Crysania, huddled in her sodden cloak, stood in the foot-deep mud and stared dully at the inn. It was, as Raistlin said, a wretched place.
What the name might have been, no one knew, for no sign hung above the door. The only thing, in fact, that marked it as an inn at all was a crudely lettered slate stuck in the broken front window that read, “WayFarrers WelCum”. The stone building itself was old and sturdily constructed. But the roof was falling in, though attempts had been made, here and there, to patch it with thatch. One window was broken. An old felt hat covered it, supposedly to keep out the rain. The yard was nothing but mud and a few bedraggled weeds.
Raistlin had gone ahead. Now he stood in the open doorway, looking back at Crysania. Light glowed from inside, and the smell of wood smoke promised a fire. As Raistlin’s face hardened into an expression of impatience, a gust of wind blew back the hood of Crysania’s cloak, driving the slashing rain into her face. With a sigh, she slogged through the mud to reach the front door.
“Welcome, master. Welcome, missus.”
Crysania started at the voice that came from beside her—she had not seen anyone when she entered. Turning, she saw an ill-favored man huddling in the shadows behind the door, just as it slammed shut.
“A raw day, master,” the man said, rubbing his hands together in a servile manner. That, a grease-stained apron, and a torn rag thrown over his arm marked him as the innkeeper. Glancing around the filthy, shabby inn, Crysania thought it appropriate enough. The man drew nearer to them, still rubbing his hands, until he was so close to Crysania that she could smell the foul odor of his beery breath. Covering her face with her cloak, she drew away from him. He seemed to grin at this, a drunken grin that might have appeared foolish had it not been for the cunning expression in his squinty eyes.
Looking at him, Crysania felt for a moment that she would almost prefer to go back out into the storm. But Raistlin, with only a sharp, penetrating glance at the innkeeper, said coldly, “A table near the fire.”
“Aye, master, aye. A table near the fire, aye. Good on such a wicked day as this be. Come, master, missus, this way.” Bobbing and bowing in a fawning manner that was, once again, belied by the look in his eyes, the man shuffled sideways across the floor, never taking his gaze from them, herding them toward a dirty table.
“A wizard be ye, master?” asked the innkeeper, reaching out a hand to touch Raistlin’s black robes but withdrawing it immediately at the mage’s piercing glance. “One of the Black ’uns too. It’s been a long while since we’ve seen the like, that it has,” he continued. Raistlin did not answer. Overcome by another fit of coughing, he leaned heavily upon his staff. Crysania helped him to a chair near the fire. Sinking down into it, he huddled gratefully toward the warmth.
“Hot water,” ordered Crysania, untying her wet cloak.
“What be the matter with ’im?” the innkeeper asked suspiciously, drawing back. “Not the burning fever, is it? Cause if it is, ye can go back out—”
“No,” Crysania snapped, throwing off her cloak. “His illness is his own, of no harm to others.” Leaning down near the mage, she glanced back up at the innkeeper. “I asked for hot water,” she said peremptorily.
“Aye.” His lip curled. He no longer rubbed his hands but shoved them beneath the greasy apron before he shuffled off.
Her disgust lost in her concern for Raistlin, Crysania forgot the innkeeper as she tried to make the mage more comfortable. She unfastened his traveling cloak and helped him remove it then spread it to dry before the fire. Searching the inn’s common room, she discovered several shabby chair cushions and, trying to ignore the dirt that covered them, brought them back to arrange around Raistlin so that he could lean back and breathe more easily.
Kneeling beside him to help remove his wet boots, she felt a hand touch her hair.
“Thank you,” Raistlin whispered, as she looked up.
Crysania flushed with pleasure. His brown eyes seemed warmer than the fire, and his hand brushed back the wet hair from her face with a gentle touch. She could not speak or move but remained, kneeling at his side, held fast by his gaze.
“Be you his woman?”
The innkeeper’s harsh voice, coming from behind her, made Crysania start. She had neither seen him approach nor heard his shuffling step. Rising to her feet, unable to look at Raistlin, she turned abruptly to face the fire, saying nothing.
