War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Still chuckling to himself, the mage walked over and cut the cord that some hunter had tied around the rabbit’s hind leg, catching hold of the animal in his arms. The creature was half-mad with terror, but Raistlin gently stroked its head and murmured soft words. Gradually, the animal grew calm, seeming almost to be in a trance.

  “Well, we took him alive,” Raistlin said, his lips twitching. He held up the rabbit. “I don’t think we’ll get much information out of him, however.”

  So red in the face he gave the impression of having tumbled into a vat of paint, Caramon sat up and began to rub a bruised shoulder.

  “Very funny,” he muttered, glancing up at the animal with a shamefaced grin. The flames in the treetops were dying, though the air was filled with smoke and, here and there, the grass was burning. Fortunately, it had been a damp, rainy autumn, so these small fires died quickly.

  “Nice spell,” Caramon commented, looking up into the glowing remains of the surrounding treetops as, swearing and groaning, he hauled himself to his feet.

  “I’ve always liked it,” Raistlin replied wryly. “Fizban taught it to me. You remember?” Looking up into the smoldering trees, he smiled. “I think that old man would have appreciated this.”

  Cradling the rabbit in his arms, absently petting the soft, silken ears, Raistlin walked from the smoke-filled woods. Lulled by the mage’s caressing fingers and hypnotic words, the rabbit’s eyes closed. Caramon retrieved his sword from the brush where he’d dropped it and followed, limping slightly.

  “Damn snare cut off my circulation.” He shook his foot to try to get the blood going.

  Heavy clouds had rolled in, blotting out the stars and snuffing Lunitari’s flame completely. As the flames in the trees died, the woods were plunged into darkness so thick that neither brother could see the trail ahead.

  “I suppose there is no need for secrecy now,” Raistlin murmured. “Shirak.” The crystal on the top of the Staff of Magius began to glow with a bright, magical brilliance.

  The twins returned to their camp in silence, a companionable, comfortable silence, a silence they had not shared in years. The only sounds in the night were the restless stirring of their horses, the creak and jingle of Caramon’s armor, and the soft rustle of the mage’s black robes as he walked. Behind them, once, they heard a crash—the falling of a charred branch.

  Reaching camp, Caramon ruefully stirred at the remains of their fire, then glanced up at the rabbit in Raistlin’s arms.

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider that breakfast.”

  “I do not eat goblin flesh,” Raistlin answered with a smile, placing the creature down on the trail. At the touch of the cold ground beneath its paws, the rabbit started, its eyes flared open. Staring around for an instant to get its bearings, it suddenly bolted for the shelter of the woods.

  Caramon heaved a sigh, then, chuckling to himself, sat down heavily upon the ground near his bedroll. Removing his boot, he rubbed his bruised ankle.

  “Dulak,” Raistlin whispered and the staff went dark. He laid it beside his bedroll, then laid down, drawing the blankets up around him.

  With the return of darkness, the dream was there. Waiting.

  Raistlin shuddered, his body suddenly convulsed with chills. Sweat covered his brow. He could not, dared not close his eyes! Yet, he was so tired … so exhausted. How many nights had it been since he’d slept? …

  “Caramon,” he said softly.

  “Yeah,” Caramon answered from the darkness.

  “Caramon,” Raistlin said after a moment’s pause, “do … do you remember how, when we were children, I’d have those … those horrible dreams? …” His voice failed him for a moment. He coughed.

  There was no sound from his twin.

  Raistlin cleared his throat, then whispered, “And you’d guard my sleep, my brother. You kept them away.…”

  “I remember,” came a muffled, husky voice.

  “Caramon,” Raistlin began, but he could not finish. The pain and weariness were too much. The darkness seemed to close in, the dream crept from its hiding place.

  And then there was the jingle of armor. A big, hulking shadow appeared beside him. Leather creaking, Caramon sat down beside his brother, resting his broad back against a tree trunk and laying his naked sword across his knees.

