He sat down. “You two,” he said in dwarven to those with him, “watch the entrance.”
They nodded and retreated quickly, only too glad to leave the vicinity of the black-robed figure and crouch beside the opening, peering out into the shadows. A sudden flare of light made them start up in alarm, however. Their leader raised his arm with a vicious oath, shielding his eyes.
“No light … no light!” he cried in crude Common. Then his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and for a moment all he could make were garbled noises. For the light came, not from torch or candle, but from a flame that burned in the palm of the mage’s cupped hand.
All dwarves are, by nature, suspicious and distrustful of magic. Uneducated, given to superstition, the Dewar were terrified of it and thus even this simple trick that nearly any street illusionist could perform caused the dwarf to suck in his breath in fear.
“I see those I deal with,” Raistlin said in a soft, whispering voice. “Do not fear, this light will not be detected from outside or, if it is, anyone passing will assume I am studying.”
Slowly, the Dewar lowered his arm, blinking his eyes painfully in the brightness of the light. His two associates seated themselves again, even nearer the entrance this time. This Dewar leader was the same one who had attended Duncan’s council meeting. Though his face was stamped with the half-mad, half-calculating cruelty that marked most of his race, there was a glimmer of rational intelligence in his dark eyes that made him particularly dangerous.
These eyes were now assessing the mage across from him, even as the mage assessed him. The Dewar was impressed. He had about as much use for humans as most dwarves. A human magic-user was doubly suspect. But the Dewar was a shrewd judge of character, and he saw in the mage’s thin lips, gaunt face, and cold eyes a ruthless desire for power that he could both trust and understand.
“You … Fistandantilus?” the Dewar growled roughly.
“I am.” The mage closed his hand and the flame vanished, leaving them once more in the darkness—for which the dwarf, at least, was relieved. “And I speak dwarven, so we may converse in your language. I would prefer that, in fact, so that there can be no chance of misunderstanding.”
“Well and good.” The Dewar leaned forward. “I am Argat, thane of my clan. I receive your message. We are interested. But we must know more.”
“Meaning ‘what’s in it for us?’ ” Raistlin said in a mocking voice. Extending his slender hand, he pointed to a corner of his tent.
Looking in the direction indicated, Argat saw nothing. Then an object in one corner of the tent began to glow, softly at first, then with increasing brilliance. Argat once again sucked in his breath, but this time in wonder and disbelief rather than fear.
Suddenly, he cast Raistlin a sharp, suspicious glance.
“By all means, go examine it for yourself,” Raistlin said with a shrug. “You may take it with you tonight, in fact … if we come to terms.”
But Argat was already out of his chair, stumbling over to the corner of the tent. Falling to his knees, he plunged his hands into the coffer of steel coins that shone with a bright, magical gleam. For long moments, he could do nothing but stare at the wealth with glittering eyes, letting the coins run through his fingers. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he stood up and came back to his seat.
“You have plan?”
Raistlin nodded. The magical glow of the coins faded, but there was still a faint glimmer that continually drew the dwarf’s gaze.
“Spies tell us,” said Raistlin, “that Duncan plans to meet our army on the plains in front of Pax Tharkas, intending to defeat us there or, if unable to do so, at least inflict heavy casualties. If we are winning, he will withdraw his forces back into the fortress, close the gates and operate the mechanism that drops thousands of tons of rocks down to block those gates.
“With the stores of food and weapons he has cached there, he can wait until we either give up and retreat or until his own reinforcements arrive from Thorbardin to pen us up in the valley. Am I correct?”
Argat ran his fingers through his black beard. Drawing out his knife, he flipped it into the air and caught it deftly. Glancing at the mage, he stopped suddenly, spreading his hands wide.
“I sorry. A nervous habit,” he said, grinning wickedly. “I hope I not alarm you. If it make you uneasy, I can—”
“If it makes me uneasy, I can deal with it,” Raistlin observed mildly. “Go ahead.” He gestured. “Try it.”
