Grinning ruefully, Tanin held his right hand out in front of him. Sturm placed his right hand on his brother’s, and Palin put his right hand over the other two.
“Agreed,” each said solemnly.
Chapter One
Dougan Redhammer
“Adventures always start in such places as this,” said Tanin, regarding the inn with a satisfied air.
“You can’t be serious!” Palin said, horrified. “I wouldn’t stable my horse in this filthy place, let alone stay here myself!”
“Actually,” reported Sturm, rounding the corner of the building after an inspection tour, “the stables are clean compared to the inn, and they smell a damn sight better. I say we sleep there and send the horses inside.”
The inn, located on the docks of the seaside town of Sancrist, was every bit as mean and ill-favored in appearance as those few patrons the young men saw slouching into it. The windows facing the docks were small, as though staring out to sea too long had given them a perpetual squint light from inside could barely filter through the dirt. The building itself was weather- and sand-blasted and crouched in the shadows at the end of the alley like a cutpurse waiting for his next victim. Even the name, The Spliced Jib, had an ominous sound.
“I expected Little Brother to complain,” Tanin remarked sourly, dismounting and glaring at Sturm over the pommel of his saddle. “He misses his white linen sheets and Mama tucking him in at night. But I expected better of you, Sturm Majere.”
“Oh, I’ve no objection,” Sturm said easily, sliding off his horse and beginning to untie his pack. “I was just making an observation. We don’t have much choice anyway,” he added, withdrawing a small leather pouch and shaking it. Where there should have been the ring of steel coins, there was only a dismal clunk. “No linen sheets tonight, Palin,” he said, grinning at his younger brother, who remained seated disconsolately upon his horse. “Think of tomorrow night, though—staying at Castle Uth Wistan, the guests of Lord Gunthar. Not only white linen but probably rose petals strewn about the bed as well.”
“I don’t expect white linen,” Palin returned, nettled. “In fact, bed sheets at all would be a pleasant change! And I’d prefer sleeping in a bed where the mattress wasn’t alive!” Irritably, he scratched himself under the white robes.
“A warrior must get used to such things,” Tanin said in his worldly-wise Elder Brother voice, which made Palin long to toss him in the horse trough. “If you are attacked by nothing worse than bedbugs on your first quest, you may count yourself lucky.”
“Quest?” Palin muttered bitterly, sliding down off his horse. “Accompanying you and Sturm to Castle Uth Wistan so that you can join the knighthood. This isn’t a quest! It’s been like a kender outing, and both you and Father knew it would be when you decided I could go! Why, the most danger we’ve been in since we left home was from that serving wench who tried to cut off Sturm’s ears with a butcher knife!”
“It was a mistake anyone could make,” Sturm muttered, flushing. “I keep telling you!—I intended to grab her mugs. She was what you might call a buxom girl and when she leaned over me holding the tray, I wasn’t exactly paying attention to what I was doing—”
“Oh, you were paying attention, all right!” Palin said grimly. “Even when she came at you with a knife, we had to drag you out of there! And your eyes were the size of your shield.”
“Well, at least I’m interested in such things,” Sturm said irritably. “Not like some people I could mention, who seem to think themselves too good—”
“I have high standards!” retorted Palin. “I don’t tumble for every ‘buxom’ blonde who jiggles in my direction—”
“Stop it, both of you!” Tanin ordered tiredly. “Sturm, take the horses around and see that they’re brushed down and fed. Palin, come with me.”
Palin and Sturm both looked rebellious, and Tanin’s tone grew stern. “Remember what Father said.”
The brothers remembered. Sturm, still grumbling, grabbed the horses’ reins in his hand and led them to the stables. Palin swallowed a barbed comment and followed his brother.
Although quick-tempered like his mother, Tanin appeared to have inherited few other qualities from his parents. Instead, he was in temperament more like the man in whose honor he had been named—his parents’ dearest friend, Tanis Half-Elven. Tanin idolized his name-father and did his best to emulate his hero. Consequently, the twenty-four-year-old young man took his role as leader and eldest brother quite seriously. This was fine with one younger brother. The fun-loving Sturm was almost the epitome of his father, having inherited Caramon’s jovial, easygoing nature.
