Crysania herself had enough common sense to know that none of the men or their families traveling with the army would listen to her, all of them firmly believing that she was a witch. The thought had crossed her mind that if she could get to people who knew nothing of her, tell them her story, give them the message that the gods had not abandoned man, but that man had abandoned the gods, then they would follow her as they would follow Goldmoon two hundred years later.
But it was not until she had been stung by Raistlin’s harsh words that she had gathered the courage to act. Even now, leading the horse at a walk through the quiet forest in the twilight, she could still hear his voice and see his flashing eyes as he reprimanded her.
I deserved it, she admitted to herself. I had abandoned my faith. I was using my “charms” to try to bring him to me, instead of my example to bring him to Paladine. Sighing, she absently brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. If it had not been for his strength of will, I would have fallen.
Her admiration for the young archmage, already strong, deepened—as Raistlin had foreseen. She determined to restore his faith in her and prove herself worthy, once more, of his trust and regard. For, she feared, blushing, he must have a very low opinion of her now. By returning to camp with a corps of followers, of true believers, she planned not only to show him that he was wrong—that time could be altered by bringing clerics into a world where, before, there were none—but also she hoped to extend her teachings throughout the army itself.
Thinking of this, making her plans, Crysania felt more at peace with herself than she had in the months since they’d come to this time period. For once she was doing something on her own. She wasn’t trailing along behind Raistlin or being ordered about by Caramon. Her spirits rose. By her calculations, she should reach the village just before dark.
The trail she was on had been steadily climbing up the side of the mountain. Now it topped a rise and then dipped down, descending into a small valley. Crysania halted the horse. There, nestled in the valley, she could at last see the village that was her destination.
Something struck her as odd about the village, but she was not yet a seasoned enough traveler to have learned to trust her instincts about such things. Knowing only that she wanted to reach the village before darkness fell, and eager to put her plan into immediate action, Crysania mounted her horse once more and rode down the trail, her hand closing over the medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck.
“Well, what do we do now?” Caramon asked, sitting astride his horse and looking both up and down the stream.
“You’re the expert on women,” Raistlin retorted.
“All right, I made a mistake,” Caramon grumbled. “That doesn’t help us. It’ll be dark soon, and then we’ll never find her trail. I haven’t heard you come up with any helpful suggestions,” he grumbled, glancing at his brother balefully. “Can’t you magic up something?”
“I would have ‘magicked up’ brains for you long ago, if I could have,” Raistlin snapped peevishly. “What would you like me to do—make her appear out thin air or look for her in my crystal ball? No, I won’t waste my strength. Besides it’s not necessary. Have you a map, or did you manage to think that far ahead?”
“I have a map,” Caramon said grimly, drawing it out of his belt and handing it to his brother.
“You might as well water the horses and let them rest,” Raistlin said, sliding off his. Caramon dismounted as well and led the horses to the stream while Raistlin studied the map.
By the time Caramon had tethered the horses to a bush and returned to his brother, the sun was setting. Raistlin held the map nearly up to his nose trying to read it in the dusk. Caramon heard him cough and saw him hunch down into his traveling cloak.
“You shouldn’t be out in the night air,” Caramon said gruffly.
Coughing again, Raistlin gave him a bitter glance. “I’ll be all right.”
Shrugging, Caramon peered over his brother’s shoulder at the map. Raistlin pointed a slender finger at a small spot, halfway up the mountainside.
“There,” he said.
“Why? What would she go to some out-of-the-way place like that for?” Caramon asked, frowning, puzzled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because you have still not seen her purpose!” Raistlin returned. Thoughtfully, he rolled up the map, his eyes staring into the fading light. A dark line appeared between his brows.
“Well?” Caramon prompted skeptically. “What is this great purpose you keep mentioning? What’s the matter?”
“She has placed herself in grave danger,” Raistlin said suddenly, his cool voice tinged with anger. Caramon stared at him in alarm.