“She is a lady of one of the royal houses of Palanthas,” said a deep voice from the doorway. “And I’ll thank you to speak of her with respect, innkeep.”
“Aye, master, aye,” muttered the innkeeper, seemingly daunted by Caramon’s massive girth as the big man came inside, bringing in a gust of wind and rain with him. “I’m sure I intended no disrespect and I hopes none was taken.”
Crysania did not answer. Half-turning, she said in a muffled voice, “Here, bring that water to the table.”
As Caramon shut the door and came over to join them, Raistlin drew forth the pouch that contained the herbal concoction for his potion. Tossing it onto the table, he directed Crysania, with a gesture, to prepare his drink. Then he sank back among the cushions, his breath wheezing, gazing into the flames. Conscious of Caramon’s troubled gaze upon her, Crysania kept her gaze on the potion she was preparing.
“The horses are fed and watered. We’ve ridden them easy enough, so they’ll be able to go on after an hour’s rest. I want to reach Solanthus before nightfall,” Caramon said after a moment’s uncomfortable silence. He spread his cloak before the fire. The steam rose from it in clouds. “Have you ordered food?” he asked Crysania abruptly.
“No, just the—the hot water,” she murmured, handing Raistlin his drink.
“Innkeep, wine for the lady and the mage, water for me, and whatever you have to eat,” Caramon said, sitting down near the fire on the opposite side of the table from his brother. After weeks of traveling this barren land toward the Plains of Dergoth, they had all learned that one ate what was on hand at these roadside inns, if—indeed—there was anything at all.
“This is only the beginning of the fall storms,” Caramon said quietly to his brother as the innkeeper slouched out of the room again. “They will get worse the farther south we travel. Are you resolved on this course of action? It could be the death of you.”
“What do you mean by that?” Raistlin’s voice cracked. Starting up, he sloshed some of the hot potion from the cup.
“Nothing, Raistlin,” Caramon said, taken aback by his brother’s piercing stare. “Just—just … your cough. It’s always worse in the damp.”
Staring sharply at his twin, and seeing that, apparently, Caramon meant no more than he had said, Raistlin leaned back into the cushions once more. “Yes, I am resolved upon this course of action. So should you be too, my brother. For it is the only way you will ever see your precious home again.”
“A lot of good it will do me if you die on the way,” Caramon growled.
Crysania looked at Caramon in shock, but Raistlin only smiled bitterly. “Your concern touches me, brother. But do not fear for my health. My strength will be sufficient to get there and cast the final spell, if I do not tax myself overly in the meantime.”
“It seems you have someone who will take care you do not do that,” Caramon replied gravely, his gaze on Crysania.
She flushed again and would have made some remark, but the innkeeper returned. Standing beside them, a kettle of some steaming substance in one hand and a cracked pitcher in the other, he regarded them warily.
“Pardon my asking, masters,” he whined, “but I’ll see the color of yer money first. Times being what they are—”
“Here,” said Caramon, taking a coin from his purse and tossing it upon the table. “Will that suit?”
“Aye, masters, aye.” The innkeeper’s eyes shone nearly as brightly as the silver piece. Setting down the kettle and pitcher, slopping stew onto the table, he grabbed the coin greedily, watching the mage all the while as though fearful he might
make it disappear.
Thrusting the coin into his pocket, the innkeeper shuffled behind the slovenly bar and returned with three bowls, three horn spoons, and three mugs. These he also slapped down on the table, then stood back, his hands once more rubbing together. Crysania picked up the bowls and, staring at them in disgust, immediately began to wash them in the remaining hot water.
“Will there be anything else, masters, missus?” the innkeeper asked in such fawning tones that Caramon grimaced.
“Do you have bread and cheese?”
“Yes, master.”
“Wrap some up then, in a basket.”
“Ye’ll be … traveling on, will ye?” the innkeeper asked.
Placing the bowls back upon the table, Crysania looked up, aware of a subtle change in the man’s voice. She glanced at Caramon to see if he noticed, but the big man was stirring the stew, sniffing at it hungrily. Raistlin, seeming not to have heard, stared fixedly into the fire, his hands clasping the empty mug limply.
“We’re certainly not spending the night here,” Caramon said, ladling stew into the bowls.
