Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  The Mad Baron was the nobleman to whom Caramon and Raistlin were going to present themselves. Caramon carried in a small leather pouch that he wore next to his skin the precious letter of introduction and recommendation written by Antimodes, addressed to Baron Ivor of Langtree. More valuable than steel to the brothers, the letter represented the hopes and plans of both the twins. This letter was their future.

  Antimodes had not told them much about Ivor of Langtree (he had not told them his nickname, thinking that they might find this disquieting). The twins were considerably disconcerted, therefore, when they disembarked from their ship and asked for the way to the barony of Ivor of Langtree. They were met with wide grins and shaking heads and knowing looks and the pronouncements, “Ah, here’s another couple of loonies come to join the Mad Baron.”

  “I do not like this, Caramon,” said Raistlin one night, about two days’ journey from the baron’s castle where, according to one peasant, the Mad Baron was “making a mustard.”

  “I don’t think the fellow meant ‘mustard,’ Raist,” said Caramon. “I think he meant ‘muster.’ It’s what you do when you recruit men for—”

  “I know what the fool meant!” Raistlin interrupted impatiently. He paused a moment to give his complete attention to the rabbit simmering in the stewpot. “And that’s not what I was talking about. What I don’t like is the way we are met with winks and gibes whenever we mention Ivor of Langtree. What did you hear about him in town?”

  Raistlin disliked entering towns, where he was certain to draw stares and gapes and gasps, to become the object of pointing fingers, hooting children, and barking dogs. The twins had taken to making their nightly camp off the road outside of villages, where Raistlin would either rest from the day’s travels or, if he felt well enough, would roam the fields and the woods, searching for herbs that he used for spell components, healing, and cooking. Caramon walked into town for news, supplies, and to check to make certain they were traveling in the right direction.

  At first, Caramon was reluctant to leave his twin alone, but Raistlin assured him that he was in very little danger, and this was true. More than one potential footpad, seeing the sun glisten on Raistlin’s golden skin and glitter in the crystal ball atop the obviously magical staff, had skulked off to try his luck elsewhere. Indeed, the twins were rather disappointed that they had not had a chance to try their newfound martial talents on anyone during the long journey.

  Caramon sniffed hungrily at the rabbit. The twins, short on money, were reduced to eating one meal a day and that was one they had to catch themselves. “Isn’t it done, yet? I’m starving. It looks done to me.”

  “A hare sunning itself on a rock would look done to you,” Raistlin returned. “The potatoes and onions are nowhere near cooked enough, and the meat must stew another half hour, at least.”

  Caramon sighed and tried to forget the rumblings in his stomach by answering his brother’s earlier question.

  “It is kind of odd,” he admitted. “Whenever I ask about Ivor of Langtree, everyone laughs and makes cracks about the Mad Baron, but they don’t seem to talk about him in a bad way, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I do not,” Raistlin said, glowering. He had a low opinion of his brother’s powers of observation.

  “The men smile, and the woman sigh and say he’s a lovely gentlemen. And if he’s mad, then some other parts of Ansalon we’ve been through could use his kind of madness. The roads here are maintained, the people are well fed, their houses are well built and kept in repair. No beggars in the streets. No bandits on the highways. Crops in the fields. Here’s what I’ve been thinking—”

  “You! Thinking!” Raistlin snorted.

  Caramon didn’t hear. He was concentrating on the pot, trying to hurry the rabbit.

  “What were you thinking?” Raistlin asked at last.

  “Huh? I dunno. Let me see … Yeah, I remember. I was thinking that maybe they called this Ivor the Mad Baron the same way we used to call Weird Meggin, Weird Meggin. I mean, I always thought the woman was cracked, but you said she wasn’t and that she was malingered.”

  “Maligned,” Raistlin corrected, casting a severe eye on his brother.

  “That’s it!” Caramon returned, nodding sagely. “That’s what I meant to say. They mean the same thing, don’t they?”

