Needless to say, he saw few other people. The inhabitants of Istar cowered indoors, alternately cursing or calling upon the gods. The occasional traveler he passed, driven out into the storm by who knows what desperate reason, clung to the sides of the buildings or stood huddled miserably in doorways.
But Caramon trudged on, anxious to get back to the arena. His heart was filled with hope, his spirits were high, despite the storm. Or perhaps because of the storm. Surely now Kiiri and Pheragas would listen to him instead of giving him strange, cold looks when he tried to persuade them to flee Istar.
“I can’t tell you how I know, I just know!” he pleaded. “There’s disaster coming, I can smell it!”
“And miss the final tournament?” Kiiri said coolly.
“They won’t hold it in this weather!” Caramon waved his arms.
“No storm this fierce ever lasts long!” Pheragas said. “It will blow itself out, and we’ll have a beautiful day. Besides”—his eyes narrowed—“what would you do without us in the arena?”
“Why, fight alone, if need be,” Caramon said, somewhat flustered. He planned to be long gone by that time—he and Tas, Crysania and perhaps … perhaps.…
“If need be …” Kiiri had repeated in an odd, harsh tone, exchanging glances with Pheragas. “Thanks for thinking of us, friend,” she said with a scathing glance at the iron collar Caramon wore, the collar that matched her own, “but no thanks. Our lives would be forfeit—runaway slaves! How long do you think we’d live out there?”
“It won’t matter, not after … after …” Caramon sighed and shook his head miserably. What could he say? How could he make them understand? But they had not given him the chance. They walked off without another word, leaving him sitting alone in the mess hall.
But, surely, now they would listen! They would see that this was no ordinary storm. Would they have time to get away safely? Caramon frowned and wished, for the first time, he had paid more attention to books. He had no idea how wide an area the devastating effect of the fall of the fiery mountain encompassed. He shook his head. Maybe it was already too late.
Well, he had tried, he told himself, slogging along through the water. Wrenching his mind from the plight of his friends, he forced himself to think more cheerful thoughts. Soon he would be gone from this terrible place. Soon this would all seem like a bad dream.
He would be back home with Tika. Maybe with Raistlin! “I’ll finish building the new house,” he said, thinking regretfully of all the time he had wasted. A picture came into his mind. He could see himself, sitting by the fire in their new home, Tika’s head resting in his lap. He’d tell her all about their adventures. Raistlin would sit with them, in the evenings; reading, studying, dressed in white robes.…
“Tika won’t believe a word of this,” Caramon said to himself. “But it won’t matter. She’ll have the man she fell in love with home again. And this time, he won’t leave her, ever, for anything!” He sighed, feeling her crisp red curls wrap around his fingers, seeing them shine in the firelight.
These thoughts carried Caramon through the storm and to the arena. Pulling out the block in the wall that was used by all the gladiators on their nocturnal rambles. (Arack was aware of its existence but, by tacit arrangement, turned a blind eye to it as long as the privilege wasn’t abused.) No one was in the arena, of course. Practice sessions had all been canceled. Everyone was huddled inside, cursing the foul weather and making bets on whether or not they would fight tomorrow.
Arack was in a mood nearly as foul as the elements, counting over and over the pieces of gold that would slip through his fingers if he had to cancel the Final Bout—the sporting event of the year in Istar. He tried to cheer himself up with the thought that he had promised him fine weather and he, if anyone, should know. Still, the dwarf stared gloomily outside.
From his vantage point, a window high above the grounds in the tower of the arena, he saw Caramon creep through the stone wall. “Raag!” He pointed. Looking down, Raag nodded in understanding and, grabbing the huge club, waited for the dwarf to put away his account books.
Caramon hurried to the cell he shared with the kender, eager to tell him about Crysania and Raistlin. But when he entered, the small room was empty.
“Tas?” he said, glancing around to make certain he hadn’t overlooked him in the shadows. But a flash of lightning illuminated the room more brightly than daylight. There was no sign of the kender.
