“This wasn’t in the histories,” Raistlin murmured to himself, staring down at the wretched little bodies, his brow furrowed. His eyes flashed. “Perhaps,” he breathed, “this means time has already been altered?”
For long moments he sat there, pondering. Then suddenly he understood.
None saw Raistlin’s face, hidden as it was by his hood, or they would have noted a swift, sudden spasm of sorrow and anger pass across it.
“No,” he said to himself bitterly, “the pitiful sacrifice of these poor creatures was left out of the histories not because it did not happen. It was left out simply because—”
He paused, staring grimly down at the small broken bodies. “No one cared.…”
CHAPTER
7
“I must see the general!”
The voice pierced through the soft, warm cloud of sleep that wrapped Caramon like the down-filled comforter on the bed—the first real bed he’d slept in for months.
“Go ’way,” mumbled Caramon and heard Garic say the same thing, or close enough.…
“Impossible. The general is sleeping. He’s not to be disturbed.”
“I must see him. It’s urgent!”
“He hasn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours—”
“I know! But—”
The voices dropped. Good, Caramon thought, now I can go back to sleep. But he found, unfortunately, that the lowered voices only made him more wakeful. Something was wrong, he knew it. With a groan, he rolled over, dragging the pillow on top his head. Every muscle in his body ached; he had been on horseback almost eighteen hours without rest. Surely Garic could handle it.…
The door to his room opened softly.
Caramon squeezed his eyes shut, burrowing farther down into the feather bed. It occurred to him as he did so that, a couple of hundred years from now, Verminaard, the evil Dragon Highlord, would sleep in this very same bed. Had someone wakened him like this, that morning the Heroes had freed the slaves of Pax Tharkas? …
“General,” said Garic’s soft voice. “Caramon.”
There was a muttered oath from the pillow.
Perhaps, when I leave, I’ll put a frog in the bed, Caramon thought viciously. It would be nice and stiff in two hundred years.…
“General,” Garic persisted, “I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but you’re needed in the courtyard at once.”
“What for?” growled Caramon, throwing off the blankets and sitting up, wincing at the soreness in his thighs and back. Rubbing his eyes, he glared at Garic.
“The army, sir. It’s leaving.”
Caramon stared at him. “What? You’re crazy.”
“No, s-sir,” said a young soldier, who had crept in after Garic and now stood behind him, his eyes wide with awe at being in the presence of his commanding officer—despite the fact that the officer was naked and only half-awake. “They—they’re gathering in the courtyard, n-now, sir.… The dwarves and the Plainsmen and … and some of ours.”
“Not the Knights,” Garic added quickly.
“Well … well …” Caramon stammered, then waved his hand. “Tell them to disperse, damn it! This is nonsense.” He swore. “Name of the gods, three-fourths of them were dead drunk last night!”
“They’re sober enough this morning, sir. And I think you should come,” Garic said softly. “Your brother is leading them.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Caramon demanded, his breath puffing white in the chill air. It was the coldest morning of the fall. A thin coat of frost covered the stones of Pax Tharkas, mercifully obliterating the red stains of battle. Wrapped in a thick cloak, dressed only in leather breeches and boots that he had hastily thrown on, Caramon glanced about the courtyard. It was crowded with dwarves and men, all standing quietly, grimly, in ranks, waiting for the order to march.
Caramon’s stern gaze fixed itself on Reghar Fireforge, then shifted to Darknight, chief of the Plainsmen.
“We went over this yesterday,” Caramon said. His voice taut with barely contained anger, he came to stand in front of Reghar. “It’ll take another two days for our supply wagons to catch up. There’s not enough food left here for the march, you told me that yourself last night. And you won’t find so much as a rabbit on the Plains of Dergoth—”
“We don’t mind missing a few meals,” grunted Reghar, the emphasis on the “we” leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Caramon’s love of his dinner was well-known.
This did nothing to improve the general’s humor. Caramon’s face flushed. “What about weapons, you long-bearded fool?” he snapped. “What about fresh water, shelter, food for the horses?”
