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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.

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Alvorecer
Chapter five- Fortune
Her mouth was an empty cut
And she was waiting to fall
-Coma White, Marilyn Manson
/There was no sense of time behind those grey walls. Raistlin didn't know if an hour, a day or a month had passed in the outside world. He felt things, now and then, a few outside sights and feelings strong enough to filter through, however faintly, into his prison. There was nothing else.
Raistlin had never felt so helpless, behind this wall of thought. He tried not to think about it, but having no hope made it so much harder to fight. He tried not to think of being trapped in here, tried to think of anything but the knowledge that Dalamar was dead- Stop. Please stop. He couldn't think on that, he could barely hold the idea in his head. Stop.
But in this grey place there was nothing to do but think, and despite himself, Raistlin's mind kept circling back to dwell on those thoughts.
Oh, he still fought, scrabbling around the edges of the wall for a break in its fortification, no longer a besieging army but a rat scratching for a way in and just as useless. And Fistandantilus knew it.
That was the most helpless thing of all. He hadn't felt the lich's presence since he had left him behind those wall, crippled by the memories he didn't dare think about. Fistandantilus had been so confident that Raistlin couldn't do anything that he no longer even bothered to check.
And while Raistlin would have liked to believe that Fistandantilus was being overconfident, and that would be his downfall like so many fairy-tale villains, he knew better than to deceive himself. Fistandantilus had not survived this long if he made such easy mistakes. If he was so confident that there was no way out, then chances were, there wasn't.
Still he kept searching, more to distract himself from the despair crowding in on him than of any real hope of success. Locked and lost within his own mind, the very ghost he had mocked Fistandantilus for being. His magic stolen for Fistandantilus' use, his body dancing to the lich's puppet strings, and he himself only tolerated until his captor found some way of killing him.
Gods, what was the point? The walls were as high, as unyielding as ever, and why even try? What would be the point? He didn't know where he was, or what Fistandantilus was making him do. But he knew Dalamar was gone. Dead, he'd left him to die. He'd left him as he had in Silvanesti. Raistlin tore his thoughts away, focusing on the barrier before him, trying desperately to ignore the grief still tearing at him, and the knowledge that if this was to be his fate, death might not be such a terrible thing./
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"What new mage!" Dalamar repeated, his voice rising to a pitch that made the hobgoblin wince. He didn't notice, nor did he notice that he was on his feet, or that they were now the centre of attention of the entire bar.
The hobgoblin stared at him as though he was mad, "Da new mage. De one 'er Dark Majesty sent-"
Dalamar grabbed the creatures wrist, the greasy skin grinding under his fingers. "The Dark Queen /what/?"
The hobgoblin tried to pull away, but Dalamar's grip was like iron. "She- She sen' 'im. Sen' 'im to Ariakas, tol 'im to take 'im on-"
Dalamar's grip tightened, he could feel the filth on the creature's skin slide under his nails. It winced- "B-bloody good wizard, I mean, I fough' wi' your lot coupla times, but dis one-"
"What does he look like!" Dalamar interrupted with a snarl. he knew, logically, that it was a ridiculously long shot- how could /Raistlin/, of all people, end up serving the Dark Queen?- but at the same time, it was too much of a coincidence.
"Black robe, like you." The hobgoblin finally managed to wrench its arm away, Dalamar's fingers had left red marks on the oily skin. Rubbing its arm, the creature frowned at him. "Ey, you don' know anythin' 'bout 'im, d'you? Cause /no one/ knows anythin' 'bout this one, 'cept mebbe da Blue Lady, an' she aint talkin'."
The Blue Lady... Kitiara? Yes, her dragons had been blue. And of course, she would know Raistlin. Too much coincidence.
"What does he look like?" Dalamar hissed through gritted teeth. "Describe his face! /What does he look like/!" He was shouting now, and the sheer volume made the creature groan and cover its ears.
