Fistandantilus Reborn Read online

  Though Flayzeranyx valued many things, he treasured nothing so much as the skull he had claimed from Skullcap following his battle with the brass dragon.

  The dragon didn’t know what it was about the bony artifact that made it so compelling to him; he merely understood that it gave him a sense of power and well-being to look upon the object. Now he rose, spreading his wings to add a bit of lift to his gliding leap across the searing rock of the moat. He came to rest before the skull and squatted, staring into those black eyes.

  He felt it again, a sensation that had become increasingly common when he regarded the thing. It was a feeling that the skull was trying to talk to him, to communicate something that was terribly important.

  “What is it, my skull? Show me … speak to me!” he urged.…

  From the Creators of the DRAGONLANCE® Saga

  LOST LEGENDS

  Vinas Solamnus

  by J. Robert King

  Fistandantilus Reborn

  by Douglas Niles

  Other DRAGONLANCE® Books by Douglas Niles

  Flint the King

  (with Mary Kirchoff)

  The Kinslayer Wars

  Emperor of Ansalon

  The Kagonesti

  The Dragons

  FISTANDANTILUS REBORN

  Lost Legends: Volume II

  ©1997 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, FORGOTTEN REALMS, TOP SECRET, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Todd Lockwood

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6409-3

  640A2921000001 EN

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: A Seed of Survival

  Chapter 2: Whastryk Kite

  Chapter 3: Ends and Conclusions

  Chapter 4: An Unlikely Hero

  Chapter 5: Further Evidence

  Chapter 6: Gantor Blacksword

  Chapter 7: Skullcap

  Chapter 8: A Host, of Sorts

  Chapter 9: From Black to Life

  Chapter 10: A Stone of Power and Command

  Chapter 11: A Cult of Darkness

  Chapter 12: New Dawn of the True Gods

  Chapter 13: An Historical Analysis

  Chapter 14: Dragon Reign

  Chapter 15: Two Skulls

  Chapter 16: A Window Through Time

  Chapter 17: A Day of Fire

  Chapter 18: Ashes

  Chapter 19: Autobiography

  Chapter 20: A Disturbance in the Night

  Chapter 21: A Mind and Soul of Chaos

  Chapter 22: An Historian at Large

  Chapter 23: The Master of Loreloch

  Chapter 24: Another Detour on the Road to Faith

  Chapter 25: Wyrmtales

  Chapter 26: A Heart of Blood and Fire

  Chapter 27: A Whistling Wanderer

  Chapter 28: A Mysterious Affliction

  Chapter 29: A Strange Maldy

  Chapter 30: A Telling Ear

  Chapter 31: Pursuing the Pursuers

  Chapter 32: Loreloch

  Chapter 33: The Eyes of the Skull

  Chapter 34: The Master of Loreloch

  Chapter 35: Escape or Doom

  Chapter 36: A Trove of Treasure

  Chapter 37: Clues from the Ashes

  Chapter 38: A Captive Once More

  Chapter 39: Threads

  Chapter 40: Firemont

  Chapter 41: Shards Assembled

  Chapter 42: Dragons, Priests, and Magic

  Chapter 43: Powers Competing

  Chapter 44: Fistandantilus Reborn

  Chapter 45: The Ambitious Priest

  Chapter 46: Departures, Alive and Dead

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The River of Time is eternal, flowing inexorably toward a mysterious destination along a channel gouged by the continuing history of Krynn. A tide broad and stately over the course of decades, centuries, and ages becomes torrential and violent through other stretches of lives, generations, and years. Languishing within murky depths or churning around the obstacles that periodically constrict the flow into an angry cataract, the current progresses—and millions of individual beings entangle, each bringing a tale with its own beginning, middle, and conclusion. Yet each, as well, is a part of the great river, an often indistinguishable mote in the onward rush of time.

  It is the historian’s task to place these widely disparate truths into context, to illustrate how the mote of a single life must inevitably blend into the great flow. Be it a tale of light or darkness, of great men or small, the historian’s pen must record honestly and impartially the perception of the truth that is viewed through said historian’s eyes.

  Most often the droplet of an individual’s story is swept along by the greater flow, contributing its almost imperceptible weight in ways that even the astute chronicler must struggle to perceive. These are the teeming millions of the world, and despite the relative insignificance of each individual, it is their collective mass that gives majesty to the current and power to its flow.

  Occasionally, however, a speck of a specific life will develop a momentum of its own, setting a course that will have impetus far beyond its own weight. Such an individual will twist the motes around it, perhaps swirling into a deep eddy, even pulling much of the river into an isolated and powerful orbit. Sometimes it will dip below the surface, vanishing by all appearances, yet in fact creating a powerful vortex, with currents rippling far downstream.

