Repeating that over and over, Caramon was able to subdue the part of his mind that burned with rage and pain. Coolly and calmly, he helped Kiiri and Pheragas lift the Barbarian’s “lifeless” corpse to its feet as they had done countless times in rehearsal. He even found the strength to turn and face the crowd and bow. Pheragas, with a skillful motion of his free arm, made it seem as if the “dead” Barbarian were bowing, too. The crowd loved it and cheered wildly. Then the three friends dragged the corpse off the stage, down into the dark aisles below.
Once there, Caramon helped them ease the Barbarian down onto the cold stone. For long moments, he stared at the corpse, dimly aware of the other gladiators, who had been waiting their turn to go up into the arena, looking at the lifeless body, then melting back into the shadows.
Slowly, Caramon stood up. Turning around, he grabbed hold of Pheragas and, with all his strength, hurled the black man up against the wall. Drawing the bloodstained dagger from his belt, Caramon held it up before Pheragas’s eyes.
“It was an accident,” Pheragas said through clenched teeth.
“Edged weapons!” Caramon cried, shoving Pheragas’s head roughly into the stone wall. “Bleed a little! Now, you tell me! What in the name of the Abyss is going on!”
“It was an accident, oaf,” came a sneering voice.
Caramon turned. The dwarf stood before him, his squat body a small, twisted shadow in the dark and dank corridor beneath the arena.
“And now I’ll tell you about accidents,” Arack said, his voice soft and malevolent. Behind him loomed the giant figure of Raag, his club in his huge hand. “Let Pheragas go. He and Kiiri have to get back to the arena and take their bows. You all were the winners today.”
Caramon glanced at Pheragas for a moment, then dropped his hand. The dagger slipped from his nerveless fingers onto the floor, he slumped back against the wall. Kiiri regarded him in mute sympathy, laying her hand on his arm. Pheragas sighed, cast the smug dwarf a venomous glance, then both he and Kiiri left the corridor. They walked around the body of the Barbarian, which lay, untouched, on the stone.
“You told me no one got killed!” Caramon said in a voice choked with anger and pain.
The dwarf came over to stand in front of the big man. “It was an accident,” Arack repeated. “Accidents happen around here. Particularly to people who aren’t careful. They could happen to you, if you’re not careful. Or to that little friend of yours. Now, the Barbarian, here, he wasn’t careful. Or rather, his master wasn’t careful.”
Caramon raised his head, staring at the dwarf, his eyes wide with shock and horror.
“Ah, I see you finally got it figured out,” Arack nodded.
“This man died because his owner crossed someone,” Caramon said softly.
“Yeah.” The dwarf grinned and tugged at his beard. “Civilized, ain’t it? Not like the old days. And no one’s the wiser. Except his master, of course. I saw his face this afternoon. He knew, as soon as you stuck the Barbarian. You might as well have thrust that dagger into him. He got the message all right.”
“This was a warning?” Caramon asked in strangled tones.
The dwarf nodded again and shrugged.
“Who? Who was his owner?”
Arack hesitated, regarding Caramon quizzically, his broken face twisted into a leer. Caramon could almost see him calculating, figuring how much he could gain from telling, how much he might gain by keeping silent. Apparently, the money added up quickly in the “telling” column, because he didn’t hesitate long. Motioning Caramon to lean down, he whispered a name in his ear.
Caramon looked puzzled.
“High cleric, a Revered Son of Paladine,” the dwarf added. “Number two to the Kingpriest himself. But he’s made a bad enemy, a bad enemy.” Arack shook his head.
A burst of muffled cheering roared from above them. The dwarf glanced up, then back at Caramon. “You’ll have to go up, take a bow. It’s expected. You’re a winner.”
“What about him?” Caramon asked, his gaze going to the Barbarian. “He won’t be going up. Won’t they wonder?”
“Pulled muscle. Happens all the time. Can’t make his final bow,” the dwarf said casually. “We’ll put the word out he retired, was given his freedom.”
Given his freedom! Tears filled his eyes. He looked away, down the corridor. There was another cheer. He would have to go. Your life. Our lives. The life of your little friend.