Shrugging, but feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of those strange eyes that he could sense but could not see within the shadows of the black hood, Argat tossed the knife into the air—
A slender, white hand snaked out of the darkness, snatched the knife by the hilt, and deftly plunged the sharp blade into the table between them.
Argat’s eyes glinted. “Magic,” he growled.
“Skill,” said Raistlin coldly. “Now, are we going to continue this discussion or play games that I excelled at in my childhood?”
“Your information accurate,” muttered Argat, sheathing his knife. “That Duncan’s plan.”
“Good. My plan is quite simple. Duncan will be inside the fortress itself. He will not take the field. He will give the command to shut the gates.”
Raistlin sank back into his chair, the tips of his long fingers came together. “When that command comes, the gates will not shut.”
“That easy?” Argat sneered.
“That easy.” Raistlin spread his hands. “Those who would shut them die. All you must do is hold the gates open for minutes only, until we have time to storm them. Pax Tharkas will fall. Your people lay down their arms and offer to join up with us.
“Easy, but for one flaw,” Argat said, eyeing Raistlin shrewdly. “Our homes, families, in Thorbardin. What become of them if we turn traitor?”
“Nothing,” Raistlin said. Reaching into a pouch at his side, the mage pulled forth a rolled scroll tied with black ribbon. “You will have this delivered to Duncan.” Handing it to Argat, he motioned. “Read it.”
Frowning, still regarding Raistlin with suspicion, the dwarf took the roll, untied it, and—carrying it over near the chest of coins—read it by their faint, magical glow.
He looked up at Raistlin, astonished. “This … this in language of my people!”
Raistlin nodded, somewhat impatiently. “Of course, what did you expect? Duncan would not believe it otherwise.”
“But”—Argat gaped—“that language is secret, known only to the Dewar and a few others, such as Duncan, king—”
“Read!” Raistlin gestured irritably. “I haven’t got all night.”
Muttering an oath to Reorx, the dwarf read the scroll. It took him long moments, though the words were few. Stroking his thick, tangled beard, he pondered. Then, rising, he rolled the scroll back up and held it in his hand, tapping it slowly in his palm.
“You’re right. This solve everything.” He sat back down, his dark eyes, fixed on the mage, narrowing. “But I want something else give to Duncan. Not just scroll. Something … impressive.”
“What does your kind consider ‘impressive’?” Raistlin asked his lip curling. “A few dozen hacked-up bodies—”
Argat grinned. “The head of your general.”
There was a long silence. Not a rustle, not a whisper of cloth betrayed Raistlin’s thoughts. He even seemed to stop breathing. The silence lasted until it seemed to Argat to become a living entity itself, so powerful was it.
The dwarf shivered, then scowled. No, he would stick to this demand. Duncan would be forced to proclaim him a hero, like that bastard Kharas.
“Agreed.” Raistlin’s voice was level, without tone or emotion. But, as he spoke, he leaned over the table. Sensing the archmage gliding closer, Argat pulled back. He could see the glittering eyes now, and their deep, black chilling depths pierced him to the very core of his being.
“Agreed,” the mage repeated. “See that you keep your part of the bargain.”
&n
bsp; Gulping, Argat gave a sickly smile. “You not called the Dark One without reason, are you, my friend?” he said, attempting a laugh as he rose to his feet, thrusting the scroll in his belt.
Raistlin did not answer, indicating he had heard only by a rustle of his hood. Shrugging, Argat turned and motioned to his companions, making a commanding gesture at the chest in the corner. Hurrying over, the two shut it and locked it with a key Raistlin drew out of the folds of his robes and silently handed to them. Though dwarves are accustomed to carrying heavy burdens with ease, the two grunted slightly as they lifted the chest. Argat’s eyes shone with pleasure.
The two dwarves preceded their leader from the tent. Bearing their burden between them, they hurried off to the safe shadows of the forest. Argat watched them, then turned back to face the mage, who was, once more, a pool of blackness within blackness.
“Do not worry, friend. We not fail you.”
“No, friend,” said Raistlin softly. “You won’t.”
Argat started, not liking the mage’s tone.
