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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Sorry for the slow updates, this fic is going through a tricky phase and juggling Dragonlance, X-Men, fledgling fandom House and a two-person war against the SA is tricky. Don't worry, I'm in no danger of abandoning this.
Alvorecer
Chapter seven- For Hope
Lost all her dolls
-Coma White, Marilyn Manson
He could feel it again, that terrible sense of dread that permeated even Fistandantilus' mental shields: the aura of the Dark Queen.
Even behind the walls, Raistlin felt it, and knew that Fistandantilus was in Her presence again. He could see nothing of where he was, only this feeling, this fear, that crept through the wall like tendrils of smoke.
Raistlin felt more than heard Fistandantilus' amusement, hidden behind a barrier as high and sturdy as the one behind which Raistlin was trapped. Hidden from even the Dark Queen's senses. The plots and plans of one seeking to overthrow her.
Raistlin could see them, or at least something of them. The Dark Queen had returned to the world, but not completely. Fistandantilus could have helped Her, he could have used his knowledge and Raistlin's stolen power to destroy the last obstacle between Her and the world. But he didn't want to. He wanted the Dark Queen to return to the world-on /his/ terms. Not all-powerful, as She would be if he helped Her now, but weakened and vulnerable, making it possible for someone to kill her.
And that was precisely what Fistandantilus was planning to do.
Raistlin had known of the lich's plot to usurp Takhisis. Fistandantilus had told him himself, in his Test- /and gods, gods, if he could only go back and warn himself not to listen to the foul creature. Taking his chances with the Guardian would have been a better choice/- but hearing the lich's thoughts and plans was something else. Because he /would/ do it. And he could.
But for now, the lich bided his time, hoarding his- Raistlin’s!- magic and watching the Dark Queen, amused that even She couldn't pierce his web of deception and see him for who he was.
The walls were too thick for Raistlin to see or hear anything of the world outside, but the Dark Queen’s voice reverberated inside his mind as though they weren't there.
/I have not brought you here together to see your petty quarrels and pettier ambitions mar the victory I sense is fast approaching. Remember who rules here, Lord Ariakas./
They were in a gathering of Dragon Highlords? For a moment, interest superseded grief and Raistlin focused on the walls, trying to weaken them enough to see out. Distracted, Fistandantilus didn't seem to notice.
What he could see was vague and dreamlike, as though he was peering through frosted glass. The cavernous room seemed filled with fog, but the hollow of darkness where the Dark Queen rested was as clear as ice. Raistlin could vaguely make out the figures of what must be the Dragon Highlords, reclining on pedestals. The highest one must belong to Ariakas, but it was the one next to him that attracted Raistlin's attention. Even through the mist, they looked familiar-
It was as though he had been struck by a lightning bolt, and for a moment the walls fell completely to Fistandantilus' shock. Raistlin caught just one clear glance of the two people on the pedestal before the walls came up again, thicker and more impenetrable than ever, and all he could see was white.
It had been enough.
/Tanis?/
Raistlin tried not to feel anything, tried not to think, because if he did, and dared to believe the sweet whispers of hope, he didn't think he could bare it if it was wrenched away again.
But then again, what did he have to lose?
-That half-elf's alive- Raistlin felt Fistandantilus' thoughts as though the lich had carved them into his mind with letters of ice. -Saved by sea elves, no doubt. And perhaps the others too...-
The lich's thoughts trailed off with a sense of cold calculation, and then Raistlin felt a freezing claw wrap itself around his heart and mind, slowly crushing him. -But I think it isn't worth getting /your/ hopes up. If any race truly detests dark elves, it is the sea elves. I hear some of them kill their exiles rather than let them go free. Your pet elf is dead and rotting on the seabed and the Dargonesti will consider the world well rid of him-
Raistlin wrenched his mind away, trying to fight back the sense of cruel despair creeping back to him. He had hoped, had dared to hope, and while part of him did still, hoping Fistandantilus' words were as much a lie as so many others he had told him, he could sense the truth. Fistandantilus wasn't worried, believing fully that the sea elves would have gladly left Dalamar to die.
/As he had./
-So much harder to fight when you have nothing to fight for.- Fistandantilus mocked, then his voice feel silent, locking Raistlin back into his grey world./
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Neraka was not what Dalamar had expected.
Just what he had expected, he didn't know. Perhaps something like Firstwal, or Jelek. A fortified city, perhaps swollen to the breaking point from all the new arrivals. Pinions flying on every pinnacle in mockery of the Solamnic tradition. Dragons perched in every available space.
