Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  The line’s advance faltered. Everyone heard the ominous noise. Caramon looked up over his shield to see. The sky above him was dark with what he realized in astonishment was a deadly flight of hundreds of arrows.

  “Keep your damned shield up!” the sergeant yelled.

  Remembering his training, Caramon hastily lifted his shield over his head. Less than a second later, the shield vibrated and shook with the impact of arrows. Caramon was amazed at the force of the blows, as if someone were pounding on his shield with a war hammer.

  And then it was over.

  Caramon hesitated, cringing, waiting for another attack. When none came, he ventured to look at the front of his shield. Four arrows stuck out of it, their feathered shafts lodged solidly in the metal. Caramon gulped, thinking what those arrows would have done if they had struck him instead of the shield. Some of the soldiers were yanking the arrows from their shields, tossing them aside. Caramon twisted around to see how Scrounger had fared.

  Scrounger looked up with a tremulous smile. “Whoo, boy!” was all he said.

  Caramon glanced on either side, couldn’t see anyone down. There were no holes in the line. The master looked back with a quick glance to see that the company was still with him.

  “Forward, men!” he yelled.

  The sibilant hissing came again, but this time, from their right flank. Archer Company was firing back. Arrows sped toward the city walls, flying over the heads of the Flank Company as they moved forward. Another flight of arrows launched from the city.

  Caramon raised his shield. Arrows thunked home. He staggered from the impact, but continued moving forward. A ragged cry nearby caused him to jerk his head. A man in Caramon’s line dropped to the ground, rocking back and forth in agony, screaming. An arrow had shattered his shinbone. A hole gaped in the line. The man behind the wounded man jumped over him and plugged the hole.

  C Company continued to move. Caramon was angry and frustrated. He wanted to lash out, to attack something, but there was nothing to attack. He couldn’t do a damn thing but walk forward and get shot at. Archer Company’s return fire didn’t seem to be having any effect. Yet another volley of arrows rained down from the sky.

  The third volley struck. A man in front of Caramon fell backward, landed at Caramon’s feet. The man didn’t scream. He couldn’t scream, Caramon saw, horrified. The man had taken an arrow through the throat. He clasped his hand over the terrible wound. Gurgling sounds came from his gaping mouth.

  “Don’t stop! Close up the line, damn you!” a veteran yelled and thwacked Caramon on the arm with his shield.

  Caramon hopped sideways to avoid stepping on the wounded man. Slipping on the wet, bloody grass, he nearly lost his balance. Hands behind him grasped hold of his belt, helped him keep his feet. When the whirring sound came again, Caramon scrunched down to try to make himself as small as he could behind his shield.

  And then, inexplicably, the arrows stopped. The company closed within a hundred and fifty yards of the objective. Perhaps Archer Company had cleared the wall. Perhaps the enemy had turned tail and fled. Caramon lifted his head cautiously to see. Then came a thud that Caramon felt more than heard, as of something heavy hitting the sodden ground. The thud was followed by a crack. Caramon looked around to see the nature of the odd sounds, watched two files of men cease to exist. One second there were six men to his right. The next, no one.

  A large boulder rolled and bounded across the bloodstained grass, finally came to a halt. Fired from a catapult atop the city wall, the boulder had plowed into the line of men, and they were no longer men. They were nothing but blood and mangled flesh and splintered bone.

  The screams of the wounded, the stench of blood and urine and excrement, for many of the dying soldiers could no longer control their bowels, caused Caramon to lose the breakfast he’d been so pleased to eat. Bending over, he purged his stomach. The sound of another volley was almost too much for him. He longed to run away, to flee this dreadful killing field. His training held him in place, training and the thought that if he ran he would be branded a coward, forever disgraced.

  He crouched behind his shield. Twisting his head, he looked behind him, worried for Scrounger, but couldn’t find his friend. Three men went down to his left, including the company standard-bearer. The company flag dropped forward into the grass. The entire line had stopped moving. Both the master and the sergeant were still advancing.

