proved that he had been right about another vital factor. Firstwal was poorly guarded- the draconian had clearly been asleep at its post before Dalamar's footsteps had roused it.
"Whaddya what?" It yawned.
Dalamar wondered if he should use his cover story, then discarded it. If discipline was so lax, it may be worth taking a risk. He glowered at the draconian with all the frustration and pent-up anger of the last few days. The creature stumbled back at the sheer venom in the Dark elf's eyes.
"What do ya want?" It repeated, far more hesitantly and respectfully.
"For you to let me in." Dalamar snapped; his voice was hoarser than he'd expected it to be.
"Who’re you?" The draconian insisted, and Dalamar sighed internally. It could never be so easy, could it?
"Someone who will make your miserable life far more wretched if you do not let me in immediately!" This time fear for its own life overcame the draconian's suspicions and it backed away nervously, pulling the gate open.
Dalamar stepped through, straight-backed and fearless, trying to copy the arrogant stride of the Dragon Highlords. Acting as though he expected to be obeyed often worked wonders, although when it didn't it almost inevitably meant a fight- something Dalamar certainly didn't want, especially here.
"You better find Lady Fellway." The shaken draconian added. "She'd want to see someone like you."
Dalamar inclined his head and started away. He didn't want to risk questioning the draconian, the creature had barely believed his bluff, and he didn't want to push his luck. He certainly wasn't about to meet with this 'Lady Fellway' whoever she was, so Dalamar decided his best chance was to head to the best place to hear news, told by people who would not be at their most observant. The local tavern.
Firstwal was fairly typical of most fortified towns Dalamar had seen, unlike many larger cities, which had burst out of their fortifications long ago, Firstwal was still barricaded inside of its walls. The buildings were crammed together so tightly that even the main thoroughfares were overshadowed by the houses. They were taller than most houses Dalamar had previously seen, as though the town's inhabitants had made up for lack of space by building upwards.
There were quite a number of inns and taverns, but Dalamar kept walking, waiting until one in particular caught his eye. It had obviously once been someone's home that had been opened- whether willingly or not- to the Highlords' troops. The house was one of the taller ones, and set aside from the others by what had once been a little garden. In a place where any space was precious, whoever had lived here had been wealthy.
They didn't live here any more, that was clear. What had once been a garden was now a torn up patch of ground littered with smashed bottles and fragments of broken armor. Many of the mullioned windows had been smashed, then covered with oilcloth. Despite the early hour, it was still open, the door hanging half-open drunkenly, allowing a glimpse of the interior. Dalamar saw the outlines of several draconians, and a few more human or humanoid figures.
Deciding that this would probably be the best place to find what he wanted to know, Dalamar drew his hood further over his face and stepped inside.
Had he done this in any of the other taverns he'd passed, Dalamar suspected that everyone inside would have stopped dead at his arrival, wondering what a Dark elf was doing here- attention Dalamar definitely did not want.
But here, where the only one drunker than the patrons was the bartender, no one so much as looked up as Dalamar entered. 'The inside of a tavern is always dark', as they said in the Trough, and nowhere was it truer than here. The oilcloth used on the windows was too thick, dimming the sunlight to such an extent that Dalamar was tempted to use his elvensight to avoid walking into anything. He decided against it, and sat down next to a likely-looking individual.
The person looked human, and was hunched over a large tankard of something Dalamar didn't want to speculate on, with the pained and shaking demeanour of someone suffering from a severe hangover. Sober enough to be of use, but in too much pain to be too curious.
The figure looked up as Dalamar sat down; no, not a human at all, as Dalamar would have seen had he used his elvensight. A hobgoblin, and one very different from the cowardly Fewmaster Toede he remembered from Solace. Despite the blotched face and blood-shot eyes that spoke of one too many nights on the barroom floor, this creature looked formidable, with a notched dagger in its belt and a suit of mail that- if clean- would have made Caramon jealous. Fortunately, the creature didn't seem to be looking for a fight, and gave Dalamar a quick nod of greeting.
"Where' you from?" It grunted, taking a heavy gulp of foul liquid.
"Flotsam," Dalamar answered, trying to deepen his voice as much as he could to disguise it. Flotsam was under the control of the Dragonarmies, far enough away that it would explain his ignorance of current events, and best of all for deception, relative truth.
"Bi' far from 'ome, aintya?" The hobgoblin looked at Dalamar over the rim of its tankard.
Dalamar nodded.
"Watcha doin' here anyway?"
Dalamar rolled his eyes and shrugged, letting the creature draw its own conclusions. It cackled, then brought a clawed hand to its forehead and groaned. "Takhisis' dung... S' you here like da rest o' them, eh? For da big meetin'?"
Dalamar shrugged again, letting the hobgoblin believe what it wanted to, whatever this 'big meeting' was, it wasn't his problem. "Do you know what's happening here?" He relaxed back in the rickety chair, as though he couldn't care less
The hobgoblin's ugly face contorted into an even uglier grimace. "We're all waitin' for da Blue 'ighlord to finish with Palanthas, den we get up to Neraka for the bloody big meetin' they're putting together up there. Waste o' time, we got the bloody knights beat, why don' we just get in there?" Carried away, the creature raised its voice and beat a fist on the table, regretting it immediately. The hobgoblin dropped the tankard and cradled its head in its hands.
"So they've finished with Palanthas?" Dalamar probed, trying to ignore the cold knot of fear in his stomach.
"No' yet," the creature rubbed its face and looked up, "But they aint gonna last long. No' now the Dragon 'ightlord's got their Golden General. Gonna give up tomorra, I bet."
Dalamar nodded, struggling to hide the rush of relief he felt at the hobgoblin's words. So Palanthas was still standing, and still free. All the more reason for Raistlin to head there. If the city would surrender, then it might not be razed as Tarsis had been. Perhaps he could hide in this Highlord's armies when they marched on Palanthas, then break away to look for Raistlin once they reached the city.
"Bu' I bet /you/ aint gonna have to wait," The hobgoblin continued, "Ariakas' saying that all da mages gotta go to Neraka, gotta get da Temple ready for da meeting. Waste o' time, dunno why he needs you lot nows 'e got that new mage. We could do wi' a few o' your sort."
Dalamar had been considering accepting the offer- after all; it got him where he wanted to go- when the hobgoblin's words fully sank in. He started out of his chair and grabbed the creature's wrist, all thoughts of Palanthas forgotten.
"What /new mage/?"

Skull Bearer.
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Alvorecer