Fortunately, the swamp was not large, and they soon left it, emerging from the murk onto ground that was dry, flat, and hard. The mists grasped at them with wispy fingers, but a cold wind soon blew them apart. They could see the sun again, and they thought well of themselves, believing they’d survived the worst. Sturm pointed to a distant mountain range.
“Beneath that peak known as Cloudseeker lies Thorbardin,” Prince Grallen told them, and Raistlin cast Caramon a triumphant look.
After a short rest, they continued on, entering the Plains of Dergoth. Soon each one of them began to wish he was somewhere else, even back in the foul miasma they had just left. At least the swamp was alive. The life within was green and slimy, scaly and sinuous, creepy and slithering, but it was life.
Death ruled the Plains of Dergoth. Nothing lived here anymore. Once there had been grasslands and forest, populated by birds and animals. Three hundred years ago, this had been a battlefield, with dwarf battling dwarf in bitter contest. The field had been soaked in blood, the deer slaughtered, the birds fled. The grass was trampled and trees cut down to make funeral biers on which to burn the corpses. Still, life remained. The trees would have grown back. The grass would have flourished, the birds and animals returned.
Then came the horrific blast that brought down a mighty fortress and killed all those on both sides. The blast destroyed all living things, tearing life apart with such fury that no little bit of it survived. No trees, no grass, no beasts, no bugs. No lichen, no moss. Nothing but death. Grotesque piles of twisted, blackened, melted armor and mounds of ash littered the fire-swept ground—all that was left of two great armies whose struggles had ended in a single terrible moment, as the fire devoured their flesh, boiled their blood, and consumed them utterly. The Plains of Dergoth, standing between Skullcap and Thorbardin, were plains of despair. The sun shone in the blue sky, but its light was cold, like the light of the faraway stars, and held no warmth for any of those forced to cross this dread place that was so horrible it even quenched the spirits of the kender.
Tasslehoff was marching along, staring down at his ash-covered boots, for staring at his boots was better than looking ahead and seeing nothing except nothing, when he noticed something odd. He looked up at the sky and back down at the ground and then said in a tense voice, “Caramon, I’ve lost my shadow.”
Caramon heard the kender, but he pretended he hadn’t. He had enough to do worrying about his brother. Raistlin was having a difficult time of it. Whatever strange energy had sustained and strengthened him on the trip to Skullcap appeared to have deserted him at their departure. The trip through the swamp had left him exhausted. He walked slowly, leaning on his staff, every step seeming to cost him an effort.
He refused to stop to rest, however. He insisted that they continue their journey, pointing out that Prince Grallen would not allow them to stop, which was probably true. Caramon was constantly having to reign in Sturm, who marched along at a rapid pace, his gaze fixed on the mountains, or he would have left the slow-moving mage far behind.
“Look, Caramon, you’ve lost yours, too,” said Tas, relieved. “I don’t feel so bad.”
“Lost what?” Caramon asked, only half-listening.
“Your shadow,” Tas said, pointing.
“It is probably near noon time,” returned Caramon wearily. “You can’t see your shadow when the sun’s directly over head.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Tas, “but look at the sun. It’s almost on the horizon. Only a couple of hours ’til dark. Nope.” He sighed. “Our shadows are gone.” Caramon, feeling silly, actually turned to look for his shadow. Tas was right. The sun was before him, but no shadow stretched out behind him. He could not even see his footprints, which should have shown up clearly in the fine, gray ash. He had the terrible feeling suddenly that he’d ceased to exist.
“We walk a land of death. The living do not belong here,” Raistlin said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We cast no shadows. We leave no marks.”
Caramon shuddered. “I hate this place.”
He balefully eyed Sturm, who had stopped to wait for them and was tapping his foot impatiently.
“Raist, what if that accursed helm he’s wearing is leading us into a death trap? Maybe we should turn back.”
Raistlin thought longingly of returning to Skullcap. He could not account for it, but while he’d been there he’d felt strong and healthy, almost whole again. Out here, he had to force himself to take each step, when what he longed to do was to drop down to the ash-gray ground and sleep in the dust of the dead. He coughed, shook his head, and made a feeble gesture toward the knight. Caramon understood. Sturm, under the influence of the helm, was bound to go to Thorbardin. If they turned back, he would go on without them.
Raistlin plucked at Caramon’s sleeve.
“We must keep moving!” he gasped. “We must not find ourselves benighted in this terrible place!”
“Amen to that, brother!” said Caramon feelingly. He placed his strong arm supportively under his twin’s arm, aiding his faltering footsteps, and caught up with Sturm.
“I hope I get my shadow back,” said Tasslehoff, trailing behind. “I was fond of it. It used to go everywhere with me.”
They slogged on.
Tanis could see his shadow lengthening, sliding across the trail. Only a few hours of daylight left. They had descended the mountain, moving rapidly on the old dwarven road that led down among the pine trees. A few more miles and they would reach the forest. A bed of pine needles sounded very good after the uncomfortable and cheerless nights on the mountain, with rock for a mattress and a boulder for a pillow.
“I smell smoke,” said Flint, coming to a sudden halt.
Tanis sniffed the air. He, too, smelled smoke. He had not noticed it particularly. Back in camp, the smell of smoke from the cook fires had been pervasive. He was tired from walking all day and didn’t fully appreciate what this might mean. When he did, he lifted his head and searched the sky.
“There it is,” he said, spotting a few tendrils of black drifting up out of the pine trees not far from them. He eyed the smoke. “Maybe it’s a forest fire.”
Flint shook his head. “It smells like burnt meat.”
He scowled and cast the smoke a gloom-ridden glance from beneath his heavy brows. “Naw, it’s no forest fire.” He jabbed the pick-axe into the ground and stated dourly, “It’s gully dwarf. That’s the village I was telling you about.” He glanced about. “I should have recognized where we were, but I’ve not come at it from this direction before.”
“I’ve been wondering, is this the village where you were held prisoner?” Flint gave an explosive snort. His face went very red. “As if I would go near that place in a hundred thousand years!”
“No, of course not,” said Tanis, hiding his smile. He changed the subject. “We’ve always encountered gully dwarves in cities before. Seems strange to find them living out here in the wilds.”
“They’re waiting for the gates to open,” said Flint.
Tanis stared at the dwarf in perplexity. “How long have they been here?”
“Three hundred years.” Flint waved his hand. “You’ll find nests of them all over these parts. The day the gates closed, shutting them out, the gully dwarfs squatted in front of the mountain and waited, certain the gate would open again. They’re still waiting.”
“At least this proves gully dwarves are optimists,” Tanis remarked. He turned from the road onto a trail that veered off in the direction of the smoke.