  Raistlin gazed out to the road, where a steady stream of men, young and old, walked or rode, all headed for Langtree Castle, where the baron had his training grounds. Many of the men were obviously veterans, such as the two Raistlin was watching now. Both wore chain-mail corselets over leather tunics, lined with strips of leather at the bottom, which formed a short skirt. Swords rattled at their hips, their arms and faces and legs—bare beneath the tunic—were seamed with great ugly weals. The two veterans had come across a friend, apparently, for the three men flung their arms around each other, slapped each other on the back.

  Caramon let out a wistful sigh. “Would you look at those battle scars! Someday—”

  “Hush!” Raistlin ordered peremptorily. “I want to listen to what they’re saying.” He drew back his hood in order to hear better.

  “So, it looks like you did well for yourself over the winter,” said one of the men, eyeing his friend’s broad stomach.

  “Too well!” said the other, groaning. He wiped sweat from his forehead, though the sun was setting and the night air was cool. “Between Marria’s cooking and the tavern’s ale”—he shook his head gloomily—“and the fact that my chain mail shrank—”

  “Shrank!” His friends hooted in derision.

  “So it did,” said the other, aggrieved. “You remember that time at the Munston siege when I had to stand guard duty in the pouring rain? The damn chain mail’s pinched me ever since. My brother-in-law’s a blacksmith, and he said he’d seen many a mail shirt shrink in the wet. Why do you think the smith dunks his swords in water when he’s forging them, answer me that?” He glared at his comrades. “To make the metal tighten up, that’s why.”

  “I see,” said one of the men, winking at the other. “And I’ll bet he also told you to throw out that old chain mail and order a whole new set.”

  “Well, sure,” said the rotund soldier. “I couldn’t be joining up with the Mad Baron wearing shrunken chain mail now, could I?”

  “No, no!” said his friends, rolling their eyes and grinning out of the corners of their mouths.

  “Besides,” said the other, “there were the moth holes.”

  “Moth holes!” one said, about to burst from suppressed laughter. “Moth holes in your armor?”

  “Iron moths,” said the soldier with dignity. “When I found holes in my mail, I thought they were caused by defective links, but my brother-in-law said that no, the links were fine. It’s just that there are these moths that eat iron. …”

  This proved too much. One of the men collapsed in the road, wiping his streaming eyes. The other leaned weakly against a tree.

  “Iron moths,” said Caramon, deeply impressed. He glanced worriedly at his own brand-new, shiny chain-mail corselet, which he had purchased prior to leaving Haven and of which he was enormously proud. “Raist, take a look, will you? Are there any—”

  “Hush!” Raistlin shot his brother a furious glance, and Caramon meekly subsided.

  “Well, don’t worry,” said one of the men, slapping his chubby friend on the back. “Master Quesnelle will march that lard off you soon enough.”

  “Don’t I know it!” The man sighed deeply. “What’s in store for us this summer? Any jobs in the offing? Have either of you heard?”

  “Naw.” One of the men shrugged. “Who cares? The Mad Baron picks his fights well. So long as the pay’s good.”

  “Which it will be,” said another. “Five steel a week, per man.”

  Caramon and Raistlin exchanged glances.

  “Five steel!” said Caramon, awed. “That’s more in a week than I earned in months working on the farm.”

  “I am beginning to thin
k you are right, my brother,” said Raistlin quietly. “If this baron is mad, there should be more lunatics like him.”

  Raistlin continued to watch the veterans. All this time, they had been standing in the road, laughing and exchanging the latest gossip. Eventually they fell into step—by force of habit—and marched down the road. No sleeping out-of-doors for these men, Raistlin reflected. No dining on scrawny rabbit and seed potatoes, which the twins had purchased with the last of their money from a farmer’s wife. These men had steel in their purses, they would spend the night in a comfortable inn.

  “Raist … can we eat yet?” Caramon asked.

  “If you do not mind undercooked rabbit, I suppose we can. Watch out! Use the—”

  “Ouch!” Caramon snatched back burned fingers, stuck them in his mouth. “Hot,” he mumbled, sucking on them.

