“Ta-tum, ta-tum. My lover’s eyes are the eyes of the doe. Ta-tum, ta-tum. And I am the hunter, closing in …” Bertrem even indulged in an impromptu dance step.
“Ta-tum, ta-tum. I lift my bow and draw my arrow—” Bertrem skipped around a corner. “I loose the shaft. It flies to my lover’s heart and—Ho, there! Who are you?”
Bertrem’s own heart leaped into his throat, very nearly strangling the Aesthetic as he was suddenly confronted with a tall, black-robed and hooded figure standing in the center of the dimly lit marble hall.
The figure did not answer. It simply stared at him in silence.
Gathering his wits and his courage and his robes about him, Bertrem glared at the intruder.
“What business have you here? The Library’s closed! Yes, even to those of the Black Robes.” The Aesthetic frowned and waved a pudgy hand. “Be gone. Return in the morning, and use the front door, like everyone else.”
“Ah, but I am not everyone else,” said the figure, and Bertrem started, for he detected an elvish accent though the words were Solamnic. “As for doors, they are for those without the power to pass through walls. I have that power, as I have the power to do other things, many not so pleasant.”
Bertrem shuddered. This smooth, cool elven voice did not make idle threats.
“You are a dark elf,” Bertrem said accusingly, his brain scrambling about, trying to think what to do. Should he raise the alarm? Yell for help?
“Yes.” The figure removed his black hood so that the magical light imprisoned in the globes hanging from the ceiling—a gift from the magic-users to Astinus given during the Age of Dreams—fell upon his elven features. “My name is Dalamar. I serve—
“Raistlin Majere!” Bertrem gasped. He glanced about uneasily, expecting the black-robed archmage to leap out at him any moment.
Dalamar smiled. The elven features were delicate, handsome. But there was a cold, single-minded purposefulness about them that chilled Bertrem. All thoughts of calling for help vanished from the Aesthetic’s mind.
“Wha-what do you want?” he stammered.
“It is what my master wants,” Dalamar corrected. “Do not be frightened. I am here seeking knowledge, nothing more. If you aid me, I will be gone as swiftly and silently as I have come.”
If I don’t aid him.… Bertrem shivered from head to toe. “I will do what I can, magus,” the Aesthetic faltered, “but you should really talk to.…”
“Me,” came a voice out of the shadows.
Bertrem nearly fainted in relief.
“Astinus!” he babbled, pointing at Dalamar, “this … he … I didn’t let him … appeared … Raistlin Majere …”
“Yes, Bertrem,” Astinus said soothingly. Coming forward, he patted the Aesthetic on the arm. “I know everything that has transpired.” Dalamar had not moved, nor even indicated that he was aware of Astinus’s presence. “Return to your studies, Bertrem,” Astinus continued, his deep baritone echoing through the quiet hallways. “I will handle this matter.”
“Yes, Master!” Bertrem backed thankfully down the hall, his robes fluttering about him, his gaze on the dark elf, who had still neither moved nor spoken. Reaching the corner, Bertrem vanished around it precipitously, and Astinus could hear, by the sounds of his flapping sandals, that he was running down the hallway.
The head of the Great Library of Palanthas smiled, but only inwardly. To the eyes of the dark elf watching him, the man’s calm, ageless face reflected no more emotion than the marble walls about them.
“Come this way, young mage,” Astinus said, turning abruptly and starting off down the hall with a quick, strong stride that belied his middle-aged appearance.
Caught by surprise, Dalamar hesitated, then—seeing he was being left behind—hurried to catch up.
“How do you know what I seek?” the dark elf demanded.
“I am a chronicler of history,” Astinus replied imperturbably “Even as we speak and walk, events transpire around us and I am aware of them. I hear every word spoken, I see every deed committed, no matter how mundane, how good, how evil. Thus I have watched throughout history. As I was the first, so shall I be the last. Now, this way.”
Astinus made a sharp turn to his left. As he did so, he lifted a glowing globe of light from its stand and carried it with him in his hand. By the light, Dalamar could see long rows of books standing on wooden shelves. He could tell by their smooth leather binding that they were old. But they were in excellent condition. The Aesthetics kept them dusted and, when necessary, rebound those particularly worn.