  Suddenly there was Scrounger. Hopping over bodies of the dead and dying, he reached the standard-bearer and, braving a flight of arrows from the city walls, he picked up the flag and waved it proudly over his head with a defiant yell.

  The rest of C Company joined the yell, but it was ragged. Both the sergeant and master turned their heads and saw the terrible destruction. Another volley of arrows and the thud of another boulder—this time falling short of the mark—spurred the master to action. His men had taken enough punishment.

  “Fall back! Fall back in ranks! Keep your shields up!” the master yelled.

  Caramon dashed over to protect Scrounger, covering his back with his shield. The half-kender paid no attention to the arrows that darted around him, but marched proudly, waving the flag in his hands. The company moved in orderly retreat, no panic, no breaking and running. If a man fell, the others moved in to close the line. Some stopped to help the wounded back to the camp. Archer Company sent volley after volley into the city walls, covering the retreat.

  Scrounger carried the flag, Caramon held his shield so that it protected both of them. Fifty more paces, and the men began to relax. No more arrows came from the walls. The soldiers were finally out of range.

  A hundred more paces and the master halted the company. He lowered his shield to the ground. The rest of the company did the same. Caramon felt the shield’s weight fall from his arm. It must have weighed a hundred pounds, or so he felt. His arm trembled from the strain.

  Scrounger, his face dead white, continued to hold the flag.

  “You can put it down now,” Caramon said to his friend.

  “I can’t let go,” Scrounger said, his voice quivering. He stared at his hand as if it were a hand belonging to someone else. “I can’t let go, Caramon!” He burst into tears.

  Caramon reached out his hand to help loosen Scrounger’s grasp. The big man saw his own hand covered with blood. Glancing down, he saw his breastplate smeared with blood and spatters of gore. He lowered his hand, did not touch Scrounger.

  “All right. Listen here!” the master yelled. “The baron knows what he wanted to know. The city’s defenses are more than adequate.”

  The men said nothing. They were exhausted, the spirit drained from them.

  “You fought well. I’m proud of you. We lost good men out there today,” Master Senej continued, “and I intend to go out there and bring back the bodies. We’ll wait for nightfall.”

  A murmur of agreement came from the men.

  Sergeant Nemiss dismissed the company. The men wandered back to their tents or went to the tents of the healers, to see how wounded comrades fared. Some of the new recruits, Caramon and Scrounger among them, remained standing in line, too dazed and shocked to leave.

  The sergeant approached Scrounger. Reaching out her hand, she took the company standard from the half-kender’s deathlike grip.

  “You disobeyed orders, soldier,” Sergeant Nemiss said, her voice stern.

  “No, I didn’t, sir,” Scrounger said. “I found a shield.” He pointed at Caramon. “One I could use.”

  Sergeant Nemiss grinned, shook her head. “If we measured men by their spirit, you’d be a giant. Speaking of giants, you did well yourself out there, Majere. I thought you’d be the first man hit. You make a great target.”

  “I don’t remember much, sir,” Caramon replied, bound to be honest, though it might lower him in her estimation. “If you want to know the truth, I was scared spitless.” He hung his head. “I spent most of the battle hiding behind my shield.”

  “That’s
what kept you alive today, Majere,” said the sergeant. “Looks like I might have taught you something after all.”

  The sergeant walked away, handing the standard to one of the veterans as she passed.

  “You go on to lunch,” Caramon said to his friend. “I’m not very hungry. I think I’m going to go lie down.”

  “Lunch?” Scrounger stared at him. “It’s not near time for lunch. It’s only been half an hour since we ate breakfast.”

  Half an hour. It might have been half a year. Half a lifetime. A whole lifetime for some.

  Tears welled up in Caramon’s eyes. He turned his head quickly, so no one would notice.

  9

  FLANK COMPANY RECOVERED ITS DEAD UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS, buried them in darkness in a single grave so that the enemy would not be able to calculate how many men were lost. The baron spoke at the simple ceremony, citing each man by name and recounting some tale of his heroism, past and present. The common grave was covered with dirt and an honor guard was posted to keep off roving wolves. The baron gave C Company a barrel of dwarf spirits and bid them drink to the memory of their fallen comrades.

