Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  Desperately, while Raag was gasping for breath, Caramon grappled for the ogre’s stout club. But just as he yanked it out of Raag’s grip, the ogre recovered. Howling in anger, Raag brought both massive hands up under Caramon’s chin with a blow that sent the big warrior flying back into the arena.

  Landing heavily, Caramon could see nothing for a moment except sky and arena whirling around and around him. Groggy from the blow his warrior’s instincts took over. Catching a glimpse of movement to his left, Caramon rolled over just as the minotaur’s trident came down where his sword arm had been. He could hear the minotaur snarling and growling in bestial fury.

  Caramon struggled to regain his feet, shaking his head to clear it, but he knew he could never hope to avoid the minotaur’s second strike. And then a black body was between him and the Red Minotaur. There was a flash of steel as Pheragas’s sword blocked the trident blow that would have finished Caramon. Staggering, Caramon backed up to catch his breath and felt Kiiri’s cool hands helping to support him.

  “Are you all right?” she muttered.

  “Weapon!” Caramon managed to gasp, his head still ringing from the ogre’s blow.

  “Take mine,” Kiiri said, thrusting her shortsword into Caramon’s hands. “Then rest a moment. I’ll handle Raag.”

  The ogre, wild with rage and the excitement of battle, barreled toward them, his slavering jaws wide open.

  “No! You need it—” Caramon began to protest, but Kiiri only grinned at him.

  “Watch!” she said lightly, then spoke strange words that reminded Caramon vaguely of the language of magic. These, however, had a faint accent, almost elvish.

  And, suddenly Kiiri was gone. In her place stood a gigantic she-bear. Caramon gasped, unable—for a moment—to comprehend what had happened. Then he remembered—Kiiri was a Sirine, gifted with the power to change her shape!

  Rearing up on her hind legs, the she-bear towered over the huge ogre. Raag came to a halt, his eyes wide open in alarm at the sight. Kiiri roared in rage, her sharp teeth gleamed. The sunlight glinted off her claws as one of her giant paws lashed out and caught Raag across his mottled face.

  The ogre howled in pain, streams of yellowish blood oozed from the claw marks, one eye disappeared in a mass of bleeding jelly. The bear leaped on the ogre. Watching in awe, Caramon could see nothing but yellow skin and blood and brown fur.

  The crowd, too, although they had yelled in delight at the beginning, suddenly became aware that this fight wasn’t faked. This was for real. People were going to die. There was a moment of shocked silence, then—here and there—someone cheered. Soon the applause and wild yells were deafening.

  Caramon quickly forgot the people in the stands, however. He saw his chance. Only the dwarf stood blocking the exit now, and Arack’s face, though twisted in anger, was twisted in fear as well. Caramon could easily get past him.…

  At that moment, he heard a grunt of pleasure from the minotaur. Turning, Caramon saw Pheragas slump over in pain, catching the butt end of the trident in his solar plexus. The minotaur reversed the stroke, raising the weapon to kill, but Caramon yelled loudly, distracting the minotaur long enough to throw him off stride.

  The Red Minotaur turned to face this new challenge, a grin on his red-furred face. Seeing Caramon armed only with a shortsword, the minotaur’s grin broadened. Lunging at Caramon, the minotaur sought to end the fight quickly. But Caramon sidestepped deftly. Raising his foot, he kicked, shattering the minotaur’s kneecap. It was a painful, crippling blow, and sent the minotaur stumbling to the ground.

  Knowing his enemy was out for at least a few moments, Caramon ran over to Pheragas. The black man remained huddled over, grasping his stomach.

  “C’mon,” Caramon grunted, putting his arm around him. “I’ve seen you take a hit like that, get up, and eat a five-course meal. What’s the matter?”

  But there was no answer. Caramon felt the man’s body shiver convulsively, and he saw that the shining black skin was wet with sweat. Then Caramon saw the three bleeding slashes the trident had cut in the man’s arm.…

  Pheragas looked up at his friend. Seeing Caramon’s horrified gaze, he realized he understood. Shuddering in pain from the poison that was coursing through his veins, Pheragas sank to his knees. Caramon’s big arms closed around him.