“You see, Argat, that money has been cursed. If you double-cross me, you and anyone else who has touched that money will see the skin of your hands turn black and begin to rot away. And when your hands are a bleeding mass of stinking flesh, the skin of your arms and your legs will blacken. And, slowly, as you watch helplessly, the curse will spread over your entire body. When you can no longer stand on your decaying feet, you will drop over dead.”
Argat made a strangled, inarticulate sound. “You—you’re lying!” he managed to snarl.
Raistlin said nothing. He might very well have disappeared from the tent for all Argat knew. The dwarf couldn’t see the mage or even sense his presence. What he did hear were shouts of laughter from the lodge as the door burst open. Light streamed out, dwarves and men staggered out into the night air.
Cursing under his breath, Argat hurried off.
But, as he ran, he wiped his hands frantically upon his trousers.
CHAPTER
6
awn. Krynn’s sun crept up from behind the mountains slowly, almost as if it knew what ghastly sights it would shed its light upon this day. But time could not be stopped. Finally appearing over the mountains peaks, the sun was greeted with cheers and the clashing of sword against shield by those who were, perhaps, looking upon dawn for the last time in their lives.
Among those who cheered was Duncan, King of the Mountain Dwarves. Standing atop the battlements of the great fortress of Pax Tharkas, surrounded by his generals, Duncan heard the deep, hoarse voices of his men swelling up around him and he smiled with satisfaction. This would be a glorious day.
Only one dwarf was not cheering. Duncan didn’t even have to look at him to be aware of the silence that thundered in his heart as loudly as the cheers thundered in his ears.
Standing apart from the others was Kharas, hero of the dwarves. Tall, splendid in his shining armor, his great hammer clasped in his large hands, he stood staring at the sunrise and, if anyone had looked, they would have seen tears trickling down his face.
But no one looked. Everyone’s gaze carefully avoided Kharas. Not because he wept, though tears are considered a childish weakness by dwarves. No, it was not because Kharas wept that everyone keep their eyes averted from him. It was because, when his tears fell, they trickled unimpeded, down a bare face.
Kharas had shaved his beard.
Even as Duncan’s eyes swept the plains before Pax Tharkas, even as his mind took in the disposition of the enemy, spreading out upon the barren plains, their spear tips glittering in the light of the sun, the Thane could still feel the boundless shock that had overwhelmed his soul that morning when he had seen Kharas take his place upon the battlements, bare-faced. In his hands, the dwarf held the long, curling tresses of his luxurious beard and, as they watched in horror, Kharas hurled them out over the battlements.
A beard is a dwarf’s birthright, his pride, his family’s pride. In deep grief, a dwarf will go through the mourning time without combing his beard, but there is only one thing that will cause a dwarf to shave his beard. And that is shame. It is the mark of disgrace—the punishment for murder, the punishment for stealing, the punishment for cowardice, the punishment for desertion.
“Why?” was all that the stunned Duncan could think of to ask.
Staring out over the mountains, Kharas answered in a voice that split and cracked like rock. “I fight this battle because you order me to fight, Thane. I pledged you my loyalty and I am honor-bound to obey that pledge. But, as I fight, I want all to know that I find no honor in killing my kinsmen, nor even humans who have, more than once, fought at my side. Let all know, Kharas goes forward this day in shame.”
“A fine figure you will look to those you lead!” Duncan responded bitterly.
But Kharas shut his mouth and would say no more.
“Thane!” Several men called at once, diverting Duncan’s attention back to the plains. But he, too, had seen the four figures, tiny as toys from this distance, detach themselves from the army and ride toward Pax Tharkas. Three of the figures carried fluttering flags. The fourth carried only a staff from which beamed a clear, bright light that could be seen in the growing daylight, even at this distance.
Two of the standards Duncan recognized, of course. The banner of the hill dwarves, with its all-too-familiar symbol of anvil and hammer, was repeated in different colors on Duncan’s own banner. The banner of the Plainsmen he had never seen before, but he knew it at once. It suited them—the symbol of the wind sweeping over prairie grass. The third banner, he presumed, must belong to this upstart general who had ridden out of nowhere.
