And then, the kender felt it—the answer. A horror crept over him, a fear he’d never experienced before, not even in the presence of Lord Soth or the Shoikan Grove. Trembling, the kender sank to his knees and bowed his head, whimpering and shaking, pleading with some unseen force for mercy, for forgiveness. Beyond the curtain, he could hear his own incoherent mumblings echoed, and he knew Crysania was there and that she, too, felt the terrible hot anger that rolled over him like the thunder from the storm.
But the Kingpriest did not speak a word. He simply remained, staring up expectantly into the heavens he could not see through the vast walls and ceilings of his Temple … the heavens he could not see because of his own light.
CHAPTER
17
is mind firmly resolved upon a course of action, Caramon fell into an exhausted sleep and, for a few hours, was blessed with oblivion. He awakened with a start to find Raag bending over him, breaking his chains.
“What about these?” Caramon asked, raising his bound wrists.
Raag shook his head. Although Arack didn’t really think even Caramon would be foolish enough to try and overpower the ogre unarmed, the dwarf had seen enough madness in the man’s eyes last night not to risk taking chances.
Caramon sighed. He had, indeed, considered that possibility as he had considered many others last night, but had rejected it. The important thing was to stay alive—at least until he had made certain Raistlin was dead. After that, it didn’t matter anymore.…
Poor Tika.… She would wait and wait, until one day she would wake and realize he was never coming home.
“Move!” Raag grunted.
Caramon moved, following the ogre up the damp and twisting stairs leading from the storage rooms beneath the arena. He shook his head, clearing it of thoughts of Tika. Those might weaken his resolve, and he could not afford that. Raistlin must die. It was as if the lightning last night had illuminated a part of Caramon’s mind that had lain in darkness for years. At last he saw the true extent of his brother’s ambition, his lust for power. At last Caramon quit making excuses for him. It galled him, but he had to admit that even that dark elf, Dalamar, knew Raistlin far better than he, his twin brother.
Love had blinded him, and it had, apparently, blinded Crysania, too. Caramon recalled a saying of Tanis’s’ “I’ve never seen anything done out of love come to evil.” Caramon snorted. Well, there was a first time for everything—that had been a favorite saying of old Flint’s. A first time … and a last.
Just how he was going to kill his brother, Caramon didn’t know. But he wasn’t worried. There was a strange feeling of peace within him. He was thinking with a clarity and a logic that amazed him. He knew he could do it. Raistlin wouldn’t be able to stop him either, not this time. The magic time travel spell would require the mage’s complete concentration. The only thing that could possibly stop Caramon was death itself.
And therefore, Caramon said grimly to himself, I’ll have to live.
He stood quietly without moving a muscle or speaking a word as Arack and Raag struggled to get him into his armor.
“I don’t like it,” the dwarf muttered more than once to the ogre as they dressed Caramon. The big man’s calm, emotionless expression made the dwarf more uneasy than if he had been a raging bull. The only time Arack saw a flicker of life on Caramon’s stoic face was when he buckled his shortsword onto his belt. Then the big man had glanced down at it, recognizing the useless prop for what it was. Arack saw him smile bitterly.
“Keep your eye on him,” Arack instructed, and Raag nodded. “And keep him away from the others until he goes into the arena.”
Raag nodded again, then led Caramon, hands bound, into the corridors beneath the arena where the others waited. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced over at Caramon as he entered. Kiiri’s lip curled, and she turned coldly away. Caramon met Pheragas’s gaze unflinchingly, his eyes neither begging nor pleading. This was not what Pheragas had expected, apparently. At first the black man seemed confused, then—after a few whispered words from Kiiri—he, too, turned away. But Caramon saw the man’s shoulders slump and he saw him shake his head.
There was a roar from the crowd then, and Caramon shifted his gaze to what he could see of the stands. It was nearly midday, the Games started promptly at High Watch. The sun shone in the sky, the crowd—having had some sleep—was large and in a particularly good humor. There were some preliminary fights scheduled—to whet the crowd’s appetite and to heighten the tension. But the true attraction was the Final Bout—the one that would determine the champion—the slave who wins either his freedom or—in the Red Minotaur’s case—wealth enough to last him years.