  “Take … take my sword.” Pheragas choked. “Quickly, fool!” Hearing from the sounds his enemy was making that the minotaur was back on his feet, Caramon hesitated only a second, then took the large sword from Pheragas’s shaking hand.

  Pheragas pitched over, writhing in pain.

  Gripping the sword, tears blinding his eyes, Caramon rose and whirled, blocking the Red Minotaur’s sudden thrust. Even though limping on one leg, the minotaur’s strength was such that he easily compensated for the painful injury. Then, too, the minotaur knew that all it took was a scratch to kill his victim, and Caramon would have to come inside the trident’s range to use his sword.

  Slowly the two stalked each other, circling round and round. Caramon no longer heard the crowd that was stamping and whistling and cheering madly at the sight of real blood. He no longer thought of escape, he had no idea—even—where he was. His warrior’s instincts had taken over. He knew one thing. He had to kill.

  And so he waited. Minotaurs had one major fault, Pheragas taught him. Believing themselves to be superior to all other races, minotaurs generally underestimate an opponent. They make mistakes, if you wait them out. The Red Minotaur was no exception. The minotaur’s thoughts became clear to Caramon—pain and anger, outrage at the insult, an eagerness to end the life of this dull-witted, puny human.

  The two edged nearer and nearer the spot where Kiiri was still locked in a vicious battle with Raag, as Caramon could tell by the sounds of growling and shrieking from the ogre. Suddenly, apparently preoccupied with watching Kiiri, Caramon slipped in a pool of yellow, slimy blood. The Red Minotaur, howling in delight, lunged forward to impale the human’s body on the trident.

  But the slip had been feigned. Caramon’s sword flashed in the sunlight. The minotaur, seeing he had been fooled, tried to recover from this forward lunge. But he had forgotten his crippled knee. It would not bear his weight, and the Red Minotaur fell to the arena floor, Caramon’s sword cleaving cleanly through the bestial head.

  Jerking his sword free, Caramon heard a horrible snarling behind him and turned just in time to see the great she-bear’s jaws clamp over Raag’s huge neck. With a shake of her head, Kiiri bit deeply into the jugular vein. The ogre’s mouth opened wide in a scream none would ever hear.

  Caramon started toward them when he caught sudden movement to his right. Quickly he turned, every sense alert as Arack hurtled past him, the dwarf’s face an ugly mask of grief and fury. Caramon saw the dagger flash in the dwarf’s hand and he hurled himself forward, but he was too late. He could not stop the blade that buried itself in the bear’s chest. Instantly, the dwarf’s hand was awash in red, warm blood. The great she-bear roared in pain and anger. One huge paw lashed out. Catching hold of the dwarf, with her last convulsive strength, Kiiri lifted Arack and threw him across the arena. The dwarf’s body smashed against the Freedom Spire where hung the golden key, impaling it upon one of the countless ornate protrusions. The dwarf gave a fearsome shriek, then the entire pinnacle collapsed, crashing into the flame-filled pits below.

  Kiiri fell, blood pouring from the gash in her breast. The crowd was going wild, screaming and yelling Caramon’s name. The big man did not hear. Bending down, he took Kiiri in his arms. The magical spell she had woven unraveled. The bear was gone, and he held Kiiri close to his chest.

  “You’ve won, Kiiri,” Caramon whispered. “You’re free.”

  Kiiri looked up at him and smiled. Then her eyes widened, the life left them. Their dying gaze remained fixed upon the sky, almost—it seemed to Caramon—expectantly, as if now she knew what was coming.

  Gently laying her body down upon the blood-soaked arena floor, Caramon rose to his
feet. He saw Pheragas’s body frozen in its last, agonized throes. He saw Kiiri’s sightless, staring eyes.

  “You will answer for this, my brother,” Caramon said softly.

  There was a noise behind him, a murmuring like the angry roar of the sea before the storm. Grimly, Caramon gripped his sword and turned, preparing to face whatever new enemy awaited him. But there was no enemy, only the other gladiators. At the sight of Caramon’s, tear-streaked and bloodstained face, one by one, they stood aside, making way for him to pass.

  Looking at them, Caramon realized that—at last—he was free. Free to find his brother, free to put an end to this evil forever. He felt his soul soar, death held little meaning and no fear for him anymore. The smell of blood was in his nostrils, and he was filled with the sweet madness of battle.