“We won’t be in the Plains that long,” Reghar returned, his eyes flashing. “The mountain dwarves, Reorx curse their stone hearts, are in confusion. We must strike now, before they can get their forces back together.”
“We went over this last night!” Caramon shouted in exasperation. “This was just a part of their force we faced here. Duncan’s got another whole damn army waiting for you beneath the mountain!”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Reghar snarled surlily, staring southward and folding his arms in front of him. “At any rate, we’ve changed our minds. We’re marching today—with or without you.”
Caramon glanced at Darknight, who had remained silent throughout this conversation. The chief of the Plainsmen only nodded, once. His men, standing behind him, were stern and quiet, though—here and there—Caramon saw a few green-tinged faces and knew that many had not fully recovered from last night’s celebration.
Finally, Caramon’s gaze shifted to a black-robed figure seated on a black horse. Though the figure’s eyes were shadowed by his black hood, Caramon had felt their intense, amused gaze ever since he walked out of the door of the gigantic fortress.
Turning abruptly away from the dwarf, Caramon stalked over to Raistlin. He was not surprised to find Lady Crysania on her horse, muffled in a thick cloak. As he drew nearer, he noticed that the bottom of the cleric’s cloak was stained dark with blood. Her face, barely visible above a scarf she had wound around her neck and chin, was pale but composed. He wondered briefly where she had been and what she had been doing during the long night. His thoughts were centered, however, on his twin.
“This is your doing,” he said in a low voice, approaching Raistlin and laying his hand upon the horse’s neck.
Raistlin nodded complacently, leaning forward over the pommel of the saddle to talk to his brother. Caramon could see his face, cold and white as the frost on the pavement beneath their feet.
“What’s the idea?” Caramon demanded, still in the same low voice, “What’s this all about? You know we can’t march without supplies!”
“You’re playing this much too safely, my brother,” said Raistlin. He shrugged and added, “The supply trains will catch up with us. As for weapons, the men have picked up extra ones here after the battle. Reghar is right—we must strike quickly, before Duncan can get organized.”
“You should have discussed this with me!” Caramon growled, clenching his fist. “I am in command!”
Raistlin looked away, shifting slightly in his saddle. Caramon, standing near him, felt his brother’s body shiver beneath the black robes. “There wasn’t time,” the archmage said after a moment. “I had a dream last night, my brother. She came to me—my Queen … Takhisis.… It is imperative that I reach Zhaman as soon as possible.”
Caramon gazed at his brother in silent, sudden understanding. “They mean nothing to you!” he said softly, gesturing to the men and dwarves standing, waiting behind him. “You’re interested in one thing only, reaching your precious Portal!” His bitter gaze shifted to Crysania, who regarded him calmly, though her gray eyes were dark and shadowed from a sleepless, horror-filled night spent among the wounded and dying. “You, too? You support him in this?”
“The trial of blood, Caramon,” she said softly. “It must be stopped—forever. I have seen the ultimate evil mankind can inflict upon itself.”
> “I wonder!” Caramon muttered, glancing at his twin.
Reaching up with his slender hands, Raistlin slowly drew back the folds of his hood, leaving his eyes visible. Caramon recoiled, seeing himself reflected in the flat surface, seeing his face—haggard, unshaven, his hair uncombed, fluttering raggedly in the wind. And then, as Raistlin stared at him, holding him in an intense gaze as a snake charms a bird, words came into Caramon’s mind.
You know me well my brother. The blood that flows in our veins speaks louder than words sometimes. Yes, you are right. I care nothing for this war. I have fought it for one purpose only, and that is to reach the Portal. These fools will carry me that far. Beyond that, what does it matter to me whether we win or lose?
I have allowed you to play general, Caramon, since you seemed to enjoy your little game. You are, in fact, surprisingly good at it. You have served my purpose adequately. You will serve me still. You will lead the army to Zhaman. When Lady Crysania and I are safely there, I will send you home. Remember this, my brother—the battle on the Plains of Dergoth was lost! You cannot change that!