“Tas, come out! This is no time for games!” Caramon ordered sternly. Tasslehoff had nearly frightened him out of six years’ growth one day by hiding under the bed, then leaping out when Caramon’s back was turned. Lighting a torch, the big man got down, grumbling, on his hands and knees and flashed the light under the bed. No Tas.
“I hope the little fool didn’t try to go out in this storm!” Caramon said to himself, his irritation changing to sudden concern. “He’d get blown back to Solace. Or maybe he’s in the mess hall, waiting for me. Maybe he’s with Kiiri and Pheragas. That’s it! I’ll just grab the device, then join him—”
Talking to himself, Caramon went over to the small, wooden chest where he kept his armor. Opening it, he took out the fancy, gold costume. Giving it a scornful glance, he tossed the pieces on the floor. “At least I won’t have to wear that get-up again,” he said thankfully. “Though”—he grinned somewhat shamefacedly—“it’d be fun to see Tika’s reaction when I put that on! Wouldn’t she laugh? But I’ll bet she’d like it, just the same.” Whistling cheerfully, Caramon quickly took everything out of the chest and, using the edge of one of the collapsible daggers, carefully prized up the false bottom he had built into it.
The whistle died on his lips.
The chest was empty.
Frantically, Caramon felt all over the inside of the chest, though it was quite obvious that a pendant as large as the magical device wouldn’t have been likely to slip through a crack. His heart beating wildly with fear, Caramon scrambled to his feet and began to search the room, flashing the torchlight into every corner, peering once more under the beds. He even ripped up his straw mattress and was starting to work on Tas’s when he suddenly noticed something.
Not only was the kender gone, but so were his pouches, all his beloved possessions. And so was his cloak.
And then Caramon knew. Tas had taken the device.
But why? … Caramon felt for a moment as if lightning had struck him, the sudden understanding sizzling his way from his brain to his body with a shock that paralyzed him.
Tas had seen Raistlin—he had told Caramon about that. But what had Tas been doing there? Why had he gone to see Raistlin? Caramon suddenly realized that the kender had skillfully steered the conversation away from that point.
Caramon groaned. The curious kender had, of course, questioned him about the device, but Tas had always seemed satisfied with Caramon’s answers. Certainly, he had never bothered it. Caramon checked, occasionally, to make sure it was still there—one did that as a matter of habit when living with a kender. But, if Tas had been curious enough about it, he would have taken it to Raistlin.… He did that often in the old days, when he found something magical.
Or maybe Raistlin tricked Tas into bringing it to him! Once he had the device, Raistlin could force them to go with him. Had he been plotting this all along? Had he tricked Tas and deceived Crysania? Caramon’s mind stumbled about his head in confusion. Or maybe—
“Tas!” Caramon cried, suddenly latching onto firm, positive action. “I have to find Tas! I have to stop him!”
Feverishly, the big man grabbed up his soaking wet cloak. He was barreling out the door when a huge dark shadow blocked his path.
“Out of my way, Raag,” Caramon growled, completely forgetting, in his anxiety, where he was.
Raag reminded him instantly, his giant hand closing over Caramon’s huge shoulder. “Where go, slave?”
Caramon tried to shake off the ogre’s grip, but Raag’s hand simply tightened its grip. There was a crunc
hing sound, and Caramon gasped in pain.
“Don’t hurt him, Raag,” came a voice from somewhere around Caramon’s kneecaps. “He’s got to fight tomorrow. What’s more, he’s got to win!”
Raag pushed Caramon back into the cell with as little effort as a grown man playfully tosses a child. The big warrior stumbled backward, falling heavily on the stone floor.
“You sure are busy today,” Arack said conversationally, entering the cell and plopping down on the bed.
Sitting up, Caramon rubbed his bruised shoulder. He cast a quick glance at Raag, who was still standing, blocking the door. Arack continued.
“You’ve already been out once in this foul weather, and now you’re heading out again?” The dwarf shook his head. “No, no. I can’t allow it. You might catch cold.…”
“Hey,” Caramon said, grinning weakly and licking his dry lips. “I was just going to the mess hall to find Tas—” He cringed involuntarily as a bolt of lightning exploded outside. There was a cracking sound and a sudden odor of burning wood.