Disliking to take responsibility himself, Sturm generally obeyed Tanin without question. But Palin, just twenty-one, possessed the keen mind and intellect of his uncle, the powerful, tragic archmage Raistlin. Palin loved his brothers, but he chafed under what he considered Tanin’s overbearing leadership and was irritated beyond measure by Sturm’s less than serious outlook on life.
This was, however, Palin’s “first quest”—as Tanin never failed to remind him at least once an hour. A month had gone by since the young mage had taken the grueling Test in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. He was now an accepted member of the order of wizards on Krynn. But somehow that didn’t satisfy him. He felt let down and depressed. For years, his greatest goal had been passing the Test, a goal that, once attained, would open countless doors.
It hadn’t opened one. Oh, admittedly Palin was a young mage. He had little power yet, being able to cast only minor spells. Ideally, he would apprentice himself to some skilled archmage, who would take over his tutelage. But no archmage had requested his services, and Palin was shrewd enough to know why.
His uncle, Raistlin, had been the greatest wizard ever to have lived. He had taken the Black Robes of evil and challenged the Queen of Darkness herself, intending to rule the world—an attempt that ended in his death. Though Palin wore the White Robes of good, he knew that there were those in the order who did not trust him and who, perhaps, never would. He carried his uncle’s staff—the powerful Staff of Magius, given to him under mysterious circumstances in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas. Rumors were already buzzing among the conclave as to how Palin could have acquired the staff. It had, after all, been locked in a room sealed with a powerful curse. No, whatever he accomplished, Palin knew deep within himself, he would accomplish as his uncle had—studying, working, and fighting alone.
But that was in the future. For the time being, he supposed, he must be content to travel with his brothers. His father, Caramon, who, with his own twin brother, Raistlin, had been a hero in the War of the Lance, was adamant on that point. Palin had never been out in the world. He’d been sheltered by his books, immersed in his studies. If he went on this journey to Sancrist, he was to submit to Tanin’s authority, placing himself under his brothers’ guidance and protection.
Palin swore a sacred oath to his father to obey his brothers, just as Tanin and Sturm swore to protect him. In point of fact, their deep love and affection for each other made the oath superfluous—as Caramon knew. But the big man was also wise enough to know that this first outing together would put a strain on brotherly love. Palin, the most intelligent of the brothers, was eager to prove himself—eager to the point of foolhardiness.
“Palin has to learn the worth of other people, to respect them for what they know, even if they’re not as quick-thinking as he is,” Caramon said to Tika, remembering with regret the twin who had never learned that lesson. “And Sturm and Tanin have to learn to respect him, to realize that they can’t solve every problem with a whack of their swords. Above all, they’ve got to learn to depend on each other!” The big man shook his head. “May the gods go with them.”
He was never to know the irony of that prayer.
It appeared, at the beginning of the journey, that none of these lessons was going to be learned easily. The two older boys had decided privately (certainly not mentioning this to the
ir father) that this trip was going to “make a man” of their scholarly sibling.
But their views as to what constituted “manhood” didn’t accord with Palin’s. In fact, as far as he could see, “being a man” meant living with fleas, bad food, worse ale, and women of dubious character—something Palin considered pointing out when Tanin muttered, “Act like a man!” out of the corner of his mouth as he and Palin entered the inn.
But Palin kept his mouth shut. He and his brothers were entering a strange inn, located in what was reputedly a rough part of Sancrist. The young mage had learned enough to know that their very lives might depend on presenting a unified front to the world.
This the brothers, despite their differences, managed quite successfully. So successfully, in fact, that they had met with no trouble whatsoever on the long trip northward from Solace. The oldest two brothers were big and brawny, having inherited Caramon’s girth and strength. Experienced campaigners, they bore their battle scars proudly, and wore their swords with practiced ease. The youngest, Palin, was tall and well built, but had the slender body of one accustomed to studying rather than to wielding weapons. Any who might consider him an easy mark, however, could look into the young man’s handsome, serious face, note the intense, penetrating gaze of the clear eyes, and think twice about interfering with him.
