War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Raistlin stood in the center of the world, his hands outstretched, and all sound, all light, even the air itself, seemed to rush eagerly into his grasp. The ground beneath Caramon’s feet began to pulse in waves that flowed toward the archmage.

  Raistlin lifted his hands higher, his voice rising ever so slightly. He paused, then he spoke each word in the chant slowly, firmly. The winds rose, the ground heaved. Caramon had the wild impression that the world was rushing in upon his brother, and he braced his feet, fearful that he, too, would be sucked into Raistlin’s dark vortex.

  Raistlin’s fingers stabbed toward the gray, boiling heavens. The energy that he had drawn from ground and air surged through him. Silver lightning flashed from his fingers, striking the clouds. Brilliant, jagged light forked down in answer, touching the small house where the body of the young cleric lay. With a shattering explosion, a ball of blue-white flame engulfed the building.

  Again Raistlin spoke and again the silver lightning shot from his fingers. Again another streak of light answered, striking the mage! This time it was Raistlin who was engulfed in red-green flame.

  Crysania screamed. Struggling in Caramon’s grasp, she sought to free herself. But, remembering his brother’s words, Caramon held her fast, preventing her from rushing to Raistlin’s side.

  “Look!” he whispered hoarsely, gripping her tightly. “The flames do not touch him!”

  Standing amidst the blaze, Raistlin lifted his thin arms higher, and the black robes blew around him as though he were in the center of a violent wind storm. He spoke again. Fiery fingers of flame spread out from him, lighting the darkness, ran through the wet grass, dancing on top of the water as though it were covered with oil. Raistlin stood in the center, the hub of a vast, spoked wheel of flame.

  Crysania could not move. Awe and terror such as she had never before experienced paralyzed her. She held onto Caramon, but he offered her no comfort. The two clung together like frightened children as the flames surged around them. Traveling through the streets, the fire reached the buildings and ignited them with one bursting explosion after another.

  Purple, red, blue, and green, the magical fire blazed upward, lighting the heavens, taking the place of the cloud-shrouded sun. The carrion birds wheeled in fear as the tree they had occupied became a living torch.

  Raistlin spoke again, one last time. With a burst of pure, white light, fire leaped down from the heavens, consuming the bodies in the mass grave.

  Wind from the flames gusted about Crysania, blowing the hood from her head. The heat was intense, beating upon her face. The smoke choked her, she could not breathe. Sparks showered around her, flames flickered at her feet until it seemed that she, too, must end up part of the conflagration. But nothing touched her. She and Caramon stood safely in the midst of the blaze. And then Crysania became aware of Raistlin’s gaze upon her.

  From the fiery inferno in which he stood, the mage beckoned.

  Crysania gasped, shrinking back against Caramon.

  Raistlin beckoned again, his black robes flowing about his body, rippling with the wind of the fire storm he had created. Standing within the center of the flames, he held out his hands to Crysania.

  “No!” Caramon cried, holding fast to her. But Crysania, never taking her eyes from Raistlin, gently loosened the big man’s grip and walked forward.

  “Come to me, Revered Daughter!” Raistlin’s soft voice touched her through the chaos and she knew she was hearing it in her heart. “Come to me through the flame. Come taste the power of the gods.…”

  The heat of the blazing fire that enveloped the archmage burned and scorched her soul. It seemed her skin must blacken and shrivel. She heard her hair crackling. Her breath was sucked from her lungs, searing them painfully. But the fire’s light entranced her, the flames danced, luring her forward, even as Raistlin’s soft voice urged her toward him.

  “No!” Behind her, she could hear Caramon cry out, but he was nothing to her, less than the sound of her own heart beating. She reached the curtain of flame. Raistlin extended his hand, but, for an instant, she faltered, hesitating.

  His hand burned! She saw it withering, the flesh black and charred.

  “Come to me, Crysania.…” whispered his voice.

  Reaching out her hand, trembling, she thrust it into the flame. For an instant, there was searing, heart-stopping pain. She cried out in horror and anguish, then Raistlin’s hand closed over hers, drawing her through the blazing curtain. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes.