“Ye’ll find no better lodgings in—Where did you say you was headed?” the innkeeper asked.
“It’s no concern of yours,” Crysania replied coldly. Taking a full bowl of stew, she brought it to Raistlin. But the mage, after one look at the thick, grease-covered substance, waved it away. Hungry as she was, Crysania could only choke down a few mouthfuls of the mixture. Shoving the bowl aside, she wrapped herself in her still-damp cloak and curled up in her chair, closing her eyes and trying not to think that in an hour she’d be back on her horse, riding through the bleak, storm-ridden land once again.
Raistlin had already fallen asleep. The only sounds made were by Caramon, eating the stew with the appetite of an old campaigner, and by the innkeeper, returning to the kitchen to fix the basket as ordered.
Within an hour, Caramon brought the horses round from the stable—three riding horses and one pack horse, heavily laden, its burden covered with a blanket and secured with strong ropes. Helping his brother and Lady Crysania to mount, and seeing them both settled wearily into their saddles, Caramon mounted his own gigantic steed. The innkeeper stood out in the rain, bareheaded, holding the basket. He handed it up to Caramon, grinning and bobbing as the rain soaked through his clothes.
With curt thanks, and tossing another coin that landed in the mud at the innkeeper’s feet, Caramon grabbed the reins of the pack horse and started off. Crysania and Raistlin followed, heavily muffled in their cloaks against the downpour.
The innkeeper, apparently oblivious to the rain, picked up the coin and stood watching them ride away. Two figures emerged from the confines of the stables, joining him.
Tossing the coin in the air, the innkeeper glanced at them. “Tell ’im—they travel the Solanthus road.”
They fell easy victims to the ambush.
Riding in the failing light of the dismal day, beneath thick trees whose branches dripped water monotonously and whose fallen leaves obscured even the sound of their own horses’ footfalls, each was lost in his or her own gloomy thoughts. None heard the galloping of hooves or the ring of bright steel until it was too late.
Before they knew what was happening, dark shapes dropped out of the trees like huge, terrifying birds, smothering them with their black-cloaked wings. It was all done quietly, skillfully.
One clambered up behind Raistlin, knocking the mage unconscious before he could turn. Another dropped from a branch beside Crysania, clasping his hand over her mouth and holding the point of his dagger to her throat. But it took three of them to drag Caramon from his horse and wrestle the big man to the ground, and, when the struggle was finally over, one of the robbers did not get to his feet. Nor would he, ever again, it seemed. He lay quite still in the mud, his head facing the wrong direction.
“Neck’s broke,” reported one of the robbers to a figure who came up—after all was over—to survey the handiwork.
“Neat job of it, too,” the robber commented coolly, eyeing Caramon, who was being held in the grip of four men, his big arms bound with bowstrings. A deep cut on his head bled freely, the rainwater washing the blood down his face. Shaking his head, trying to clear it, Caramon continued to struggle.
The leader, noticing the bulging muscles that strained the strong, wet bowstrings until several of his guards looked at them apprehensively, shook his head in admiration.
Caramon, finally clearing the fuzziness from his head and shaking the blood and rainwater from his eyes, glanced around. At least twenty or thirty heavily armed men stood around them. Looking up at their leader, Caramon breathed a muttered oath. This man was easily the biggest human Caramon had ever seen!
His thoughts went instantly back to Raag and the gladiator arena in Istar. “Part ogre,” he said to himself, spitting out a tooth that had been knocked loose in the fight. Remembering vividly the huge ogre who had helped Arack train the gladiators for the Games, Caramon saw that, though obviously human, this man had a yellow, ogre-ish cast to his skin and the same, flat-nosed face. He was larger than most humans, too—towering head and shoulders over the tall Caramon—with arms like tree trunks. But he walked with an odd gait, Caramon noticed, and he wore a long cloak that dragged the ground, hiding his feet.
Having been taught in the arena to size up an enemy and search out every weakness, Caramon watched the man closely. When the wind blew aside the thick fur cloak that covered him, Caramon saw in astonishment that the man had only one leg. The other was a steel pegleg.