“Humpf!” Duncan snorted, eyeing the banner with its symbol of the nine-pointed star with scorn. “From all we’ve heard, he should be carrying a banner with the sign of the Thieves’ Guild upon it, coupled with a mooing cow!”
The generals laughed.
“Or dead roses,” suggested one. “I hear many renegade Knights of Solamnia ride among his thieves and farmers.”
The four figures galloped across the plain, their standards fluttering behind, their horses’ hooves puffing up clouds of dust.
“The fourth one, in black robes, would be the wizard, Fistandantilus?” Duncan asked gruffly, his heavy brows nearly obliterating his eyes in a frown. Dwarves have no talent for magic and therefore despise and distrust it above all things.
“Yes, Thane,” responded a general.
“Of all of them, I fear him the most,” Duncan muttered in dark tones.
“Bah!” An old general stroked his long beard complacently. “You need not fear this wizard. Our spies tell us his health is poor. He uses his magic rarely, if at all, spending most of his time skulking in his tent. Besides, it would take an army of wizards as powerful as he to take this fortress by magic.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Duncan said, reaching up to stroke his own beard. Catching a glimpse of Kharas out of the corner of his eye, he halted his hand, suddenly uncomfortable, and abruptly clasped his hands behind his back. “Still, keep your eyes on him” He raised his voice. “You sharpshooters—a bag of gold to the one whose arrow lodges in the wizard’s ribs!”
There was a resounding cheer that hushed immediately as the four came to a halt before the fortress. The leader, the general, raised his hand palm outward in the ancient gesture of parley. Striding across the battlements and clambering up onto a block of stone that had been placed there for this very purpose, Duncan placed his hands on his hips, spread his legs, and stared down grimly.
“We would talk!” General Caramon shouted from below. His voice boomed and echoed among the walls of the steep mountains that flanked the fortress.
“All has been said!” Duncan returned, the dwarf’s voice sounding nearly as powerful, though he was about one-fourth the size of the big human.
“We give you one last chance! Restore to your kinsmen what you know to be rightfully theirs! Return to these humans what you have taken from them.
Share your vast wealth. After all, the dead cannot spend it!”
“No, but you living would find a way, wouldn’t you?” Duncan boomed back, sneering. “What we have, we earned by honest toil, working in our homes beneath the mountains, not roaming the land in the company of savage barbarians. Here is our answer!”
Duncan raised his hand. Sharpshooters, ready and waiting, drew back the strings of their bows. Duncan’s hand fell, and a hundred arrows whizzed through the air. The dwarves on the battlements began to laugh, hoping to see the four turn their horses and ride madly for their lives.
But the laughter died on their lips. The figures did not move as the arrows arced toward them. The black-robed wizard raised his hand. Simultaneously, the tip of each arrow burst into flame, the shaft became smoke and, within moments, all dwindled away to nothing in the bright morning air.
“And there is our answer!” The general’s stern, cold voice drifted upwards. Turning his horse, he galloped back to his armies, flanked by the black-robed wizard, the hill dwarf, and the Plainsman.
Hearing his men muttering among themselves and seeing them cast dour, dubious looks at each other, Duncan firmly squelched his own momentary doubt and turned to face them, his beard quivering with rage.
“What is this?” he demanded angrily. “Are you frightened by the tricks of some street illusionist? What am I leading, an army of men—or of children?”
Seeing heads lower and faces flush in embarrassment, Duncan climbed down from his vantage point. Striding across to the other side of the battlements, he looked down into the vast courtyard of the mighty fortress that was formed, not by man-made walls, but by the natural walls of the mountains themselves. Caves lined the sides. Ordinarily, smoke and the sounds of metal being mined and forged into steel would have poured forth from their gaping mouths. But the mines were shut down today, as were the forges.
This morning, the courtyard teemed with dwarves. Dressed in their heavy armor, they bore shields and axes and hammers, favored weapons of the infantry. All heads raised when Duncan appeared and the cheering that had momentarily died began again.
War of the Twins Page 28
