War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Noticing this unusual look in Duncan’s eyes, Kharas found it impossible to relax and sat fidgeting in his chair, nervously wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand while waiting for the formalities to end.

  They did, quickly. Pouring himself a mug of ale, Duncan drained it at a sitting. Then, placing the mug on the table by his arm, he stroked his beard, staring at Kharas with a dark, somber expression.

  “Kharas,” he said finally, “you told us the wizard was dead.”

  “Yes, Thane,” Kharas replied, startled. “It was a mortal blow I struck him. No man could have survived—”

  “He did,” Duncan replied shortly.

  Kharas scowled. “Are you accusing me—”

  Now it was Duncan who flushed. “No, my friend! Far be it. I am certain that, whatever may have happened, you truly believed you killed him.” Duncan sighed heavily. “But our scouts report seeing him in camp. He was wounded, apparently. At least, he could no longer ride. The army moved on to Zhaman, however, carrying the wizard with them in a cart.”

  “Thane!” Kharas protested, his face flushing in anger. “I swear to you! His blood washed over my hands! I yanked the sword from his body. By Reorx!” The dwarf shuddered. “I saw the death look in his eyes!”

  “I don’t doubt you, son!” Duncan said earnestly, reaching out to pat the young hero’s shoulder. “I never heard of anyone surviving a wound such as you described—except in the old days, of course, when clerics still walked the land.”

  Like all other true clerics, dwarven clerics had also vanished right before the Cataclysm. Unlike other races on Krynn, the dwarves, however, never abandoned their belief in their ancient god, Reorx, the Forger of the World. Although the dwarves were upset with Reorx for causing the Cataclysm, their belief in their god was too deeply ingrained and too much a part of their culture simply to toss out after one minor infraction on the god’s part. Still, they were angered enough to no longer worship him openly.

  “Have you any idea how this might have happened?” Duncan asked, frowning.

  “No, Thane,” Kharas said heavily. “But I did wonder why we hadn’t received a reply from General Caramon.” He pondered. “Has anyone questioned those two prisoners we brought back? They might know something.”

  “A kender and a gnome?” Duncan snorted. “Bah! What could either of those two possibly know? Besides, there is no need to question them. I am not particularly interested in the wizard anyway. In fact, the reason I called you here to tell you this news, Kharas, was to insist that now you forget this talk of peace and concentrate on the war.”

  “There is more to those two than beards, Thane,” Kharas muttered, quoting an old expression. It was obvious he hadn’t heard a word. “I think you should—”

  “I know what you think,” Duncan said grimly. “Apparitions, conjured up by the wizard. And I tell you that’s ridiculous! What self-respecting wizard would ever conjure up a kender? No, they’re servants or something, most likely. It was dark and confused in there. You said so yourself.”

  “I’m not sure,” Kharas replied, his voice soft. “If you had seen the mage’s face when he looked at them! It was the face of one who walks the plains and suddenly sees a coffer of gold and jewels lying in the sand at his feet. Give me leave, Thane,” Kharas said eagerly. “Let me bring them before you. Talk to them, that’s all I ask!”

  Duncan heaved a vast sigh, glaring at Kharas gloomily.

  “Very well,” he snapped. “I don’t suppose it can hurt. But”—Duncan studied Kharas shrewdly—“if this proves to be nothing, will you promise me to give up this wild notion and concentrate on the business of war? It will be a hard fight, son,” Duncan added more gently, seeing the look of true grief on his young hero’s beardless face. “We need you, Kharas.”

  “Aye, Thane,” Kharas said steadily. “I’ll agree. If this proves to be nothing.”

  With a gruff nod, Duncan yelled for his guards and stumped out of the house, followed more slowly by a thoughtful Kharas.

  Traversing the vast underground dwarven kingdom, winding down streets here and up streets there, crossing the Urkhan Sea by boat, they eventually came to the first level of the dungeons. Here were held prisoners who had committed minor crimes and infractions—debtors, a young dwarf who had spoken disrespectfully to an elder, poachers, and several drunks, sleeping off overnight revels. Here, too, were held the kender and the gnome.

  At least, they had been—last night.

  “It all comes,” said Tasslehoff Burrfoot as the dwarven guard prodded him along, “of not having a map.”