“What? How do you know? Do you see—”
“Of course I can’t see, you great idiot!” Raistlin snarled over his shoulder as he walked rapidly to his horse. “I think! I use my brain! She is going to this village to establish the old religion. She is going there to tell them of the true gods!”
“Name of the Abyss!” Caramon swore, his eyes wide. “You’re right, Raist,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ve heard her talk about trying that, now I think of it. I never believed she was serious, though.”
Then, seeing his brother untying his horse and preparing to mount, he hurried forward and laid his hand on his brother’s bridle. “Just a minute, Raist! There’s nothing we can do now. We’ll have to wait until morning.” He gestured into the mountains. “You know as well as I do that we don’t dare ride those wretched trails after dark. We’d be taking a chance on the horses stumbling into a hole and breaking a leg. To say nothing of what lives in these god-forsaken woods.”
“I have my staff for light,” Raistlin said, motioning to the Staff of Magius, snug in its leather carrier on the side of saddle. He started to pull himself up, but a fit of coughing forced him to pause, clinging to the saddle, gasping for breath.
Caramon waited until the spasm eased. “Look, Raist,” he said in milder tones, “I’m just as worried about her as you are—but I think you’re overreacting. Let’s be sensible. It’s not as if she were riding into a den of goblins! That magical light’ll draw to us whatever’s lurking out there in the night like moths to a candleflame. The horses are winded. You’re in no shape to go on, much less fight if we have to. We’ll make camp here for the night. You get some rest, and we’ll start fresh in the morning.”
Raistlin paused, his hands on his saddle, staring at his brother. It seemed as if he might argue, then a coughing fit seized him. His hands slipped to his side, he laid his forehead against the horse’s flank as if too exhausted to move.
“You are right, my brother,” he said, when he could speak.
Startled at this unusual display of weakness, Caramon almost went to help his twin, but checked himself in time—a show of concern would only bring a bitter rebuke. Acting as if nothing were at all amiss, he began untying his brother’s bedroll, chatting along, not really thinking about what he was saying.
“I’ll spread this out, and you rest. We can probably risk a small fire, and you can heat up that potion of yours to help your cough. I’ve got some meat here and a few vegetables Garic threw together for me.” Caramon prattled on, not even realizing what he was saying. “I’ll fix up a stew. It’ll be just like the old days.
“By the gods!” He paused a moment, grinning. “Even though we never knew where our next steel piece was coming from, we still ate well in those days! Do you remember? There was a spice you had. You’d toss it in the pot. What was it?” He gazed off into the distance, as though he could part the mists of time with his eyes. “Do you remember the one I’m talking about? You use it in your spellcasting. But it made damn good stews, too! The name … it was like ours—marjere, marjorie? Hah!”—Caramon laughed—“I’ll never forget the time that old master of yours caught us cooking with his spell components! I thought he’d turn himself inside out!”
Sighing, Caramon went back to work, tugging at the knots. “You know
, Raist,” he said softly, after a moment, “I’ve eaten wondrous food in wondrous places since then—palaces and elf woods and all. But nothing could quite match that. I’d like to try it again, to see if it was like I remember it. It’d be like old times—”
There was a soft rustle of cloth. Caramon stopped, aware that his brother had turned his black hooded head and was regarding him intently. Swallowing, Caramon kept his eyes fixedly on the knots he was trying to untie. He hadn’t meant to make himself vulnerable and now he waited grimly for Raistlin’s rebuke, the sarcastic gibe.
There was another soft rustle of cloth, and then Caramon felt something soft pressed into his hand—a tiny bag.
“Marjoram,” Raistlin said in a soft whisper. “The name of the spice is marjoram.…”
CHAPTER
5
t wasn’t until Crysania rode into the outskirts of the village itself that she realized something was wrong.