“Forget it. The kender left,” Arack said, shrugging, “and it looked to me like he left for good—had his stuff all packed.”
Caramon swallowed, clearing his throat. “Let me go find him then—” he began.
Arack’s grin twisted suddenly into a vicious scowl. “I don’t give a damn about the little bastard! I got my money’s worth outta him, I figure, in what he stole for me already. But you—I’ve got quite an investment in you. Your little escape plan’s failed, slave.”
“Escape?” Caramon laughed hollowly. “I never—You don’t understand—”
“So I don’t understand?” Arack snarled. “I don’t understand that you’ve been trying to get two of my best fighters to leave? Trying to ruin me, are you?” The dwarf’s voice rose to a shrill shriek above the howl of the wind outside. “Who put you up to this?” Arack’s expression became suddenly shrewd and cunning. “It wasn’t your master, so don’t lie. He’s been to see me.”
“Raist—er—Fist-Fistandantil—” Caramon stammered, his jaw dropping.
The dwarf smiled smugly. “Yeah. And Fistandantilus warned me you might try something like this. Said I should watch you carefully. He even suggested a fitting punishment for you. The final fight tomorrow will not be between your team and the minotaurs. It will be you against Kiiri and Pheragas and the Red Minotaur!” The dwarf leaned over, leering into Caramon’s face. “And their weapons will be real!”
Caramon stared at Arack uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then, “Why?” he murmured bleakly. “Why does he want to kill me?”
“Kill you?” The dwarf cackled. “He doesn’t want to kill you! He thinks you’ll win! ‘It’s a test,’ he says to me, ‘I don’t want a slave who isn’t the best! And this will prove it. Caramon showed me what he could do against the Barbarian. That was his first test. Let’s make this test harder on him,’ he says. Oh, he’s a rare one, your master!”
The dwarf chuckled, slapping his knees at the thought, and even Raag gave a grunt that might have been indicative of amusement.
“I won’t fight,” Caramon said, his face hardening into firm, grim lines. “Kill me! I won’t fight my friends. And they won’t fight me!”
“He said you’d say that!” The dwarf roared. “Didn’t he, Raag! The very words. By gar, he knows you! You’d think you two was kin! ‘So,’ he says to me, ‘if he refuses to fight, and he will, I have no doubt, then you tell him that his friends will fight in his stead, only they will fight the Red Minotaur and it will be the minotaur who has the real weapons.’ ”
Caramon remembered vividly the young man writhing in agony on the stone floor as the poison from the minotaur’s trident coursed through his body.
“As for your friends fighting you”—the dwarf sneered—“Fistandantilus took care of that, too. After what he told them, I think they’re gonna be real eager to get in the arena!”
Caramon’s head sank to his chest. He began to shake. His body convulsed with chills, his stomach wrenched. The enormity of his brother’s evil overwhelmed him, his mind filled with darkness and despair.
Raistlin has deceived us all, deceived Crysania, Tas, me! It was Raistlin who made me kill the Barbarian. He lied to me! And he’s lied to Crysania, too. He’s no more capable of loving her than the dark moon is capable of lighting the night skies. He’s using her! And Tas? Tas! Caramon closed his eyes. He remembered Raistlin’s look when he discovered the kender, his words—“kender can alter time.… is this how they plan to stop me?” Tas was a danger to him, a threat! He had no doubt, now, where Tas had gone.…
The wind outside howled and shrieked, but not as loudly as the pain and anguish in Caramon’s soul. Sick and nauseous, wracked by icy spasms of needle-sharp pain, the big warrior completely lost any comprehension of what was going on around him. He didn’t see Arack’s gesture, nor feel Raag’s huge hands grab hold of him. He didn’t even feel the bindings on his wrists.…
It was only later, when the awful feelings of sickness and horror passed, that he woke to a realization of his surroundings. He was in tiny, windowless cell far underground, probably beneath the arena. Raag was fastening a chain to the iron collar around his neck and was bolting that chain to a ring in the stone wall. Then the ogre shoved him to the floor and checked the leather thongs that bound Caramon’s wrists.
