They could hear the Hounds, far off and away over the hills, but Fadija assured them that the beasts would not harm them.

"They will recognize my scent and keep their distance. You, and especially your blood-soaked Master, would have been hunted and slaughtered for certain." she said conversationally to Dalamar. He ignored her, as he had been doing for the past hour. In front of them a few paces, Raistlin was struggling for breath as he walked, leaning heavily on his staff. The heat was stifling, but still the arch-mage trembled.

"Shalafi, will you take my cloak?." Dalamar began untying it, not waiting for a reply. Raistlin said nothing as the rough, heavy fabric was draped around his shoulders. He had not the strength. The fog of death obscured the gray landscape before him, and at times it was difficult to tell the land and sky from the darker lands beyond the curtain of mortality. He put his hand out, tentative, touching the face of someone he could not quite make out.

"Chrysania..." he whispered, but then his vision cleared, and he forced himself to straighten, clutching the cloak tighter about his trembling form.

Dalamar heard him say the name, but he gracefully refrained from making a comment. He had loathed the slim white-robed woman, hated her goodness and her naiveté, the easy way she drew Raistlin out of his shell and forced him to be human. He was glad she had died. Glad, suddenly, for the plague that killed the whole world and left him his master's complete attention.

But he felt small and petty a moment later for harboring the thought.

"Shalafi, are you all right?"

Raistlin's eyes were watering, he doubled over in another coughing fit. It would be soon, he thought as the warm blood bubbled from his lips, making him choke. Every step was torture, every single breath like a knife in his chest. Dalamar was beside him in an instant, lowering him to the crackling gray grass. Fadija watched them with cool detachment, pity and derision plain on her features.

"He's slowing us down, Elf. We should leave him and press on."

Dalamar whirled on her, fire flashing in his dark eyes.

"He dies, you die!" he hissed, catching her by the throat. "If that illness in your system goes any further, this is the fate that awaits you! And I will see that your final moments will be deeply unpleasant."

Fadija looked up into those glittering eyes and said nothing, but the slight flush that crept into her cheeks belied the indignation she felt at being handled in so rough a fashion. Still, the elf did have a point. Weak and pathetic the mage might be, but his fate was tied to her own because she truly believed his warnings about the plague. She pulled away from Dalamar and knelt beside the slim golden-skinned mage on the ground at her feet.

"Majere, breathe slowly." she said softly, taking a small packet of herbs from her pocket. She kissed them, and suddenly they burst into a wavering blue flame, giving off a bitter scent. Raistlin was in no position to fight her off, and so allowed the woman to hold the stinking herbs near him, slowly pulling the smoke into his aching lungs. A freezing numbness began to creep through him. It was uncomfortable and strange, but it eased his breathing somewhat, and the pain abated a little.

"What is that?" Dalamar demanded, protectiveness evident in his voice. He was exhausted and irritated and worried and bitter, but all of that vanished when he was presented with a possible threat to his Master. Fadija glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"It is called fuldrum, a noble weed that grows on the battlefields where innocents were slaughtered. It numbs the senses and removes pain, placing he who breathes its fumes into a torpor for a time. If you eat it, you will die. But to breathe it only promotes an abatement of suffering."

"That had best be all it does, Lady."

Fadija held the herbs near Raistlin's face until she saw his eyes glaze over, and then she stood up and tossed the smoking bundle away.

"He might be able to walk, but you will have to lead him, Elf. His coughing fits should stop for a little while. Come now - we must continue to move if we wish to remain undetected by the Hounds and other such creatures." she turned away from them then, marching stoically toward the ever-growing mountains in the distance.

Dalamar did not know if he ought to thank her or not, and so he elected to simply remain silent. He helped Raistlin to his feet, noting with a certain grudging admiration that some of the color had returned to his face and his breathing has eased.

"Dalamar, I feel...strange..."