  But even such mighty waters, these mortal cataracts and whirlpools, cannot escape the confines of the river. Ultimately they, too, are swept by the relentless, unstoppable current that is time, until even the ripples have faded away, vanished as if they had never been.

  In a sense, the historian’s task is to demonstrate otherwise. He must draw these rivulets up from the past and reproduce them to one who would study the river’s channel, who would try to understand even a small segment of the overall course. The diligent chronicler pushes through the murky depths, identifies the key strains, and finds at the bed of the river the firmament that provides the proof.

  Of historians who are perceptive and capable of recording the truth there are many, though one in particular comes to mind at present. Of tales worthy of the telling, the sam
e may be said. Though the river is wide, this is a channel of the current that has always held great fascination to all who would hear the history of Krynn, perhaps because this tale concerns a mortal who strove constantly to hold the frailties of mortality at bay.

  And he very nearly succeeded.

  Now I find it fitting that this historian, and this tale, should come together. It is a story of life and death, though not necessarily in that order, and of a man who stirred the River of Time like no one else. His passing, when it became known, was celebrated by all who knew of his villainy and his might. His return to life, conversely, was conceived and executed in secret, and bore with it the seeds of overwhelming terror for the future of the world.

  Yet I precede myself—or, rather, I precede the telling. Let it be noted that the river must at first be observed in portions upstream from the main channel of our story, segments of time that will place our story in context. Those glimpses, naturally, have been selected by the chronicling historian. He knows, as do I, that the story in fact begins much closer to the great stream’s headwaters, and that its currents will ripple farther, into cataracts that remain to be revealed.

  But herein lies the heart of the tale.

  From the Chronicles of Astinus,

  Lorekeeper of Krynn

  Chapter 1

  A Seed of Survival

  In the Name of His Excellency Astinus, Lorekeeper of Krynn

  Notes Pertaining to events 2 PC-1 PC

  Scribed this Fourth Misham, Deepkolt, 369 AC

  One of the greatest challenges in recording the story of Fistandantilus arises from the fact that he—and the archmage Raistlin Majere—caused the River of Time to divide for a period into two parallel channels. There are two versions of history, and though in many respects they are identical, in some significant aspects the flowage takes a decidedly different appearance between the two tales.

  The divergence occurred a short time before the Cataclysm. In one history, Fistandantilus made preparations for his journey to Istar, where he would forge an alliance with a white-robed priest and cast his mighty spell of time travel. In the other course of the channel, Fistandantilus was mastered by Raistlin Majere, who had traveled from the future for the confrontation. It became the younger man’s destiny to escape the Cataclysm, to befriend a priest, and to follow in the steps that (he learned too late) were ordained by destiny.

  In either case, one hundred years after the Cataclysm there occurred an epic battle of magical power and violence, and the Dwarfgate War culminated in the massive destruction of Dergoth. In one current of history, Fistandantilus was killed here. In the other, Raistlin was banished to the Abyss—but there, too, it seems likely that the remnant portion of Fistandantilus met a matching end.

  I shall focus this consideration of my research upon the time leading up to the confrontation. Raistlin and Fistandantilus were two entities before the melding of their lives by the magic that would so stir the River of Time. While the gods of Krynn and the Kingpriest of Istar moved ever closer to their inevitable clash, the Tower of Wayreth became the center of magical mastery on Ansalon, and the archmage Fistandantilus rose to the highest pinnacle of his power.

  The elder wizard was the black-robed archmage, Master of the Tower of Sorcery, and—subsequent to his creation of the time-travel spell—Master of Past and Present as well. He had existed for centuries and scribed spellbooks that unlocked arcane secrets no mage before—or since, with one exception—would ever be able to grasp. Already Fistandantilus was widely known to be an ancient being. Even a study of elven lore must progress to the earliest volumes to predate him. Certainly for a long time prior to the Cataclysm he was the undisputed lord of magic upon Ansalon.

  Central to his longevity, we now know, was the parasitical consumption of young lives—specifically, the blood and souls of the most skilled among his apprentices, those who were strong and who bore the seeds of magic deep within them. He harvested them as coldly as any butcher might a hog. The frequency of these cruel and murderous episodes is hard to judge, but it seems likely that he claimed a new apprentice’s life at least every couple of decades.

  Yet still the young men came to him, perhaps not quite believing in the horror stories they surely must have heard. They were drawn by ambition, knowing that he was the only teacher who could show them the secrets of true magical power. Desperate for the keys to this knowledge and to its attendant might, they traveled from far and wide to seek the great wizard. And indeed, many a black-robed sorcerer emerged from that tutelage with his life, if not his soul, intact, progressing to a reign of greatness and high influence in the world.