Noticing Caramon’s glance at his pegleg, the half-ogre grinned broadly and took a step nearer the big man. Reaching out a huge hand, the robber patted Caramon tenderly on the cheek.
“I admire a man who puts up a good fight,” he said in a soft voice. Then, with startling swiftness, he doubled his hand into a fist, drew back his arm, and slugged Caramon in the jaw. The force of the blow knocked the big warrior backward, nearly causing those who held him to fall over, too. “But you’ll pay for the death of my man.”
Gathering his long, fur cloak around him, the half-ogre stumped over to where Crysania stood, held securely in the arms of one of the robbers. Her captor still had his hand over her mouth, and, though her face was pale, her eyes were dark and filled with anger.
“Isn’t this nice,” the half-ogre said softly. “A present, and it’s not even Yule.” His laughter boomed through the trees. Reaching out, he caught hold of her cloak and ripped it from her neck. His gaze flicked rapidly over her curving figure, well revealed as the rain soaked instantly through her white robes. His smile widened and his eyes glinted. He reached out a huge hand.
Crysania shrank away from him, but the half-ogre grabbed hold of her easily, laughing.
“Why, what’s this bauble you wear, sweet one?” he asked, his gaze going to the medallion of Paladine she wore around her slender neck. “I find it … unbecoming. Pure platinum, it is!” He whistled. “Best let me keep it for you, dear. I fear that, in the pleasures of our passion, it might get lost—”
Caramon had recovered enough by now to see the half-ogre grasp the medallion in his hand. There was a glint of grim amusement in Crysania’s eyes, though she shuddered visibly at the man’s touch. A flash of pure, white light crackled through the driving rain. The half-ogre clutched at his hand. Drawing it back with a snarl of pain, he released Crysania.
There was a muttering among the men standing watching. The man holding Crysania suddenly loosened his grip and she jerked free, glaring at him angrily and pulling her cloak back around her.
The half-ogre raised his hand, his face twisted in rage. Caramon feared he would strike Crysania, when, at that moment, one of the man yelled out.
“The wizard, he’s comin’ to!”
The half-ogre’s eyes were still on Crysania, but he lowered his hand. Then, he smiled. “Well, witch, you have won the first round, it seems.” He glanced back at Caramon. “I enjoy contests—both in fighting and in love. This
promises to be a night of amusement, all around.”
Giving a gesture, he ordered the man who had been holding Crysania to take her in hand again, and the man did, though Caramon noticed it was with extreme reluctance. The half-ogre walked over to where Raistlin lay upon the ground, groaning in pain.
“Of all of them, the wizard’s the most dangerous. Bind his hands behind his back and gag him,” ordered the robber in a grating voice. “If he so much as croaks, cut out his tongue. That’ll end his spellcasting days for good.”
“Why don’t we just kill him now?” one of the men growled.
“Go ahead, Brack,” said the half-ogre pleasantly, turning swiftly to regard the man who had spoken. “Take your knife and slit his throat.”
“Not with my hands,” the man muttered, backing up a step.
“No? You’d rather I was the one cursed for murdering a Black Robe?” the leader continued, still in the same, pleasant tone. “You’d enjoy seeing my sword hand wither and drop off?”
“I—I didn’t mean that, of course, Steeltoe. I—I wasn’t thinking, that’s all.”
“Then start thinking. He can’t harm us now. Look at him,” Steeltoe gestured to Raistlin. The mage lay on his back, his hands bound in front of him. His jaws had been forced open and a gag tied around his mouth. However, his eyes gleamed from the shadows of his hood in a baleful rage, and his hands clenched in such impotent fury that more than one of the strong men standing about wondered uneasily if such measures were adequate.
Perhaps feeling something of this himself, Steeltoe limped over to where Raistlin lay staring up at him with bitter hatred. As he stopped near the mage, a smile creased the half-ogre’s yellowish face, and he suddenly slammed the steel toe of his pegleg against the side of Raistlin’s head. The mage went limp. Crysania cried out in alarm, but her captor held her fast. Even Caramon was amazed to feel swift, sharp pain contract his heart as he saw his brother’s form lying huddled in the mud.
War of the Twins Page 11