  Thirsting now with the desire for revenge, Caramon ran to the edge of the arena, preparing to descend the stairs that led down to the tunnels beneath it, when the first of the earthquakes shattered the doomed city of Istar.

  CHAPTER

  18

  rysania neither saw nor heard Tasslehoff. Her mind was blinded by a myriad colors that swirled within its depths, sparkling like splendid jewels, for suddenly she understood. This was why Paladine had brought her back here—not to redeem the memory of the Kingpriest—but to learn from his mistakes. And she knew, she knew in her soul, that she had learned. She could call upon the gods and they would answer—not with anger—but with power! The cold darkness within her broke open, and the freed creature sprang from its shell, bursting into the sunlight.

  In a vision, she saw herself—one hand holding high the medallion of Paladine, its platinum flashing in the sun. With her other hand, she called forth legions of believers, and they swarmed around her with adoring, rapt expressions as she led them to lands of beauty beyond imagining.

  She didn’t have the Key yet to unlock the door, she knew. And it could not happen here, the wrath of the gods was too great for her to penetrate. But where to find the Key, where to find the door, even? The dancing colors made her dizzy, she could not see or think. And then she heard a voice, a small voice, and felt hands clutching at her robes. “Raistlin …” she heard the voice say, the rest of the words were lost. But suddenly her mind cleared. The colors vanished, as did the light, leaving her alone in the darkness that was calm and soothing to her soul.

  “Raistlin,” she murmured. “He tried to tell me.…”

  Still the hands clutched at her. Absently, she disengaged them and thrust them aside. Raistlin would take her to the Portal, he would help her find the Key. Evil turns in upon itself, Elistan said. So Raistlin would unwittingly help her. Crysania’s soul sang in a joyous anthem to Paladine. When I return in my glory, with goodness in my hand, when all the evil in the world is vanquished, then Raistlin himself will see my might, he will come to understand and believe.

  “Crysania!”

  The ground shook beneath Crysania’s feet, but she did not notice the tremor. She heard a voice call her name, a soft voice, broken by coughing.

  “Crysania” It spoke again. “There is not much time. Hurry!”

  Raistlin’s voice! Looking around wildly, Crysania searched for him, but she saw no one. And then she realized, he was speaking to her mind, guiding her. “Raistlin,” she murmured, “I hear you. I am coming”

  Turning, she ran down the aisle and out into the Temple. The kender’s cry behind her fell on deaf ears.

  “Raistlin?” said Tas, puzzled, glancing around. Then he understood. Crysania was going to Raistlin! Somehow, magically, he was calling to her and she was going to find him! Tasslehoff dashed out into the corridor of the Temple after Crysania. Surely, she would make Raistlin fix the device.…

  Once in the corridor, Tas glanced up and down and spotted Crysania quickly. But his heart nearly jumped out on the floor—she was running so swiftly she had nearly reached the end of the hall.

  Making certain the broken pieces of the magical device were secure in his pouch, Tas ran grimly after Crysania, keeping her fluttering white robes in his sight for as long as possible.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t very long. She immediately vanished around a corner.

  The kender ran as he had never run before, not even when the imagined terrors of Shoikan Grove had been chasing him. His topknot of hair streamed out behind him, his pouches bounced around wildly, spilling their contents, leaving behind a glittering trail of rings and bracelets and baubles.

  Keeping a firm grip on the pouch with the magical device, Tas reached the end of the hall and skidded around it, slamming up against the opposite wall in his haste. Oh, no! His heart went from jumping around in his chest to land with a thud at his feet. He began to wish irritably that his heart would stay put. Its gyrations were making him nauseous.

  The hall was filled with clerics, all dressed in white robes! How was he ever to spot Crysania? Then he saw her, about half-way down the hall, her black hair shining in the torchlight. He saw, too, that clerics swirled about in her wake, shouting or glowering after her as she ran by.

  Tas leaped to the pursuit, hope rising again; Crysania had been necessarily slowed in her wild flight by the crowd of people in the Temple. The kender sped past them, ignoring cries of outrage, skipping out of the way of grasping hands.

  “Crysania,” he yelled desperately.

  The crowd of clerics in the hall became thicker, everyone hurrying out to wonder about the strange tremblings of the ground, trying to guess what this portended.