  “Go to sleep, Raist,” Caramon said gently. The mage felt a rough, clumsy hand pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll stay up and keep watch.…”

  Wrapping himself in his blankets, Raistlin closed his eyes. Sleep, sweet and restful, stole upon him. The last thing he remembered was a fleeting fancy of the dream approaching, reaching out its bony hands to grasp him, only to be driven back by the light from Caramon’s sword.

  CHAPTER

  7

  aramon’s horse shifted restlessly beneath him as the big man leaned forward in the saddle, staring down into the valley at the village. Frowning darkly, he glanced at his brother. Raistlin’s face was hidden behind his black hood. A steady rain had started about dawn and now dripped dull and monotonously around them. Heavy gray clouds sagged above them, seemingly upheld by the dark, towering trees. Other than the drip of water from the leaves, there was no sound at all.

  Raistlin shook his head. Then, speaking gently to his horse, he rode forward. Caramon followed, hurrying to catch up, and there was the sound of steel sliding from a scabbard.

  “You will not need your sword, my brother,” Raistlin said without turning.

  The horses’ hooves clopped through the mud of the road, their sound thudding too loudly in the thick, rain-soaked air. Despite Raistlin’s words, Caramon kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword until they rode into the outskirts of the small village. Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to his brother, then, cautiously, approached the same small inn Crysania had first seen.

  Peering inside, he saw the table set for dinner, the broken crockery. A dog came dashing up to him hopefully, licking his hand and whimpering. Cats slunk beneath the chairs, vanishing into the shadows with a guilty, furtive air. Absently patting the dog, Caramon was about to walk inside when Raistlin called.

  “I heard a horse. Over there.”

  Sword drawn, Caramon walked around the corner of the building. After a few moments, he returned, his weapon sheathed, his brow furrowed.

  “It’s hers,” he reported. “Unsaddled, fed, and watered.”

  Nodding his hooded head as though he had expected this information, Raistlin pulled his cloak more tightly about him.

  Caramon glanced uneasily about the village. Water dripped from the eaves, the door to the inn swung on rusty hinges, making a shrill squeaking sound. No light came from any of the houses, no sounds of children’s laughter or women calling to each other or men complaining about the weather as they went to their work. “What is it, Raist?”

  “Plague,” said Raistlin.

  Caramon choked and instantly covered his mouth and nose with his cloak. From within the shadows of the cowl, Raistlin’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile.

  “Do not fear, my brother,” he said, dismounting from his horse. Taking the reins, Caramon tied both animals to a post, then came to stand beside his twin. “We have a true cleric with us, have you forgotten?”

  “Then where is she?” Caramon growled in a muffled voice, still keeping his face covered.

  The mage’s head turned, staring down the rows of silent, empty houses. “There, I should guess,” he remarked finally. Caramon followed his gaze and saw a single light flickering in the window of a small house at the other end of the village.

  “I’d rather be walking into a camp of ogres,” Caramon muttered as he and his brother slogged through the muddy, deserted streets. His voice was gruff with a fear he could not hide. He could face with equanimity the prospect of dying with six inches of cold steel in his gut. But the thought of dying helplessly, wasted by something that could not be fought, that floated unseen upon the air, filled the big man with horror.

  Raistli
n did not reply. His face remained hidden. What his thoughts might have been, his brother could not guess. The two reached the end of the row of houses, the rain spattering all around them with thudding plops. They were nearing the light when Caramon happened to glance to his left.

  “Name of the gods!” he whispered as he stopped abruptly and grasped his brother by the arm.

  He pointed to the mass grave.

  Neither spoke. With croaks of anger at their approach, the carrion birds rose into the air, black wings flapping. Caramon gagged. His face pale, he turned hurriedly away. Raistlin continued to stare at the sight a moment, his thin lips tightening into a straight line.

  “Come, my brother,” he said coldly, walking toward the small house again.

  Glancing in at the window, hand on the hilt of his sword, Caramon sighed and, nodding his head, gave his brother a sign. Raistlin pushed gently upon the door, and it opened at his touch.

