“Not long now,” Kharas said. He was peering out through slits so cunningly carved into the rock that they allowed those in the mound to look out but prevented anyone looking at the outside of the mound from seeing in. “How far do you make the distance?”
This to a dwarf of ancient, scruffy appearance, who glanced out the slits once in a bored fashion, then glanced down the length of the tunnel. “Two hundred, fifty-three steps. Bring you smack up in the center,” he said without hesitation.
Kharas looked back out onto the Plains to where the general’s large tent sat apart from the campfires of his men. It seemed marvelous to Kharas that the old dwarf could judge the distance so accurately. The hero might have expressed doubts, had it been anyone but Smasher. But the elderly thief who had been brought out of retirement expressly for this mission had too great a reputation for performing remarkable feats—a reputation that almost equaled Kharas’s own.
“The sun is setting,” Kharas reported, rather unnecessarily since the lengthening shadows could be seen slanting against the rock walls of the tunnel behind him. “The general returns. He is entering his tent.” Kharas frowned. “By Reorx’s beard, I hope he doesn’t decide to change his habits tonight.”
“He won’t,” Smasher said. Crouched comfortably in a corner, he spoke with the calm certainty of one who had (in former days) earned a living by watching the comings and—more particularly—the goings of his fellows. “First two things you learn when yer breakin’ house—everyone has a routine and no one likes change. Weather’s fine, there’ve been no startlements, nothin’ out there ‘cept sand an’ more sand. No, he won’t change.”
Kharas frowned, not liking this reminder of the dwarf’s lawless past. Well aware of his own limitations, Kharas had chosen Smasher for this mission because they needed someone skilled in stealth, skilled in moving swiftly and silently, skilled in attacking by night, and escaping into the darkness.
But Kharas, who had been admired by the Knights of Solamnia for his honor, suffered pangs of conscience nonetheless. He soothed his soul by reminding himself that Smasher had, long ago, paid for his misdeeds and had even performed several services for his king that made him, if not a completely reputable character, at least a minor hero.
Besides, Kharas said to himself, think of the lives we will save.
Even as he thought this, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You are right, Smasher. Here comes the wizard from his tent and here comes the witch from hers.”
Grasping the handle of his hammer strapped securely to his belt with one hand, Kharas used the other hand to shift a shortsword he had tucked into his belt into a slightly more comfortable position. Finally, he reached into a pouch, drew out a piece of rolled parchment, and with a thoughtful, solemn expression on his beardless face, tucked it into a safe pocket in his leather armor.
Turning to the four dwarves who stood behind him, he said, “Remember, do not harm the woman or the general any more than is necessary to subdue them. But—the wizard must die, and he must die quickly, for he is the most dangerous.”
Smasher grinned and settled back more comfortably. He would not be going along. Too old. That would have insulted him once, but he was of an age now where it came as a compliment. Besides, his knees creaked alarmingly.
“Let them settle in,” the old thief advised. “Let them start their evening meal, relax. Then”—drawing his hand across his throat, he chortled—“two hundred and fifty-three steps.…”
Standing guard duty outside the general’s tent, Garic listened to the silence within. It was more disturbing and seemed to echo louder than the most violent quarrel.
Glancing inside through the tent flap opening, he saw the three sitting together as they did every night, quiet, muttering only occasionally, each one apparently wrapped in his or her own concerns.
The wizard was deeply involved in his studies. Rumor had it that he was planning some great, powerful spells that would blow the gates of Thorbardin wide open. As for the witch, who knew what she was thinking? Garic was thankful, at least, that Caramon was keeping an eye on her.
There had been some weird rumors about the witch among the men. Rumors of miracles performed at Pax Tharkas, of the dead returning to life at her touch, of limbs growing back onto bloody stumps. Garic discounted these, of course. Still, there was something about her these days that made the young man wonder if his first impressions had been correct.
