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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 six- ForGotten
Just bleeding like a polariod
-Coma White, Marilyn Manson

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He had stopped fighting, too shattered, too heartsick to even try. Even if it was possible to win, to tear down the walls and take back control, the thought of the world he would be returning to was unbearable. He was alone, utterly, totally alone. Dalamar... Dalamar was gone. He was dead. Had died alone somewhere in the Blood Sea, his last thoughts of how Raistlin had betrayed him. Dalamar had told him once that when something truly terrible happened, the shock kept for from feeling it all at once. The Dark elf had smiled grimly, and added that it gave you time to choose if you wanted to live on or not.
He understood that now, and now, here, Raistlin knew which one he'd chose. If only to spite Fistandantilus, if it was the only end possible... But yet, even if Fistandantilus was gone, if he had control of his own body again... even so, Raistlin didn't know which one he'd choose. Gods help him, he didn't know.
The walls weakened suddenly, enough to allow him to see out; the world was fogged, dull, like frost on a windowpane. At first, he hadn't wanted to look, not wanting to see whatever cruel sight Fistandantilus wanted to taut him with. As though the lich would care, he paid no more attention to the prisoner in his stolen body than he had before. Something else had weakened the walls.
Fistandantilus was casting.
Raistlin still had enough of a sense of self to know that had he not been so destroyed, this would have been more unbearable than anything else the lich had done to him. It was /his/ power Fistandantilus was stealing, his magic he was bending to his own end. His body had never been more than a tool, but his magic.
Had he not been so destroyed, he would have screamed. But then, had he now been so destroyed, he wouldn't be paying attention, he would be fighting, searching the wall for any weak spot, any break while the lich was too distracted to pay attention to him.
He couldn't even do that, it felt as though his mind had fallen to pieces, unable to focus. Even the little he could see was blurred and confused, he couldn't concentrate to see clearly. The magic flared; a spell of warding, Raistlin's mind whispered. He could see his own hands, moving like a puppet's as they shaped the spell. A spell he had only ever seen in his spellbooks.
Fistandantilus' spellbooks.
The spell complete, his hands ended their dance, and the magic flared, tracing gleaming symbols in the air before fading into the darkness- he must be underground. There was no exhilaration though, Fistandantilus had stolen that too.
The world faded from sight, Fistandantilus regaining control. Raistlin did nothing. Even if he had tried, even if he had thrown all the strength he had ever had at the barrier, Raistlin knew it would have been useless. He had built this wall, he had built and strengthened it over the months following Silvanesti, and he knew better than to believe that Fistandantilus would make the same mistakes he had.
He was lost, he didn't know what to do. Just for it to end, he wanted to sleep and wake up to find it was all a dream, safe in bed with Dalamar beside him. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. He wanted it to end any way it could.

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Dalamar had no idea how long it was before he finally fell asleep. Tired as he was, rest proved elusive, constantly dropping into a doze before starting awake, senses screaming danger. Finally, as Nuitari rose above the mountaintops, he slept.
It felt more like passing out than falling asleep, and on waking Dalamar did feel as though he had been knocked out. His head was screaming as though he'd spent the last night drinking, and the cold seemed to have crawled into his brain. Even this far north, the spring was much too young to be sleeping rough.
The only blessing of having fallen asleep at all, was that he felt marginally less tired than he had before, and that once again, he had been too tired to dream. Dalamar sat up stiffly, grateful that Nuitari seemed to be sparing him that horror at least. He didn't want to imagine what nightmares his sleeping mind might weave.
All the same, when the hissing, spitting sound reached his ears, Dalamar could almost believe this was a nightmare.
A strange setting for a nightmare though, the clouds had blown away to the east and the sun was rising. They were almost in the Khalkists now, and Dalamar could make out the outlying buildings of a large farmstead through the morning mist, and horses behind the fences he'd seen last night.
For all that Dalamar knew he was awake though, the creatures now swooping out of the dawn-tinged clouds make him think again. Their wings blocked out the rising sun and the stench of their hides made the horses shriek and try to kick their way through the fences.
Black dragons.
Six of the terrible creatures, some even bigger even than the one they had fought in Xak Tsaroth, their scales bearing the marks of recent battles. The rocks cracked under their claws as they landed, and spat and bubbled from the acid that dripped from their jaws.