  A young man lay upon a rumpled bed. His eyes were closed, his hands folded across his chest. There was a look of peace upon the still, ashen face, though the closed eyes were sunken into gaunt cheekbones and the lips were blue with the chill of death. A cleric dressed in robes that might once have been white knelt on the floor beside him, her head bowed on her folded hands. Caramon started to say something, but Raistlin checked him with a hand on his arm, shaking his hooded head, unwilling to interrupt her.

  Silently, the twins stood together in the doorway, the rain dripping around them.

  Crysania was with her god. Intent upon her prayers, she was unaware of the twins’ entrance until, finally, the jingle and creak of Caramon’s armor brought her back to reality. Lifting her head, her dark, tousled hair falling about her shoulders, she regarded them without surprise.

  Her face, though pale with weariness and sorrow, was composed. Though she had not prayed to Paladine to send them, she knew the god answered prayers of the heart as well as those spoken openly. Bowing her head once more, giving thanks, she sighed, then rose to her feet and turned to face them.

  Her eyes met Raistlin’s eyes, the light of the failing fire causing them to gleam even in the depths of his hood. When she spoke, her voice seemed to her to blend with the sound of the falling raindrops.

  “I failed,” she said.

  Raistlin appeared undisturbed. He glanced at the body of the young man. “He would not believe?”

  “Oh, he believed.” She, too, looked down at the body. “He refused to let me heal him. His anger was … very great.” Reaching down, she drew the sheet up over the still form. “Paladine has taken him. Now he understands, I am certain.”

  “He does,” Raistlin remarked. “Do you?”

  Crysania’s head bowed, her dark hair fell around her face. She stood so still for so long that Caramon, not understanding, cleared his throat and shifted uneasily.

  “Uh, Raist—” he began softly.

  “Shh!” Raistlin whispered.

  Crysania raised her head. She had not even heard Caramon. Her eyes were a deep gray now, so dark they seemed to reflect the archmage’s black robes. “I understand,” she said in a firm voice. “For the first time, I understand and I see what I must do. In Istar, I saw belief in the gods lost. Paladine granted my prayer and showed me the Kingpriest’s fatal weakness—pride. The god gave me to know how I might avoid that mistake. He gave me to know that, if I asked, he would answer.

  “But Paladine also showed me, in Istar, how weak I was. When I left the wretched city and came here with you, I was little more than a frightened child, clinging to you in the terrible night. Now, I have regained my strength. The vision of this tragic sight has burned into my soul.”

  As Crysania spoke, she drew nearer Raistlin. His eyes held hers in an unblinking gaze. She saw herself in their flat surface. The medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck shone with a cold, white light. Her voice grew fervent, her hands clasped together tightly.

  “That sight will be before my eyes,” she said softly, coming to stand before the archmage, “as I walk with you through the Portal, armed with my faith, strong in my belief that together you and I will banish darkness from the world forever!”

  Reaching out, Raistlin took hold of her hands. They were numb with cold. He enclosed them in his own slender hands, warming them with his burning touch.

  “We have no need to alter time!” Crysania said. “Fistandantilus was an evil man. What he did, he did for his own personal glory. But we care, you and I. That alone will be sufficient to change the ending. I know—my god has spoken to me!”

  Slowly, smiling his thin-lipped smile, Raistlin brought Crysania’s hands to his mouth and kissed them, never taking his eyes from her.

  Crysania felt her cheeks flush, then caught her breath. With a choked, half-strangled sound, Caramon turned abruptly and walked out the door.

  Standing in the oppressive silence, the rain beating down upon his head, Caramon heard a voice thudding at his brain with the same monotonous, dull tone as the drops spattering about him.

  He seeks to become a god. He seeks to become a god!

  Sick and afraid, Caramon shook his head in anguish. His interest in the army, his fascination with being a “general,” his attraction to Crysania, and all the other, thousand worries had driven from his mind the real reason he had come back. Now—with Crysania’s words—it returned to him, hitting him like a wave of chill sea water.

  Yet all he could think of was Raistlin as he was last night. How long had it been since he’d heard his brother laugh like that? How long had it been since they’d shared that warmth, that closeness? Vividly, he remembered watching Raistlin’s face as he guarded his twin’s sleep. He saw the harsh lines of cunning smooth, the bitter creases around the mouth fade. The archmage looked almost young again, and Caramon remembered their childhood and young manhood together—those days that had been the happiest of his life.