Garic shifted restlessly in the cold wind that swept over the desert. Of the three in the tent, he worried most about his general. Over the past months, the young knight had come to revere and idolize Caramon. Observing him closely, trying to be as much like him as possible, Garic noticed Caramon’s obvious depression and unhappiness which the big man thought he was doing quite well at hiding. For Garic, Caramon had taken the place of the family he had lost, and now the young Knight brooded over Caramon’s sorrow as he would have brooded about an older brother.
“It’s those blasted dark dwarves,” Garic muttered out loud, stomping his feet to keep them from going numb. “I don’t trust ’em, that’s for certain. I’d send them packing, and I’ll bet the general would, too, if it weren’t for his bro—”
Garic stopped, holding his breath, listening.
Nothing. But he could have sworn.…
Hand on the hilt of his sword, the young Knight stared out into the desert. Though hot by day, it was a cold and forbidding place at night. Off in the distance, he saw the campfires. Here and there, he could see the shadows of men passing by.
Then he heard it again. A sound behind him. Directly behind him. The sound of heavy, iron-shod boots.…
“What was that?” Caramon asked, lifting his head.
“The wind,” Crysania muttered, glancing at the tent and shivering, watching as the fabric rippled and breathed like a living thing. “It blows incessantly in this horrid place.”
Caramon half-rose, hand on his sword hilt. “It wasn’t the wind.”
Raistlin glanced up at his brother. “Oh, sit down!” he snarled softly in irritation, “and finish your dinner so that we can end this. I must return to my studies.”
The archmage was going over a particularly difficult spell chant in his mind. He had been wrestling with it for days, trying to discover the correct voice inflection and pronunciation needed to unlock the secrets of the words. So far, they had eluded his grasp and made little sense.
Shoving his still-full plate aside, Raistlin started to stand—
—when the world literally gave way beneath his feet.
As though he were on the deck of a ship sliding down a steep wave, the sandy ground canted away from under foot. Staring down in amazement, the archmage saw a vast hole opening up before him. One of the poles that held up the tent slipped and toppled into it, causing the tent to sag. A lantern hanging from the supports swung wildly, shadows pitching and leaping around like demons.
Instinctively, Raistlin caught hold of the table and managed to save himself from falling into the rapidly widening hole. But, even as he did so, he saw figures crawling up through the hole—squat, bearded figures. For an instant, the wildly dancing light flashed off steel blades, shone in dark, grim eyes. Then the figures were plunged in shadows.
“Caramon!” Raistlin shouted, but he could tell by the sounds behind him—a vicious oath and the rattle of a steel sword sliding from its scabbard—that Caramon was well aware of the danger.
Raistlin heard, too, a strong, feminine voice calling on the name of Paladine, and saw the glimmering outline of pure, white light, but he had no time to worry about Crysania. A huge dwarven warhammer, seemingly wielded by the darkness itself, flashed in the lantern light, aiming right at the mage’s head.
Speaking the first spell that came to his mind, Raistlin saw with satisfaction an invisible force pluck the hammer from the dwarf’s hand. By his command, the magical force carried the hammer through the darkness to drop it with a thud in the corner of the tent.
At first n
umbed by the unexpectedness of the attack, Raistlin’s mind was now active and working. Once the initial shock had passed, the mage saw this as simply another irritating interruption to his studies. Planning to end it quickly, the archmage turned his attention to his enemy, who stood before him, regarding him with eyes that were unafraid.
Feeling no fear himself, calm in the knowledge that nothing could kill him since he was protected by time, Raistlin called upon his magic in cool, unhurried fashion.
He felt it coiling and gathering within his body, felt the ecstasy course through him with a sensual pleasure. This would be a pleasant diversion from his studies, he decided. An interesting exercise … Stretching out his hands, he began to pronounce the words that would send bolts of blue lightning sizzling through his enemy’s writhing body. Then he was interrupted.
With the suddenness of a thunder clap, two figures appeared before him, leaping out of the darkness at him as though they had dropped from a star.