“I don’t believe you!” Caramon said thickly, staring at Raistlin with wild eyes. “You wouldn’t ride to your own death! You must know something! You—”
Caramon choked, half-strangled. Raistlin drew nearer to him, seeming to suck the words out of his throat.
My counsel is my own to keep! What I know or do not know does not concern you, so do not tax your brain with fruitless speculation.
“I’ll tell them,” Caramon said forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “I’ll tell them the truth!”
Tell them what? That you have seen the future? That they are doomed? Seeing the struggle in Caramon’s anguish-filled face, Raistlin smiled. I think not, my brother. And now, if you ever want to return to your home again, I suggest you go upstairs, put on your armor, and lead your army.
The archmage lifted his hands and pulled his hood down low over his eyes again. Caramon drew in his breath with a gasp, as though someone had dashed cold water in his face. For a moment, he could only stand staring at his twin, shivering with a rage that nearly overpowered him.
All he could think of, at that moment, was Raistlin … laughing with him by the tree … Raistlin holding the rabbit … That camaraderie between them had been real. He would swear it! And yet, this, too, was real. Real and cold and sharp as the blade of a knife shining in the clear light of morning.
And, slowly, the light from that knife blade began to penetrate the clouds of confusion in Caramon’s mind, severing another of the ties that bound him to his brother.
The knife moved slowly. There were many ties to cut.
The first gave in the blood-soaked arena at Istar, Caramon realized. And he felt another part as he stared at his brother in the frost-rimed courtyard of Pax Tharkas.
“It seems I have no choice,” he said, tears of anger and pain blurring the image of his brother in his sight.
“None,” Raistlin replied. Grasping the reins, he made ready to ride off. “There are things I must attend to. Lady Crysania will ride with you, of course, in the vanguard. Do not wait for me. I will ride behind for a time.”
And so I’m dismissed, Caramon said to himself. Watching his brother ride away, he felt no anger anymore, just a dull, gnawing ache. An amputated limb left behind such phantom pain, so he had heard once.…
Turning on his heel, feeling more than hearing the heavy silence that had settled over the courtyard, the general walked alone to his quarters and slowly began to put on his armor.
When Caramon returned, dressed in his familiar golden armor, his cape fluttering in the wind, the dwarves and Plainsmen and the men of his own army raised their voices in a resounding cheer.
Not only did they truly admire and respect the big man, but all credited him with the brilliant strategy that had brought them victory the day before. General Caramon was lucky, it was said, blessed by some god. After all, wasn’t it luck that had kept the dwarves from closing the gates?
Most had felt uncomfortable when it was rumored they might be riding off without him. There had been many dark glances cast at the black-robed wizard, but who dared voice disapproval?
The cheers were immensely comforting to Caramon and, for a moment, he could say nothing. Then, finding his voice, he gruffly issued orders as he made ready to ride.
With a gesture, Caramon called one of the young Knights forward.
“Michael, I’m leaving you here in Pax Tharkas, in command,” he said, pulling on a pair of gloves. The young Knight flushed with pleasure at this unexpected honor, even as he glanced behind at the hole his leaving made in the ranks.
“Sir, I’m only a low-ranking—Surely, someone more qualified—”
Smiling at him sadly, Caramon shook his head. “I know your qualifications, Michael. Remember? You were ready to die to fulfill a command, and you found the compassion to disobey. It won’t be easy, but do the best you can. The women and children will stay here, of course. And I’ll send back any wounded. When the supply trains arrive, see that they’re sent on as quickly as possible.” He shook his head. “Not that it is likely to be soon enough,” he muttered. Sighing, he added, “You can probably hold out the winter here, if you have to. No matter what happens to us.…”
Seeing the Knights glance at each other, their faces puzzled and worried, Caramon abruptly bit off his words. No, his bitter foreknowledge must not be allowed to show. Feigning cheerfulness, therefore, he clapped Michael upon the shoulder, added something brave and inane, then mounted his horse amidst wild yelling.