Dalamar had heard of another city further south- Sanction- and perhaps /it/ was like that, but the place sprawling in front of Dalamar's eyes reminded him of nothing so much as the slums in Tarsis.
There was nothing of the dark glory he had been expecting. The walls surrounding the cesspool of a city- no, not a city, a village turned armed camp- were built of wood and rubbish. The buildings themselves were little more than hovels, sagging tents and rickety shacks that barely seemed capable of keeping the wind out. The Dragonarmies crawled over everything like worms through a corpse, the city walls almost bursting from the soldiers inside it, even while more fought to enter.
There was more, but something inside Dalamar didn't want to look at it. Anyway, he needed to focus on the walls; they would be the main barrier to getting in, after all.
Yet, somehow, despite himself, his eyes were dragged from assessing the walls to the one structure that seemed to be holding the entire mess together. Without it, Dalamar half expected the hovels and mercenaries, and even the filthy ground, would fly apart.
The Temple of the Dark Queen.
He didn't need to be told what it was, he already knew. It was written in every turret, in every delicate column, in every flying buttress. It didn't remind Dalamar of Firstwal either, or Jelek, or any place he had ever seen or would ever see. It reminded him of Nuitari. The word 'building' seemed redundant when applied to it, a huge, black beast crouching in the valley beneath, holding the Dragonarmies together with its claws.
The power it emanated was incredible, the spires and turrets gleaming with their own dark light rather than reflecting any nearby source. Dalamar felt a bizarre surge of...pride?...as he stared at it, at the sight of so much power, the sense of which woke a hungry longing in his own heart. So much power, so much magic, as though the Temple was some sort of lightning rod, drawing down the strength of the Dark Gods. The highest pinnacle pierced the swirling clouds, and Dalamar's blood thrilled at the thought of what it must be like to stand atop it, open to the sky drawing down and the power drawing up...
And yet...
And yet, it was /wrong/, in a way Dalamar found hard to describe, the knowledge was a splinter in the back of his mind, small and insignificant and impossible to forget.
The Temple reminded him of Nuitari; it had the same dark glory, promised the same power. But there was something horribly wrong about the sight of something like this on the earth. Nuitari was different, it was in the sky, it /belonged/ in the sky, as much a part of it as the sun and clouds. But the Temple...it was as if a part of Nuitari's moon had fallen to earth, a broken piece of some other world that didn't belong and would never belong.
As he stared at it, Dalamar felt his head start to spin and stomach roil, his meagre breakfast threatening to reappear. This was horribly, horribly wrong in a way that made even what had happened to Silvanesti seem insignificant. The power emanating from the place felt like lifeblood drawn from a dying creature, as though the Temple had mortally wounded the world simply by existing. It shouldn't be here. Where it was supposed to be, Dalamar had no idea, but not here, nor anywhere on Krynn.
He shuddered, and felt nausea raise its ugly head again. It took an immense force of will to tear his eyes away from the grotesque sight. Even the squalor of Neraka was better than this. He fixed his eyes on the dirt track the army was marching down, trying to ignore the Temple. He could feel its presence like a weight on his mind. Like a weight on the world and the magic, bending everything out of proportion.
It was a relief when they reached the valley floor, and the Temple sank beneath Neraka's broken walls like some perverse sun. He could still see the outlines of the spires clawing up from behind the rubble, the ever-thickening storm clouds swirling about them, dragging those impossible flying citadels with them like the Maelstrom had dragged the Perechon.
Dalamar put a hand to his head, feeling dizzy again. The clouds were giving him vertigo; they looked more like liquid smoke than true clouds. The sight of the flying castles wasn't helping matters either. Looking at them made his mind hurt as he tried to accept what he was seeing. He knew that there was no limit to what magic could do, but the thought of the power it would take to rip a /castle/ from the ground and make it fly...
Only a fragment of the power held within the Temple, Dalamar realised. The Temple that transfixed the fabric of the world and the magic like a spear and drew the power into itself...and into its maker. The Dark Queen's constellation was gone, had been missing since last autumn and he knew- knew beyond all doubt- where She had gone.
The order was given to halt just outside the walls. Dalamar collapsed to the ragged grass and buried his face in his hands. This didn't seem real, a dream he have given up hope of waking from. If this was where Raistlin had ended up, no wonder he would have lost control. Everything he saw was an assault on the senses, and he wouldn't be surprised to see the sun burn black and the sky bleed red beneath the shroud of the clouds. Nothing seemed real and Dalamar wanted Raistlin here. He wanted him here now. He wanted to hold onto some fragment of the reality he knew because otherwise he thought the ground would lose its hold on him and hurl him to the clouds above.