  Caramon drank not only to their memory but also to the memories of those who had fallen since time began, or so it seemed to Scrounger, who had to practically drag the big man back to the tent. Caramon collapsed in a drunken stupor, falling face first into his cot with a thud that smashed the cot and caused the men in the tents on either side to wonder if the enemy was hurling more boulders at them.

  Raistlin spent the night in the tent with the wounded, assisting Horkin with bandages and ointment. Most of the wounds were minor flesh wounds, with the exception of the soldier with the shattered leg. His comrades had carried him under a rain of arrows to the healing tent. Raistlin was privileged to witness his first battlefield amputation. He mixed a potion of mandrake root to be used to render the patient unconscious, added to that a sleep spell. The man’s friends held his arms and shoulders to halt any involuntary movement.

  Raistlin had spent hours with Weird Meggin, dissecting corpses under her tutelage to learn more about the marvels of the human body, and had not felt the least squeamish. He had practiced his healing skills among the plague-ravaged populace of Solace without blenching. He had volunteered to assist at the operation, had assured the leech that he was impervious to the sight of blood and would not fail at his post.

  The blood—and there was an enormous quantity of it, Raistlin could not imagine that one body could hold so much—did not shake him. It was the sound of the saw blade, rasping and hacking through the bone just below the knee, that caused Raistlin to clench his teeth against the bile surging up from his stomach, caused him to close his eyes more than once to prevent himself from fainting.

  He managed to make it through the operation, but when the leg was removed and carried off to be buried in the grave with the dead, Raistlin asked permission to leave the tent for a moment. The surgeon, looking at his assistant’s deathly pale face, nodded his head curtly and told Raistlin to go get some sleep. The patient would manage well enough until morning.

  Between mandrake and magic and loss of blood, the amputee was quiet. The other wounded were asleep. Raistlin returned to his tent, his body bathed in sweat, and sank down into his cot, an object of scorn and derision to one person at least. Himself.

  The allies met again at noon, the baron once again riding over to confer with Commander Kholos. The commander was more respectful, if not more cordial. He permitted the baron to retain his sword and actually invited him to sit down while they discussed plans for the coming battle that would bring Hope’s End to its knees.

  Both men agreed that the city’s defenses, as demonstrated yesterday, were formidable. A direct assault, even by the combined strength of both their armies, would most likely fail. Their forces would be decimated by the time they reached the walls. Kholos proposed settling in for a prolonged siege. Give the people of Hope’s End a few months to deplete their food stores, a few more months of eating rats and watching their children die of starvation, and their enthusiasm for this rebellion would wane.

  This plan was not acceptable to the baron, who had no intention of remaining in the commander’s company for any longer than was absolutely necessary. The baron offered an alternative.

  “I propose that we end this war quickly. Send a force inside the city, attack them from behind, and open the gate before they know what’s hit them.”

  “Defeat them by treachery?” Kholos grinned. “I like it!”

  “Yes, I thought you would,” the baron said dryly.

  “Whose force would we use to infiltrate behind enemy lines?” Kholos asked, frowning.

  “I offer my men,” the baron replied with dignity, having known that this question would be asked. “You have seen them in action. You cannot question their valor.”

  “Wait outside,” said Kholos. “I have to think about this, discuss it with my officers.”

  Pacing outside the commander’s tent, the baron overheard much of the conversation within. He flushed in anger and ground his teeth at Kholos’s loud statement, “If the mercenaries are killed, we’ve lost nothing. We can always starve out the town later. If they succeed, we save ourselves a lot of time and trouble.”

  When he was invited back inside the commander’s tent, the baron voluntarily handed over his sword to Kholos’s aide, so as to not be tempted to use it.

  “Very well, Baron,” said Kholos. “We have decided to follow your plan. Your men will enter the city, attack from behind. At your signal, we will attack the gates from the front.”

