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Nocturnale	By : Skullbearer Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1934 -:- 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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Although I quote Queens of the Stone Age here, I thoroughly recommend you all download Alhanna Myles' song 'Black Velvet'. If there ever was a Raistlin/Dalamar song, this is it.
This is the Silvanesti Nightmare from Dalamar's POV; the next chapter will overlap some of this one and show Raistlin's. It's rather different from the canon version.
Um, this chapter is rated R because Silvanesti is a very, very scary place.

Nocturnale
Chapter Five - To Die For
And I realize you’re mine
Indeed a fool of mine
-No One Knows, Queens of the Stone Age.
The sun was setting by the time the group prepared to set out. The griffons had refused to carry them further, ignoring Alhana’s commands, until the companions had given up, unloaded their supplies, and watched their mounts fly away.
Dalamar gazed out over the sparkling stretch of water that was the Lord's River, remembering the last time he had seen it, although, he hadn't actually seen it. He'd been blindfolded, bound, and gagged when he had been dragged out of Silvanesti to be unceremoniously dumped on the plains bordering the forest.
The memories were thrown back as quickly as they had re-surfaced. Not now, not yet; it hurt too much.
"I thought you said your people fled because they were under siege?" Tanis looked at Alhana.
"If this land is under the control of dragons, I'm a gully dwarf," Caramon snorted.
As strange as it was, the oaf did have a point, the Dark elf conceded. There was no sign that Silvanesti had /ever/ been attacked, never mind that it was under continued siege.
"We were!" Starbreeze protested. "Dragons filled the skies -as in Tarsis! The dragonmen entered our beloved woods, burning, destroying..." Her voice wavered and fell silent. Dalamar flinched.
Caramon's snort of 'Snipe hunt!' didn't convince the elven mage. Something was seriously wrong there. Alhana had been desperate to get aid, so desperate that she broke the ages-old taboo of banishment. It had been different in Qualinesti; he had not been from there. But to allow a Dark elf back into the very lands from which he had been banished... That would mean a terrible emergency. Still, there was no sign of anything wrong, none, save a slow crawling dread that had absolutely nothing to do with his personal misery.
He glanced back to Raistlin. The human mage didn't seem to have heard the conversation, staring intently at the trees across the water. Dalamar walked to his side and touched him on the arm.
The younger wizard visibly jumped; clearly, he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard the Dark elf approach. His lip twitched in a failed smile. "What is it?"
Dalamar followed his friend’s gaze, biting down a fresh swell of pain at the sight of the swaying aspens. "You tell me." His voice was tight. "What do you see?"
The Red Robe hesitated, then leant in closer, careful not to be overheard. "I cannot say, but we'll all find out soon enough. There's something terribly wrong here, great magic gone wild. I see... You don't want to know what I see."
The Dark elf looked from his lover, to the forest, to the rest of the group. Tika and Caramon were huddled together –clearly despite his words, the big man was worried- but the Silvanesti princess seemed delighted. "Tanis!" she gasped, as excited as a child at Yuletide. "Maybe it worked! Maybe my father defeated them, and we can come home! We have to cross the river and find out! Come! The ferry landing is just down around the bend-"
Dalamar watched her run down the bank, then glanced back at his lover, feeling the cold clutch of fear around his heart. "Raistlin-"
The human mage hushed him, nodding over at Tanis, who was coming their way.
"What is it?" the half-elf asked, joining them in staring across the water. "What do you sense?"
"Nothing," Raistlin lied.
"Nothing?" Tanis was disbelieving.
The Red Robe shook his head, not even deigning to look at Half-elven.
Tanis didn't look fooled for a moment, but didn't press for more; instead, he asked, "Suppose Lorac, the elfking, tried to use the Dragon orb, what would happen?"
The chill sensation moved to Dalamar spine, and he fought down the urge to shiver.
"Do you think that is possible?" Raistlin probed. No doubt he already knew the answer, he himself had suspicions enough, but how much the half-elf knew?
"Yes," Tanis answered. "From what little Alhana told me, during the Tests in the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar, a Dragon orb spoke to Lorac, asking him to rescue it from the impending disaster."
"And he did so?" the exile’s voice was sharper than he meant to.
Half-elven glanced at him; probably he had forgotten the Dark elf was there. "Yes, he brought it to Silvanesti."
Raistlin's eyes seemed to be abnormally bright, shining in the dying light like twin mirrors. He barely seemed to be listening to the conversation. "So this is the Dragon orb of Istar," he breathed longingly, once again seeming to turn inward as if he would find answers there. And perhaps he did. The red-robed wizard closed his eyes and smiled, a small, secret smile that drove home just how much the human was keeping hidden. Then he opened them again, and the strange sheen was gone. He looked back at Tanis, turning away from the far shore for the first time. "I know nothing about Dragon orbs except what I told you. But I know this, half-elf: none of us will come out of Silvanesti unscathed, if we come out at all."
Dalamar felt his stomach lurch. It was not what Raistlin said, but what was hidden between the words, as if there had been some secret message that he had, in a subconscious way, understood. It was not the threat of death, but something difference, something colder and crueller and infinitely more painful. The elven wizard gritted his teeth and tried to push the emotions away.
"What do you mean?" Tanis demanded. "What danger is there?"