“Not too tight,” Caramon heard the dwarf’s voice warn, “he’s got to fight tomorrow.…”
There was a distant rumble of thunder, audible even this far beneath the ground. At the sound, Caramon looked up hopefully. We can’t fight in this weather—
The dwarf grinned as he followed Raag out the wooden door. He started to slam it shut, then poked his head around the corner, his beard wagging in glee as he saw the look on Caramon’s face.
“Oh, by the way. Fistandantilus says it’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow. A day that everyone on Krynn will long remember.…”
The door slammed shut and locked.
Caramon sat alone in the dense, damp darkness. His mind was calm, the sickness and shock having wiped it clean as slate of any feeling, any emotion. He was alone. Even Tas was gone. There was no one he could turn to for advice, no one to make his decisions for him anymore. And then, he realized, he didn’t need anyone. Not to make this decision.
Now he knew, now he understood. This is why the mages had sent him back. They knew the truth. They wanted him to learn it for himself. His twin was lost, never to be reclaimed.
Raistlin must die.
CHAPTER
16
one slept in Istar that night.
The storm increased in fury until it seemed it must destroy everything in its path. The wind’s keening was like the deadly wail of the banshee, piercing even the continuous crashing of the thunder. Splintered lightning danced among the streets, trees exploded at its fiery touch. Hail rattled and bounced among the streets, knocking bricks and stones from houses, shattering the thickest glass, allowing the wind and rain to rush into homes like savage conquerors. Flood waters roared through the streets, carrying away the market stalls, the slave pens, carts and carriages.
Yet, no one was hurt.
It was as if the gods, in this last hour, held their hands cupped protectively over the living; hoping, begging them to heed the warnings.
At dawn, the storm ceased. The world was suddenly filled with a profound silence. The gods waited, not even daring to breathe, lest they miss the one small cry that might yet save the world.
The sun rose in a pale blue, watery sky. No bird sang to welcome it, no leaves rustled in the morning breeze, for there was no morning breeze. The air was still and deathly calm. Smoke rose from the smoldering trees in straight lines to the heavens, the flood waters dwindled away rapidly as though whisked down a huge drain. The people crept outdoors, staring around in disbelief that there was not more damage and then, exhausted from sleepless nights preceding, went back to their beds.
But there was, after all, one p
erson in Istar who slept peacefully through the night. The sudden silence, in fact, woke him up.
As Tasslehoff Burrfoot was fond of recounting—he had talked to spooks in Darken Wood, met several dragons (flown on two), come very near the accursed Shoikan Grove (how near improved with each telling), broke a dragon orb, and had been personally responsible for the defeat of the Queen of Darkness (with some help). A mere thunderstorm, even the likes of a thunderstorm such as this one, wasn’t likely to frighten him, much less disturb his sleep.
It had been a simple matter to retrieve the magical device. Tas shook his head over Caramon’s naive pride in the cleverness of his hiding place. Tas had refrained from telling the big man, but that false bottom could have been detected by any kender over the age of three.
Tas lifted the magical device out of the box eagerly, staring at it with wonder and delight. He had forgotten how charming and lovely it was, folded down into an oval pendant. It seemed impossible that his hands would transform it into a device that would perform such a miracle!
Hurriedly, Tas went over Raistlin’s instructions in his mind. The mage had given them to him only a few days before and had made him memorize them—figuring that Tas would promptly lose written instructions, as Raistlin had told him caustically.
They were not difficult, and Tas had them in moments.
Thy time is thy own
Though across it you travel.
Its expanses you see
Whirling through forever,
Obstruct not its flow.
Grasp firmly the end and the beginning,
Turn them back upon themselves, and
All that is loose shall be secure.
Destiny be over your own head.
The device was so beautiful, Tas could have lingered, admiring it, for long moments. But he didn’t have long moments, so he hastily thrust it into one of his pouches, grabbed his other pouches (just in case he found anything worth carrying along—or anything found him), put on his cloak and hurried out. On the way, he thought about his last conversation with the mage just a few days previous.
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 40