  Tas saw Crysania halt more than once, pushing her way through the crowd. She had just freed herself when Quarath came around the corner, calling for the Kingpriest. Not watching where she was going, Crysania ran right into him, and he caught hold of her.

  “Stop! My dear,” Quarath cried, shaking her, thinking her hysterical. “Calm yourself!”

  “Let me go!” Crysania struggled in his grasp.

  “She’s gone mad with terror! Help me hold her!” Quarath called to several other clerics standing nearby.

  It suddenly occurred to Tas that Crysania did look mad. He could see her face as he drew near her, now. Her black hair was a tangled mass, her eyes were deep, deep gray, the color of the storm clouds, and her face was flushed with exertion. She seemed to hear nothing, no voices penetrated her consciousness, except, perhaps, one.

  Other clerics caught hold of her at Quarath’s command. Screaming incoherently, Crysania fought them, too. Desperation gave her strength, she came close to escaping more than once. Her white robes tore in their hands as they tried to hold her, Tas thought he saw blood on more than one cleric’s face.

  Running up, he was just about to leap on the back of the nearest cleric and bop him over the head when he was blinded by a brilliant light that brought everyone—even Crysania—to a halt.

  No one moved. All Tas could hear for a moment were Crysania’s gasps for breath and the heavy breathing of those who had tried to stop her. Then a voice spoke.

  “The gods come,” said the musical voice from out of the center of the light, “at my command—”

  The ground beneath Tasslehoff’s feet leaped high in the air, tossing the kender up like a feather. It sank rapidly as Tas was going up, then flew up to meet him as he was coming down. The kender slammed into the floor, the impact knocking the breath from his small body.

  The air exploded with dust and glass and splinters, screams and shrieks and crashes. Tas could do nothing except fight to try to breathe. Lying on the marble floor as it jumped and rocked and shook beneath him, he watched in amazement as columns cracked and crumbled, walls split, pillars fell, and people died.

  The Temple of Istar was collapsing.

  Crawling forward on his hands and knees, Tas tried desperately to keep Crysania in sight. She seemed oblivious to what was happening around her. Those who had been holding her let go in their terror, and Crysania, still hearing only Raistlin’s voice, started on her way again. Tas yelled, Quarath was lunging at her, but, even as the
cleric hurtled toward her, a huge marble column next to her toppled and fell.

  Tas caught his breath. He couldn’t see a thing for an instant then the marble dust settled. Quarath was nothing but a bloody mass on the floor. Crysania, apparently unhurt, stood staring dazedly down at the elf, whose blood had spattered all over her white robes.

  “Crysania!” Tasslehoff shouted hoarsely. But she didn’t notice him. Turning away, she stumbled through the wreckage, unseeing, hearing nothing but the voice that called to her more urgently now than ever.

  Staggering to his feet, his body bruised and aching, Tas ran after her. Nearing the end of the hall, he saw Crysania make a turn to her right and go down a flight of stairs. Before he followed her, Tas risked a quick look behind him, drawn by a terrible curiosity.

  The brilliant light still filled the corridor, illuminating the bodies of the dead and dying. Cracks gaped in the Temple walls, the ceiling sagged, dust choked the air. And within that light, Tas could still hear the voice, only now its lovely music had faded. It sounded harsh, shrill, and off-key.

  “The gods come.…”

  Outside the great arena, running through Istar, Caramon fought his way through death-choked streets. Much like Crysania’s, his mind, too, heard Raistlin’s voice. But it was not calling to him. No, Caramon heard it as he had heard it in their mother’s womb, he heard the voice of his twin, the voice of the blood they shared.

  And so Caramon paid no heed to the screams of the dying, or the pleas for help from those trapped beneath the wreckage. He paid no heed to what was happening around him. Buildings tumbled down practically on top of him, stones plummeted into the streets, narrowly missing him. His arms and upper body were soon bleeding from small, jagged cuts. His legs were gashed in a hundred places.

  But he did not stop. He did not even feel the pain. Climbing over debris, lifting giant beams of wood and hurling them out of his way, Caramon slowly made his way through the dying streets of Istar to the Temple that gleamed in the sun before him. In his hand, he carried a bloodstained sword.