Raistlin looked away. "What does it matter what danger I see?" he hissed. "We must enter Silvanesti. You know it as well as I do. Or will you forgo the chance to find a Dragon orb?"
"But if you see danger, tell us!" Half-elven was angry. "We could at least enter prepared-"
"Then prepare." The red-shrouded mage’s whisper cut neatly through the furious words, and the human mage turned to walk away, inclining his head towards Dalamar to prompt him to follow.
"Raistlin..." the elf started, as soon as they were out of earshot, then fell silent. He didn't know what he meant to say. Don't go? Tell me what you see? Tell me what you're hiding?
The Red Robe shook his head, answering Dalamar's unspoken question. "I cannot tell you, because I don't know what lies in there myself. We must all go through this," he sighed, and looked at his lover. "But it will be terrible." His hand touched the Dark elf's.
The elven mage stared back over the waters as the last of the sun's rays vanished, turning the river the colour of lead. "It's bad enough as it is," he sighed.
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The ferry landing was a place of unearthly silence. There was no noise, no insects chirping, no birds singing, even the water lapping against the boat's keel was soundless. Dalamar felt his skin crawl and he began to understand what Raistlin was sensing. There was something dreadfully wrong, although he couldn't quite work it out.
The landing was much as Dalamar remembered -as it should be, since the Silvanesti changed nothing if they could help it: the ornately carved boat, the fine ropes and pulleys, everything was as always had been. It was only once they stepped inside the ferry that his fears started to take physical form. The boat's carvings seemed to warp, twisting before the elf’s eyes into hideous patterns that mocked everything, even themselves. River water began to seep through the engravings, staining the wood red, as though the very boat was weeping blood.
Dalamar stared down at the water gathering in the boat, the metallic stench of filling his senses. The ferry was visibly decaying before his eyes, the rope worm-eaten and fraying. His mind seemed stuck, unable to think, even to start to imagine an explanation for this. As in a nightmare, he couldn't move, couldn't make a sound, couldn't do anything but watch as the bloody water slowly filled the boat.
The liquid had drifted to ankle-height by the time they reached the far bank. The sight was at once familiar and alien. He knew this place, had lived there for more than eighty years, and he could recognise almost every tree and hillock, but everything was overlaid with a terrible strangeness. It was as though this wasn't Silvanesti at all, but a repulsive chimera that had taken the form of his memories.
He couldn't stop shaking, eyes wide with fear. The night was pitch-black, there were no stars in the empty sky, and even the moons of magic seemed fearful of being seen in this place. Only the river offered light, a ghoulish, eerie glow that spoke of disease and death.
Someone brushed against him and the Dark elf nearly fell over, sudden terror sapping all the strength from his limbs. It was just Raistlin, he realised, seeing the human mage's skin pale beneath his golden pallor, his hourglass eyes dilated.
"Raistlin, your staff." Tanis' voice was barely recognisable, but it echoed loudly in the darkness, as if an unseen voice was mockingly throwing back his words.
/"Shirak./" The Red Robe’s command was unsteady, and when Dalamar reached out to touch the human, he felt his lover tremble beneath his robes.
Light filled the crystal atop the staff, but it illuminated little, almost as cold as the fear filling their hearts.
"We must enter the woods," the human mage whispered, seeming petrified at the very thought of it. He looked at Dalamar, a pleading glance, and the elf realised his lover was just as terrified as he was. The fear on the Raistlin’s face only amplified his own inexplicable terror, and it was all he could do to fight back the burning desire to run, to leave this cursed place behind forever.
He forced himself to nod, and walked with stiff legs forwards towards the hollow darkness of the elven wood. Each step was harder than the last, bringing with it a fresh surge of dread. Dalamar could barely walk for the trembling in his limbs, and twice his knees buckled under him, unwilling to carry him another step; twice he forced himself to his feet, stumbling after Raistlin.
The human mage looked to be in an even worse state, shaking visibly. The light from his staff glanced off the bones of his face, the darkness pooling in the hollows of his cheeks and eye sockets, until the Red Robe's face took on the appearance of a hideous, gilded skull. Shuddering, the exile reached for him, and started back when Raistlin turned, the golden sheen of his eyes almost glowing, his robes flowing around him like liquid blood.
"Dalamar..." The human's voice was his own, but the terror in it only redoubled the Dark elf's own. If Raistlin, who knew more about this place than any of them, was /this/ scared...
The outcast elf forced the syllables past gritted teeth, "Raistlin."
The fear in their voices was overwhelming. Fear of this place, of themselves, of each other. This was beyond anything Dalamar had ever felt. Not even dragonfear could equate to this dread. Somehow, he forced himself to take another step, moving into the shadows of the aspen trees.
Too much, too far. The dark-robed elf collapsed, unable to move, the fear pressing on him like a dead weight, crushing his soul to ashes. The grass moved under him, blind worms seeking flesh, as the Dark elf fainted.
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Dalamar awoke. The fear filling him had vanished, but looking around, he knew where it had gone. It was as though the terror that had paralysed him had warped into the physical forms around.
It would have been better if he couldn't recognise them; had they been twisted beyond all recognition, it would have hurt less. As it was, horror warred with pain and nausea as he stared at the once beautiful trees of Silvanesti.