  “It’s one of the characteristics of boiling water,” Raistlin observed caustically. “Here! Use the ladle! No, I don’t want any meat. Just some of the broth and potatoes. And when you are finished, fix my tea for me.”

  “Sure, Raist,” said Caramon between mouthfuls. “But you should eat some meat. Keep up your strength. You’ll need it when it comes to fighting.”

  “I will not be involved in any actual physical fighting, Caramon.” Raistlin smiled disdainfully at his brother’s ignorance. “From what I have read, the war wizard stands off to the sidelines, a good distance from the battle, surrounded by soldiers to protect him. This enables him to cast spells in relative safety. Since spellcasting requires such intense concentration, the wizard cannot risk being distracted.”

  “I’ll be there to watch out for you, Raist,” Caramon said, when he could speak, having rendered himself momentarily speechless by shoving a whole potato in his mouth.

  Raistlin sighed and thought back to the time when he had been so sick with pneumonia. He remembered his twin tiptoeing into the room in the night, drawing the blankets up around Raistlin’s shoulders. There had been times when Raistlin was shivering with chills, when this attention had been most welcome. But there had been other times, when the fever burned hot, that Raistlin thought the blankets were meant to suffocate him.

  In memory of his illness, he began to cough, coughed until his ribs ached and tears stood in his eyes. Caramon was all concern, watched him anxiously.

  Raistlin cast aside the bowl containing his uneaten broth and wrapped himself, shivering, in his cloak. “My tea!” he croaked.

  Caramon jumped to his feet, spilling the wooden dish with the remainder of his dinner onto the ground and hastened to fix the strange, ill-tasting and ill-smelling tisane, which eased his twin’s cough, soothed his throat, and dulled the unceasing pain.

  Huddled in his blanket, Raistlin cupped his hands over the wooden mug that held his tea, sipped it slowly.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you, Raist?” Caramon inquired, regarding his brother in concern.

  “Make yourself useful,” Raistlin ordered peevishly. “You irritate me to death! Leave me in peace, and let me get some rest!”

  “Sure, Raist,” said Caramon softly. “I’ll … I’ll just clean up the dishes. …”

  “Fine!” Raistlin said without a voice. He closed his eyes.

  Caramon’s footsteps thudded all around him. The stewpot clanged, the wooden bowls rattled. Wet wood, tossed on the fire, hissed and spat. Raistlin lay down, pulled his blanket up over his head. Caramon was actively working at being quiet.

  Caramon is like this tea, Raistlin thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep. My feelings for him are mixed with guilt, tainted with jealousy. The flavor is bitter, it is hard to swallow. But once taken, a pleasant warmth pervades my system, my pain eases, and I can sleep, secure in the knowledge that he is there beside me in the night, watching over me.

  10

  THE CITY OF LANGTREE HAD SPROUTED UP AROUND THE BARON’S castle, which afforded protection for the city’s inhabitants and also, in the early days, a market for goods and services. The city was now prosperous with a small but burgeoning population that produced goods and services for itself as well as the castle and its inhabitants. Excitement and bustle were in the air, for it was spring muster and the city’s population was swelling with the return of the veterans and the arrival of new volunteers.

  Langtree was a peaceful place during the winter, when the chill winds blew down from the distant mountains, bringing sleet and snow. A peaceful city, but not a sleepy one. The blacksmith and his assistants spent the winter days working hard at the forge, making the swords and daggers, chain mail and plate armor, spurs and wagon wheels and horseshoes, which would be in high demand when the soldiers came back in the spring.

  Farmers who could not see their fields for the snow covering them turned to a second craft. The winter was the time for fine leatherwork, and the hands that wielded the hoe in the summer now sewed belts, gloves, and tunics, fashioned sheaths for sword and knife. Most were plain and serviceable, but some were made with intricate, hand-tooled designs, which would command high prices. The farmers’ wives pickled eggs and pigs’ feet and laid up jams and jellies and jars of honeycomb to sell at the open-air markets. Millers ground flour and corn to make bread. Weavers worked at their looms, making cloth for blankets, cloaks, and shirts, all embroidered with the baron’s crest—the bison.