"Weird." The hobgoblin spat, rubbing its face. "No' as weird as yer are though," It scowled, "Weird. Gold skin, whi' hair- he aint old either- an' his eyes..." The hobgoblin trailed off, as though he was afraid of someone overhearing- which was likely, since every pair of eyes in the place was on them.
Dalamar took a deep breath. It /was/ Raistlin. Somehow, his young lover had ended up in the Dragonarmies. But how? And for Nuitari's sake /why/? He couldn't imagine any way this could have happened. Perhaps he had only pretended to join them, as Tanis had, in order not to be executed? But if so, why would he draw so much attention to himself in announcing his presence to Ariakas? By what he'd heard, the man was the leader of the Dragonarmies. And why the reference to the Dark Queen?
Dalamar felt a cold hand snake up from his guts, and clench on his heart. He forced the words through suddenly frozen lips. "What about his eyes?"
The creature grimaced at the memory, and Dalamar knew what it was going to say before it opened its mouth. "Some o' yer lot, dey look at yer like they'd like ter see you dead, but 'im, it's like 'es the dead one, and 'es
just waitin' for you to join 'im."
Dalamar swallowed hard, feeling sick to his stomach. Those eyes. Those dead eyes. From Silvanesti. From Flotsam. From the Blood Sea. Had
whatever had happened to be him been so powerful as to keep control /this/ long? A cold chill, a sickening twist of realisation, Raistlin thought him dead. Had he given up then? Let whatever it was control him this completely?
"Where is he?" Dalamar's voice was a hoarse rasp.
The hobgoblin scowled at him again, "Why d'you wanna know?" it snapped, but not before Dalamar saw a spasm of fear cross it's face. He could guess its source.
Dalamar had no idea what he could say, so didn't say anything and looked at the creature with all the fury he could muster. It obviously wasn't enough, or the hobgoblin was made of sterner stuff than the draconian at the gate, even while hung over. "'o in da Abyss are yer anyway?"
"And who are you to question who I am, or what I want to know?" Dalamar hissed.
"Eh," The drunken barman raised his head from the tabletop, "Just tell him, Mitz, there aint going be a fight this early, you hear?"
The hobgoblin- Mitz?- flapped a hand half-heartedly, "I already tol' 'im, Annd. 'e's in Neraka'. They're all in Neraka."
"For the meeting." Dalamar finished. He drew in a deep breath, only now realising how much attention their display had attracted, taking in the many different pairs of eyes, human and inhuman, staring back at him. Dalamar straightened, and stepped towards the door, hoping no one would challenge or bar his way.
No one did, and in fact, as he walked forward, they moved away. And despite the fear, and the sick feeling that sat on his stomach like a toad, he felt a blaze of satisfaction at seeing the fear on the creatures' faces. The respect. It took a lot of nerve to stand up to a hung-over hobgoblin; nerve, or connections. He remembered Eben’s offer, an eternity ago in Pax Tharkas. This is what he had been offering, to be respected for his powers and talents, in a way he would never be with the so-called 'goodly folk'. It was deeply tempting, but as before, the same image held him back.
Raistlin. Only now he had the memory of those dead eyes to further spur him on. Whatever it was that controlled him was allied with the Dragonarmies, or at the very least working with them, and if only because of that, he would forsake that respect. The respect he saw in the eyes in front of him was only a poor reflection of what he saw in Raistlin's.
Dalamar left the tavern, trying to ignore the whispers that followed him out into the street.
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South of Firstwal, the marshland gave way to plains that had once waved with wheat and long grass, but the crop this year was black. Spears and banners grew in these fields, a poisonous, deadly crop.
The image was one Dalamar knew he would be remembering for longer than he wanted to. He remembered his first imaginings of an army of draconians so long ago in Solace. If he could only have foreseen this... he would have dragged Raistlin to the Tower of High Sorcery and barricaded both of them in there until this madness was over.