The melody of the aspens had torn his heart as they had come here, but this was no song. This was screaming, soundless, helpless screaming. The hideously twisted branches waved and clashed as though the tree was desperately trying to find an escape from this tortured existence, the beauty created by House Woodshaper warped into horrors unnameable and soaked in the blood that wept from deep gashes in the tree's trunk. The sweet scent of the aspen was overwhelmed by the stench of decay that seemed to permeate everything. Locking out the unbearable urge to scream with them, the Dark elf tore his eyes away.
He was walking, he realised detachedly, in step with the others the others...
The others...
Laurana was with them, and the dwarf and the kender. Even Brightblade. Dalamar could see the knight as clearly as he saw the trees, even as he knew he wasn't there. They were all here, thought the exile, although he knew this to be impossible. They had left the others behind in Tarsis, and Nuitari only knew where they were now. But while they were here, at the same time he knew they were not, as though some vital part of them was missing.
The Dark elf forced himself to move faster, but it was like running through water. Each step seemed to take an eternity, and his body felt so heavy he imagined the weight would drive his feet through the earth. Still, somehow he reached Raistlin's side.
The human mage's face was expressionless, even when he saw Dalamar. His eyes seemed almost too big for his face, glinting in the icy light of his staff. Shadows moved and danced mockingly between the trees, the broken edges of movement making him start with horrified anticipation.
A low cry cut through the air, the cry of a wolf, but not that of any wolf that ever ran under the sky.
Dalamar started, and reached for his component pouch, but the sound died before he could shape a spell. The moment he lowered his hands, another voice took up the cry, the screaming, wretched yowl of a cat. Again, he tensed for an attack, only for the sound to cease the second he touched the hilt of his dagger. Then another, a roar; another, a shriek; more and more, the shadows dancing sharply with each new voice until finally, almost out of his mind with terror, the Dark elf turned and ran, grabbing Raistlin and dragging the human after him, away from the nameless horrors he was sure were about to burst from the tree line.
The howls were deafening, wails twisted to sounds both familiar and alien, mixed in with the unmistakable sound of clashing steel, as though an army was tearing through the forest towards them.
Caramon shouted a battle cry, a challenge, and Dalamar turned his head in time to see the big man charge forward to engage foes that were not there, closely followed by Flint and Brightblade, covering the rest of the group as they ran wildly away from the howling, invisible army. No, not invisible. Shades. Shadows and darkness slipping out of the trees to shriek and dart around the warriors, flickering and dancing in the light of Raistlin's staff, drawing ever closer to them.
The exile froze; he couldn't move, his muscles stupefied with fear. Desperately, he turned to look at his companion, senselessly hoping for reassurance. But the human mage was staring at the unfolding scene with wide eyes, almost as though he could see the creatures, his lips drawn back in a rictus of pure fear, too lost even to notice the Dark elf. If anything, he was even more terrified, too frightened to tear his eyes away from whatever he was able see that they couln’t.
The sounds grew louder, deafening, drawing closer, yet he was unable to see that was making them, the only sign they were being attacked the shadows of their assailants, dancing along to their unseen casters; then even louder. A new shriek rent the air: Caramon had been knocked down, and a mass of surreal shadows blurred on top of him, although the wounds it inflicted were all too real. The big man screamed again as the indiscernible beast tore into him. With a roar of rage, Flint lunged at the monster, knocking it off the injured warrior and forcing it to become visible.
Dalamar opened his mouth, although whether it was to scream, shout a spell, or be sick he didn't know. Beside him, Laurana cried out.
The creature Flint had struck was a new incarnation of the terror: Hairless, flesh sloughing and rotting off even as they watched, the huge two-headed hound lunged at the dwarf, twin jaws snapping, the bloodied pits of its eyes searching its target out blindly. The wound the axe had inflicted peeled off and putrefied, revealing the naked, pulsating flesh beneath. Impossibly huge mouths, filled with Caramon's blood and its own stinking ichor, opened, and it pounced, swiping at Flint with its claws. No, not claws. Teeth. The warped creature's feet ended in gaping jaws filled with razor sharp fangs. They tore through the dwarf's tough wooden shield as though it was cloth, ripping into his arm. The old warrior cried out, and the creature screamed back, an impossibly human noise.
Letting go his ruined shield, the dwarf backed away, dropping his axe in horror. What had started as a retreat turned into a rout, and even Brightblade only paused to pull the wounded Caramon to his feet before he too turned and ran, half carrying the big man as the monster turned its sightless heads in their direction.
The Dark elf couldn't move, he couldn't even think, he could only watch as the hideous wolf howled and prowled towards them, fading back into a blur of shadows as it approached. Muscles frozen, completely transfixed as the twisting shade slipped closer, he barely noticed when Raistlin's hand closed on his arm.
"Dalamar!" The human mage's voice was a shriek of terror, but the Silvanesti’s mind was stuck. He stared, uncomprehendingly, at his companion. Raistlin looked like he himself felt; features twisted in terror, yanking madly at his arm, barely able to control himself to keep from running as the others had. "Dalamar! Move! Move now!"
Somehow, his voice jolted the Dark elf out of his daze. He sprang to his feet and forced himself to run, half-dragging Raistlin after him.
The shrieks of their pursuers followed them, mocking, promising unspeakable fates for the ones they caught. The ground crackled beneath their unseen feet, pounding towards them in a gallop.