The yells increased as the standard-bearer raised the army’s standard. Caramon’s banner with its nine-pointed star gleamed brightly in the sun. His Knights formed ranks behind him. Crysania came up to ride with them, the Knights parting, with their usual chivalry, to let her take her place. Though the Knights had no more use for the witch than anyone else in camp, she was a woman, after all, and the Code required them to protect and defend her with their lives.
“Open the gates!” Caramon shouted.
Pushed by eager hands, the gates swung open. Casting a final glance around to see that all was in readiness, Caramon’s eyes suddenly encountered those of his twin.
Raistlin sat upon his black horse within the shadows of the great gates. He did not move nor speak. He simply sat, watching, waiting.
For as long as it took to draw a shared, simultaneous breath, the twins regarded each other intently, then Caramon turned his face away.
Reaching over, he grabbed his standard from his bearer. Holding it high over his head, he cried out one word, “Thorbardin!” The morning sun, just rising above the peaks, burned golden on Caramon’s armor. It sparkled golden on the threads of the banner’s star, glittered golden on the spear tips of the long ranks behind him.
“Thorbardin!” he cried once again and, spurring his horse, he galloped out of the gates.
“Thorbardin!” His cry was echoed by thunderous yells and the clashing of sword against shield. The dwarves began their familiar, eerie, deep-throated chant, “Stone and metal, metal and stone, stone and metal, metal and stone,” stomping their iron-shod feet to it in stirring rhythm as they marched out of the fort in rigid lines.
They were followed by the Plainsmen, who moved in less orderly fashion. Wrapped in their fur cloaks against the chill, they walked in leisurely fashion, sharpening weapons, tying feathers in their hair, or painting strange symbols on their faces. Soon, growing tired of the rigid order, they would drift off the road to travel in their accustomed hunting packs. After the barbarians came Caramon’s troop of farmers and thieves, more than a few of them staggering from the after-effects of last night’s victory party. And finally, bringing up the rear, were their new allies, the Dewar.
Argat tried to catch Raistlin’s eye as he and his men trooped out, but the wizard sat wrapped in black upon his black horse, his face hidden in darkness. The only flesh and blood part of him visible were the slender, wh
ite hands, holding the horse’s reins.
Raistlin’s eyes were not on the Dewar, nor on the army marching past him. They were on the gleaming golden figure riding at the army’s head. And it would have taken a sharper eye than the Dewar’s to note that the wizard’s hands gripped the reins with an unnatural tightness or that the black robes shivered, for just a moment, as if with a soft sigh.
The Dewar marched out, and the courtyard was empty except for the camp followers. The women wiped away their tears and, chatting among themselves, returned to their tasks. The children clambered up onto the walls to cheer the army as long as it was in sight. The gates to Pax Tharkas swung shut at last, sliding smoothly and silently upon their oiled hinges.
Standing on the battlements alone, Michael watched the great army surge southward, their spear tips shining in the morning sun, their warm breath sending up puffs of mist, the chanting of the dwarves echoing through the mountains.
Behind them rode a single, solitary figure, cloaked in black. Looking at the figure, Michael felt cheered. It seemed a good omen. Death now rode behind the army, instead of in front.
The sun shone upon the opening of the gates of Pax Tharkas; it set upon the closing of the gates of the great mountain fastness of Thorbardin. As the water-controlled mechanism that operated the gates groaned and wheezed, part of the mountain itself appeared to slide into place upon command. When shut and sealed, in fact, the gates were impossible to tell from the face of the rock of the mountain itself, so cunning was the craftsmanship of the dwarves who had spent years constructing them.
The shutting of the gates meant war. News of the marching of the Army of Fistandantilus had been reported, carried by spies upon the swift wings of griffons. Now the mountain fastness was alive with activity. Sparks flew in the weapons makers’ shops. Armorers fell asleep, hammers in their hands. The taverns doubled their business overnight as everyone came to boast of the great deeds they would accomplish on the field of battle.
War of the Twins Page 30