  Cool wind soothed her. She could breathe sweet air. The only heat she felt was the warm, familiar heat from the mage’s body. Opening her eyes, she saw that she stood close to him. Raising her head, she gazed up into his face … and felt a swift, sharp ache in her heart.

  Raistlin’s thin face glistened with sweat, his eyes reflected the pure, white flame of the burning bodies, his breath came fast and shallow. He seemed lost, unaware of his surroundings. And there was a look of ecstasy on his face, a look of exultation, of triumph.

  “I understand,” Crysania said to herself, holding onto his hands. “I understand. This is why he cannot love me. He has only one love in this life and that is his magic. To this love he will give everything, for this love he will risk everything!”

  The thought was painful, but it was a pleasant kind of melancholy pain.

  “Once again,” she said to herself, her eyes dimming with tears, “he is my example. Too long have I let myself be preoccupied with petty thoughts of this world, of myself. He is right. Now I taste the power of the gods. I must be worthy—of them and of him!”

  Raistlin closed his eyes. Crysania holding onto him, felt the magic drain from him as though his life’s blood were flowing from a wound. His arms fell to his sides. The ball of flame that had enveloped them flickered and died.

  With a sigh that was little more than a whisper, Raistlin sank to his knees upon the scorched ground. The rain resumed. Crysania could hear it hiss as it struck the charred remains of the still-smoldering village. Steam rose into the air, flitting among the skeletons of the buildings, drifting down the street like ghosts of the former inhabitants.

  Kneeling beside the archmage, Crysania smoothed back his brown hair with her hand. Raistlin opened his eyes, looking at her without recognition. And in them she saw deep, undying sorrow—the look of one who has been permitted to enter a realm of deadly, perilous beauty and who now finds himself, once more, cast down into the gray, rain-swept world.

  The mage slumped forward, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply. Crysania looked up at Caramon as the big man hurried over.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “I’m all right,” she whispered. “How is he?”

  Together, they helped Raistlin rise to his feet. He seemed completely unaware of their very existence. Tottering with exhaustion, he sagged against his brother.

  “He’ll be fine. This always happens.” Caramon’s voice died, then he muttered, “Always happens! What I am saying? I’ve never seen anything like that in my life! Name of the gods”—he stared at his twin in awe—“I’ve never seen power like that! I didn’t know! I didn’t know.…”

  Supported by Caramon’s strong arm, Raistlin leaned against his twin. He began to cough, gasping for air, choking until he could barely stand. Caramon held onto him tightly. Fog and smoke swirled about their feet, the rain splashed down around them. Here and there came the crash of burning wood, the hiss of water upon flame. When the coughing fit passed, Raistlin raised his head, life and recognition returning to his eyes.

  “Crysania,” he said softly, “I asked you to do that because you must have implicit faith in me and in my power. If we succeed in our quest, Revered Daughter, then we will enter the Portal and we will walk with our eyes open into the Abyss—a place of horror unimaginable.”

  Crysania began to shiver uncontrollably as she stood before him, held mesmerized by his glittering eyes.

  “You must be strong, Revered Daughter,�
� he continued intently. “And that is the reason I brought you on this journey. I have gone through my own trials. You had to go through yours. In Istar, you faced the trials of wind and water. You came through the trial of darkness within the Tower, and now you have withstood the trial by fire. But one more trial awaits you, Crysania! One more, and you must prepare for it, as must we all.”

  His eyes closed wearily, he staggered. Caramon, his face grim and suddenly haggard, caught hold of his twin and, lifting him, carried him to the waiting horses.

  Crysania hurried after them, her concerned gaze on Raistlin. Despite his weakness, there was a look of sublime peace and exultation on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “He sleeps,” Caramon said, his voice deep and gruff, concealing some emotion she could not guess at.

  Reaching the horses, Crysania stopped a moment, turning to look behind her.