They ran wildly, heedless of everything but getting away from the howling shades, madly dashing through the tormented, bleeding trees, ignoring the skeletal branches that lashed their faces and tore their clothing. Dalamar didn't feel the pain in his lungs, the unbearable ache in his limbs; the fear had swallowed everything, leaving him with nothing but to run, run endlessly until the forest was gone and their pursuers faded back into the nightmares that had spawned them.
Solinari was rising, pale as a corpse, when they broke into the clearing. Its white light, as washed out and unwholesome as that of the river, illuminated what awaited them.
Those ahead stopped abruptly, causing those behind to plough into them. No one spoke, every one of them could see what awaited them. It was too much, after everything, this was more than could be withstood.
Dalamar stared, eyes wide in horror as the moonlight picked out the shimmering, translucent figures of elven warriors, the animate spirits of House Protector. Undead spectres bound to this place as those of Darken Wood had been, pledged to slay those who entered. However, good intentions would not save them from these living dead, and they had no Crystal Staff to save them.
Behind them came the jeering growls of their pursuers, coming into view as they stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlight. The Dark elf’s stomach churned at the sight of them and he swallowed bile. Nightmarish, warped, each at least as twisted as the one which had felled Caramon. Bloated, flightless birds with no heads and razors instead of feathers; massive serpents with the limbs of monstrous insects; some with other animals growing from them in a grotesque parody of birthing. Even from where he stood, the stench was putrid.
They were trapped, Dalamar knew, just as he knew this had been no accident; they had been herded here by the twisted animals, caught between hideously living and hideously dead, to be killed by both. He felt Raistlin's hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in painfully, reaching for any reassurance he could provide. The Dark elf closed his own around the human mage's. Better that they had died in Tarsis than live to face this.
Yet, strangely, neither side was advancing. The creatures, so ready to pounce before, were pulling back, fading into shapeless shades as they re-entered the bleeding trees. Even the undead elves seemed reluctant to advance, some even pulling back, as though in fear.
A thrill of dread span through Dalamar. What new evil was coming that was so powerful as to drive their attackers back? It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw the spectres sightless sockets fix on a deep well of shadows that pooled beside where Sturm had laid Caramon. The dark-robed elf glanced over, but even his eyes were unable to penetrate the darkness.
Raistlin was still shaking, although the hand on Dalamar's shoulder had relaxed somewhat. "Are you alright?" the human whispered.
The Dark elf nodded, eyes still struggling to pierce the strange gloom. The red-shrouded mage frowned, and followed his gaze.
At first, Raistlin didn't speak, didn't even breath. Feeling his hand tense once again, Dalamar turned to look at him. The wizard’s golden eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth half-open in speechless horror.
/"You!"/ The human's cry was so loud, so unexpected and horrified that the Dark elf jumped.
The younger mage's face was even paler now, staring into the darkness as if seeing his own ghost. But it was more than that, fury was clearly intermingled with the fear in the Red Robe's hourglass eyes. Eyes that could somehow see what had driven their attackers back.
"It was /you/ all along!" Raistlin was livid, his voice clearer than it had been since he had taken his Test. "You did this! You told me we-" he broke off, as if he had been interrupted.
Terrified almost out of his mind, Dalamar opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, too fearful to speak. His friend held himself stiffly, listening to nothingness. There was no wind to obscure even the lightest whisper, and the trees were silent in their torment.
The rage in the human mage's eyes subsided at last, although loathing still glittered there. "I see," he spat, a hundred colours of hate in the words for the one he addressed. "And what do you propose?"
The Dark elf stared from his lover to the patch of darkness frantically. He could see nothing, could hear nothing. "Raistlin..." he croaked.
His companion ignored him. A spasm of pain flashed over his face, as though whoever he heard had said something vile, and his eyes darted to Dalamar. "No, never," he hissed angrily. "Another then, if you must." He closed his eyes, then nodded, opening them to glance speculatively over at Caramon. "Very well, our bargain stands again. What? You ask for more?" The human mage trembled in suppressed fury, golden hands clenching tight. "Name it."
Whatever he heard must have been terrible, for again he flinched, jaw working as though he was thinking over the unspoken words.
Dalamar drew further away, back colliding with the sticky, blood-covered truck of a tree. He didn't understand. He was terrified. Whom was Raistlin talking? Who were they to be able to drive back an army of spectres and their wretched, still-living hounding beasts?
And who were they to make the human wizard fear and hate them with such intensity?
Raistlin hung his head. "I accept," he said in a low voice. "As before, I have no choice. But understand," he looked over at Dalamar, golden eyes burning, "that some things will never change."
It might have been in the Dark elf's fear-addled mind, but he though he heard something, a low, cruel, mocking laugh. A new dread overwhelmed the old one, coiling itself around the exile’s soul, and he almost screamed in denial. He started forwards, as unable to stop himself as he had been in Darken Wood, the terrible knowledge locking his heart and soul, the knowledge that he was about to lose Raistlin forever. He knew it, knew it like he knew that the sun rose in the east, and every fibre of his being howled for him to do /something/, anything, to stop it.
The human did not move, not even when Dalamar caught hold of his arm, a desperate gesture to convince himself that his lover was still there. Raistlin didn't even acknowledged his presence, staring into the impenetrable pool of shadows.