Dalamar knew that, logically, the creatures before him were much weaker than the other dragons he had faced. He had read as much when he and Raistlin had believed them to be little more than kender tales. The red dragons from Tarsis and Pax Tharkas would dwarf the ones before him here, and even the blue dragons that had chased them across the Blood sea were far more fearsome. He had also known that since he was in the Black Dragonarmy, he could only expect to run into the creatures sooner or later.
And once again, Dalamar was hit by the difference between bracing himself for something and being confronted by it. The dragonfear crawled up like bile, bring with it the memories, and for a moment every dragon was the same one he had faced in Xak Tsaroth, the same one that had flow at them from the well, that had nearly killed Raistlin in front of him, that had nearly killed them all.
And how much worse was it now, to face these creatures alone.
The last lingered, no matter how hard he fought to crush it down. Alone. He remembered Raistlin under the dragon's claws, of how much he wanted to go to him, never mind that he couldn't have done anything. Not wanting to leave him. Dalamar gritted his teeth. No, not now. He would not think of this now.
Unlike in Xak Tsaroth, these dragons paid no attention to him, thank Nuitari. Because if he had been helpless before, it was nothing to how hopeless the situation was now. Alone, against creatures so huge a team of horses could have been driven between their forelimbs, and with jaws large enough to swallow an ogre.
The last was adequately demonstrated as one of the larger wyrms, obviously tiring of its rider, lazily snaked its head back and snapped up the unfortunate creature in a single bite. The ogre's metal armor screamed as the dragon's teeth closed on it, but the rider himself was dead before he even realised what was happening.
The other dragon riders eyed their mounts nervously, obviously wondering if they would follow the other's example. Dalamar remembered how Kitiara's dragon had braved the Maelstrom on her orders. No such loyalty here.
He wasn't sure if this was a good think or not. On one hand, it meant discipline would be lax, and a check of the ranks would be unlikely, but on the other, no one would be able to stop the creatures if one of them wanted to find out what Dark elf tasted like.
This last thought was obviously shared by the rest of the army, who were backing away from the dragons with more attention to safety than dignity. The dragons ignored both them and the protests from their riders, the lead dragon, a huge, battle-scarred beast with dull black scales, reared back and cuffed the errant wyrm across the nose, snarling disapproval in its own language. The younger dragon snapped it's head back and gave a muffled snarl before insolently swallowing the last of its rider.
"Enough!" A booming voice rang out from the elder dragon's rider. Most of the riders seemed almost pathetic compared to their terrible mounts, but this one didn't. He stared around at the fearful dragonriders and the rest of he army, now a safe distance away, as though disgusted by their cowardice.
Although this man didn't seem as though he would fear anything, even a pair of angry dragons. They had the height of an ogre, the build and grace of a human, but any more detail was hidden behind a huge suit of black steel plate that fitted him more like a carapace than armor. It was dull and unadorned, a heavy helm enclosing the head and a blank plate obscuring the face, leaving only two slits for eyes. While it had the shape of a Dragon Highlord's armor, it had none of the intricate decoration Dalamar had seen on Verminaad's or Kitiara's.
The featureless helm turned towards them, and the Highlord raised a gauntleted hand. Whips cracked and orders were bawled out as the army slowly started to move. The overseers and officers screamed and lashed out like farmers beating a particularly stubborn herd. Grumbling and growling, the army slowly started off, bedlam breaking out as confused regiments blundered into each other in their hurry to avoid the whips and blows. Makeshift tents and bedrolls were trample underfoot, Dalamar almost stumbled straight into the white-hot ashes of a campfire, and had to jump sideways to avoid it. Sleep had dulled his senses and he landed badly, twisting his ankle and barging straight into a warty-faced goblin.
Dalamar's hand went to his hood, keeping it from falling back. The goblin sent him a foul glance, but any words it might have said were lost in a roar from its officer, she bellowed at it to rejoin the regiment and punctuated her words with a blow with the flat of her blade. The goblin bared rotting teeth at Dalamar and loped away. Dalamar breathed a sigh of relief.
Good luck had carried him this far, but he didn't want to rely on it to take him any further. Only a fool would rely on good luck alone, but what else could he do? He had no spells to cast- it was with an unpleasant jolt that Dalamar remembered that he hadn't had time to study his spellbook the night before. Wonderful. To be in this mess, in the middle of the Dragonarmies, with nothing to defend himself but a dagger. And nothing to rely on but pure luck.
Just until Neraka, Dalamar prayed silently, just get me to Neraka. If all the armies were there no one would look at him twice. Please, just get me there. After that, he didn't know, he didn't know what to expect.