Caramon, of course, would have noticed it when he first looked down at the village from the top of the hill. He would have detected the absence of smoke from the cooking fires. He would have noted the unnatural silence—no sounds of mothers calling for children or the plodding thuds of cattle coming in from the fields or neighbors exchanging cheerful greetings after a long day’s work. He would have seen that no smoke rose from the smithy’s forge, wondered uneasily at the absence of candlelight glowing from the windows. Glancing up, he would have seen with alarm the large number of carrion birds in the sky, circling.…
All this Caramon or Tanis Half-Elven or Raistlin or any of them would have noted and, if forced to go on, he would have approached the village with hand on sword or a defensive magic spell on the lips.
But it was only after Crysania cantered into the village and, staring around, wondered where everyone was, that she experienced her first glimmerings of uneasiness. She became aware of the birds, then, as their harsh cries and calls of irritation at her presence intruded on her thoughts. Slowly, they flapped away, in the gathering darkness, or perched sullenly on trees, melting into the shadows.
Dismounting in front of a building whose swinging sign proclaimed it an inn, Crysania tied the horse to a post and approached the front door. If it was an inn, it was a small one, but well-built and neat with ruffled curtains in the windows and a general air of cheery welcome about it that seemed, somehow, sinister in the eerie silence. No light came from the window. Darkness was rapidly swallowing the little town. Crysania, pushing open the door, could barely see inside.
“Hello?” she called hesitantly. At the sound of her voice, the birds outside squawked raucously, making her shiver. “Is anyone here? I’d like a room—”
But her voice died. She knew, without doubt that this place was empty, deserted. Perhaps everyone had left to join the army? She had known of entire villages to do so. But, looking around, she realized that that wasn’t true in this case. There would have been nothing left here except furniture; the people would have taken their possessions with them.
Here, the table was set for dinner.…
Stepping farther inside as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see glasses still filled with wine, the bottles sitting open in the center of the table. There was no food. Some of the dishes had been knocked off and lay broken on the floor, next to some gnawed-on bones. Two dogs and a cat skulking about, looking half-starved, gave her an idea of how that had happened.
A staircase ran up to the second floor. Crysania thought about going up it, but her courage failed her. She would look around the town first. Surely someone was here, someone who could tell her what was going on.
Picking up a lamp, she lit it from the tinder box in her pack, then went back out into the street, now almost totally dark. What had happened? Where was everyone? It did not look as if the town had been attacked. There were no signs of fighting—no broken furniture, no blood, no weapons lying about. No bodies.
Her uneasiness grew as she walked outside the door of the inn. Her horse whinnied at the sight of her. Crysania suppressed a wild desire to leap up on it and ride away as fast as she could. The animal was tired; it could go no farther without rest. It needed food. Thinking of that, Crysania untied it and led it around to the stable behind the inn. It was empty. Not unusual—horses were a luxury these days. But it was filled with straw and there was water, so at least the inn was prepared to receive travelers. Placing her lamp on a stand, Crysania unsaddled her exhausted animal and rubbed it down, crudely and clumsily she knew, having never done it before.
But the horse seemed satisfied enough and, when she left, was munching oats it found in a trough.
Taking her lamp, Crysania returned to the empty, silent streets. She peered into dark houses, looked into darkened shop windows. Nothing. No one. Then, walking along, she heard a noise. Her heart stopped beating for an instant, the lamplight wavered in her shaking hand. She stopped, listening, telling herself it was a bird or an animal.
No, there it was again. And again. It was an odd sound, a kind of swishing, then a plop. Then a swish again, followed by a plop. Certainly there was nothing sinister or threatening about it. But still Crysania stood there, in the center of the street, unwilling to move toward the noise to investigate.
“What nonsense!” she told herself sternly. Angry at herself, disappointed at the failure—apparently—of her plans, and determined to discover what was going on, Crysania boldly walked forward. But her hand, she noted nervously, seemed of its own accord to reach for the medallion of her god.