“That’s why,” Caramon said thickly, “that’s why you had me kill him! Because now you’ve got me! You know I won’t talk—”
“I knew that anyway,” Arack said, grinning wickedly. “Let’s say having you kill him was just a little extra touch. The customers like that, shows I care. You see, it was your master who sent this warning! I thought he’d appreciate it, having his own slave carry it out. Course that puts you in a bit of danger. The Barbarian’s death’ll have to be avenged. But, it’ll do wonders for business, once the rumor spreads.”
“My master!” Caramon gasped. “But, you bought me! The school—”
“Ah, I acted as agent only.” The dwarf cackled. “I thought maybe you didn’t know!”
“But who is my—” And then Caramon knew the answer. He didn’t even hear the words the dwarf said. He couldn’t hear them over the sudden roaring sound that echoed in his brain. A blood-red tide surged over him, suffocating him. His lungs ached, his stomach heaved, and his legs gave way beneath him.
The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the corridor, the ogre holding his head down between his knees. The dizziness passed. Caramon gasped and lifted his head, shaking off the ogre’s grasp.
“I’m all right,” he said through bloodless lips.
Raag glanced at him, then up at the dwarf.
“We can’t take him out there in this condition,” Arack said, regarding Caramon with disgust. “Not looking like a fish gone belly up. Haul him to his room.”
“No,” said a small voice from the darkness. “I-I’II take care of him.”
Tas crept out of the shadows, his face nearly as pale as Caramon’s.
Arack hesitated, then snarled something and turned away. With a gesture to the ogre, he hurried off, clambering up the stairs to make the awards to the victors.
Tasslehoff knelt beside Caramon, his hand on the big man’s arm. The kender’s gaze went to the body that lay forgotten on the stone floor. Caramon’s gaze followed. Seeing the pain and anguish in his eyes, Tas felt a lump come to his throat. He couldn’t say a word, he could only pat Caramon’s arm.
“How much did you hear?” Caramon asked thickly.
“Enough,” Tas murmured. “Fistandantilus.”
“He planned this all along,” Caramon sighed and leaned his head back, wearily closing his eyes. “This is how he’ll get rid of us. He won’t even have to do it himself. Just let this … this cleric.…”
“Quarath.”
“Yeah, he’ll let this Quarath kill us.” Caramon’s fists clenched. “The wizard’s hands will be clean! Raistlin will never suspect. And all the time, every fight from now on, I’ll wonder. Is that dagger Kiiri holds real?” Opening his eyes, Caramon looked at the kender. “And you, Tas. You’re in this, too. The dwarf said so. I can’t leave, but you could! You’ve got to get out of here!”
“Where would I go?” Tas asked helplessly. “He’d find me, Caramon. He’s the most powerful magic-user that ever lived. Even kender can’t hide from people like him.”
For a moment the two sat together in silence, the roar of the crowd echoing above them. Then Tas’s eyes caught a gleam of metal across the corridor. Recognizing the object, he rose to his feet and crept over to retrieve it.
“I can get us inside the Temple,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. Picking up the bloodstained dagger, he brought it back and handed it to Caramon.
“I can get us in tonight.”
CHAPTER
8
he silver moon, Solinari, flickered on the hor
izon. Rising up over the central tower of the Temple of the Kingpriest, the moon looked like a candle flame burning on a tall, fluted wick. Solinari was full and bright this night, so bright that the services of the lightwalkers were not needed and the boys who earned their living lighting party-goers from one house to another with their quaint, silver lamps spent the night at home, cursing the bright moonlight that robbed them of their livelihood.
Solinari’s twin, the blood-red Lunitari, had not risen, nor would it rise for several more hours, flooding the streets with its eerie purplish brilliance. As for the third moon, the black one, its dark roundness among the stars was noted by one man, who gazed at it briefly as he divested himself of his black robes, heavy with spell components, and put on the simpler, softer, black sleeping gown. Drawing the black hood up over his head to blot out Solinari’s cold, piercing light, he lay down on his bed and drifted into the restful sleep so necessary to him and his Art.