“Here is what you want”—Astinus gestured—“the Dwarfgate Wars”
Dalamar stared. “All these?” He gazed down a seemingly endless row of books, a feeling of despair slowly creeping over him.
“Yes,” Astinus replied coldly, “and the next row of books as well.”
“I—I …” Dalamar was completely at a loss. Surely Raistlin had not guessed the enormity of this task. Surely he couldn’t expect him to devour the contents of these hundreds of volumes within the specified time limit. Dalamar had never felt so powerless and helpless before in his life. Flushing angrily, he sensed Astinus’s icelike gaze upon him.
“Perhaps I can help,” the historian said placidly. Reaching up, without even reading the spine, Astinus removed one volume from the shelf. Opening it, he flipped quickly through the thin, brittle pages, his eyes scanning the row after row of neat precisely written, black-inked letters.
“Ah, here it is.” Drawing an ivory marker from a pocket of his robes, Astinus laid it across a page in the book, shut it carefully, then handed the book to Dalamar. “Take this with you. Give him the information he seeks. And tell him this—‘The wind blows. The footsteps in the sand will be erased, but only after he has trod them.’ ”
The historian bowed gravely to the dark elf, then walked past him, down the row of books to reach the corridor again. Once there, he stopped and turned to face Dalamar, who was standing, staring, clutching the book Astinus had thrust into his hands.
“Oh, young mage. You needn’t come back here again. The book will return of its own accord when you are finished. I cannot have you frightening the Aesthetics. Poor Bertrem will have undoubtedly taken to his bed. Give your Shalafi my greetings.”
Astinus bowed again and disappeared into the shadows.
Dalamar remained standing, pondering, listening to the historian’s slow, firm step fade down the hallway. Shrugging, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and returned to the Tower of High Sorcery.
“What Astinus gave me is his own commentary on the Dwarfgate Wars, Shalafi. It is drawn from the ancient texts he wrote—”
Astinus would know what I need. Proceed.
“Yes, Shalafi. This begins the marked passage—
‘And the great archmage, Fistandantilus, used the dragon orb to call forward in time to his apprentice, instructing him to go the Great Library at Palanthas and read in the books of history there to see if the result of his great undertaking would prove successful.’ ” Dalamar’s voice faltered as he read this and eventually died completely as he re-read this amazing statement.
Continue! came his Shalafi’s voice, and though it resounded more in his mind than his ears, Dalamar did not miss the note of bitter anger. Hurriedly tearing his gaze from the paragraph, written hundreds of years previously, yet accurately reflecting the mission he had just undertaken, Dalamar continued.
“ ‘It is important here to note this: the Chronicles as they existed at that point in time indicate—’
“That part is underscored, Shalafi,” Dalamar interrupted himself.
What part?
“ ‘—at that point in time’ is underscored.”
Raistlin did not reply, and Dalamar, momentarily losing his place, found it and hastened on.
“—‘indicated that the undertaking would have been successful. Fistandantilus, along with the cleric, Denubis, should have been able, from all indications that the great archmage saw,
to safely enter the Portal. What might have happened in the Abyss, of course, is unknown, since the actual historical events transpired differently.
“ ‘Thus, believing firmly that his ultimate goal of entering the Portal and challenging the Queen of Darkness was within his reach, Fistandantilus pursued the Dwarfgate Wars with renewed vigor. Pax Tharkas fell to the armies of the hill dwarves and the Plainsmen. (See Chronicles Volume 126, Book 6, pages 589-700.) Led by Fistandantilus’s great general, Pheragas—the former slave from Northern Ergoth whom the wizard had purchased and trained as a gladiator in the Games at Istar—the Army of Fistandantilus drove back the forces of King Duncan, forcing the dwarves to retreat to the mountain fastness of Thorbardin.