  “I thought you said you’d been here before,” Gnimsh grumbled peevishly.

  “Not before,” Tas corrected. “After. Or maybe later would be a better word. About two hundred years later, as near as I can figure. It’s quite a fascinating story, actually. I came here with some friends of mine. Let’s see … that was right after Goldmoon and Riverwind were married and before we went to Tarsis. Or was it after we went to Tarsis?” Tas pondered. “No, it couldn’t have been, because Tarsis was where the building fell on me and—”

  “I’veheardthatstory!” Gnimsh snapped.

  “What?” Tas blinked.

  “I’ve … heard … it!” Gnimsh shouted loudly. His thin, gnomish voice echoed in the underground chamber, causing several passersby to glare at him sternly. Their faces grim, the dwarven guards hurried their recaptured prisoners along.

  “Oh,” Tas said, crestfallen. Then the kender cheered up. “But the king hasn’t and we’re being taken to see him. He’ll probably be quite interested.…”

  “You said we weren’t supposed to say anything about coming from the future,” Gnimsh said in a loud whisper, his long leather apron flapping about his feet. “We’re supposed to act like we belong here, remember?”

  “That was when I thought everything would go right,” Tas said with a sigh. “And everything was going right. The device worked, we escaped from the Abyss—”

  “They let us escape—” Gnimsh pointed out.

  “Well, whatever,” Tas said, irritated at the reminder. “Anyway, we got out, which is all that counts. And the magical device worked, just like you said”—Gnimsh smiled happily and nodded—“and we found Caramon. Just like you said—the device was cali-cala-whatever to return to him—”

  “Calibrated,” Gnimsh interrupted.

  “—but then”—Tas chewed nervously on the end of his topknot of hair—“everything went all wrong, somehow. Raistlin stabbed, maybe dead. The dwarves hauling us off without ever giving me a chance to tell them they were making a serious mistake.”

  The kender trudged along, pondering deeply. Finally, he shook his head. “I’ve thought it over, Gnimsh. I know it’s a desperate act and one I wouldn’t ordinarily resort to, but I don’t think we have any choice. The situation has gotten completely out of hand.” Tas heaved a solemn sigh. “I think we should tell the truth.”

  Gnimsh appeared extremely alarmed at this drastic action, so alarmed, in fact, that he tripped over his apron and fell flat on the ground. The guards, neither of whom spoke Common, hauled him to his feet and dragged the gnome the rest of way, coming at last to a halt before a great, wooden door. Here other guards, eyeing the kender and the gnome with disgust, shoved on the doors, slowly pushing them open.

  “Oh, I’ve been here!” Tas said suddenly. “Now I know where we are.”

  “That’s a big help,” Gnimsh muttered.

  “The Hall of Audience,” Tas continued. “The last time we were here, Tanis got sick. He’s an elf, you know. Well, half an elf, anyway, and he hated living underground.” The kender sighed again. “I wish Tanis was here now. He’d know what to do. I wish someone wise was here now.”

  The guards shoved them inside the great hall. “At least,” Tas said to Gnimsh softly, “we’re not alone. At least we’ve got each other.”

  “Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, bowing before the king of the dwarves, then bowing again to each
of the thanes seated in the stone seats behind and on a lower level than Duncan’s throne. “And this is—”

  The gnome pushed forward eagerly. “Gnimshmari—”

  “Gnimsh!” Tas said loudly, stepping on the gnome’s foot as Gnimsh paused for breath. “Let me do the talking!” the kender scolded in an audible whisper.

  Scowling, Gnimsh lapsed into hurt silence as Tas looked around the hall brightly.

  “Gee, you’re not planning a lot in the way of renovation the next two hundred years, are you? It’s going to look just about the same. Except I seem to remember that crack there—no, over there. Yes, that one. It’s going to get quite a bit bigger in the future. You might want to—”

  “Where do you come from, kender?” Duncan growled.

  “Solace,” said Tas, remembering he was telling the truth. “Oh, don’t worry if you’ve never heard of it. It doesn’t exist yet. They hadn’t heard of it in Istar, either, but that didn’t matter so much because no one cared about anything in Istar that wasn’t there. In Istar, I mean. Solace is north of Haven, which isn’t there either but will be sooner than Solace, if you take my meaning.”