The sound grew louder. The row of houses and small shops came to an end. Turning a corner, walking softly, she suddenly realized she should have doused her lamplight. But the thought came too late. At the sight of the light, the figure that had been making the odd sound turned abruptly, flung up his arm to shield his eyes, and stared at her.
“Who are you?” the man’s voice called. “What do you want?” He did not sound frightened, only desperately tired, as if her presence were an additional, great burden.
But instead of answering, Crysania walked closer. For now she had figured out what the sound was. He had been shoveling! He held the shovel in his hand. He had no light. He had obviously been working so hard he was not even aware that night had fallen.
Raising her lamp to let the light shine on both of them, Crysania studied the man curiously. He was young, younger than she—probably about twenty or twenty-one. He was human, with a pale, serious face, and he was dressed in robes that, save for some strange, unrecognizable symbol upon them, she would have taken for clerical garb. As she drew nearer, Crysania saw the young man stagger. If his shovel had not been in the ground, he would have fallen. Instead, he leaned upon it, as if exhausted past all endurance.
Her own fears forgotten, Crysania hurried forward to help him. But, to her amazement, he stopped her with a motion of his hand.
“Keep away!” he shouted.
“What?” Crysania asked, startled.
“Keep away!” he repeated more urgently. But the shovel would support him no longer. He fell to his knees, clutching his stomach as if in pain.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Crysania said firmly, recognizing that the young man was ill or injured. Hurrying forward, she started to put her arm around him to help him up when her gaze fell upon what he had been doing.
She halted, staring in horror.
He had been filling in a grave—a mass grave.
Looking down into a huge pit, she saw bodies—men, women, children. There was not a mark upon them, no sign of blood. Yet they were all dead; the entire town, she realized numbly.
And then, turning, she saw the young man’s face, she saw sweat pouring from it, she saw the glazed, feverish eyes. And then she knew.
“I tried to warn you,” he said wearily, choking. “The burning fever.”
“Come along,” said Crysania, her voice trembling with grief. Turning her back firmly on the ghastly sight behind her, she put her arms around the young man. He struggled weakly.
“No! Don’t!” he begged. “You’ll catch it! Die … within hours.…”
“You are sick. You need rest,” she said. Ignoring his protests, she led him away.
“But the grave,” he whispered, his horrified gaze going to the dark sky where the carrion birds circled. “We can’t leave the bodies—”
“Their souls are with Paladine,” Crysania said, fighting back her own nausea at the thought of the gruesome feasting that would soon commence. Already she could hear the cackles of triumph. “Only their shells still lie there. They understand that the living come first.”
Sighing, too weak to argue, the young man bowed his head and put his arm around Crysania’s neck. He was, she noted, unbelievably thin—she scarcely felt his weight at all as he leaned against her. She wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten a good meal.
Walking slowly, they left the gravesite. “My house, there,” he said, gesturing feebly to a small cabin on the edge of the village.
Crysania nodded. “Tell me what happened,” she said, to keep his thoughts and her own from the sound of flapping birds’ wings behind them.
“There’s not much to tell,” he said, shivering with chills. “It strikes quickly, without warning. Yesterday, the children were playing in the yards. Last night, they were dying in their mothers’ arms. Tables were laid for dinner that no one was able to eat. This morning, those who were still able to move dug that grave, their own grave, as we all knew then.…”
His voice failed, a shudder of pain gripping him.
“It will be all right now,” Crysania said. “We’ll get you in bed. Cool water and sleep. I’ll pray.…”
“Prayers!” The young man laughed bitterly. “I am their cleric!” He waved a hand back at the grave. “You see what good prayers have done!”
“Hush, save your strength,” Crysania said as they arrived at the small house. Helping him lie down upon the bed, she shut the door and, seeing a fire laid, lit it with the flame from her lamp. Soon it was blazing. She lit candles and then returned to her patient. His feverish eyes had been following her every move.
War of the Twins: Legends, Volume Two (Dragonlance Legends) Page 19