“ ‘Little did Fistandantilus care for this war. It simply served to further his own ends. Finding the Portal beneath the towering mountain fortress known as Zhaman, he established his headquarters there and began the final preparations that would give him the power to enter the forbidden gates, leaving his general to fight the war.
“ ‘What happened at this point is beyond even me to relate with accuracy, since the magical forces at work here were so powerful it obscured my vision.
“ ‘General Pheregas was killed fighting the Dewar, the dark dwarves of Thorbardin. At his death, the Army of Fistandantilus crumbled. The mountain dwarves swarmed out of Thorbardin toward the fortress of Zhaman.
“ ‘During the fighting, aware that the battle was lost and that they had little time, Fistandantilus and Denubis hastened to the Portal. Here the great wizard began to cast his spell.
“ ‘At the same instant, a gnome, being held prisoner by the dwarves of Thorbardin, activated a time-traveling device he had constructed in an effort to escape his confinement. Contrary to every recorded instance in the history of Krynn, this gnomish device actually worked. It worked quite well, in fact.
“ ‘I can only speculate from this point on, but it seems probable that the gnome’s device interacted somehow with the delicate and powerful magical spells being woven by Fistandantilus. The result we know all too clearly.
“ ‘A blast occurred of such magnitude that the Plains of Dergoth were utterly destroyed. Both armies were almost completely wiped out. The towering mountain fortress of Zhaman shattered and fell in upon itself, creating the hill now called Skullcap.
“ ‘The unfortunate Denubis died in the blast. Fistandantilus should have died as well, but his magic was so great that he was able to cling to some portion of life, though his spirit was forced to exist upon another plane until it found the body of a young magic-user named Raistlin Majere.…’ ”
Enough!
“Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar murmured.
And then Raistlin’s voice was gone.
Dalamar, sitting in the study, knew he was alone. Shivering violently, he was completely overawed and amazed by what he had just read. Seeking to make some meaning of it, the dark elf sat in the chair behind the desk—Raistlin’s desk—lost in thought until night’s shadows withdrew and gray dawn lit the sky.
A tremor of excitement made Raistlin’s thin body quiver. His thoughts were confused, he would need a period of cool study and reflection to make absolutely certain of what he had discovered. One phrase shone with dazzling brilliance in his mind—the undertaking would have been successful!
The undertaking would have been successful!
Raistlin sucked in his breath with a gasp, realizing at that point only that he had ceased breathing. His hands upon the dragon orb’s cold surface shook. Exultation swept over him. He laughed the strange, rare laughter of his, for the footsteps he saw in his dream led to a scaffold no longer, but to a door of platinum, decorated with the symbols of the Five-Headed Dragon. At his command, it would open. He had simply to find and destroy this gnome—
Raistlin felt a sharp tug on his hands.
“Stop!” he ordered, cursing himself for losing control.
But the orb did not obey his command. Too late, Raistlin realized he was being drawn inside.…
The hands had undergone a change, he saw as they pulled him closer and closer. They had been unrecognizable before—neither human nor elven, young nor old. But now they were the hands of a female, soft, supple, with smooth white skin and the grip of death.
Sweating, fighting down the hot surge of panic that threatened to destroy him, Raistlin summoned all his strength—both physical and mental—and fought the will behind the hands.
Closer they drew him, nearer and nearer. He could see the face now—a woman’s face, beautiful, dark-eyed; speaking words of seduction that his body reacted to with passion even as his soul recoiled in loathing.
Nearer and nearer.…
Desperately, Raistlin struggled to pull away, to break the grip that seemed so gentle yet was stronger than the bonds of his life force. Deep he delved into his soul, searching the hidden parts—but for what, he little knew. Some part of him, somewhere, existed that would save him.…
An image of a lovely, white-robed cleric wearing the medallion of Paladine emerged. She shone in the darkness and, for a moment, the hands’ grasp loosened—but only for a moment. Raistlin heard a woman’s sultry laughter. The vision shattered.
“My brother!” Raistlin called through parched lips, and an image of Caramon came forward. Dressed in golden armor, his sword flashing in his hands, he stood in front of his twin, guarding him. But the warrior had not taken a step before he was cut down—from behind.