  Duncan, leaning forward, glowered at Tas alarmingly from beneath his thick eyebrows. “You’re lying.”

  “I am not!” Tas said indignantly. “We came here using a magical device that I had borrowed—sort of—from a friend. It worked fine when I had it, but then I accidentally broke it. Well, actually that wasn’t my fault. But that’s another story. At any rate, I survived the Cataclysm and ended up in the Abyss. Not a nice place. Anyway, I met Gnimsh in the Abyss and he fixed it. The device, I mean, not the Abyss. He’s really a wonderful fellow,” Tas continued confidentially, patting Gnimsh on the shoulder. “He’s a gnome, all right, but his inventions work.”

  “So—you are from the Abyss!” Kharas said sternly. “You admit it! Apparitions from the Realms of Darkness! The black-robed wizard conjured you, and you came at his bidding.”

  This startling accusation actually rendered the kender speechless.

  “Wh-wh”—Tas sputtered for a moment incoherently, then found his voice—“I’ve never been so insulted! Except perhaps when the guard in Istar referred to me as a—a cut-cutpur—well, never mind. To say nothing of the fact that if Raistlin was going to conjure up anything, I certainly don’t think it would be us. Which reminds me!” Tas glared back sternly at Kharas. “Why did you go and kill him like that? I mean, maybe he wasn’t what you might call a really nice person. And maybe he did try to kill me by making me break the magical device and then leaving me behind in Istar for the gods to drop a fiery mountain on. But”—Tas sighed wistfully—“he was certainly one of the most interesting people I’ve ever known.”

  “Your wizard isn’t dead, as you well know, apparition!” Duncan growled.

  “Look, I’m not an appari—Not dead?” Tas’s face lit up. “Truly? Even after you stabbed him like that and all the blood and everything and—Oh! I know how! Crysania! Of course! Lady Crysania!”

  “Ah, the witch!” Kharas said softly, almost to himself as the thanes began to mutter among themselves.

  “Well, she is kind of cold and impersonal sometimes,” Tas said, shocked, “but I certainly don’t think that gives you any right to call her names! She’s a cleric of Paladine, after all.”

  “Cleric!” The thanes began to laugh.

  “There’s your answer,” Duncan said to Kharas, ignoring the kender. “Witchcraft.”

  “You are right, of course, Thane,” Kharas said, frowning, “but—”

  “Look,” Tas begged, “if you’d just let me go! I keep trying to tell you dwarves. This is all a dreadful mistake! I’ve got to get to Caramon!”

  That caused a reaction. The thanes immediately hushed.

  “You know General Caramon?” Kharas asked dubiously.

  “General?” Tas repeated. “Wow! Won’t Tanis be surprised to hear that? General Caramon! Tika would laugh.… Uh, of course I know Cara—General Caramon,” Tas continued hurriedly, seeing Duncan’s eyebrows coming together again. “He’s my best friend. And if you’ll only listen to what I’m trying to tell you, Gnimsh and I came here with the magical device to find Caramon and take him home. He doesn’t want to be here, I’m sure. You see, Gnimsh fixed the device so that it will take more than one person—”

  “Take him home where?” Duncan growled. “The Abyss? Perhaps the wizard conjured him up, too!”

  “No!” Tas snapped, beginning to lose patience. “Take him home to Solace, of course. And Raistlin, too, if he wants to go. I can’t imagine what they’re doing here, in fact. Raistlin couldn’t stand Thorbardin the last time we were here, which will be in about two hundred years. He spent the whole time coughing and complaining about the damp. Flint said—Flint Fireforge, that is, an old friend of mine—”

  “Fireforge!” Duncan actually jumped up from his throne, glaring at the kender. “You’re a friend of Fireforge?”

  “Well, you needn’t get so worked up,” Tas said, somewhat startled. “Flint had his faults, of course—always grumbling and accusing people of stealing things when I was truly intending to put that bracelet right back where I found it, but that doesn’t mean you—”

  “Fireforge,” Duncan said grimly, “is the leader of our enemies. Or didn’t you know that?”