Verminaad's army had been awe-inspiring, and the dragon that razed Tarsis terrifying, but it was the sheer /numbers/ in the valley before him that made Dalamar stop in his tracks. The Dragonarmies crawled over everything, like ants from a disturbed anthill, stretching all the way from the Throtl gap into the Khalkists, with scarcely a square of ground to be seen. Banners cracked in the wind, the only bright spots of colour in the terrible sea, red, green, blue, more black.
It was madness to head down there, but what were the other options? Dalamar could no more turn back and abandon Raistlin than he could learn to breath water, and this was the only way to him. He was a Black Robe, of the Order of Magic-users allied with the Dragonarmies, there was no reason that he /should/ be questioned, or that those doing the questioning should recognise him as being part of the band that had caused so much trouble. Dalamar gritted his teeth, unable to convince himself, as though he could ever be so lucky.
If he had known it would come to this, he would probably have accepted Eben's offer of sanctuary. He had enough trouble without adding to it.
With a sigh, Dalamar headed down to join the never ending river that flowed from west to east.
Lower down and closer to, Dalamar could see that that river of men was not moving as smoothly as it had seemed as seen from Firstwal. The plains of Estwilde were besieged on either side by swamp, and the marching armies had to be forced through the narrow bottleneck of traversable ground. The Dragonarmies barely had space to breathe, let alone march, and with the added pressure of needing to return to Neraka on time, more than a few tempers had run short.
Even as Dalamar drew close, a fight broke out between a regiment sporting a black banner and one with a green. The banners swayed like stalks of barley as the standard bearers used the poles to beat at their opponents, the other members setting to with fists and kicks. Dalamar picked up his pace, hoping the distraction would prove to be the chance he needed.
Once again luck was with him, and by the time the first blade was drawn and the Dragonarmy officers waded in to restore order, the black regiment had a new member.
Dalamar drew his hood as far down as it went, and hid his hands in his sleeves. While he doubted he would be stopped outright if they discovered he was a Dark elf, being recognised would attract more attention. Perhaps enough attention to wonder at the worn state of his robes, or his exhausted state- things a high ranking Black Robe in the Highlord's service would certainly not allow. Enough to start asking questions that Dalamar certainly didn't want to answer. While he needed to get to Neraka as quickly as possible, he didn't want to do so in chains.
But as Dalamar had hoped, no one paid him much attention, the chaos of the march meant that soldiers were constantly getting separated from their regiments and joining others. Perhaps they thought he was a former member who had just rejoined before they had, or someone from another part of their army who had lost his regiment and attached himself to the first group he found. Either way, they obviously believed he had the right to be there, because no one challenged or even spoke to him. The men had given him a quick glance, then returned their gaze to the ground.
Dalamar kept his head bowed, his hood hanging loosely, obscuring his face as he kept his gaze on the ground. There was nothing to look at. The land was utterly featureless, and only marginally drier than the marsh had been, thanks to the rain. The ground under his feet was little better, a dirty sea of mud and grass crushed under the thousands of marching feet.
Even when he dared to raise his head to get his bearings, there wasn't much to see. The Khalkists were still as distant as ever, no matter how hard he forced his exhausted body, and he was surrounded on all sides by the Black Dragonarmy.
The flags had not been, as he had first thought, emblems of the various regiment, but rather a rallying point for members of the same Dragonarmies. They were soon joined by many other regiments, all flying the same black flag. Voices were raised as the troops called to each other. Dalamar kept his head bowed, turning aside any questions that might be thrown his way, but kept his ears pricked for any information.
There wasn't much, the Black Dragonarmy was under the command of someone called Lucien of Takar, they had been stationed mostly in the Ogre lands of Blode, and seemed rather glad to be moving again, even if it was to Neraka. There was also, he noticed, a marked lack of draconians in the army, Dalamar counted barely two regiments of the creatures flying their colours and those were being avoided by the others, mostly made up of human mercenaries. He also noted, with a sinking heart, that he was the only magic user he could see, and that he was drawing more than a few glances.
