DragonLance
Wanderlust
The Meetings Sextet - 02
Mary Kirchoff and Steve Winter
Prologue
A still, dense mist prevailed in WayrethForest on a cool autumn day. The light that filtered through the thick canopy was gray and dull, so that the forest, too, looked flat and pallid. Occasionally a leaf bounced and shook as if brushed by unseen hands when collected moisture dripped off.
Two dwarves moved through the obscuring vapor, struggling with the weight of a lifeless body sagging between them. They were dressed plainly in woolen shirts, wide belts, and trousers tucked into heavy boots. They carried their burden to a clump of young birches and dumped it among the damp grasses, then leaned on the shovels they carried along.
"We should dig a grave," said the first, scraping thoughtlessly at his bare chin. He was still young and wore his long hair, cropped short at the bangs, like an apprentice.
The second dwarf shook his long beard. "There's hardly enough left of him to bother. His kin didn't care enough to claim him. I'm not going to break my back over his carcass.
"Give the ravens a treat—he'll be naught but bones by morning, and no one will miss him." After wiping bloodstained hands on his trousers, the bearded dwarf rooted through a baggy pocket and withdrew a pipe and a plum-sized stone. Deft fingers snapped the stone open along a concealed hinge. A few quick puffs of breath brought a smoldering ember inside to rosy life and with it he lit his pipe. Moments later, rings of smoke wafted through the heavy air and blended into the mist.
"This is the third this week," observed the younger dwarf. "What do you suppose brings them here, knowing the price of failure?"
The older dwarf considered the body through curls of smoke. Its chest had burst open, and sharp edges of snapped ribs poked through the blood-soaked robe. The right eye and much of that side of the face was clawed away. The right arm curled unnaturally, obviously broken in several places, and the thumb was gone from the right hand.
"Do they really know?" he wondered aloud. "If we propped this fellow up by the entrance instead of hiding him out here, then they might know the real price of failure.
"Most of them that come here to the Tower of High Sorcery are apprentice wizards, young and full of themselves. They've got a hard choice. They can remain apprentices for the rest of their lives, running, fetching, and practicing minor spells, or they can come here, face death, and earn the right to wear the robes of a full wizard.
"It's a hard system, lad, but the Conclave of Wizards knows its business. Magic is the mightiest force in the world. The conclave can't control magic, so instead it controls who uses it. Every wizard on Ansalon who wishes to perform more than minor spells must come to the tower and face the test, else he'll be branded a renegade and hunted by his brethren. If he's capable—and lucky—he passes. If not. . ." With a nod the dwarf indicated the ruined body lying in the weeds. He then snatched up his shovel and led the way back through the mist toward Wayreth and the Tower of High Sorcery.
As day faded into twilight in WayrethForest, a cold breeze whipped the parched autumn leaves into a small whirlpool. On the ground beneath the whirlpool rested the dead wizard's pale remains. As if created from the leaves themselves, a large golden coin appeared. It spun in the air, so fast it looked almost like a golden ball. Neither rising nor falling, nor moving from side to side, it twirled in the heart of the small maelstrom.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the wind vanished, leaves tumbled to the earth, and the coin dropped into the cold, thumbless hand of the dead mage. An eerie, whispering wind settled over the misty land as darkness descended.
Under the light of the waning moon, bloody fingers twitched, flexed, and closed over the coin. New life pulsed through collapsed veins, spasmodically at first, then steadily. The ravaged body writhed among the leaves in torment as its gaping wounds spurted fresh blood. Jagged edges of flesh on the man's chest closed together. A hoarse moan parted his lips, rising to an anguished wail that rent the damp evening air. The body lay tense and waiting, breathing raggedly.
"What price for your life, mage?"
The wizard's only good eye flew open at the sound of the croaking voice coming from his palm. Although it was a torment, he forced himself into a sitting position and regarded the coin in his hand. On one side it bore a smiling, heavy-jowled face; on the other side, the same face, but leering and angry. Its mouth was a hole that pierced the metal. He raised the coin to look through the hole, but recoiled in horror. Leering, shredded faces atop rotted bodies danced among licking tongues of flame.
"First you experienced death and now you have seen Hell, all in a single day," the smiling face said. "Perhaps you are willing to discuss the terms of your rebirth."
Bewildered and in pain, the young mage tried to speak. "Who are you?" he rasped. "How have you done this to me?"
"Do you not recognize the countenance of your god Hiddukel, master of contracts, broker of souls?"
The young mage shivered and pulled the tattered remnants of his robe closer at the name of the ancient, evil god. "But I follow the neutral god, Sirrion."
The coin flipped in his hand, revealing the frowning face. "Where is he now?" it cried. "I have restored your life. How will you serve me?"
"I did not ask for your help," the young man said softly.
"So be it!" Hiddukel's angry face roared.
Suddenly the young mage felt his ribs crack anew. A scream of pain, mingled with blood, escaped his lips. "What is it you want?"
"I want only what you want," soothed the coin's smiling face. "Vengeance for your treatment in the tower .