At first, Dalamar thought that it was a trick of the light, but when he pulled away, he saw the truth. It was as though the darkness they were staring at had reached out and devoured his robes, turning them as murky and empty as the starless sky above them.
Still ignoring the Dark elf, the now-Black Robe lifted his chin proudly. "I accept, but remember, this goes both ways, and even what is written in stone can be broken. What must we do?" If someone answered, they did as silently as before. The only noise came from Caramon's low cries. Goldmoon had healed him as best she could, but the big man was still terribly hurt.
"How do we reach the Tower alive?" Raistlin snapped, as though growing impatient. Again he listened closely, then nodded reluctantly. "And I will be given what I need? Very well. Do as you will, then." The human mage closed his eyes, and shuddered, as though very cold, as the patch of darkness suddenly faded.
Ignoring Caramon's low cry and Dalamar's gasp of horror, the newly anointed dark wizard turned to the now-circling elven spectres and twisted animals. He raised his hands, drawing from his pouch a piece of fur and an amber rod. Holding them in his left hand, he traced unknown symbols in the air and chanted a spell in a cold, sharp voice. The only part of Dalamar's mind not gibbering in terror knew he should recognise the incantation, but the words themselves slipped from his terrorised mind. He recognised it as the lightning bolt he himself had cast, but not any variation he knew of, not one bolt, but many, hammering into the spectres and monsters and dispelling them into nothingness.
"Come around me!" the Black Robe shouted at the others, his voice thin and rasping, and the Dark elf could do nothing but stare at him.
This was not Raistlin. Not matter how he looked like him, this was not the person he knew and loved. The cold, alien light in his eyes, like those of a dead man's, the voice, even the way he held himself, were different. Not his own.
Despite the spectres, Dalamar had to fight back the urge to pull away and run again, run until he was out of these woods and the night was over and this was nothing but a terrible dream. He didn't move, too petrified to do anything. Whatever secret Raistlin had been hiding, this was too much, too much for him to understand. The only thing he knew, with an iron-hard certainty that terrified him, was that with each passing moment he came closer to losing the human mage, and perhaps he already had.
"Raistlin..." he croaked. He was lost. They both were.
For the third time, his lover ignored him. "Hurry," he snapped, still in that strange, dark tone. "They will not attack now. They fear me, but I cannot hold them back long." His lips twisted in scorn.
One by one, the others came to stand around him, all but Sturm.
"I knew it would come to this," the knight said slowly. "I will die before I place myself under your /protection/, Raistlin, and if any of you have any sense, you would leave too." Turning, the Solamnic strode off into the trees, chased by a vanguard of undead warriors.
"Ignore him," the Black Robe sneered. "He goes to his death, and there is not reason to follow him to ours. We are to go to the Tower of the Stars, the heart of this place. We must walk through this dream, Lorac's Nightmare, to reach the place where it originates, although every hideous creature conceived in dreams will rise to stop us. Remember, however: Dreams hold hints of the past, the present, and the future. They may arise to help us, or to hinder us. Death exists only in our minds -unless we believe otherwise."
"Then why can't we wake up?" Tanis demanded. The half-elf was trying to sound defiant, but his voice was shaking.
"Because your mind is too weak to break out of the hold Lorac keeps on your minds," the wizard scorned, his mocking voice a sickening parody of the one Dalamar knew so well.
Half-elven flinched. "Then why don't /you/ wake up?" he snapped.
Raistlin smiled tauntingly, a malevolent, alien expression the Dark elf had never seen on his face, and would be glad to never see again. "Perhaps I choose not to."
"I don't understand!" Tanis shouted in exasperated despair.
The human mage's smile broadened. "You will, or you will die. In which case, it won't matter."
In any other situation, Dalamar would have pulled Raistlin aside and demanded the answers his lover kept from the rest of the group. But now... of all the creatures that surrounded them, his friend the most terrifying. The unseen, unheard speaker, his companion's sudden change of allegiance... And worse, the terrible, unearthly look on Raistlin's face, as though his eyes were windows to the soul of a dead man. Everything, set against the backdrop of the horrors from this impossible nightmare, was enough to freeze any words before they were spoken.
Once again, the Raistlin made no move the breach the silence, and Dalamar was grateful. The human wizard walked over to Caramon, putting a black-robed arm around the wounded man's shoulders. "I will take care of him," he instructed Goldmoon.
"No," the big man protested weakly. "You're not strong enough. Raist..."
For once, the Black Robe showed no sign of irritation at the childish nickname, and his voice was again the one Dalamar knew, his tone holding a gentleness the Dark elf had only ever heard directed at himself. "I am strong enough now, Caramon. Lean on me, my brother." The Dark elf was struck at the change in his lover; the fey look was gone from his eyes, and his voice was his own again.
If his mind hadn't been so consumed with fear, Dalamar would have felt jealous. As it was, it was all he could do to start after the now black-shrouded mage as he and Caramon started walking.
"No!" Raistlin turned, golden eyes ablaze and his voice that of a stranger. "Begone!"
The sheer force of the dark mage's words stopped Dalamar in his tracks as though they had been blows. He stared, uncomprehendingly at his friend. Once again, it seemed as though human's face was merely a mask worn by someone very different. Someone the Dark elf never wanted to know or see again.
"Begone," the human repeated, but his eyes flickered, and his face relaxed into a more familiar expression, once again recognisable as Raistlin, although still very cold. "Go to the Tower, we will meet there. I walk this without you."