Arack wisely kept up the pacing of the first few fights, making them light, even comic. He’d imported a few gully dwarves for the occasion. Giving them real weapons (which, of course, they had no idea how to use), he sent them into the arena. The audience howled its delight, laughing until many were in tears at the sight of the gully dwarves tripping over their own swords, viciously stabbing each other with the hilts of their daggers, or turning and running, shrieking, out of the arena. Of course, the audience didn’t enjoy the event nearly as much as the gully dwarves themselves, who finally tossed aside all weapons and launched into a mud fight. They had to be forcibly removed from the ring.
The crowd applauded, but now many began to stomp their feet in good humored, if impatient, demand for the main attraction. Arack allowed this to go on for several moments, knowing—like the showman he was—that it merely heightened their excitement. He was right. Soon the stands were rocking as the crowd clapped and stomped and chanted.
And thus it was that no one in the crowd felt the first tremor.
Caramon felt it, and his stomach lurched as the ground shuddered beneath his feet. He was chilled with fear—not fear of dying, but fear that he might die without accomplishing his objective. Glancing up anxiously into the sky, he tried to recall every legend he had ever heard about the Cataclysm. It had struck near mid-afternoon, he thought he remembered. But there had been earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, dreadful natural disasters of all kinds throughout Krynn, even before the fiery mountain smashed the city of Istar so far beneath the ground that the seas rushed in to cover it.
Vividly, Caramon saw the wreckage of this doomed city as he had seen it after their ship had been sucked into the whirlpool of what was now known as the Blood Sea of Istar. The sea elves had rescued them then, but there would be no rescue for these people. Once more, he saw the twisted and shattered buildings. His soul recoiled in horror and he realized, with a start, that he had been keeping that terrible sight from his mind.
I never really believed it would happen, he realized, shivering with fear as the ground shivered in sympathy. I have hours only, maybe not that long. I must get out of here! I must reach Raistlin!
Then, he calmed down. Raistlin was expecting him. Raistlin needed him—or at least he needed a “trained fighter.” Raistlin would ensure that he had plenty of time—time to win and get to him. Or time to lose and be replaced.
But it was with a feeling of vast relief that Caramon felt the tremor cease. Then he heard Arack’s voice coming from the center of the arena, announcing the Final Bout.
“Once they fought as a team, ladies and gentlemen, and as all of you know, they were the best team we’ve seen here in long years. Many’s the time you saw each one risk his or her life to save a teammate. They were like brothers”—Caramon flinched at this—“but now they’re bitter enemies, ladies and gentlemen. For when it comes to freedom, to wealth, to winning this greatest of all the Games—love has to sit in the back row. They’ll give their all, you may be sure of that, ladies and gentlemen. This is a fight to the death between Kiiri the Sirine, Pheragas of Ergoth, Caramon the Victor, and the Red Minotaur. They won’t leave this arena unless it’s feet first!”
The crowd cheered and roared. Even though they knew it was fake, they loved convincing themselves it wasn’t. The roaring grew louder as t
he Red Minotaur entered, his bestial face disdainful as always. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced at him, then at the trident he held, then at each other. Kiiri’s hand closed tightly around her dagger.
Caramon felt the ground shake again. Then Arack called his name. It was time for the Game to begin.
Tasslehoff felt the first tremors and for a moment thought it was just his imagination, a reaction to that terrible anger rolling around them. Then he saw the curtains swaying back and forth, and he realized that this was it.…
Activate the device! came a voice into Tasslehoff’s brain. His hands trembling, looking down at the pendant, Tas repeated the instructions.