Dalamar tightened his arm around Raistlin's shoulders. The mage's legs seemed not to be able to hold his weight. He swayed, frail as a child. Dalamar clenched his teeth together and lifted his Shalafi into his arms. He weighed no more than a bundle of firewood.

"Please do not die, Shalafi. Not yet. Not yet." he whispered, almost too soft for the mage to hear. But somewhere through the curtain of pain and the stupor of the herbs, Raistlin heard him.

"You...Dalamar...you must not...do not carry..."

Dalamar's legs felt like water as well, but he pushed away the discomfort.

Lift one foot, set it down. Lift the other. Set it down.

He began to walk, following Fadija as she led them to the gate, listening to the rhythm of Raistlin's breathing as the mage fell into a troubled sleep. Neither of them had bathed in several days, but he could only smell Raistlin's spell components, the withered flowers and powdered sandalwood, and a hint of the bitter herbal smoke that Fadija had used to sedate him.

Dalamar hoped that his own smell did not offend his Master. He had never cared for such things before, for how others perceived him, for the thoughts that he inspired or the way his presence was taken. But he felt shame suddenly, as though his arms and his chest were unfit somehow to be the vehicle of transportation for one such as Raistlin. How strange had the past few months made his thoughts.

He had hated Raistlin before, hated him with a fierce passion for his cruelty and his inability to utter so much as a single kind word. But he had hated him on his knees. How close is loathing to worship.

But things had changed. The stink of death had effaced the etchings of resentment and ill feeling on his soul.

Raistlin sighed, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth. Dalamar, his hands already full, lowered his own cheek to his Master's, wiping away the blood with his face.

Fadija, glancing back, noticed the gesture, and the wave of admiration and mercy that suddenly engulfed her heart stung like a thousand needles. She was reminded of a little pumpkin-colored cat she used to cherish in the days before the Abyss, the way the creature would leap atop her chest as she lay in the grass behind her home, the way it would dig its tiny sharp claws into her, purring. The way the pain felt, the way she thought she would die of love. The memory made her bitter - it was so long ago, and life had trampled her spirit in a thousand ways since then. She turned away from them, angrily swallowing the lump in her throat.

"It is not very much farther, arch-mages. An hour or two will bring us within sight."

Dalamar nodded, forcing himself to continue the forward motion. A trickle of sweat ran into his left eye, and he blinked.

There was no road, no path, but the land around was so flat that it hardly mattered. Dalamar's soft leather boots muffled the sound of his footsteps, and Fadija left no indentation in the grass as she led them. The Hounds in the distance were silent, as though in fear of something larger then themselves. Dalamar remembered sitting by the pond behind Caramon and Tika's home, listening to last few crickets feebly chirping to one another. Inside, Raistlin was getting some much-needed rest, curled up in the ratty old chair by the fire as his brother and sister-in-law slept fitfully nearby in the bed. Raistlin always needed help changing the sheets, and Dalamar was there. The sheets needed to be changed and cleaned once a day - Raistlin insisted on it - and fresh balsam pine boughs needed to be tucked beneath the mattress to fill the room with their subtle woodsy scent, covering up the stench of sickness and impending death. Dalamar's hands were rough from cutting wood, from washing the same blankets and sheets over and over again every day. The manual labor was hard, but he never spoke a word in complaint. It would have been terribly inappropriate in the face of Raistlin's implacable calm. The crickets that night were chirping, there were still a dozen or so left by Dalamar's count, but they all fell silent the moment he stood up.

It was fear, or perhaps apprehension, that quieted the last hearty members of the nocturnal string symphony.

"Why are the Hounds no longer howling?" he asked. Fadija didn't turn around. Something in her posture alarmed him.

"Fadija! Answer me! Why are the Hounds silent?"

"Keep walking, Elf."

"They're closer, aren't they." it was a statement of fact, the sudden sickening realization dawning on him.

Fadija picked up her pace, forcing the already aching Dalamar to follow suit, hitching up the limp body of Raistlin as he broke into a trot.

"Yes, Elf. They are closer."

"So much for their respectful distance from you."