A cold shudder climbed the Dark elf's spine. He didn't want to leave Raistlin, especially now, like this. He didn't move though, even when the spectres began to prowl and close in on them. The human wizard shot him one last glance, making sure he wasn't following, then turned and helped Caramon limp into the trees, leaving the exile alone in the clearing.
Dalamar didn't seem to be able to stir. Any anger he had was swamped under a wave of confusion and dread. He was frozen in place, his heart tearing itself apart, his soul howling a sickening accompaniment to the silent weeping of the trees.
The undead were still circling, and although many of them had gone chasing the others, several had spotted the Dark elf and were closing on him.
He had no more time for questions. Dalamar lashed out wildly with his dagger, hoping to drive the spectres back. But they were already dead, and the threat of oblivion held no fears as they advanced. Half panicking, the Dark elf shrieked a spell, /"Mas daya, ente mati!"/
He didn't expect the Sentinel Ruins spell to do much damage, but he hoped that in letting the magic out in a fan rather than a single bolt, he could catch as many of them as possible, and perhaps make them think twice about following him. He wasn't about to wait to find out though, the moment the last syllable was spoken, the Dark elf turned and raced down the path he knew led to Silvanost, not daring to think of his pursuers or his path or his destination, shutting out any thought save to run, dodging branches as the very trees seemed to conspire to send him back to his would-be executioners.
He was a moment too slow in ducking, and a twisted, shrivelled limb caught him in the jaw. Dalamar tasted blood, his own and that of the tree, and was thrown onto his back. Terrified, he scrambled to his feet, expecting at any moment to feel the spectres' swords biting into his flesh. Mercifully, mysteriously, there was no sign of the dreadful beings. Perhaps enough of the spectres had been wounded that they decided to try their luck with the other members of the group. The elven wizard hoped so.
Trying to avoid looking at the twisted trees that still swung their branches menacingly, the Dark elf started on again, this time at a more sedate pace, tense and ready to bolt at the first sound or sign of movement. He kept his eyes fixed on the cobbled path in front of him, trying to block out the sight of the weeping, sobbing aspens in this place, which had once been his home and now seemed to be determined to become his grave.
He had barely taken three steps before the path changed, the cobbles seemed to melt, flowing like water and lapping at the tangled tree roots like leaden water, yet when Dalamar stepped on them, they were solid under his feet, although the texture had changed, becoming spongy, as though he was walking across the body of a corpse. Gritting his teeth and suppressing the urge to run or be sick, the Dark elf kept walking. His breath came more rapidly, and his nails dug into his palms in a desperate attempt to steady his nerves. Ripples formed in the iron-grey pool as he placed his foot on the surface, ripples flowing and forming into faces. First the face of an old man, mouth hideously distended, like a snake about to swallow an egg. He screamed, a hideous melody echoed and taken up by of hundreds of other faces, elven faces. Silvanesti faces. Faces he knew. Dalamar clawed at his own eyes and moved faster, shaking his head in a vain attempt to keep out the cries of agony, as if the whole of Silvanesti had been subjected to the tortures of the Abyss. Their screams were those of the trees, those of the warped animals, those of the Dark elf himself.
He started running. He could not be far from the gates of the city... Please, not much further, he implored soundlessly. And he ran on, losing all sense of time; he could have been running for days, weeks... or only minutes. His lungs burned, his limbs ached, and his ears rang with the screams of all of those who had died in the nightmare and haunted it still. The branches of the tormented trees whipped him, blotting out the sky.
Days, weeks, he didn't know, but the howls slowly intensified, the faces slowly dissolving into one, his own, staring up from the fluid pool, screaming and screaming, endlessly. Eyes screwed shut, still running, Dalamar shrieked back. He stumbled and fell, face to face with his own tortured visage. Frozen, he couldn't move, only able to watch as his own face melted into Raistlin's and his lover's voice took up the cry.
Unable to withhold his own wails, Dalamar forced himself to his feet, staggering on as the path flowed into one final face, the skeletal features of a rotting skull, and the screams turned into laughter.
The Dark elf tripped and fell hard, cracking his head on the suddenly solid path. A shock of pain shot through his chest as the world went black.
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When he awoke, Dalamar dared to hope the ordeal was over, that he had woken up in truth. One look around was enough to dispel that notion.
The path was no longer screaming, but the trees still were, and just a glance at the gate in front of him was enough to know that this ordeal was nowhere near finished.
The gates of Silvanesti were delicate and fine even now, but the once graceful animals and trees they pictured had changed almost beyond recognition. The wrought metal now reflected the broken land, the animals portrayed were the same warped monsters that had attacked them, the elves undead, the trees disfigured and rust-red with blood.
Dark elf or not, the solid reminder that this was Silvanesti, the homeland he had been cruelly ripped from and of which the very thought was agony, was too much to bear. His eyes closed, and tears trickled down his face as his hands closed over the cold, slick bars of the locked gates. Silvanesti, his homeland. The torment of coming here had been agonising, but to return to find it like this...
Yes, Raistlin had been right, this was a nightmare, and the worse he had ever experienced.
A low crackling, like wet wood on a fire, broke Dalamar out of his reverie. What now, he almost screamed. Wasn't this enough?