He would get to Neraka, take a look around and plan after that. That hobgoblin had known about Raistlin and if his lover- or whoever he was now- was this well known, then surely /someone/ would know where he was. There were surely taverns in Neraka, if there weren't, Dalamar was sure the whole Dragonarmy- or at least the draconian regiments- would have long since mutinied, Dark Queen or no Dark Queen. He would go there, as he had in Firstwal, and find someone to get answers from, perhaps pretend Raistlin was his superior. Few people asked about the affairs of mages, and hopefully they wouldn't here.
Dalamar tried not to think of what would happen after that, because he had no plan and no way of making one, which was so much worse. And while only a fool walked into a situation with no plan, it was a bigger fool who made plans when he didn't know what was coming.

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Although the army was finally moving in more or less the right direction, the pace was slow, and not helped by the treacherous terrain they were crossing. There had been some confusion earlier, some of the regiments were confused about why they were heading east rather than south and had headed off in the wrong direction.
All the same, he did wonder why, if for no other reason that he wanted to get to Neraka as soon of possible, and for all that he'd only spent three hours here, he already hated this stretch of the Khalkists that the mercenaries around him were calling Taman Busuk. He wondered if, when the dragons had first returned, the first place they had wrecked their fury on was Taman Busuk. It would be hard to imagine what force save dragonfire could have warped the rocks around them into such impossibly twisted shapes. There were few trees, only the occasional stunted grove that seemed strangely dusty, and despite the season had only a few leaves clinging to their stunted limbs. The only forms of life present in any numbers- apart from the army itself, were the yellowing tussocks of mountain grass which they were currently trampling on.
Dalamar smiled in pained amusement. If Raistlin were here, he would probably have some teasing remark about Dalamar's elven nature showing itself at the most absurd times. The pain sharpened. If Raistlin was here, Dalamar had absolutely no doubt he would be feeling far, far better. The fears would be fainter, his confidence bolstered by the knowledge that they were both here, facing this together. But then, if Raistlin were with him, then they would not be here at all. They would be on their way to Palanthas, or Kalaman, or Wayreth, or anywhere. The Abyss if they had to, as long as they were together.
Dalamar rubbed a hand over his face, he was tired, his nerves were frayed through, and as shameful as it felt to admit it, even to himself, he wanted Raistlin. Not to help him, or save him, or anything for Raistlin at all, but because he, Dalamar, wanted him. He wanted to be held by him, to be comforted and to be allowed to let go of his pain at long last, the way he had promised himself he would after the Silvanesti Nightmare.
And for the hundredth time, Dalamar hurled these emotions away. They couldn't help him, they could only weaken him at a time when he needed to be strong. As in Silvanesti, there was a place and a time for them, and the place was 'not here' and the time was 'not now'.
The army started slowly turning south at last, aided by many oaths and lashes from the officers. The ground was smoother here, unnaturally regular. As they went on, Dalamar saw it was the beginning of some ancient road. Cobbles still clung to the rock like survivors from a shipwreck, marking out the path that ran straight as an arrow through the Khalkists. The road must once have been a grand affair before the Cataclysm shattered it, the ruin was wide enough for a regiment to march abreast, and even so many centuries later, there were enough paving stones to make a smooth road, allowing the army to make much greater speed over the rocky and broken ground..
"Eyes on the road!" The Dragon Highlord roared, swivelling his bulk to stare back at the collumn, his voice loud enough to carry easily to the rear and making Dalamar's ears ring . He was surprised the man hadn't started an avalanche.
He was also surprised at the order, as incomprehensible and pointless as it seemed. Even more surprising was the fervency at which the officers were obeying his orders, either they obeyed their mad leader to the point of absurdity, or their leader was no-so-mad and there really was a valid reason to keep their eyes on the road. Dalamar kept his head down, letting his hood hang low over his face, and didn't look to the right or left. It seemed to be the wisest option, and the shouts of pain from those who had disobeyed only reinforced this.
"March!"

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"Halt!"
Dalamar had completely lost track of time. It could have been hours or just minutes since he had started marching, and he couldn't help but wonder if he had been sleeping on his feet. His legs ached and his back was stiff, so he could have been walking for some time, for all that he had no memory of it, or anything else since he had started the march. He risked a glance at the sky to check how long they had been walking, quickly in case the order to stare at the road was still standing.
Dalamar's eyes went wide.
The sky was black as pitch, the night sky blotted out by clouds, the same stormclouds he had seen so long ago on Abanasinia.