At least that is what Caramon envisioned him doing as he and the kender walked the moonlit, crowded streets. The night was alive with fun. They passed group after group of merrymakers—parties of men laughing boisterously and discussing the games; parties of women, who clung together and shyly glanced at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes. Their filmy dresses floated around them in the soft breeze that was mild for late autumn. One such group recognized Caramon, and the big man almost ran, fearing they would call guards to take him back to the arena.
But Tas—wiser about the ways of the world—made him stay. The group was enchanted with him. They had seen him fight that afternoon and, already, he had won their hearts. They asked inane questions about the Games, then didn’t listen to his answers—which was just as well. Caramon was so nervous, he made very little sense. Finally they went on their way, laughing and bidding him good fortune. Caramon glanced at the kender wonderingly at this, but Tas only shook his head.
“Why did you think I made you dress up?” he asked Caramon shortly.
Caramon had, in fact, been wondering about this very thing. Tas had insisted that he wear the golden, silken cape he wore in the ring, plus the helmet he had worn that afternoon. It didn’t seem at all suitable for sneaking into Temples—Caramon had visions of crawling through sewers or climbing over rooftops. But when he balked, Tas’s eyes had grown cold. Either Caramon did as he was told or he could forget it, he said sharply.
Caramon, sighing, dressed as ordered, putting the cape on over his regular loose shirt and leather breeches. He put the bloodstained dagger in his belt. Out of habit, he had started to clean it, then stopped. No, it would be more suitable this way.
It had been a simple matter for the kender to unlock their door after Raag locked them in that night, and the two had slipped through the sleeping section of the gladiators’ quarters without incident; most of the fighters either being asleep or—in the case of the minotaurs—roaring drunk.
The two walked the streets openly, to Caramon’s vast discomfort. But the kender seemed unperturbed. Unusually moody and silent, Tas continually ignored Caramon’s repeated questions. They drew nearer and nearer the Temple. It loomed before them in all its pearl and silver radiance, and finally Caramon stopped.
“Wait a minute, Tas,” he said softly, pulling the kender into a shadowy corner, “just how do you plan to get us in here?”
“Through the front doors,” Tas answered quietly.
“The front doors?” Caramon repeated in blank astonishment. “Are you mad? The guards! They’ll stop us—”
“It’s a Temple, Caramon,” Tas said with a sigh. “A Temple to the gods. Evil things just don’t enter.”
“Fistandantilus enters,” Caramon said gruffly.
“But only because the Kingpriest allows it,” Tas said, shrugging. “Otherwise, he couldn’t get in here. The gods wouldn’t permit it. At least that’s what one of the clerics told me when I asked.”
Caramon frowned. The dagger in his belt seemed heavy, the metal was hot against his skin. Just his imagination, he told himself. After all, he’d worn daggers before. Reaching beneath his cloak, he touched it reassuringly. Then, his lips pressed tightly together, he started walking toward the Temple. After a moment’s hesitation, Tas caught up with him.
“Caramon,” said the kender in a small voice, “I-I think I know what you were thinking. I’ve been thinking the same thing. What if the gods won’t let us in?”
“We’re out to destroy evil,” Caramon said evenly, his hand on the dagger’s hilt. “They’ll help us, not hinder us. You’ll see.”
“But, Caramon—” Now it was Tas’s turn to ask questions and Caramon’s turn to grimly ignore him. Eventually, they reached the magnificent steps leading up to the Temple.
Caramon stopped, staring at the building. Seven towers rose to the heavens, as if praising the gods for their creation. But one spiraled above them all. Gleaming in Solinari’s light, it seemed not to praise the gods but sought to rival them. The beauty of the Temple, its pearl and rose-colored marble gleaming softly in the moonlight, its still pools of water reflecting the stars, its vast gardens of lovely, fragrant flowers, its ornamentation of silver and of gold, all took Caramon’s breath away, piercing his heart. He could not move but was held as though spellbound by the wonder.