  “No,” said Tas with interest, “I didn’t. Oh, but I’m sure it couldn’t be the same Fireforge,” he added after some thought. “Flint won’t be born for at least another fifty years. Maybe it’s his father. Raistlin says—”

  “Raistlin? Who is this Raistlin?” Duncan demanded.

  Tasslehoff fixed the dwarf with a stern eye. “You’re not paying attention. Raistlin is the wizard. The one you killed—Er, the one you didn’t kill. The one you thought you killed but didn’t.”

  “His name isn’t Raistlin. It’s Fistandantilus!” Duncan snorted. Then, his face grim, the dwarven king resumed his seat. “So,” he said, looking at the kender from beneath his bushy eyebrows, “you’re planning to take this wizard who was healed by a cleric when there are no clerics in this world and a general you claim is your best friend back to a place that doesn’t exist to meet our enemy who hasn’t been born yet using a device, built by a gnome, which actually works?”

  “Right!” cried Tas triumphantly. “You see there! Look what you can learn when you just listen!”

  Gnimsh nodded emphatically.

  “Guards! Take them away!” Duncan snarled. Spinning around on his heel, he looked at Kharas coldly. “You gave me your word. I’ll expect to see you in the War Council room in ten minutes.”

  “But, Thane! If he truly knows General Caramon—”

  “Enough!” Duncan was in a rage. “War is coming, Kharas. All your honor and all your noble yammering about slaying kinsmen can’t stop it! And you will be out there on the field of battle or you can take your face that shames us all and hide it in the dungeons along with the rest of the traitors to our people—the Dewar! Which will it be?”

  “I serve you, of course, Thane,” Kharas said, his face rigid. “I have pledged my life.”

  “See you remember that!” Duncan snapped. “And to keep your thoughts from wandering, I am ordering that you be confined to your quarters except to attend the War Council meetings and that, further, these two”—he waved at Tas and Gnimsh—“are to be imprisoned and their whereabouts kept secret until after the war has ended. Death come upon the head of any who defy this command.”

  The thanes glanced at each other, nodding approvingly, though one muttered that it was too late. The guards grabbed hold of Gnimsh and Tas, the kender still protesting volubly as they led him away.

  “I was telling the truth,” he wailed. “You’ve got to believe me! I know it sounds funny, but, you see, I—I’m not quite used to—uh—telling the truth! But give me a while. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it someday.…”

  Tasslehoff wouldn’t have believed it was possible to go down so far beneath the surface of th
e world as the guards were taking them if his own feet hadn’t walked it. He remembered once Flint telling him once that Reorx lived down here, forging the world with his great hammer.

  “A nice, cheerful sort of person he must be,” Tas grumbled, shivering in the cold until his teeth chattered. “At least if Reorx was forging the world, you’d think it’d be warmer.”

  “Trustdwarves,” muttered Gnimsh.

  “What?” It seemed to the kender that he’d spent the last half of his life beginning every sentence he spoke to the gnome with “what?”

  “I said trust dwarves!” Gnimsh returned loudly. “Instead of building their homes in active volcanoes, which, though slightly unstable, provide an excellent source of heat, they build theirs in old dead mountains.” He shook his wispy-haired head. “Hard to believe we’re cousins.”

  Tas didn’t answer, being preoccupied with other matters—like how do we get out of this one, where do we go if we do get out, and when are they likely to serve dinner? There seeming to be no immediate answers to any of these (including dinner), the kender lapsed into a gloomy silence.

  Oh, there was one rather exciting moment—when they were lowered down a narrow rocky tunnel that had been bored straight down into the mountain. The device they used to lower people down this tunnel was called a “lift” by the gnomes, according to Gnimsh. (“Isn’t ‘lift’ an inappropriate name for it when it’s going down?” Tas pointed out, but the gnome ignored him.)

  Since no immediate solution to his problems appeared forthcoming, Tas decided not to waste his time in this interesting place moping about. He therefore enjoyed the journey in the lift thoroughly, though it was rather uncomfortable in spots when the rickety, wooden device—operated by muscular dwarves pulling on huge lengths of rope—bumped against the side of the rocky tunnel as it was being lowered, jouncing the occupants about and inflicting numerous cuts and bruises on those inside.