The ground tilted under him threatening to do just that and Dalamar threw himself down, hanging onto the dying grass and crumbling earth as the world flipped over completely and sent him hurling into the sky, the citadels flying past like driftwood and the clouds closing over him like waves...
Dalamar screwed his eyes shut as the world seemed to spin around him, if he kept them open any longed he was going to black out. After so little food, even less sleep and this...this, it was perfectly reasonable to faint; Dalamar told himself firmly, but to do so in the middle of the Dragonarmies would be highly inadvisable.
He swallowed a few times, trying to settle his stomach before trying to sit up. He kept his eyes shut tight; not opening them until he had his aching head resting on his knees and all he could see was the cracked ground.
His ears were still working, although any unpleasant sounds were drowned out by the din of the slowly settling army. Dalamar didn't dare look up, partly because of nausea and partly because he suspected he was being watched.
All the same, when one set of heavy footsteps detached themselves from the general noise and started making their way towards him, instinct won over good sense and Dalamar lifted his head to look at them.
A mistake.
He barely caught a glimpse of the short, shrouded figure before his gorge rose and Dalamar found himself on his hands and knees, his throat burning from the bile. He retched until his stomach was empty and he was just coughing and shaking on the ground. His brain didn't seem to be working properly, everything was blurred.
"... 's up with him?..."
"…who is that anyway..."
"Stand away." A low, rumbling voice. Dwarfish accent.
Dalamar's first thought was that if this was how it was going to be without Raistlin, he might as well throw himself off a cliff and get it over with. The second thought was that if whoever this was meant him harm, they'd have struck by now.
"...not the plague, is it? Not having anyone with the plague..."
"... plague down in Blode, I hear, I bet..."
"I said to stand away!"
Dalamar raised bleary eyes in time to see the black-robed dwarf strike down two soldiers who had drawn too close. Lightning bolt. The flash burnt its way through his eyes and into his brain and Dalamar dropped his head again, groaning.
A hand clasped around his arm, just below his shoulder, and wrenched him upright with staggering strength. The fingers felt like the jaws of a trap, and about as implacable. Despite being a full two feet shorter than Dalamar, the mage forced him upright and it was all Dalamar could do to get his feet under him as the dwarven mage started dragging him towards the walls.
"What do you think you're doing here?!" The voice was harsh, made harsher by the grinding accent, and was spoken straight into his ear, Dalamar realised his hood was still drawn.
His eyes still weren't focusing properly, and Dalamar was grateful, he couldn't think of anything he wanted to see at this moment. He tried to turn, to get some idea of who held him, but a second hand grasped him by the back of the neck and forced him to keep marching. The grip was almost strangling, and he was losing sensation in his arm below the elbow.
"Slumming with the troops are we? When Ariakas made it /distinctly/ clear you're supposed to stay at your stations-" Dalamar made an aborted attempt to break free, aborted when the mage's hand clenched so hard it almost cut off his air.
Dalamar was aware that his thoughts were taking their time in putting themselves together, but it was slowly dawning on him that his luck had finally run out. Nuitari had answered his prayers; he had reached Neraka, but no more than that. His heart sank still further as they reached the gates. The guards on watch parted quickly at the sight of them, and Dalamar thought he saw one touch his helm in respect as his captor stormed past.
Dalamar caught a brief glimpse of a dirt street flanked on either side by broken down shacks and tents with - oh Nuitari - the Temple looming over all, before the dwarven mage shoved him down a narrow alley between the walls and a semi-collapsed tent. The hands finally released their iron grip and Dalamar staggered away, his legs shivering under him. He shook his head, trying to clear it, his neck screaming in pain, before fixing his gaze on the wizard.
It was odd that Dalamar's first impression of a fellow Black Robe was of an enemy. But perhaps not. The mage was a dwarf, a being as deeply tied to the earth as elves were to their own lands. He had to know what was happening here, and feel how wrong it was. If he could ignore that for power, then handing a fellow Black Robe for interrogation would be easy.
Dalamar debated running, but discarded that notion immediately. If the speed at which he'd killed the two soldiers was any indication, he wouldn't make it ten feet. Fighting was too absurd to contemplate, and once again Dalamar was left with nothing but his wits.