“Thy time is thy own, let’s see, I turn the face toward me. There. Though across it you travel. I shift this plate from right to left. Its expanses you see—back plate drops to form two disks connected by rods … it works!” Highly excited, Tas continued. “Whirling through forever, twist top facing me counterclockwise from bottom. Obstruct not its flow. Make sure the pendant chain is clear. There, that’s right. Now, Grasp firmly the end and the beginning. Hold the disks at both ends. Turn them back upon themselves, like so, and All that is loose shall be secure. The chain will wind itself into the body! Isn’t this wonderful! It’s doing it! Now, Destiny be over your own head. Hold it over my head and—Wait! Something’s not right! I don’t think this is supposed to be happening.…”
A tiny jeweled piece fell off the device, hitting Tas on the nose. Then another, and another, until the distraught kender was standing in a perfect rain of small, jeweled pieces.
“What?” Tas stared wildly at the device he held up over his head. Frantically he twisted the ends again. This time the rain of jeweled pieces became a positive downpour, clattering on the floor with bright, chime-like tones.
Tasslehoff wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think it was supposed to do this. Still, one never knew, especially about wizard’s toys. He watched it, holding his breath, waiting for the light.…
The ground suddenly leaped beneath his feet, hurling him through the curtains and sending him sprawling on the floor at the feet of the Kingpriest. But the man never noticed the ashen-faced kender. The Kingpriest was staring about him in magnificent unconcern, watching with detached curiosity the curtains that rippled like waves, the tiny cracks that suddenly branched through the marble altar. Smiling to himself, as if assured that this was the acquiescence of the gods, the Kingpriest turned from the crumbling altar and made his way back down the central aisle, past the shuddering benches, and out into the main part of the Temple.
“No!” Tas moaned, rattling the device. At that moment, the tubes connecting either end of the sceptre separated in his hands. The chain slipped between his fingers. Slowly, trembling nearly as much as the floor on which he lay, Tasslehoff struggled to his feet. In his hand, he held the broken pieces of the magical device.
“What have I done?” Tas wailed. “I followed Raistlin’s instructions, I’m sure I did! I—”
And suddenly the kender knew. Tears caused the glimmering, shattered pieces to blur in his gaze. “He was so nice to me,” Tas murmured. “He made me repeat the instructions over and over—to make certain you have them right, he said.” Tas squeezed shut his eyes, willing that when he opened them, this would all be a bad dream.
But when he did, it wasn’t.
“I had them right. He meant for me to break it!” Tas whimpered, shivering. “Why? To strand us all back here? To leave us all to die? No! He wants Crysania, they said so, the mages in the Tower. That’s it!” Tas whirled around. “Crysania!”
But the cleric neither heard nor saw him. Staring straight unhead, unmoved, even though the ground shook beneath her knees as she knelt, Crysania’s gray eyes glowed with an eerie, inner light. Her hands, still folded as if in prayer, clenched each other so tightly that the fingers had turned purplish red, the knuckles white.
Her lips moved. Was she praying?
Scrambling back behind the curtains, Tas quickly picked up every tiny jeweled piece of the device, gathered up the chain that had nearly slipped down a crack in the floor, then stuck everything into one pouch, closing it securely. Giving the floor a final look, he crept out into the Sacred Chamber.
“Crysania,” he whispered. He hated to disturb her prayers, but this was too urgent to give up.
“Crysania?” he said, coming over to stand in front of her, since it was obvious she wasn’t even aware of his existence.
Watching her lips, he read their unspoken utterings.
“I know,” she was saying, “I know his mistake! Perhaps for me, the gods will grant what they denied him!”
Drawing a deep breath, she lowered her head. “Paladine, thank you! Thank you!” Tas heard her intone fervently. Then, swiftly, she rose to her feet. Glancing around in some astonishment at the objects in the room that were moving in a deadly dance, her gaze flicked, unseeing, right over the kender.
“Crysania!” Tas babbled, this time clutching at her white robes. “Crysania, I broke it! Our only way back! I broke a dragon orb once. But that was on purpose! I never meant to break this. Poor Caramon! You’ve got to help me! Come with me, talk to Raistlin, make him fix it!”
The cleric stared down at Tasslehoff blankly, as if he were a stranger accosting her on the street. “Raistlin!” she murmured, gently but firmly detaching the kender’s hands from her robes. “Of course! He tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen. And now I know, now I know the truth!”
Thrusting Tas away from her, Crysania gathered up her flowing white robes, darted out from among the benches, and ran down the center aisle without a backward glance as the Temple shook on its very foundations.
