Sturm had flattened himself against a wall. Edging near the door, he risked a glance into the chamber. What he saw amazed him so he could not move but stood transfixed, staring. Caramon yanked him back.
“Well?” he demanded.
“There is a dragon,” said Sturm, awed, “like none I have ever seen or heard of. It is beautiful.” He shook himself, came back to reality. “And it is badly hurt.”
Caramon went to see for himself.
Sturm was right. The dragon was not like any other dragon Caramon had ever encountered. He had seen dragons with scales that were black as the Dark Queen’s heart, dragons with scales red as searing flame, dragons with scales the color of a cobolt sky. This one was different. It was smaller than most and it was beautiful, as Sturm has said. Its scales gleamed like polished brass.
“What sort of dragon is it?” Caramon turned back to his twin.
“That’s what we must find out,” said Raistlin, “which means we can’t let it die.”
“There are four draconians,” Sturm reported. “One is badly wounded. The other three are on their feet. They have their backs to us. They’re concentrating on finishing off the dragon. They are armed with bows. They’ve been loosing arrows at it. We can take them from behind.”
“Let me see what I can do,” said Raistlin. “Perhaps I can save us time and trouble.” Raistlin drew something from his pouch, crushed it beneath his fingers, spoke the words of magic, and made a motion with his hand.
A ball of blazing fire flew from his fingertips, hurtled across the room, and struck one of the draconians in the back. The magical fire burst on the draconian’s scaly skin. The draconian gave a hideous yell and collapsed onto the floor, rolling about in agony as the flames blackened his scales and charred his flesh. His companions scrambled to get away from him, for the flames were spreading, licking at their heels.
“Remember, you two!” Raistlin warned, as Sturm and Caramon charged inside. “Draconians are as dangerous dead as they are alive!”
Sturm shouted his battle-cry, “Arras, Solamni! Arise, Solamnia!” The draconian started at the yell and was about to turn to face this new foe, just as Sturm’s sword slid through its entrails. Sturm yanked his blade out swiftly, before the draconian’s corpse could freeze into stone, trapping his weapon. Caramon was taking no chances. Wrapping his fist around his sword’s hilt, he bashed his draconian on the back of the neck. The draconian’s neck cracked and it fell to the floor, stiff as marble.
“Three dead!” Caramon reported, sucking on bruised knuckles. He hurried over to finish off the wounded draconian, only to find that it had died. The body crumbled to dust as he approached it.
“Four dead,” he amended.
The battle ended, Sturm hastened over to the dragon. The great beast lay sprawled on the floor, its shining brass scales smeared with blood. Raistlin walked over to the dragon as fast as he was able. The magic always took its toll on his body. He felt as weary as though he’d been in battle for three days, instead of three minutes.
“Keep watch on the corridor,” he ordered Caramon, as he passed his twin. “There were other draconians in this room. These four were left to finish the job.”
Caramon looked about at the vast number of spent arrows lying on the floor and nodded his head in grim agreement. He glanced back at the dragon and his heart smote him. The beast was so beautiful, so magnificent. No matter that it was a dragon, it should not be suffering like this. He left to keep a lookout at the door.
Sturm crouched beside the dragon’s head. The dragon’s eyes were open but fast dimming. His breathing was labored. He gazed at Sturm in wonder.
“A Solamnic knight… Why are you here? Do you… fight with the dwarves?” The dragon roused himself with an effort. “You must slay the foul wizard!”
Sturm glanced up at Raistlin.
“Not me,” Raistlin snapped. “The dragon speaks of dwarves fighting… He must mean Fistandantilus!”
“He found me sleeping,” the dragon murmured. “He cast a spell on me, made me a prisoner… Now he has sent his demons to slay me…”
The dragon coughed, blood spewing from his mouth.
“What kind of dragon are you?” Raistlin asked. “We have never seen your like.” The gleaming body shuddered. The dragon’s massive tail thumped the floor, his legs convulsed, wings twitched. He gave a final shiver. Blood poured out of his mouth. The dragon’s head lolled. The eyes stared, unseeing.
Raistlin gave an annoyed sigh.
Sturm cast him a reproachful glance, then bowed his head. “Paladine, God of Light and Mercy, Wisdom and Truth,” he prayed, “take the soul of this noble beast to your blessed realm—”
“Sturm, I heard something!” Caramon came running into the room. He stopped, abashed, when he saw the knight was praying, and looked at his twin. “I heard voices coming from the library.”
“Sir Knight,” Raistlin said sharply, “leave off your prayer. Paladine knows what to do with a soul. He does not need you to tell him.”
Sturm ignored him. He finished his prayer then rose to his feet.
“I heard voices,” said Caramon, apologetic, “coming from the corridor. Maybe draconian. I can’t tell.”
“Go with my brother,” said Raistlin. “The magic has drained me. I must rest.” He sank down onto the floor, leaning his back against the wall.
Caramon was alarmed. “Raist, you shouldn’t stay here alone.”
“Just go, Caramon,” Raistlin said, closing his eyes. “Sturm needs your help. Besides, you worry me to death with your fussing!”
The light glimmering from the crystal shone on his golden skin. His face was drawn. He began to cough and fumbled for his handkerchief.
“I don’t know,” Caramon hesitated.
“He will be safe enough here,” said Sturm. “The draconians have moved on.” Caramon cast his twin an uncertain glance. “You should douse the light, Raist.” Raistlin waited to hear the running footfalls of Sturm and his brother fade away. When he was certain they were gone, hoping his brother would not take it into his head to come back, Raistlin rose to his feet.
The room had been an armory, as he had said. The stands of old-fashioned plate armor lay dismembered on the floor. The draconians had overturned them, probably searching for loot. Weapons of various types littered the blood-covered floor, most of them either broken or rusted beyond repair. Raistlin cast a cursory glance at them but saw nothing of interest. Draconians were intelligent creatures who knew something of value when they saw it. They would have already appropriated anything worth while.
Raistlin walked over to the object that had caught his interest—a large burlap sack near the pile of dust that had once been a draconian. He laid his staff on the floor and knelt beside the sack, taking care to keep his robes out of the blood.
He poked one of the lumps inside the sack with his finger and felt something hard and solid. The sack was soaked with blood. Raistlin’s deft fingers pulled and tugged at the knot of the drawstring that closed the top. He finally pried it loose and opened the sack. The light from the crystal atop his staff shone on a helm and no ordinary helm at that. The draconian had recognized its value beneath the dust and grime that covered it, and though Raistlin was not one to judge the finer points of armor, even he could see that the helm had been crafted by an expert, designed to both protect the wearer and adorn him.
Raistlin rubbed of some of the dirt from the helm with the hem of his sleeve. Three large red rubies sparkled in the light.
Raistlin glanced inside the sack, saw nothing more of interest, and turned his attention back to the helm. Passing his hand over it, he murmured a few words. The helm began to give off a soft, pale glow.