The mage was tall for a dwarf, his robes ornately embroidered with copper thread. The light threw his face into shadow, leaving only the outline of the craggy features and thick beard. His eyes glinted in the shadow of the sockets and Dalamar felt his heart freeze in his chest. Those eyes were living, but the dwarf's face had the same hollow, mask-like expression as Raistlin's, as though someone or something was looking out behind those eyes.
"Well?" The dwarf roared, "Who is your commander? Or does Tramd o' the Dark have to deal with you himself?"
By his tone, Dalamar guessed that the dwarf was referring to himself, "I..." Dalamar had no idea what to say. He had no idea who the commanders were, but to leave himself to the mercy of this Tramd o' the Dark was not to be considered.
The dwarf didn't let him continue, his arm snapped out so fast he barely saw it, the stubby fingers clenching like a vice on his jaw. Dalamar's head was snapped forward, and his hood fell back.
Tramd was shocked enough that his grip briefly weakened, and Dalamar took the chance to pull away. "Raistlin Majere sent me," he croaked. His lover's name had been enough to coerce the hobgoblin, hopefully it would pull weight here, too.
The dark dwarf stared at him, unnatural eyes widening the slightest amount, fear in their depths. He took him in, bedraggled and travel-weary, but nevertheless a dark elf.
"What does Raistlin Majere want?" He said softly.
Dalamar's heart was pounding in his ears, but he forced his face to remain impassive. He had not imagined that fear. He kept talking, buying time. "If I would tell you, do you think he would have chosen me for that task?"
The dwarf snorted, "If Raistlin Majere had wanted a task done, he would not have chosen an /elf/ to do it." He glanced pointedly over the tent towards the Temple and snorted again.
Dalamar kept his face impassive, not allowing himself to show the revulsion he felt at the dwarf's scorn. The mage hadn't acted against him yet, and by the fear in his eyes, didn't want to risk killing him. Dalamar wasn't about to give him an excuse to. Instead, he forced himself to bow, straightened, and risked a step away.
Tramd watched him, but didn't speak or move to stop him. Dalamar inclined his head a second time, and, driving his nails into his palms to keep from running, forced himself to walk calmly away.
Tramd let him go.
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The moment Dalamar had turned the corner out of sight, he picked up his pace, wanting to get as much distance as possible between himself and the dwarf. His breath came in gasps as though he'd run a mile, and he was still shivering, although whether from his narrow escape or the presence of the Temple he didn't know. He still felt sick, and badly wanted to sit down and rest.
The dwarf had let him go. Raistlin's name- the very mention of him- had intimidated both a hardy hobgoblin and a respected mage. Raistlin could only have been here for a week, what had he done- been made to do- to frighten these people to the point that they didn't want to act against anyone who mentioned him, just in case?
It had played into his hands, but here, right now, Dalamar felt his skin crawl at the thought of what he'd find when he finally tracked down his lover.
Speaking of which, he was finally inside Neraka. The thought should have been reassuring, that Raistlin couldn't be far away, but between the Temple and Tramd o' the Dark's revelations, it wasn't.
Dalamar glanced over his shoulder to check if he was being followed, but the street was deserted, probably because everyone was inside the numerous beer tents that lined it. He paused, wondering which one to enter. Any could be a useful place the get information, not to mention somewhere to sit and maybe eat something. Dalamar risked another glance back, and his heart beat faster at the sight of a troop of draconians approaching from the Temple. Dalamar didn't debate any longer, and slipped inside the nearest tent, which bore the comforting slogan 'No Dracos or goblins allowed'.
The tent was rank and full of smoke, but the only patrons were human. They looked up when he came in, then ignored him when he found a seat near the back of the bar.
The seat was an old crate, the table a length of wood propped on two more, but it was a relief to sit down. Dalamar pulled off his backpack and put it on the table, rooting through it to find his waterskin.
"What'll you be having?"
Dalamar looked up. The bartender was looking at him with narrowed eyes. He shook his head and waved the question away. He didn't feel steady enough for alcohol and besides, the beer here looked as though it had been drunk once already.
"Either you drinks or you gets out," the barman scowled.
Dalamar was wondering whether it would be worth buying a drink just to shut the man up when the bar became abruptly silent. Dalamar looked to the door and felt his blood run cold. The draconians.
There were three of them, all wearing the grey hoods and cloaks in which Dalamar had first seen them. The crowd inside the bar started to jeer, shouting at them to get out, and one particularly brave soul hurled an empty tankard at them.