The slim woman glanced back at him, and Dalamar was surprised to see panic on her features. Pity moved him to soften his words, a pity that he had been incapable of for the greater part of his life.

"Don't worry, we're almost there. Perhaps you should come with us."

"I would not know what to do there, Elf."

"Fadija, my name is Dalamar. This is Raistlin."

"Very well...Dalamar. I have lived here most of my life, I hardly remember a time when I did not. Life in another realm horrifies me."

Dalamar laughed, a strange sound in the dead place around them.

"You must have a very warped view of reality if you find living in the Abyss preferable to living outside it."

Fadija flashed him a small smile.

"I suppose that I do."

Raistlin was on fire. A fever was beginning in him, and soon his robes were soaked through with sweat. Dalamar was developing a nasty blister on his chest where the wet body of the mage rubbed against him with every step. He was becoming harder to carry, but Dalamar refused to pause even for a moment. The silence around them was too disheartening, too awful to contemplate. He had never seen a Hell Hound before, not even in a picture, but he was fairly certain that he did not wish to meet one anytime soon. Ahead of them the mountains loomed...

In a few minutes they would be in and among the diseased-looking grey and green trees, providing the little trio with some slight cover at least. Fadija was speeding up yet again, and Dalamar broke into a full run to keep up with her.

A sudden stench assailed his senses, something that reeked of rotting meat and bog water. His guide looked behind her, panic naked on her face.

"RUN!" Fadija screamed, but Dalamar was already running and could go no faster. Something awful was behind him - he didn't know how close or even what it was. But Fadija sprinted away ahead of him and vanished into the trees.

He never saw her again.

"Damn it, Fadija!" he cursed to himself, unwilling to waste breath yelling aloud. Heavy thuds shook the ground all around him. If he would only stop and lay down his burden, he could be free, he could be safe.

His memory whirled again.

Raistlin had come out to watch Dalamar finish digging the grave for Tika. He held a cold side of beef and a dry biscuit in his hands, and passed the meager gifts down to the exhausted dark elf in the hole at his feet. Dalamar accepted the meal, climbing up to sit on the edge. Raistlin sank down beside him on the fresh dirt. There were deep shadows under his eyes, Dalamar noted with some concern, and he was losing weight.

"Tika is dead." Raistlin said softly. Dalamar nodded, taking a bite of bread.

"Was it a peaceful ending?" he asked after he'd swallowed. Raistlin didn't answer. His sad golden eyes took on a far-away look.

"Dalamar, do you remember Kitiara?"

Did he ever.

"Yes, Shalafi. Yes, I remember her."

Raistlin looked down at his hands, the smooth nails and the small silver ring he wore on one index finger. There was dried blood on the back of one, and he picked at it.

"I think of her once in awhile. She saved my life, held me when I cried, fed me, took over for mother and fought the fates to keep me breathing. I know now what she must have felt. I held Tika as she died. I held her as I have never held a woman before, or anyone for that matter."

It was the most he'd said in weeks, and Dalamar found himself hoping that he would go on.

After a moment, Raistlin began speaking again.

"It seems like some sort of horrible dream. But I am almost glad."

"Why?"

"Because they looked at me differently. Tika and Caramon, I mean. They looked at me without hate. They relied on me for food and comfort and care in the end, and I was happy to provide such things. I have never felt this way before."

Dalamar looked at him in silence, marveling at the words. He, too, felt a change beginning in him. Raistlin met his gaze, and for once Dalamar had no desire to look away.

"Dalamar. My friend. I am sorry for all the ways in which I have failed you."

Dalamar was utterly shocked. Of all the things he'd expected his Master to say, this was even beyond the last.

"Can you forgive me?"

Raistlin's voice held no hint of pleading. It was simply a question. Dalamar smiled wearily, his heart lighter than it had been in a very long time.

"Of course I can forgive you, Shalafi. But there is very little to forgive. You have taught me so much."

"But I have harmed you as well, and for that I am sorry."