The gate, the carvings of the gate. The twisted animals and screaming trees, lifting free from the metal, coiling themselves around the Dark elf's forearms, reaching up to grasp at his shoulders. Again, he cried out, but his voice was so hoarse nothing came out but a weak croak. He tried to pull back from the metal now dragging him forwards. Whether they meant to hold him until the spectres came to kill him, or if the living metal would swallow him, Dalamar didn't intend to find out. He yanked at the iron tethering him to the gates, franticly pulling and dragging at it, ignoring the pain as it cut mercilessly into his arm, conscious only that he had to get it /off/, to get away!
It was only due to years of magical training that he managed to force himself to calm down, the mad panic that had gripped him lessening until he could think and plan. He was a wizard, he snapped at himself in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Raistlin's, he would use the magic he had been born to.
Leaning back, dragging the coils of iron as far back as he could, fighting the urge to cry out as the motion tore deeper into the wounds already inflicted, he cast, hoping that the same spell that had dissuaded the spectres from pursuing him would force the animate iron to release him. Even with his hands restricted, the magic worked, not only disintegrating the bonds holding him, but also boring a hole straight through the gate. With a creak like a dying oak, the gates swung open.
Softly thanking Nuitari, Dalamar stumbled through the open gates, and into the warped, broken city he had once called home.
Silvanost was a mausoleum, a rotting tribute to what it once had been. Houses tottered around the roads like the ruins of Xak Tsaroth, the bricks and mortar visibly crumbling. Some were twisted as terribly as the trees, the buildings warped into unspeakable shapes. More than once, Dalamar thought he saw one of them stir and rock like a living creature.
Is this what Raistlin always sees? he wondered, horrified.
Worse, he knew this place very well. To the north was the district of House Servitor, his old caste, and as bad as that had been, nothing deserved what the nightmare had wrought upon it. He knew every inch of this place, but would be hard pressed to recognise it now. His home, the places he had know, all crushed and destroyed under the weight of this nightmare.
The Dark elf tried not to look at the buildings, keeping his eyes fixed forwards on the Tower he was finally approaching, a skeletal finger pointing drunkenly at the empty sky. The Tower, he fixed that goal in his mind. The Tower of the Stars, now the Tower of the Dead. Lorac, the elven king would be there, as would the Dragon orb that was causing all of this. And Raistlin. The human mage would be there, Dalamar knew that.
He felt a stab of rage at the thought. His lover had left him, he could see that clearer than ever, had left him to the mercy of the spectres, left him to his death. The Dark elf dug his nails into his palms. No, that was wrong. No matter what, it was impossible to believe that of Raistlin. He simply could not have left him to die, this was his own distrust colouring events. He might not be able to trust the human wizard -now more than ever- but the belief that the he would have left him to die... That was absurd.
The memory of Raistlin's argument with the darkness resurfaced, and Dalamar shuddered. He had never feared his lover before, but now... The memory of his face, that strange voice... The human was powerful yes, even the Dark elf had been amazed how quickly he had grown in power, but he had never been afraid of him. No, his distrust had never quite stretched that far.
Until now.
What had happened in the forest? Whom had Raistlin spoken? And what had happened to him afterwards that had left even Dalamar, who knew the human mage better than anyone, almost unable to recognise him?
Forcing the uncomfortable thoughts out of his mind, the Dark elf picked up his pace. He had no idea how long it had been since they had separated, but he hoped that he'd been able to reach to Tower before the rest of the group. That hope, however, vanished when he drew closer to the building. Sturm, Tanis and someone else he couldn't quite see had reached it, and they had been followed, or ambushed, whatever. Half a dozen of the spectres were attacking them, and Half-elven was on the ground, probably wounded, as the other two were fighting off the undead warriors.
It was darker now, and as though by some unseen signal, the elves vanished.
Keeping to the shadows, the Dark elf slipped closer, then stopped as he caught sight of the unknown fighter.
/Kitiara?/
It was. He hadn't seen the woman for more than five years, but it was unmistakably her. The same dark hair, the same crooked smile, the very same person who had been eager to let the Belzorites kill Raistlin so long ago. His eyes narrowed with hate at the sight of her.
Tanis was still on the ground, and Dalamar could see that he wasn't wounded, but was cradling someone who was, and judging by the look on Half-elven's face, it was mortally. Finally though, the bearded half-elf got to his feet, letting the body he was holding fall to the ground.
Caramon.
A bolt of ice shot through Dalamar's stomach, one only intensified when he noticed the other two bodies lying on the ground beside the open Tower doors. /Please no, not Raistlin, please,/ he implored. No matter what had happened, anything but this.
The first one was too small, the dwarf or the kender perhaps, but the second...
Dalamar skulked closer, almost afraid to look and risk having his worse fears confirmed.The flash of red hair brought a feeling of such relief that the Dark elf sagged. Not Raistlin, thank the stars, but Tika. He'd never thought he'd ever be glad to see the barmaid.
Sturm walked over the stand beside Caramon's dead body. "What did I tell you?" he spat miserably. "I told him, told him so many times, but he never listened, and now this!"
"Poor Caramon," Kitiara remarked sadly. "Somehow I guessed it would end this way." A moment's silence, then, "So little Raistlin has become truly powerful."
Dalamar was probably the only one who caught the note of fear in her voice.