  Tavern owners and innkeepers spent the dull winter months cleaning and refurbishing and laying up quantities of ale and wine and mead, brewed cordials, and caught up on their sleep, which was always in short supply when the troops came to town. Jewelers and gold- and silversmiths fashioned objects of beauty to tempt the soldiers to spend their steel. Everyone in town looked forward to spring muster and summer campaign season. During this frantic, exciting time, they would make money enough to live on the remainder of the year.

  Caramon and Raistlin had been to the Harvest Home Fair held at Haven every year—a gathering of people they both considered impressive. But they were not prepared for anything like spring muster in Langtree. The population of the town swelled fourfold. Soldiers filled the town—good-naturedly jostling each other in the streets, raising the roofs off the taverns with their laughter and their singing, thronging to the Street of Swords, haranguing the blacksmiths, teasing the barmaids, bargaining with the vendors, or cursing the kender, who were everywhere they didn’t belong.

  The baron’s guards patrolled the streets, keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers, ready to intervene if there was trouble. Trouble was rare. The baron always had more volunteers than he needed. Anyone who made a misstep was out of his favor for good. The soldiers took care of each other, hustling drunken comrades out the back door, breaking up fights before they spilled out onto the street, and making certain that the tavern owners were well paid for any damages.

  Reunions among friends happened on every street corner, with much laughter and reminiscing and the occasional sorrowful shake of the head remembering one who “ate his pay,” which the twins discovered did not mean that he had gulped down steel coins for breakfast, but had taken a steel blade in the gut.

  The language the mercenaries spoke was a jumble of Common, their own jargon, some Solamnic (spoken with a terrible accent that would have made it unrecognizable to a true resident of Solamnia), some dwarven—mainly to do with weapons—and even a bit of elven when it came to archery. The twins understood one word out of about five, and those words made little sense.

  The twins had hoped to be able to slip into the city unnoticed, avoid attention. This proved difficult. Caramon stood head and shoulders above most of Langtree’s population, while Raistlin’s red robes, though stained with travel, caused him to stand out like a cardinal among sparrows in the more somberly dressed crowd.

  Caramon was very proud of his shining new chain mail, his new sword, and its new sheath. He wore them ostentatiously and never failed to display them to what he assumed were admiring beholders. Now, he realized, to his deep chagrin, the very newness of which he’d been so proud marked him a
raw recruit. He gazed with envy on the battered chain mail worn with such ease by the veterans and would have sold his new sword seven times over for one with a notched blade indicative of many hard-fought battles.

  Though he could not understand the gist of most of the comments aimed his direction—many of which had to do with “pukes,” which he couldn’t fathom at all, even the occasionally obtuse Caramon could tell the remarks were not complimentary. He wouldn’t have minded much on his own account—Caramon was used to being kidded and took teasing good-naturedly—but he was starting to grow angry over what they were saying about his twin.

  Raistlin was accustomed to people regarding him with suspicion and dislike—people still distrusted wizards, in this day and age—but at least in the past they had viewed him with respect.

  Not in Langtree. The soldiers appeared to dislike his calling as much as anyone and didn’t have a particle of respect for him either. They certainly did not fear him, to judge by the gibes thrown his direction.

  “Hey, witch boy, what you got under those fancy red robes?” called out one grizzled soldier.

  “Not much, by the look of him!”

  “The witch boy stole his mama’s clothes. Maybe she’d pay to get them back!”

  “The clothes, maybe. Not him!”

  “Ooh, look out, Shorty. You’re gonna make the witch boy mad. He’s gonna turn you into a frog!”

  “No, a lunkhead. That’s what happened to the big guy with him.” The soldiers laughed and hooted.

  Caramon glanced at his brother uneasily. Raistlin’s face was set and grim, the golden skin burnished with a sheen of red as the blood mounted to his cheeks.

  “You want me to pound ’em, Raist?” Caramon asked in a low voice, glowering at their detractors.

  “Keep walking, Caramon,” Raistlin admonished. “Keep walking and pay them no mind.”

  “But, Raist, they said—”