The lead draconian removed his hood. The creature's face- if it could be termed a face- meant nothing to Dalamar, only that this was one of the more powerful gold-skinned breeds and to be even more careful. It obviously meant something to the soldiers in the tent though, silence swept through the beer tents, and the humans hunched in their seats, all trying to remain inconspicuous. Dalamar saw the earlier brave soul making a discreet exit through the back door. He suspected it would be better to copy him. If he was right in his suspicions and Tramd o' the Dark /had/ ordered these draconians to go after him, he had to get out now.
Too late. The gold draconian's eyes swept over the crowd, and gestured in Dalamar's direction. "There."
Dalamar seized his pack, preparing to bolt as the hooded draconians sprang forwards. To his surprise, they stopped short, and instead grabbed hold of one of the human soldiers, slumped over the bar. The man, half-stupefied with alcohol, didn't seem to know what was going on and started shouting.
Dalamar glanced over at the first draconian, it was smiling and nodded to its cohorts "Take him outside, in the back."
The crowd murmured mutinously, but no one dared move as the two draconians trooped out the back door, their leader following at a more sedate pace. Dalamar kept his head down as they passed him, not daring to look up until they had left.
The bar was dreadfully silent, so the man's hoarse screams seemed all the louder in the enclosed space. Judging by the soldiers' expressions, the man had been well-liked.
Dalamar shook his head slightly, grateful once again that he hadn't taken Eben up on his offer, if this was how the Dark Queen treated members of her army.
The screams died away to hoarse gasps, and the conversations in the bar started up again, low and nervous. From his position at the back of the tent, Dalamar could just about make out the lead draconian's voice, soft and sibilant in its questioning. "Do you remember arresting a dragonarmy officer this afternoon on charges of desertion?"
The man's voice was slurred, hoarse, and thick with tears "I- I don't know. There were a lot of officers today... we were trying to get everyone in... it was so busy and they all look alike-"
The man's voice was cut off by a renewed scream, and once again the beer tent fell silent.
Dalamar got up and picked up his bag. It was pointless to stay here and the man's screams were disgusting. There would be other places to get information.
"That'll be two steel" The bartender informed him.
/"Yes! Yes! I remember, but it hadn't just been one officer, it had been two! Two I swear!"/
Dalamar glowered at the man, "I didn't drink anything."
"That seat's for drinking customers, you sit there, you pay for drinks." The man's eyes were narrowed, and the crowd, already in a bad temper, was looking at Dalamar with increasing dislike.
/"Two? Describe the other officer."/
Dalamar shook his head and wondered if he should just pay and get out, of if that would just be incentive for more trouble. If it hadn't been for his keen ears, he would have missed the tortured man's next words.
"A big human, really big. Bulging out of his uniform. And they had prisoners..."
Dalamar stopped, all thought of payment forgotten. Bulging out of his armor... Caramon? They had been heading here after all, and they /would/ be foolish enough to get captured.
Ignoring the spluttering barman and the threatening looks from the crowd, Dalamar threw his bag over his shoulder and hurried outside, doubling back around the tent until he was close enough to overhear.
"...Describe them." The draconian's voice, sharp with interest.
"A human woman, red curls, breasts the size of-" Tika?
"Get on with it." The draconian snarled, and the man's words trailed off into a renewed scream.
"A- a kender." Tasslehoff. "An old man with a white beard..." Fizban? It was definitely them, although where Fizban had come from Dalamar had no idea. They'd suspected the old man wasn't really dead, but still.
The draconian repeated the descriptions thoughtfully, then "Tell me more about the old man."
"The old man? Old... white beard..." the man sounded as though he was lapsing into delirium.
"Stooped?"
"No... tall, broad shoulders... blue eyes. Queer eyes-"
"What about the eyes!" The draconian snarled furiously.
"Young... too young..."
The draconian repeated the words, his tone one of exultation, there was a crash as the man was thrown to the ground, then rapid footsteps as the draconians hurried away.
Dalamar didn't move, staring in amazement and horror. Surely even they couldn't have been /that/ stupid? If Berem was the key to the Dark Queen's victory, then /surely/ Tanis couldn't have been stupid enough to take him with them? Yes, Dalamar corrected himself, they really would be foolish enough to do just that.
And somehow, he had a feeling that if Raistlin would be anywhere, it would be right in the middle of this mess.
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Please feed the author, I'm going through a hard time writing this and I really want to hear people's opinions, even if it's to tell me the chapter was crap. Please review!
Skull Bearer.
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