There was no sign of the sun, they must have been walking long into the night. It seemed impossible, it had been no more than midday when they started the march.
The reason for their halt was obvious. No more than a hundred feet on, the road had been sliced clean away by a huge chasm, obviously a relic of the Cataclysm. Dalamar swallowed and tried to ignore the sneaking suspicion that if the order to halt had not been given, he would have kept on walking right off the edge of the cliff.
'Eyes on the road!'
Where were they? Dalamar wondered fearfully. How far had they walked on this strange road? He felt a sharp flash of anger at himself for having been so easily duped and enchanted. For a mage to fall prey to a spell like a common soldier was shameful, and might well have been deadly. He should have known better, even if this was the last thing he would have expect. Now he had no idea where he was.
The same question was being asked around him. The Black Dragonarmy had slowly dragged to a halt, and the soldiers milled about, as dazed and confused as he was.
The Dragon Highlord looked neither dazed nor confused, both he and his mount were as motionless as though carved from black granite. Between the darkness of the sky and the blackness of the mountains, man and rider were almost indistinguishable. Waiting patiently as his army recovered from the shock.
Dalamar looked away. Now what? He had no idea where they were, but the only road he could see was the one they were on, and there was no sign of it turning away from the rift splitting the land. To the south the chasm stretched on unbroken, vanishing into the distance with no sign of ending. To the north...
To the north was a bridge. It was set high in the mountains and the low clouds blurred it into a black line. The clouds were so thick that it took several moments for Dalamar's keen eyes to pierce it, picking out the details of a city that seemed to have been carved out of a mountain spur from which the bridge sprang. The dull red light of the torches filtered through the clouds, and glinted off the smooth stone of the walls, but any moonlight that might have provided more clues as to where they were was lost in the stormclouds.
The Highlord raised his hand, whips cracked, and the army slowly rumbled off towards the bridge and the fortified city.

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The city was called Jelek, according to the stunned mercenaries, a town that should have taken at least two days march to reach, and was a halfway point between Firstwal and Neraka. Somehow, in one day they had covered almost half the distance. Considering that it had taken them until midday just to cross the ten miles to the enchanted road, this was staggering. If they could find he other half of the road on the other side of the chasm, they could be in Neraka by tomorrow evening. When everything was screaming at him to find Raistlin as quickly as possible, anything that got him to Neraka quickly was more than welcome. If they could find the road again on the other side, then Dalamar would be glad to take it, even if it meant taking the risk.
They were not on the road now though, and the process was sluggish. The army was stretched into a long line inching its way along the ridge between mountain and chasm.
Like Firstwal, Jelek was a fortified city. Unlike Firstwal however, it was not built on the mountain spur so much as inside it, the inhabitants having tunnelled in like dwarves. The outer shell was a deep, smoky black from the fires that burnt by every opening in the walls, it was not only stormclouds which masked Jelek.
The path was growing broader, more worn. Obviously well used. It was staring to climb steeply, cut into the living rock, and here and there Dalamar saw hollows carved into the sides of the walls, their bases slick with wax from the candles burning in each, lighting the way up. In places, the path grew so steep that stairs had been cut in, the steps bowed under the weight of countless feet and equally countless years.
They would have to stand against many more now. Dalamar's breath was sharp in his chest as he heaved himself up each step. The straps of his pack dug in painfully, and his shoulders ached from carrying the weight all day. He stopped for a moment, rolling his shoulders and trying to work out the aggravating pain in his muscles.
And again, Dalamar knew that if Raistlin had been there, he would have insisted on giving him a backrub that evening; Dalamar would have eventually given in and neither of them would have thought anything of it. It was easy to forget how important these little things were when they were always there.
And how much it hurt when they were gone.
The walls around the path were higher, and it was not dirt but cobbles under their feet. Four of the dragons had taken to the air, circling overhead, their presence like an invisible weight pressing down on the climbers. The Dragon Highlord walked his mounts, leading the way up. They were passing the outskirts of he city, past houses burrowed into solid rock. There were no more candles now, there was no need. Each house they passed had a chimney cut through their wall, the light from the fires lit up the street and their smoke filled it.
Dalamar looked around, he was tired and his mind felt as though it was full of that same smoke. It seemed impossible to believe that just that morning he had been sleeping in a field of grass, and tonight he was here, in a place where it seemed not even brambles could grow.
How could he had gone from one to the other so quickly?