And then, in the back of his mind, came a lurking feeling of horror. He had seen this before! Only he had seen it in a nightmare—the towers twisted and misshapen.… Confused, he closed his eyes. Where? How? Then, it came to him. The Temple at Neraka, where he’d been imprisoned! The Temple of the Queen of Darkness! It had been this very Temple, perverted by her evil, corrupted, turned to a thing of horror. Caramon trembled. Overwhelmed by this terrible memory, wondering at its portent, he thought for a moment of turning around and fleeing.
Then he felt Tas tug at his arm. “Keep moving!” the kender ordered. “You look suspicious!”
Caramon shook his head, clearing it of stupid memories that meant nothing, he told himself. The two approached the guards at the door.
“Tas!” Caramon said suddenly, gripping the kender by the shoulder so tightly he squeaked in pain. “Tas, this is a test! If the gods let us in, I’ll know we’re doing the right thing! We’ll have their blessing!”
Tas paused. “Do you think so?” he asked hesitantly.
“Of course!” Caramon’s eyes shone in Solinari’s bright light. “You’ll see. Come on.” His confidence restored, the big man strode up the stairs. He was an imposing sight, the golden, silken cape fluttering about him, the golden helmet flashing in the moonlight. The guards stopped talking and turned to watch him. One nudged the other, saying something and making a swift, stabbing motion with his hand. The other guard grinned and shook his head, regarding Caramon with admiration.
Caramon knew immediately what the pantomime represented and he nearly stopped walking, feeling once again the warm blood splash over his hand and hearing the Barbarian’s last, choked words. But he had come too far to quit now. And, perhaps this too was a sign, he told himself. The Barbarian’s spirit, lingering near, anxious for its revenge.
Tas glanced up at him anxiously. “Better let me do the talking,” the kender whispered.
Caramon nodded, swallowing nervously.
“Greetings, gladiator,” called one of the guards. “You’re new to the Games, are you not? I was telling my companion on watch, here, that he missed a pretty fight today. Not only that, but you won me six silver pieces, as well. What is it you are called?”
“He’s the ‘Victor,’ ” Tas said glibly. “And today was just the beginning. He’s never been defeated in battle, and he never will be.”
“And who are you, little cutpurse? His manager?”
This was met by roars of laughter from the other guard and nervous high-pitched laughter from Caramon. Then he glanced down at Tas and knew immediately they were in trouble. Tas’s face was white. Cutpurse! The most dreadful insult, the worst thing in the world one could call a kender! Caramon’s big hand clapped over Tas’s m
outh.
“Sure,” said Caramon, keeping a firm grip on the wriggling kender, “and a good one, too.”
“Well, keep an eye on him,” the other guard added, laughing even harder. “We want to see you slit throats—not pockets!”
Tasslehoff’s ears—the only part visible above Caramon’s wide hand—flushed scarlet. Incoherent sounds came from behind Caramon’s palm. “I-I think we better go on in,” the big warrior stammered, wondering how long he could hold Tas. “We’re late.”
The guards winked at each other knowingly, one of them shook his head in envy. “I saw the women watching you today,” he said, his gaze going to Caramon’s broad shoulders. “I should have known you’d be invited here for—uh—dinner.”
What were they talking about? Caramon’s puzzled look caused the guards to break out in renewed laughter.
“Name of the gods!” One sputtered. “Look at him! He is new!”
“Go ahead,” the other guard waved him on by. “Good appetite!”
More laughter. Flushing red, not knowing what to say and still trying to hold onto Tas, Caramon entered the Temple. But, as he walked, he heard crude jokes pass between the guards, giving him sudden clear insight into their meaning. Dragging the wriggling kender down a hallway, he darted around the first corner he came to. He hadn’t the vaguest idea where he was.
Once the guards were out of sight and hearing, he let Tas go. The kender was pale, his eyes dilated.
“Why, those-those—I’ll—They’ll regret—”
“Tas!” Caramon shook him. “Stop it. Calm down. Remember why we’re here!”
“Cutpurse! As if I were a common thief!” Tas was practically frothing at the mouth. “I—”
Caramon glowered at him, and the kender choked. Getting control of himself, he drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly. “I’m all right, now,” he said sullenly. “I said I’m all right,” he snapped as Caramon continued to regard him dubiously.
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 32