Tumbling at the mage’s feet, one of the figures stared up at him in wild excitement.
“Oh, look! It’s Raistlin! We made it, Gnimsh! We made it! Hey, Raistlin! Bet you’re surprised to see me, huh? And, oh, have I got the most wonderful story to tell you! You see, I was dead. Well, I wasn’t actually, but—”
“Tasslehoff!” Raistlin gasped.
Thoughts sizzled in Raistlin’s mind as the lightning might have sizzled from his fingertips.
The first—a kender! Time could be altered!
The second—Time can be altered.…
The third—I can die!
The shock of these thoughts jolted through Raistlin’s body, burning away the coolness and calmness so necessary to the magic-user for casting his complex spells.
As both the unlooked-for solution to his problem and the frightful realization of what it might cost him penetrated his brain, Raistlin lost control. The words of the spell slipped from his mind. But his enemy still advanced.
Reacting instinctively, his hand shaking, Raistlin jerked his wrist, bringing into his palm the small silver dagger he carried with him.
But it was too late … and too little.
CHAPTER
9
haras’s concentration was completely centered on the man he had vowed to kill. Reacting with the trained single-mindedness of the military mindset, he paid no attention to the startling appearance of the two apparitions, thinking them, perhaps, nothing more than beings conjured up by the archmage.
Kharas saw, at the same time, the wizard’s glittering eyes go blank. He saw Raistlin’s mouth—opened to recite deadly words—hang flaccid and loose, and the dwarf knew that for a few seconds at least, his enemy was at his mercy.
Lunging forward, Kharas drove his shortsword through the black, flowing robes and had the satisfaction of feeling it hit home.
Closing with the stricken mage, he drove the blade deeper and deeper into the human’s slender body. The man’s strange, burning heat enveloped him like a blazing inferno. A hatred and an anger so intense struck Kharas a physical blow, knocking him backward and slamming him into the ground.
But the wizard was wounded—mortally. That much Kharas knew. Staring up from where he lay, looking into those searing, baleful eyes, Kharas saw them burn with fury, but he saw them fill with pain as well. And he saw—by the leaping, swaying light of the lantern—the hilt of his shortsword sticking out of the mage’s gut. He saw the wizard’s slender hands curl around it, he heard him scream in terrible agony. He knew he had no reason to fear. The wizard could harm him no longer.
Stumbling to his feet, Kharas reached out his hand and jerked the sword free. Crying out in bitter anguish, his hands deluged in his own blood, the wizard pitched forward onto the ground and lay still.
Kharas had time to look around then. His men were fighting a pitched battle with the general who, hearing his brother scream, was livid with fear and anger. The witch was nowhere to be seen, the eerie white light that had shone from her was gone, lost in the darkness.
Hearing a strangled sound from his left, Kharas turned to see the two apparitions the archmage had summoned staring down in stunned horror at the wizard’s body. Getting a good look at them, Kharas was startled to see that these demons conjured from the nether planes were nothing more sinister than a kender in bright blue leggings and a balding gnome in a leather apron.
Kharas didn’t have time to ponder this phenomenon. He had accomplished what he came for, at least he had almost. He knew he could never talk to the general, not now. His main concern was getting his men out safely. Running across the tent, Kharas picked up his warhammer and, yelling to his men in dwarven to get out of his way, flung it straight at Caramon.
The hammer struck the man a glancing blow on the head, knocking him out but not killing him. Caramon dropped like a felled ox and, suddenly, the tent was deathly silent.
It had all taken just a few short minutes.
Glancing through the tent flap, Kharas saw the young Knight who stood guard lying senseless upon the ground. There was no sign that anyone sitting around those far-off fires had heard or seen anything unusual.
Reaching up, the dwarf stopped the lantern from swinging and looked around. The wizard lay in a pool of his own blood. The general lay near him, his hand reaching out for his brother as though that had been his last thought before he lost consciousness. In a corner lay the witch, on her back, her eyes closed.