Nearer and nearer.…
Raistlin’s head slumped forward, he was rapidly losing strength and consciousness. And then, unbidden, from the innermost recesses of his soul, came a lone figure. It was not robed in white, it carried no gleaming sword. It was small and grubby and its face was streaked with tears.
In its hand, it held only a dead … very dead … rat.
Caramon arrived back in camp just as the first rays of dawn were spreading through the sky. He had ridden all night and was stiff, tired, and unbelievably hungry.
Fond thoughts of his breakfast and his bed had been comforting him for the last hour, and his face broke into a grin as the camp came into sight. He was about to put the spurs to his weary horse when, looking ahead into the camp itself, the big man reined in his horse and brought his escort to a halt with an upraised hand.
“What’s going on?” he asked in alarm, all thoughts of food vanishing.
Garic, riding up beside him, shook his head, mystified.
Where there should have been lines of smoke rising from morning cooking fires and the disgruntled snorts of men being roused from a night’s sleep, the camp resembled a beehive after a bear’s feast. No cooking fires were lit, people ran about in apparent aimlessness or stood clustered together in groups that buzzed with excitement.
Then someone caught sight of Caramon and let out a yell. The crowd came together and surged forward. Instantly, Garic shouted and, within moments, he and his men had galloped up to form a protective shield of armor-clad bodies around their general.
It was the first time Caramon had seen such a display of loyalty and affection from his men and, for a moment, he was so overcome he could not speak. Then, gruffly clearing his throat, he ordered them aside.
“It’s not a mutiny,” he growled, riding forward as his men reluctantly parted to let him pass. “Look! No one’s armed. Half of ’em are women and children. But—” he grinned at them—“thanks for the thought.”
His gaze went particularly to the young knight, Garic, who flushed with pleasure even as he kept his hand on his sword hilt.
By this time, the outer fringes of the crowd had reached Caramon. Hands grasped his bridle, startling his horse, who—thinking this was battle—pricked its ears dangerously, ready to lash out with its hooves as it had been trained.
“Stand back!” Caramon roared, barely holding the animal in check. “Stand back! Have you all gone mad? You look like just what you are—a bunch of farmers! Stand back, I say! Did your chickens all get loose? What’s the meaning of
this? Where are my officers?”
“Here, sir,” came a voice of one of the captains. Red-faced, embarrassed, and angry, the man shoved his way through the crowd. Chagrined at the reprimand from their commander, the men calmed down and the shouting died to a few mutterings as a group of guards, arriving with the captain, began to try to break up the mob.
“Begging the general’s pardon for all this, sir,” the captain said as Caramon dismounted and patted his horse’s neck soothingly. The animal stood still under Caramon’s touch, though its eyes rolled and its ears still twitched.
The captain was an older man, not a Knight but a mercenary of thirty years’ experience. His face was seamed with scars, he was missing part of his left hand from a slashing sword blow, and he walked with a pronounced limp. This morning, the scarred face was flushed with shame as he faced his young general’s stern gaze.
“The scouts sent word of yer comin’, sir, but afore I could get to you, this pack o’ wild dogs”—he glowered at the retreating men—“lit out for you like you was a bitch in heat. Beggin’ the general’s pardon,” he muttered again, “and meanin’ no disrespect.”
Caramon kept his face carefully composed. “What’s happened?” he asked, leading his tired horse into camp at a walk. The captain did not answer right away but cast a significant glance at Caramon’s escort.
Caramon understood. “Go on ahead, men,” he said, waving his hand. “Garic, see to my quarters.”
When he and the captain were alone—or as alone as possible in the crowded camp where everyone was staring at them in eager curiosity—Caramon turned to question the man with a glance.
The old mercenary said just two words: “The wizard.”
Reaching Raistlin’s tent, Caramon saw with a sinking heart the ring of armed guards surrounding it, keeping back onlookers. There were audible sighs of relief at the sight of Caramon, and many remarks of “General’s here now. He’ll take care of things,” much nodding of heads, and some scattered applause.
War of the Twins Page 25