  Smoke rose from the charred ruins of the village. The skeletons of the buildings had collapsed into heaps of pure white ash, the trees were nothing but branched smoke drifting up to the heavens. Even as she watched, the rain beat down upon the ash, changing it to mud, washing it away. The fog blew to shreds, the smoke was swept away on the winds of the storm.

  The village was gone as though it had never been.

  Shivering, Crysania clutched her cloak about her and turned to Caramon, who was placing Raistlin into his saddle, shaking him, forcing him to wake up enough to ride.

  “Caramon,” Crysania said as the warrior came over to help her. “What did Raistlin mean—‘another trial.’ I saw the look on your face when he said it. You know, don’t you? You understand?”

  Caramon did not answer immediately. Next to them, Raistlin swayed groggily in his saddle. finally, his head bowed, the mage lapsed once more into sleep. After assisting Crysania, Caramon walked over to his own horse and mounted. Then, reaching over, he took the reins from the limp hands of his slumbering brother. They rode back up the mountain, through the rain, Caramon never once looking behind at the village.

  In silence, he guided the horses up the trail. Next to him, Raistlin slumped over his mount’s neck. Caramon steadied his brother with a firm, gentle hand.

  “Caramon?” Crysania asked softly as they reached the summit of the mountain.

  The warrior turned to look at Crysania. Then, with a sigh, his gaze went to the south, where, far from them, lay Thorbardin. The storm clouds massed thick and dark upon the distant horizon.

  “It is an old legend that, before he faced the Queen of Darkness, Huma was tested by the gods. He went through the trial of wind, the trial of fire, the trial of water. And his last test,” Caramon said quietly, “was the trial of blood.”

  Song of Huma (Reprise)

  Through cinders and blood, the harvest of dragons,

  Traveled Huma, cradled by dreams of the Silver Dragon,

  The Stag perpetual, a signal before him.

  At last the eventual harbor, a temple so far to the east

  That it lay where the east was ending.

  There Paladine appeared

  In a pool of stars and glory, announcing

  That of all choices, one most terrible had fallen to Huma.

  For Paladine knew that the heart is a nest of yearnings,

  That we can travel forever toward the light, becoming

  What we can never be.

  BOOK 3

  Footsteps In The Sand …

  The Army of Fistandantilus surged southward, reaching Caergoth just as the last of the leaves were blowing from the tree limbs and the chill hand of winter was getting a firm grip upon the land.

  The banks of New Sea brought the army to a halt. But Caramon, knowing he was going to have to cross it, had long had his preparations underway. Turning over command of the main part of the army to his brother and the most trusted of his subordinates, Caramon led a group of his best-trained men to the shores of New Sea. Also with him were all the blacksmiths, woodwrights, and carpenters who had joined the army.

  Caramon made his command post in the city of Caergoth. He had heard of the famous port city all his life—his former life. Three hundred years after the Cataclysm would find it a bustling, thriving harbor town. But now, one hundred years after the fiery mountain had struck Krynn, Caergoth was a town in confusion. Once a small farming community in the middle of the Solamnic Plain, Caergoth was still struggling with the sudden appearance of a sea at its doorstep.

  Looking down from his quarters where the roads in town ended—suddenly—in a precarious drop down steep cliffs to the beaches below, Caramon thought—incongruously—of Tarsis. The Cataclysm had robbed that town of its sea, leaving its boats stranded upon the sands like dying sea birds, while here, in Caergoth, New Sea lapped on what was once plowed ground.

  Caramon thought with longing of those stranded ships in Tarsis. Here, in Caergoth, there were a few boats but not nearly enough for his needs. He sent his men ranging up and down the coast for hundreds of miles, with orders to either purchase or commandeer sea-going vessels of any type, their crews with them, if possible. These they sailed to Caergoth, where the smiths and the craftsmen re-outfitted them to carry as great a load as possible for the short journey across the Straits of Schallsea to Abanasinia.