The Staff of Magius that Palin carried might have had something to do with this as well. Made of plain wood, adorned with a faceted crystal held fast in a dragon’s claw made of gold, the staff gave no outward, visible sign of being magical. But there was a dark, unseen aura around it, perhaps associated with its late master, that viewers invariably perceived with a sense of uneasiness.
Palin kept the staff near him always. If he wasn’t holding it, the staff rested near him, and he often reached out to touch it reassuringly.
This night, as on other nights, the sight of Tanin and Palin entering the inn did not particularly impress those within, except for one party. Seated at a grubby booth in a corner, this group immediately began to jabber among themselves, whispering and pointing. The whispering increased, growing even more excited, when Sturm came in and joined his brothers. Several members of the group nudged a person who was sitting nearest the wall, his face hidden in deep shadows.
“Aye, I see, I see!” grumbled the man. “You think they’ll do, do you?”
The others at the table nodded and chattered among themselves enthusiastically. Smaller than the man in the shadows, they were just as hidden. Muffled to the eyebrows in brown robes, their features and even their hands and feet were indistinguishable.
The person in the corner gave the young men a shrewd, appraising scrutiny. The brown-robed creatures continued to jabber. “Shut up, you buggers,” the man growled irritably. “You’ll attract their notice.”
Those in the brown robes immediately hushed, falling into a silence so deep they might have all tumbled into a well. Naturally, this startling silence caused everyone in the common room of the inn to turn and stare at them, including the three young men.
“Now you’ve done it!” snarled the man from the shadows. Two of the brown-robed creatures hung their heads, though a third seemed inclined to argue. “Be quiet! I’ll handle this!”
Leaning forward into the light, he gave the three young men an amiable smile from the depths of a full, glossy black beard and, raising his mug, said cheerfully, “Dougan Redhammer, at your service, young gents. Will you take a drink with an old dwarf?”
“That we will, and with pleasure,” Tanin said politely.
“Let me out,” grunted the dwarf to the brown-robed creatures, who were so packed into the booth it was impossible to tell how many of them there might have been. With much groaning and swearing and “ouch, that’s my foot, you widget brain” and “mind my beard, gear-head,” the dwarf emerged—somewhat flushed and panting—from the back of the booth. Carrying his mug and calling for the innkeep to bring “my private stock,” Dougan approached the table where the young men had taken seats.
The others in the inn, sailors and local residents for the most part, returned to their own conversations—the subjects of which appeared to Palin to be of a sinister nature, judging from the grim and ill-favored expressions on their faces. They had not welcomed the brothers nor did they seem interested in either the dwarf or his companions. Several cast scowling glances at Dougan Redhammer. This didn’t disconcert the dwarf in the least Pulling up a high stool that compensated for his short stature, the stout and flashily dressed (at least for a dwarf) Dougan plopped himself down at the brothers’ table.
“What’ll you have, gentlemen?” asked the dwarf. “The spirits of my people? Ah, you’re men of taste! There’s nothing better than the fermented mushroom brew of Thorbardin.”
Dougan grinned at the brothers expansively as the innkeeper shuffled to the table, carrying three mugs in his hand. Putting these down, he thumped a large clay bottle stoppered with a cork in front of the dwarf. Dougan pulled the cork and inhaled the fumes with a gusty sigh of contentment that caused Sturm’s mouth to water in anticipation.
“Aye, that’s prime,” said the dwarf in satisfaction. “Hand your mugs round, gents. Don’t be shy. There’s plenty for all and more where this came from. I don’t drink with strangers, though, so tell me your names.”
“Tanin Majere, and these are my brothers, Sturm and Palin,” said Tanin, sliding his mug over willingly. Sturm’s was already in the dwarf’s hand.
“I’ll have wine, thank you,” Palin said stiffly. Then he added in an undertone, “You know how Father feels about that stuff.” Tanin responded with an icy glare and Sturm laughed.