"At the cost of your brother's life!" the Solamnic exclaimed. "He led him to his death and abandoned him here!"
So Raistlin had killed Caramon? A flicker of hope lit up in the Dark elf’s mind. He remembered when the human mage had been talking to... to whatever that entity was, that look he had sent him, the look of horror, those words he had spoken to the darkness: /"No, never. Another then, if you must."/ Then the odd attention he had paid to the bigger twin... Could it be that the wizard had foreseen, or been told, that whoever travelled with him would die, and had chosen to put his brother to death rather than Dalamar?
Kitiara stared down at Caramon's body, lying in a pool of blood. "Poor kid."
The Dark elf crept closer as the three approached the steps leading to the Tower’s door. He heard their cries as they found the bodies of Tasslehoff and Tika, and their footsteps as they entered the twisted building. Silently, following the bone-white walls, Dalamar went after them. He was no thief, but he had learn enough, both in Tarsis and in the five years he and Raistlin had worked as mercenaries, to be able to move silently if he wished.
The exile had never been in the hall of Tower of the Stars before, but it would not be an experience he was anxious to repeat. The hallway was dank and covered with slime, its former beauty little more than a memory. Paintings of death and decay lined the walls, but they might as well have been mirrors or windows in this place. A faint green glow emanated from a room at the end of the hall.
Sturm had his arm around Half-elven's shoulders as they walked. "There was nothing we could have done, Tanis," he growled. "We've to keep going and put an end to this. Whatever those mages have done, we have to stop them. If I do nothing else, I'll live to kill them."
Dalamar felt momentarily confused, then realised that both Brightblade and Half-elven had left the clearing before Raistlin had sent him away. They believed him to be with the human mage, which gave him the advantage. The knight had made it blatantly clear what he planned for them, but had not been anticipating that he would be overheard. He had to reach his friend, to warn him. Together, they would be able to fight off the three warriors. However, if they caught Raistlin alone and unprepared... Sturm Brightblade had always wanted them dead, and Kitiara had her own reasons for killing her half-brother. Tanis would not protest, particularly after having seen what the wizard had done to Caramon.
The Dark elf crouched down. He couldn't sneak past the three without being seen and had no spells that could help him. Throwing caution to the winds, he broke into a run, heart pounding as he darted past Tanis and raced away down the passage before they could react, all too conscious of the shouts behind him as the three saw him. Cries of rage from Brightblade, and of shock from Half-elven.
So intent on his goal he was, he missed Kitiara's words, "I'll go after him."
He picked up his pace, hurrying through the penumbra towards the green glow. It was obvious Raistlin would be there, it was the only light in the whole Tower.
It was brighter now, and extruded a strange warmth, like an unearthly green sun. The aura of malevolence was palpable even here, sending shudders of fear and weakness through Dalamar. The hall seemed endless, and he was growing exhausted, but the light was dazzling now, almost too painful to look at. Baring his teeth, the dark-robed wizard threw himself at the door ajar, shoving it open. It banged off the wall and swung back as the Dark elf stumbled in.
He had a vague impression of a throne, the shadowy figure of an old man was seated in it, his hand on a globe from which the green light emanated. Behind them was a mass of stirring green shadows, and two vicious, glowing red eyes.
Dalamar didn't pay any attention to those, eyes fixed on the robed figure in front of him. "Raistlin!" His cry was as sheer relief as warning.
The human mage turned, staring at him in amazement. "Dalamar?"
Why was he so shocked? He had told him to come here. A part of him wondered if the younger wizard had actually meant that or whether he had expected Dalamar to die on the way there.
Shoving the thoughts out of his mind, the Dark elf took a step closer. "Raistlin, the others, they-"
Everything seemed to happen at once. The door behind him banged open a second time, and as he started to spin around to face however it was, they attacked. Had he not turned, the blow would have decapitated him. As it was, Kitiara's blade sank into the back of his shoulder, almost severing his arm, splintering his collarbone and shoulder blade before locking into his ribcage.
Dalamar blinked, staring uncomprehendingly at the tip of the blade protruding from the side of his chest, his upper body a spreading miasma of screaming agony. He looked from the blade, and the blood now spurting rhythmically from the wound, up to Raistlin's horrified, ashen face. Then he was falling, the blade pulling free from his body with a jerk that almost stopped his heart, and hit the ground heavily.
The floor was freezing under him, but he was unable to move, to speak, to do anything but watch the slowly spreading pool of blood that was forming around his body, and feel the cold of the floor slowly creep into his bones and ice over his heart in a way Tarsis never could. He was dying, an internal voice gibbered in panic. The sword had cut through bone and artery alike, and it was his lifeblood staining the floor red.
Where was Raistlin? Had he left him to die alone? Was that the truth then, to be revealed only now, that he had been right to distrust? Was all that a lie? His mind span drunkenly as the blood drained from his heart and brain. Nothing made sense. His eyes started to fog, a veil of darkness falling and thickening, shutting out the world. The sounds around his seemed distorted; footsteps behind him, someone shouting. A boot dug into his ribs, lifting him up and throwing him on his back. Someone was speaking, but he couldn't hear their words. Shouts, screams. A roar. The voices spinning above him, slowly sucking him into a whirlpool of green light.
He was dying, sweet Nuitari, he was dying...
He was dead.

Skull Bearer.
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