Seeing blood on her robes, Kharas glared sternly at his men. One of them shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Kharas,” the dwarf said, looking down at her and shivering. “But—the light from her was so bright! It split my head open. All I could think of was to stop it. I—I wouldn’t have been able to, but then the wizard screamed and she cried out, and her light wavered. I hit her, then, but not very hard. She’s not hurt badly.”
“All right.” Kharas nodded. “Let’s go.” Retrieving his hammer, the dwarf looked down at the general lying at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, fishing out the little bit of parchment and tucking it into the man’s outstretched hand. “Maybe, sometime, I can explain it to you.” Rising, he looked around. “Everyone all right? Then let’s get out of here.”
His men hurried to the tunnel entrance.
“What about these two?” one asked, stopping by the kender and the gnome.
“Take them,” Kharas said sharply. “We can’t leave them here, they’ll raise the alarm.”
For the first time, the kender seemed to come to life.
“No!” he cried, looking at Kharas with pleading, horrified eyes. “You can’t take us! We just got here! We’ve found Caramon and now we can go home! No, please!”
“Take them!” Kharas ordered sternly.
“No!” the kender wailed, struggling in his captor’s arms. “No, please, you don’t understand. We were in the Abyss and we escaped—”
“Gag him,” Kharas growled, peering down into the tunnel beneath the tent to see that all was well. Motioning for them to hurry, he knelt beside the hole in the ground.
His men descended into the tunnel, dragging the gagged kender, who was still putting up such a fight—kicking with his legs and clawing at them—that they were finally forced to stop and truss him up like a chicken before they could haul him away. They had nothing to worry about with their other captive, however. The poor gnome was so horrified that he had lapsed into a state of shock. Staring around helplessly, his mouth gaping wide open, he quietly did whatever he was told.
Kharas was the last to leave. Before jumping down into the tunnel, he took a final glance about the tent.
The lantern hung quite still now, shedding its soft, glowing light upon a scene from a nightmare. Tables were smashed, chairs were overturned, food was scattered everywhere. A thin trail of blood ran from beneath the body of the black-robed magic-user. Forming a pool at the lip of the hole, the blood began to drip, slowly, down into the tunnel.
Leaping into the hole, Kharas ran a safe distance down the tunne
l, then stopped. Grabbing up the end of a length of rope lying on the tunnel floor, he gave the rope a sharp yank. The opposite end of the rope was tied to one of the support beams right beneath the general’s tent. The jerk on the rope brought the beam tumbling down. There was a low rumble. Then, in the distance, he could see stone falling, and his vision was obscured by a thick cloud of dust.
The tunnel now safely blocked behind him, Kharas turned and hurried after his men.
“General—”
Caramon was on his feet, his big hands reaching out for the throat of his enemy, a snarl contorting his face.
Startled, Garic stumbled backward.
“General!” he cried. “Caramon! It’s me!”
Sudden, stabbing pain and the sound of Garic’s familiar voice penetrated Caramon’s brain. With a moan, he clasped his head in his hands and staggered. Garic caught him as he fell, lowering him safely into a chair.
“My brother?” Caramon said thickly.
“Caramon—I—” Garic swallowed.
“My brother!” Caramon rasped, clenching his fist.
“We took him to his tent,” Garic replied softly. “The wound is—”
“What? The wound is what?” Caramon snarled impatiently, raising his head and staring at Garic with blood-shot, pain-filled eyes.
Garic opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. “M-my father told me about wounds like it,” he mumbled. “Men lingering for days in dreadful agony.…”
“You mean it’s a belly wound,” Caramon said.
Garic nodded and then covered his face with his hand. Caramon, looking at him closely, saw that the young man was deathly white. Sighing, closing his eyes, Caramon braced himself for the dizziness and nausea he knew would assail him when he stood up again. Then, grimly, he rose to his feet. The darkness whirled and heaved around him. He made himself stand steadily and, when it had settled, opened his eyes.
War of the Twins Page 32