  “I trust I may count upon you to storm the walls,” the baron said, regarding the commander intently. “If your men do not draw off resistance, my people will be slaughtered.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” Kholos replied, picking his teeth with a bird bone. He grinned and winked. “I give you my word.”

  “Do you trust him, sir?” Commander Morgon asked, as they left Kholos’s tent.

  “Not as far as I can smell him,” said the baron grimly.

  “That would imply a considerable amount of trust, sir,” said Morgon with a straight face.

  “Ha! Ha!” The baron laughed boisterously and slapped his commander on the back. “A good one, Morgon. A very good one.” He chuckled all the way back to camp.

  “Sir,” said Master Senej, “C Company volunteers for this duty. You owe us, sir,” he added loudly. Every other company commander was making the same offer.

  The baron cut them off, turned to Senej. “Explain yourself, Master.”

  “The men went out on a hopeless mission, sir,” he said. “They were whipped. They had to turn tail in the face of the enemy and run for it.”

  “They knew there was that possibility when they went into battle,” said the baron, frowning.

  “Yes, sir.” Master Senej stood his ground. “But they feel it, sir. Their heads are down, their rear ends dragging. That was the first time C Company has ever been defeated—”

  “But, for the love of Kiri-Jolith, Master—” the baron began, exasperated.

  “My lord, that was the first time anyone in this army has been defeated,” Master Senej said, standing stiffly at attention. “The men want a chance to redeem their honor, sir.”

  The other commanders were silent. Though all were itching to take part in the action, they accepted the right of Major Senej to put forth his cause.

  “Very well,” the baron said. “Major Senej, C Company will enter the city. But this time I’m sending along a wizard. Master Horkin!”

  “My lord!”

  “You will go along on this mission.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I suggest that you send my assistant.”

  “Is the young man ready for an assignment this important, Horkin?” the baron asked gravely. “Majere seems awfully weak and sickly to me. I was going to suggest that he be mustered out.”

  “Red’s stronger than he appears, my lord,” said Horkin. �
�Stronger than he knows himself or such is my opinion. He’s a better mage than I am.” Horkin said this without rancor, simply stating a fact. “Where the lives of the men are at stake, I think you should use the best.”

  “Well, of course,” said the baron, taken aback. “But you’ve had experience—”

  “And how did I get that experience, my lord, if it wasn’t for the experience,” Horkin returned triumphantly. “Which he’ll never get if you don’t let him.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” the baron replied, though he still looked dubious. “You’re in command of the wizardry. What I know about magic you could put in a rat’s teacup. Major Senej, find Majere and tell him that he’s now attached to your company. Report back to me for your orders.”

  “Yes, sir!” Major Senej said, saluting. “And thank you, my lord!”

  “Raist, did you hear the news?” Caramon stood meekly outside the entrance to Raistlin’s tent. The big man had a terrible headache, felt like gnomes were using his stomach for a boiler. What with the horror of the battle, the solemnity of the funeral, and the aftereffects of the wake, he was beginning to rethink his commitment to a life in the military. He tried to appear excited, however. For his brother’s sake. “We’re infiltrating the city and you’re coming with us!”

  “Yes, I heard,” Raistlin called irritably, not looking up from the spellbook he had balanced on his knees. “Now go away and leave me alone, Caramon. I have all these spells to memorize before nightfall.”

  “This is what we always wanted, Raist,” Caramon said, sounding wistful. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Caramon, I suppose it is,” Raistlin replied.

  Caramon stood a moment longer, hoping to be asked inside, hoping to have a chance to talk about his fear, his shame, his longing to go back home. But Raistlin said nothing, gave no indication that he was aware of his twin’s continued existence. Eventually, Caramon left.

  After his brother had gone, Raistlin sat and stared at the spellbook. The letters ran higgledy-piggledy across the pages, the words slid from his brain as if they were greased. His brother and the others were going to be dependent on him to keep them alive. What a joke! But then, the gods were always playing jokes on him.