  But then came, unbidden, a hideous memory, as though his soul were taking a perverse delight in torturing and confusing him. He saw himself once more in that dark cell in Istar, seeing clearly, for the first time, his brother’s vast capability for evil. He remembered his firm determination that his brother must die. He thought of Tasslehoff.…

  But Raistlin had explained all that! He had explained things at Istar. Once again, Caramon felt himself foundering.

  What if Par-Salian is wrong, what if they are all wrong? What if Raist and Crysania could save the world from horror and suffering like this?

  “I’m just a jealous, bumbling fool,” Caramon mumbled, wiping the rainwater from his face with a trembling hand. “Maybe those old wizards are all like me, all jealous of him.”

  The darkness deepened about him, the clouds above grew denser, changing from gray to black. The rain beat down more heavily.

  Raistlin came out the door, Crysania with him, her hand on his arm. She was wrapped in her thick cloak, her grayish-white hood drawn up over her head. Caramon cleared his throat.

  “I’ll go bring him out and put him with the others,” he said gruffly, starting for the door. “Then I’ll fill in the grave—”

  “No, my brother,” Raistlin said. “No. This sight will not be hidden in the ground.” He cast back his hood, letting the rain wash over his face as he lifted his gaze to the clouds. “This sight will flare in the eyes of the gods! The smoke of their destruction will rise to heaven! The sound will resound in their ears!”

  Caramon, startled at this unusual outburst, turned to look at his twin. Raistlin’s thin face was nearly as gaunt and pale as the corpse’s inside the small house, his voice tense with anger.

  “Come with me,” he said, abruptly breaking free of Crysania’s hold and striding toward the center of the small village. Crysania followed, holding her hood to keep the slashing wind and rain from blowing it off. Caramon came after, more slowly.

  Stopping in the middle of the muddy, rain-soaked street, Raistlin turned to face Crysania and his brother as they came up to him.

  “Get the h
orses, Caramon—ours and Crysania’s. Lead them to those woods outside of town”—the mage pointed—“blindfold them, then return to me.”

  Caramon stared at him.

  “Do it!” Raistlin commanded, his voice rasping.

  Caramon did as he was told, leading the horses away.

  “Now, stand there,” Raistlin continued when his twin returned. “Do not move from that spot. Do not come close to me, my brother, no matter what happens.” His gaze went to Crysania, who was standing near him, then back to his brother. “You understand, Caramon.”

  Caramon nodded wordlessly and, reaching out, gently took Crysania’s hand.

  “What is it?” she asked, holding back.

  “His magic,” Caramon replied.

  He fell silent as Raistlin cast a sharp, imperious glance at him. Alarmed by the strange, fiercely eager expression on Raistlin’s face, Crysania suddenly drew nearer Caramon, shivering. The big man, his eyes on his frail twin, put his arm around her. Standing together in the pounding rain, almost not daring to breathe lest they disturb him, they watched the archmage.

  Raistlin’s eyes closed. Lifting his face to the heavens, he raised his arms, palms outward, toward the lowering skies. His lips moved, but—for a moment—they could not hear him. Then, though he did not seem to raise his voice, each could begin to make out words—the spidery language of magic. He repeated the same words over and over, his soft voice rising and falling in a chant. The words never changed, but the way he spoke them, the inflection of each, varied every time he repeated the phrase.

  A hush settled over the valley. Even the sound of the falling rain died in Caramon’s ears. All he could hear was the soft chanting, the strange and eerie music of his brother’s voice. Crysania pressed closer still, her dark eyes wide, and Caramon patted her reassuringly.

  As the chanting continued, a feeling of awe crept over Caramon. He had the distinct impression that he was being drawn irresistibly toward Raistlin, that everything in the world was being drawn toward the archmage, though—in looking fearfully around—Caramon saw that he hadn’t moved from the spot. But, turning back to stare at his brother, the feeling returned even more forcibly.