“Aw, loosen up, Palin!” Sturm said. “A mug or two of dwarf spirits never hurt anyone.”
“Right you are there, lad!” said Dougan roundly. “ ’Tis good for what ails you, my father was wont to say. This marvelous elixir’ll mend broken head or broken heart. Try it, young wizard. If your father be the Hero of the Lance, Caramon Majere, then he lifted a glass or two in his day, if all the tales I’ve heard about him be true!”
“I’ll have wine,” Palin repeated, coldly ignoring his brothers’ elbow-nudging and foot-kicking.
“Probably best for the young lad,” said Dougan with a wink at Tanin. “Innkeep, wine for the youngster here!”
Palin flushed in shame, but there was little he could say, realizing he’d said more than enough already. Embarrassed, he took his glass and hunched down in his white robes, unable to look around. He had the feeling that everyone in the inn was laughing at him.
“So, you’ve heard of our father?” Tanin asked abruptly, changing the subject.
“Who hasn’t heard of Caramon Majere, Hero of the Lance?” said Dougan. “Here’s to his health!” Lifting his mug, the dwarf took a long pull of the spirits, as did both Tanin and Sturm. When the three set the mugs down, there was no sound for the moment except slight gaspings for air. This was followed by three satisfied belches.
“Damn good!” said Sturm huskily, wiping his streaming eyes.
“I’ve never had better!” Tanin swore, drawing a deep breath.
“Drink up, lad!” said the dwarf to Palin. “You’ll surely drink a toast to your own father, won’t you?”
“Of course he will, won’t you, Palin?” said Tanin, his voice dangerously pleasant.
Palin obediently took a sip of his wine, drinking to his father’s health. After that, the others quickly ignored him, becoming absorbed in conversation about the parts of the world each had been in recently and what was transpiring where. Palin, unable to take part in the conversation, fell to studying the dwarf. Dougan was taller than most dwarves the young man had known and, although he called himself “old,” he couldn’t have been much over one hundred years, an age considered to be just suitably mature for a dwarf. His beard was obviously his pride and joy; he stroked it often, never failing to draw attention to it when possible. Shining black, it grew thick and luxuriant, tumbling over his chest and down past his bel
t. His hair, too, was as black and curly as his beard and he wore it almost as long. Like most dwarves, he was rotund and probably hadn’t seen his feet below his round belly in years. Unlike most dwarves, however, Dougan was dressed in a flamboyant style that would have well become the lord of Palanthas.
Outfitted in a red velvet jacket, red velvet breeches, black stockings, black shoes with red heels, and a silk shirt with puffy sleeves—a shirt that might once have been white but was now stained with dirt, spirits, and what may have been lunch—Dougan was an astonishing sight. He was remarkable, too, in other ways. Most dwarves are somewhat surly and withdrawn around members of other races, but Dougan was jovial and talkative and altogether the most engaging stranger the brothers had come across on their travels. He, in his turn, appeared to enjoy their company.
“By Reorx,” said the dwarf admiringly, watching Tanin and Sturm drain their mugs, “but you are lads after my own heart. It’s a pleasure to drink with real men.”
Sturm grinned. “There are not many who can keep up with us,” he boasted, motioning the dwarf to pour the spirits. “So you better have a care, Dougan, and slow down.”
“Slow down! Look who’s talking!” The dwarf roared so loudly that all eyes in the common room turned on them, including the eyes of the small creatures in the brown robes. “Why, there isn’t a human alive who can outdrink a dwarf with his own brew!”
Glancing at Sturm, Tanin winked, though he kept his face solemn. “You’ve just met two of them, Dougan Redhammer,” he said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked beneath his weight. “We’ve drunk many a stout dwarf under the table and were still sober enough, Sturm and I, to guide him to his bed.”
“And I,” returned Dougan, clenching his fist, his face turning a fiery red beneath the black beard, “have drunk ten stout humans under the table and not only did I lead them to their beds, I put their nightclothes on them and tidied up their rooms to boot!”
“You won’t do that to us!” vowed Tanin.
The Second Generation Page 20