  But there were many who never came out, who gave their lives to the archmage’s insatiable hunger for young, vital hearts. And ever did the ancient one remain vibrant with eternal health, vigorous youth, and the greatest magic that the world had ever known.

  And this brings us to Raistlin, whose mission has been well documented. In the aftermath of the War of the Lance, he journeyed into the past so that he could learn from, and inevitably challenge, the archmage. He mastered the spellbooks of Fistandantilus and had the advantage of knowing the history that he would attempt to revise. Indeed, one of the ironies of Raistlin’s story is that the man who was so determined to change the course of the river found instead that he was trapped into reliving one of the most violent and disastrous segments of the flow.

  The contest between Fistandantilus and Raistlin would be a battle with enigmatic results, a cataract of the river that tumbles well beyond the bounds of my current research. However, on one thing, the archmage’s notes provide impeccable confirmation. (Incidentally, this act occurs only on the historical path involving the confrontation with Raistlin; in the original occurrence, I assume that the life of some unfortunate apprentice was successfully consumed by the archmage.)

  In any event, of the preparations made by Fistandantilus immediately before he attempted to devour Raistlin’s soul, one sequence must be noted.

  Perhaps it was because he sensed the great power of his adversary that he performed this enchantment. Certainly Raistlin was a potential victim who stirred a great hunger in Fistandantilus. At the same time, the villainous sorcerer needed to approach his newest conquest with a measure of respect. To this end, he took a precaution prior to his spell that was unique among the countless castings he had done before.

  As usual, the archmage had several apprentices besides the young man of mysterious origins whom he had selected as his victim. The historically astute reader may well be aware that, prior to his soul-devouring ritual, Fistandantilus invariably discharged his other apprentices. The unchosen were sent from the tower immediately, with no awareness of how fortunate they had been. It has been documented—by both parties, in fact—that he did this prior to his attack against the disguised Raistlin.

  The archmage’s own notes detail his precaution, which required the use of a complex enchantment, a spell that he cast upon himself. It is a complicated procedure to understand, similar to the magic jar spell that allows a powerful sorcerer to place his soul, his spiritual essence, into some sort of object for a period of time, protecting the wizard, as it were, from the vicissitudes of the world.

  In the case of Fistandantilus, this casting split his essence into an animate and inanimate portion, allowing his mortal self to remain intact, but preserving a precautionary reserve of his entire being. The potion embodied a portion of all his essences—mental, physical, spiritual, and arcane. This enchanted liquid he collected in a silver vial and bestowed upon one of his departing apprentices as a gift. Even at the time, according to the archmage’s notes, he was not certain whether or not the magic worked.

  Our current tale is not concerned with the history-shaping conflict between Raistlin and the archmage, although later we shall be peripherally concerned with the subsequent events regarding the Dwarfgate War and the convulsion of magic that would shape the mountain called Skullcap. For the time being, instead, we will follow
the steps of this discharged apprentice, one Whastryk Kite of Kharolis.

  Foryth Teel,

  In unworthy service to Gilean

  Chapter 2

  Whastryk Kite

  1 PC

  First Palast, Reapember

  The young magic-user tried to walk softly, to bring his smooth-soled boots soundlessly against the forest trail. But with each footfall came a whisper of bending grass or the tiny slurp of suction from moist, bare dirt. Once, when he raised his head to look through the brush before him, he carelessly cracked a twig, and the noise was like a lightning bolt stabbing through the silent woods and into his pounding heart.

  He told himself that it should not be so, that his fear, his extreme caution, were illogical reactions to a danger that he had by now left safely behind. In fact, it was a threat that was probably imaginary. There would be no pursuit—indeed, he had been sent away from Wayreth by the master of the tower himself, and Fistandantilus was no doubt glad that young Whastryk Kite was gone.

  But still he was afraid.

  Nervously he cast a glance over his shoulder, along the tangled track of Wayreth Forest. The tower was invisible now, screened by the intervening foliage. That same greenery had parted invitingly before Whastryk, leading him away from the sorcerous spire and its two remaining occupants. The tower, with its arcane legacy and wonderful trove of magic, had been Whastryk Kite’s home, as well as his school and the residence of his companions, for several years. Yet abruptly the course of all the apprentices’ studies had come to an end. Now, as he suspected that he had left that place behind him forever, he felt a strange mixture of emotions.

  Despite the midsummer warmth in the woods, when he thought of the pair of magic-users who still occupied that arcane spire, the young mage shivered forcefully enough to send ripples shimmering through the smooth silk of his black robe. What powers, he wondered, would be wielded by them before the issue was resolved?

  And that resolution, Whastryk had come to suspect, would be the death of the young apprentice, the lone representative from among the archmage’s pupils who had been selected to remain.