Dalamar's mouth twisted into a smile, he had been wondering that ever since the Blood Sea. Everything was happening so fast, and all he could do was to focus, to keep his mind on the need to get to Neraka, even while he didn't dare to think of what would happen when he got there.
The road was leading up to the spire, growing narrower, so that the Highlord's dragon hand to furl its wings tightly to keep from scraping the walls. Ahead, Dalamar's eyes made out a deeper darkness, part of the spire that seemed somehow even darker than the rest, and in which no fires burnt. A tunnel.
The Highlord didn't slow, leading them straight in. It seemed more like a cavern than a tunnel, reminding Dalamar of the city of Thorbardin, a natural feature incorporated into the city. Holes in the ceiling let in light from the fires above, illuminating the rough stone walls, and the stalagmites that hung like dragon's fangs above their heads. The air was thick and choking with smoke, claustrophobic, despite that the ceiling was a hundred feet above his head. He could smell the black dragon's stench, a foul mixture of rotting fish and putrefying vegetation.
The tunnel turned sharply to the right, and Dalamar was surprised to see the night sky at the end. The fresh air was incredibly refreshing after the stale heat of the tunnel, Dalamar coughed to get the foul taste out of his mouth. They were on a huge plateau, one large enough to hold the entire army, on which was anchored one side of the bridge. Over it, Dalamar could just make out the outlines of Lunitari and Nuitari shining faintly through the clouds, both setting. Dalamar grimaced, if this was an omen, he hoped it was a false one.
The Dragon Highlord raised his hand, and Dalamar heard the soldiers around him give a heavy sigh of relief, and toss off their packs. Dalamar blinked, then gladly followed suit. If there were stopping here for the night, he wouldn't complain.
He chose a spot beside the tunnel, not only was it out of the way, but there was a fire burning close by, offering enough light to read by. He had forgotten what he was once already, and he would not make the same mistake again. It was hard to concentrate on studying with sounds of a settling army all around him, and his eyes itching with exhaustion, but he had to. He had studied in worse places, and he doubted he had ever needed his spells more than he would need them tomorrow. He took his time, choosing each spell carefully. Every night, he chose his spells with the knowledge that his choices could be the difference between success and failure, but tonight, when the stakes had never been higher, it pressed down even harder. If he made the wrong choice, he would never see Raistlin again.
One way or another.

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The bridge over the chasm was far older than Jelek, and if it dated from before the Cataclysm, it was not by much. The frame was made of vallenwood trunks, so old as to seem almost petrified, four of them, two to each side set in an 'x'.
Old as it was, it didn't even creak as the army started its long march across, for which Dalamar was grateful. Living in Solace might have cure him of any residual fear of heights, but no one could look down through cracks in the oaken boards and not feel the bottom drop out of their stomach. Most of the soldiers didn't dare, staring at the sky or trying to walk with their eyes closed. The dragonriders didn't dare to cross on foot, and flew over the chasm, but the Highlord forced his mount to walk across, looking straight ahead as though /daring/ the gulf to rise up and swallow him.
The ancient road started again as abruptly as it had ended, the cobbles almost intact on this side. It wound around the mountains and disappeared into a pass in the distance, apparently unbroken. Dalamar allowed a smile to touch his lips. If it did reach all the way to Neraka, he could be searching for Raistlin by this evening.
The rest of the army obviously did not share Dalamar's pleasure at the sight. Even the slowest goblin knew that the road was enchanted, and were certainly not eager to trust their welfare to it. The Dragon Highlord was as blind to his men's discomfort as he had been to the drop, he gestured to the road, and the officers set to work, although there was a marked reluctance to their blows.
Slowly, sluggishly, the army was driven onto the cobbled stretch. Dalamar saw several mercenaries shoot him angry looks, as though he had been the one to chose this path. Dalamar met their eyes fearlessly; they were afraid, and they wanted a scapegoat. The only way to avoid that was to intimidate them until they decided to find an easier target to vent their fears on. One by one, they dropped their eyes.
His heart beating in his throat, Dalamar turned back to the road. It was a fine line, to face down threats without drawing too much attention, and he suspected he would have to tread it more than once in Neraka.
Neraka.
He remembered his initial revulsion to the word, when he'd first heard it in drowned Istar- Gods, was it so few days ago?- from the sea elf and Tanis. How quickly it had become a benediction. To get to Neraka. To get to Raistlin. One and the same.
"Eyes on the road!"
Skull Bearer.
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