  Daily, Caramon received reports on the build-up of the dwarven armies—how Pax Tharkas was being fortified; how the dwarves had imported slave labor (gully dwarves) to work the mines and the steel forges day and night, turning out weapons and armor; how these were being carted to Thorbardin and taken inside the mountain.

  He also received reports from the emissaries of the hill dwarves and the Plainsmen. He heard about the great gathering of the tribes in Abanasinia, putting aside blood feuds to fight together for survival. He heard about the preparations of the hill dwarves, who were also forging weapons, using the same gully-dwarf slave labor as their cousins, the mountain dwarves.

  He had even made discreet advances to the elves in Qualinesti. This gave Caramon an eerie feeling, for the man to whom he sent his message was none other than Solostaran, Speaker of the Suns, who had—just weeks ago—died in Caramon’s own time. Raistlin had sneered at hearing of this attempt to draw the elves into the war, knowing full well what their answer would be. The archmage had, however, not been without a secret hope, nurtured in the dark hours of the night, that this time it might prove different.…

  It didn’t.

  Caramon’s men never even had a chance to speak to Solostaran. Before they could dismount from their horses, arrows zinged through the air, thudding into the ground, forming a deadly ring around each of them. Looking into the aspen woods, they could see literally hundreds of archers, each with an arrow nocked and ready. No words were spoken. The messengers left, carrying an elven arrow to Caramon in answer.

  The war itself, in fact, was beginning to give Caramon an eerie feeling. Piecing together what he had heard Raistlin and Crysania discussing, it suddenly occurred to Caramon that everything he was doing had all been done before. The thought was almost as nightmarish to him as to his brother, though for vastly different reasons.

  “I feel as though that iron ring I wore round my neck in Istar had been bolted back on,” Caramon muttered to himself one night as he sat in the inn at Caergoth that he had taken over for his command post. “I’m a slave again, same as I was then. Only this time it’s worse, because—even when I was a slave—at least I had freedom to choose whether I was going to draw breath or not that day. I mean, if I’d wanted to die, I could have fallen on my sword and died! But now I’m not even given that choice, apparently.”

  It was a strange and horrifying concept for Caramon, one he dwelt on and mulled over many nights, one he knew he didn’t understand. He would like to have talked it over with his brother, but Raistlin was back at the inland camp with the army and even if they had been together, Caramon was certain his twin would have refused to discuss it.

  Raistlin, during this time, had been gaining in strength almos
t daily. Following the use of his magical spells that consumed the dead village in a blazing funeral pyre, the arch-mage had laid almost dead to the world for two days. Upon waking from his feverish sleep, he had announced that he was hungry. Within the next few days, he ate more solid food than he had been able to tolerate in months. The cough vanished. He rapidly regained strength and added flesh to his bones.

  But he was still tormented by nightmares that not even the strongest of sleeping potions could banish.

  Day and night, Raistlin pondered his problem. If only he could learn Fistandantilus’s fatal mistake, he might be able to correct it!

  Wild schemes came to mind. The archmage even toyed with the idea of traveling forward to his own time to research, but abandoned the idea almost immediately. If consuming a village in flame had plunged him into exhaustion for two days, the time-travel spell would prove even more wearing. And, though only a day or two might pass in the present while he recuperated, eons would flit by in the past. Finally, if he did make it back, he wouldn’t have the strength needed to battle the Dark Queen.

  And then, just when he had almost given up in despair, the answer came to him.…

  CHAPTER

  1

  aistlin lifted the tent flap and walked out. The guard on duty started and shuffled uncomfortably. The appearance of the archmage was always unnerving, even to those of his own personal guard. No one ever heard him coming. He always seemed to materialize out of the air. The first indication of his presence was the touch of burning fingers upon a bare arm, or soft, whispered words, or the rustle of black robes.

  The wizard’s tent was regarded with wonder and awe though no one had ever seen anything strange emanating from it. Many, of course, watched—especially the children, who secretly hoped to see a horrible monster break free of the archmage’s control and go thundering through the camp, devouring everyone in sight until they were able to tame it with a bit of gingerbread.