The handprint on Dalamar's chest still hurt once in awhile. It would never fully heal. But now it ached with something akin to sweetness, his soul bathed in the realization that he was witnessing a change in his teacher that no one else would ever know.

And now, running for his life - and Raistlin's - the wound hurt again. His flesh was being rubbed off by the bouncing of Raistlin's limp body in his arms, and whatever hellish nightmare that pursued them was getting closer and closer by the moment.

But still he ran.

'Can you forgive me...' his master has asked.

Dalamar could see a thin line of stones ahead of them, and a crack between that might offer protection.

Without a moment's hesitation, he sprang forward, catching his foot in a crevice and twisting it dreadfully. He threw Raistlin bodily into the crack, flinging himself in a second later and pushing with every ounce of his strength until the two of them plummeted into a small subterranean chamber below.

There was not a moment to lose.

Dalamar spun around, grabbing a sharp rock in his hand, and scrambled to the mouth of the small cave. He was prepared to do battle to save them, fight to the death before just lying down and giving up. It was not in his nature to acquiesce.

A huge, red, vicious creature rather like a bear and a boar at once crouched just outside the cave, its fangs glistening. The thing was unlike any beast Dalamar had ever seen before, but he hesitated only the briefest of moments before darting out to slash at its face with the rock. His blow struck home, opening a small gash on the monster's brow. It reared back, swiping at him with claws that looked to be at least a foot long each.

He tried to dodge the attack, but his twisted ankle gave out and he fell forward, taking a horrific slash across the midsection that felt as though it sliced through his heart. Hot blood spilled down his chest as he scrambled backward, raising the rock again.

A voice whispered behind him, and a flare of white light shot forth from the back of the cave. The creature instantly retreated as though stung, howling in rage. So intense was its reaction that it literally fell over its own feet in the haste to get away. Dalamar fell to his knees, dropping the rock. Pure agony coursed through his body in rhythm with his pulse, and he looked down to see what damage had been done.

It was considerable. His shirt was torn from sternum to stomach, and he could see the slippery glint of muscle inside the long gash. His breath was coming in shallow pants, the pain so potent that he was afraid he would pass out.

Raistlin pulled him back into the cave with great effort, collapsing against the wall in a daze. The spell had saved them from the beast outside, but it left him so close to the brink of death that he swore he could feel its clutches circling his heart.

"Shalafi..." Dalamar moaned, turning his head slightly to look at Raistlin. Their situation had never seemed so utterly dire as it did now. Raistlin fumbled weakly with a pouch on his belt, drawing forth a tiny silver flask bearing an inscription.

Dalamar recognized it instantly as a healing draught.

"No! You...you must...must..." the pain was fiercer than lava, and he had to force himself to form the words. "You must...take it...Shalafi..."

Raistlin shook his head slowly and unstoppered the bottle with trembling fingers.

"Dalamar, it is up to you now. I am too close to death. It will be only a few minutes more, I believe. You have a far better chance of gaining the portcullis than I. Take it."

Dalamar did not resist as Raistlin poured the potion into his mouth. His determination to carry Raistlin to the very end if he had to burned for a moment brighter than the pain.

Healing potions worked quickly, especially those made by the hands of the Sea Elves. This one was potent. Raistlin must have been keeping it safe for quite awhile. It would not have healed the plague or saved his own life from the ravages of the strange mage-sickness that had been with him for decades, but Dalamar's wound proved no match for the powerful ingredients. Within a few seconds Dalamar was able to struggle to his feet, his breathing eased.

Wordlessly, he turned and picked Raistlin up again, and ignoring the mage's weak protests carried him from the dark stone pit and back into the grey light.

It was only a few hundred yards to the gate, a distance that Dalamar covered in a matter of minutes. In his arms, Raistlin had stopped breathing.

The last thing Dalamar beheld before vanishing through the gate and into the other realm was the form of a pack of Hell Hounds on the horizon, sniffing at a bloody splash on the ground at the mouth of the cave.