It wasn’t until Caramon started to mount the stairs leading out into the arena, that Raag finally removed the bindings from the gladiator’s wrists. Flexing his fingers, grimacing, Caramon followed Kiiri and Pheragas and the Red Minotaur out into the center of the arena. The audience cheered. Caramon, taking his place between Kiiri and Pheragas, looked up at the sky nervously. It was past High Watch, the sun was beginning its slow descent.
Istar would never live to see the sunset.
Thinking of this, and thinking that he, too, would never again see the sun’s red rays stream over a battlement, or melt into the sea, or light the tops of the vallenwoods, Caramon felt tears sting his eyes. He wept not so much for himself, but for those two who stood beside him, who must die this day, and for all those innocents who would perish without understanding why.
He wept, too, for the brother he had loved, but his tears for Raistlin were for someone who had died long ago.
“Kiiri, Pheragas,” Caramon said in a low voice when the Minotaur strode forward to take his bow alone, “I don’t know what the mage told you, but I never betrayed you.”
Kiiri refused to even look at him. He saw her lip curl. Pheragas, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, saw the stain of tears upon Caramon’s face and hesitated, frowning, before he, too, turned away.
“It doesn’t matter, really,” Caramon continued, “whether you believe me or not. You can kill each other for the key if you want, because I’m finding my freedom my own way.”
Now Kiiri looked at him, her eyes wide in disbelief. The crowd was on its feet, yelling for the Minotaur, who was walking around the arena, waving his trident above his head.
“You’re mad!” she whispered as loudly as she dared. Her gaze went meaningfully to Raag. As always, the ogre’s huge, yellowish body blocked the only exit.
Caramon’s gaze followed imperturbably, his face not changing expression.
“Our weapons are real, my friend,” Pheragas said harshly. “Yours are not!”
Caramon nodded, but did not answer.
“Don’t do this!” Kiiri edged closer. “We’ll help you fake it in the arena today. I-I guess neither of us really believed the black-robed one. You must admit, it seemed weird—you trying to get us to leave the city! We thought, like he said, that you wanted the prize all to yourself. Loo
k, pretend you’re injured real early. Get yourself carried off. We’ll help you escape tonight—”
“There will be no tonight,” Caramon said softly. “Not for me, not for any of us. I haven’t got much time. I can’t explain. All I ask is this—just don’t try to stop me.”
Pheragas took a breath, but the words died on his lips as another tremor, this one more severe, shook the ground.
Now, everyone noticed. The arena swayed on its stilts, the bridges over the Death Pits creaked, the floor rose and fell, nearly knocking the Red Minotaur to his feet. Kiiri grabbed hold of Caramon. Pheragas braced his legs like a sailor on board a heaving vessel. The crowd in the stands fell suddenly silent as their seats rocked beneath them. Hearing the cracking of the wood, some screamed. Several even rose to their feet. But the tremor stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Everything was quiet, too quiet. Caramon felt the hair rise on his neck and his skin prickle. No birds sang, not a dog barked. The crowd was silent, waiting in fear. I have to get out of here! Caramon resolved. His friends didn’t matter anymore, nothing mattered. He had just one fixed objective—to stop Raistlin.
And he must act now, before the next shock hit and before people recovered from this one. Glancing quickly around, Caramon saw Raag standing beside the exit, the ogre’s yellow, mottled face creased in puzzlement, his slow brain trying to figure out what was going on. Arack had appeared suddenly beside him, staring around, probably hoping he wouldn’t be forced to refund his customers’ money. Already the crowd was starting to settle down, though many glanced about uneasily.
Caramon drew a deep breath, then, gripping Kiiri in his arms, he heaved with all his strength, hurling the startled woman right into Pheragas, sending them both tumbling to the ground.
Seeing them fall, Caramon whirled around and propelled his massive body straight at the ogre, driving his shoulder into Raag’s gut with all the strength his months of training had given him. It was a blow that would have killed a human, but it only knocked the wind out of the ogre. The force of Caramon’s charge sent them both crashing backward into the wall.
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 42