Dalamar gritted his teeth, and tried not to think about anything. It wasn't hard. He still hadn't slept, he had barely stayed in Firstwal long enough to re-fill his waterskin and the adrenalin he had been running on since he'd left the town had worn off. His eyes itched and his body felt heavy, all but begging for rest. He was utterly exhausted and it was only just past midday. He had no idea how he was going to last until sundown, but at least it kept him from thinking.
And Gods, it was best not to think. Even assuming he could reach Neraka without being discovered, what then? Would he charge in, throwing himself into the jaws of the Dark Queen, the very thing for which he had scorned Half-elven-
Dalamar's head snapped up, no longer noticing his exhaustion. He had completely forgotten about the others! The fools would also be heading for Neraka, with Berem. But then, Dalamar thought, that might not actually be such a bad thing. Yes, he would rather not meet then ever again, but having them there might just provide the distraction he needed to find Raistlin.
To find Raistlin, and then what? Dalamar reminded himself. Did he imagine that his mere presence would be enough for Raistlin to fight off what was controlling him? That, as in a fairy-tale, the Dark curse would be broken by a lover's kiss?
He smiled weakly, realising that this was exactly what he was expecting. Raistlin had fought these attacks off before, and if he could just see him alive, he would do so again. Dalamar bit his lip, besides, what else /could/ he do? He knew he couldn't leave Raistlin, so the risk would have to be taken.
But what was it that had done this? What was it that was powerful enough to control /Raistlin/ of all people, the most strong-willed person Dalamar knew? If Dalamar ever saw Raistlin again, he would force him to tell him. Not knowing was the worse torture. Not knowing what it was making Raistlin do or even what it was.
What, or who. 'He' Raistlin had described it as. They were allied with the Dragonarmies, or at least working with them, and Raistlin had first come into contact with them during his Test.
That was all Dalamar knew for certain, and he wasn't going to waste his time on maybes and theories when he knew so little. It was like trying to work out a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. To know so little about a foe, but still decided to face it was incredibly foolish, but then so was everything else he was trying to do.
There was no point dwelling on this, but there was nothing he could do but think. The march was monotonous and seemed endless, although the Khalkists were finally growing closer, their slopes bare and rocky. No one in the ranks spoke anymore, the only sound that of stamping feet and rattling weapons.
The feeling of danger was impossible to suppress, if any of these people knew who he really was, he wouldn't stand even the breath of a chance. The image of being discovered and attacked, those far-too-sharp blades rising and falling flashed into Dalamar's head, and he shook it hard, trying to shove the thought away. A nearby officer glanced at him, and Dalamar's blood froze, wondering if his vision was going to come true after all. The man frowned, then turned away, and Dalamar rediscovered how to breathe again.
Nuitari. Dalamar shook his head again slightly, oh Nuitari. He really needed his God's help now. He needed all the help in the world if he was going to come out of this alive, let alone with Raistlin.
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But luck seemed to be on Dalamar's side, and when the army finally ground to a halt, he hadn't been challenged or even looked at. The sun had vanished long ago, and the Khalkists' shadows hung heavy over them, Dalamar thought he could make out some buildings some distance away, and he thought there might be a fence nearby, but to be honest Dalamar didn't pay much attention to them, or to anything else.
He was so tired every inch of skin felt hyper-sensitive, and his eyes ached as though even these muscles were screaming. By the time the officers called a halt, he didn't even bother to take out his bedroll, just throwing himself down to the rough, tussocky ground.
He could hear voices nearby, and even through the haze of exhaustion and the screaming need for sleep, he recognised the clipped tones of the Dragonarmy officers. He tried to lift his head, but his body refused to obey. Dalamar closed his eyes tightly, praying for his luck to hold, even while he wondered how long this good fortune could last.

Skull Bearer.
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Alvorecer