The captain was an older man, not a Knight but a mercenary of thirty years’ experience. His face was seamed with scars, he was missing part of his left hand from a slashing sword blow, and he walked with a pronounced limp. This morning, the scarred face was flushed with shame as he faced his young general’s stern gaze.
“The scouts sent word of yer comin’, sir, but afore I could get to you, this pack o’ wild dogs”—he glowered at the retreating men—“lit out for you like you was a bitch in heat. Beggin’ the general’s pardon,” he muttered again, “and meanin’ no disrespect.”
Caramon kept his face carefully composed. “What’s happened?” he asked, leading his tired horse into camp at a walk. The captain did not answer right away but cast a significant glance at Caramon’s escort.
Caramon understood. “Go on ahead, men,” he said, waving his hand. “Garic, see to my quarters.”
When he and the captain were alone—or as alone as possible in the crowded camp where everyone was staring at them in eager curiosity—Caramon turned to question the man with a glance.
The old mercenary said just two words: “The wizard.”
Reaching Raistlin’s tent, Caramon saw with a sinking heart the ring of armed guards surrounding it, keeping back onlookers. There were audible sighs of relief at the sight of Caramon, and many remarks of “General’s here now. He’ll take care of things,” much nodding of heads, and some scattered applause.
Encouraged by a few oaths from the captain, the crowd opened up an aisle for Caramon to walk through. The armed guards stepped aside as he passed, then quickly closed ranks again. Pushing and shoving, the crowd peered over the guards, straining to see. The captain having refused to tell him what was going on, Caramon would not have been surprised to find anything from a dragon sitting atop his brother’s tent to the whole thing surrounded by green and purple flame.
Instead, he saw one young man standing guard and Lady Crysania pacing in front of the closed tent flap. Caramon stared at the young man curiously, thinking he recognized him.
“Garic’s cousin,” he said hesitantly, trying to remember the name. “Michael, isn’t it?”
“Yes, general,” the young Knight said. Drawing himself up straight, he attempted a salute. But it was a feeble attempt. The young man’s face was pale and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He was clearly about to drop from exhaustion, but he held his spear before him, grimly barring the way into the tent.
Hearing Caramon’s voice, Crysania looked up.
“Thank Paladine!” she said fervently.
One look at her pale face and sunken gray eyes, and Caramon shivered in the bright morning sunlight.
“Get rid of them!” he ordered the captain, who immediately began to issue orders to his men. Soon, with much swearing and grumbling, the crowd started to break up, most figuring the excitement was over now anyway.
“Caramon, listen to me!” Crysania laid her hand on his arm. “This—”
But Caramon shrugged off Crysania’s hand. Ignoring her attempts to speak, he started to push past Michael. The young knight raised his spear, blocking his path.
“Out of my way!” Caramon ordered, startled.
“I am sorry, sir,” Michael said in firm tones, though his lips trembled, “but Fistandantilus told me no one was to pass.”
“You see,” said Crysania in exasperation as Caramon fell back a pace, staring at Michael in perplexed anger. “I tried to tell you, if you’d only listened! It’s been like this all night, and I know something dreadful’s happened inside! But Raistlin made him take an oath—by the Code and the Rules or some such thing—”
“Measure,” Caramon muttered, shaking his head. “The Code and the Measure.” He frowned, thinking of Sturm. “A code no knight will break on pain of death.”
“But this is insane!” Crysania cried. Her voice broke. She covered her face with her hand a moment. Caramon put his arm around her hesitantly, fearing a reprimand, but she leaned against him gratefully.
“Oh, Caramon, I’ve been so frightened!” she murmured. “It was awful. I woke out of a sound sleep, hearing Raistlin screaming my name. I ran over here—There were flashes of light inside his tent. He was shrieking incoherent words, then I heard him call your name … and then he began to moan in despair. I tried to get in but …” She made a weak gesture toward Michael, who stood staring straight ahead. “And then his voice began to … to fade! It was awful, as though he were being sucked away somehow!”
“Then what happened?”
Crysania paused. Then, hesitantly, “He … he said something else. I could barely hear it. The lights went out. There was a sharp crack and … everything was still, horribly still!” She closed her eyes, shuddering.
“What did he say? Could you understand?”
“That’s the strange part.” Crysania raised her head, looking at him in confusion. “It sounded like … Bupu.”
“Bupu!” Caramon repeated in astonishment. “Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“Why would he call out the name of a gully dwarf?” Caramon demanded.
“I haven’t any idea.” Crysania sighed wearily, brushing her hair back out of her eyes. “I’ve wondered the same thing. Except—wasn’t that the gully dwarf who told Par-Salian how kind Raistlin had been to her?”
Caramon shook his head. He would worry about gully dwarves later. Now, his immediate problem was Michael. Vivid memories of Sturm came back to him. How many times had he seen that look on the knight’s face? An oath by the Code and the Measure—
Damn Raistlin!
Michael would stand at his post now until he dropped and then, when he awoke to find he had failed, he’d kill himself. There had to be some way around this—around him! Caramon glanced at Crysania. She could use her clerical powers to spellbind the young man.…
Caramon shook his head. That would have the entire camp ready to burn her at the stake! Damn Raistlin! Damn clerics! Damn the Knights of Solamnia and damn their Code and their Measure!
Heaving a sigh, he walked up to Michael. The young man raised his spear threateningly, but Caramon only lifted his hands high, to show they were empty.
He cleared his throat, knowing what he wanted to say, yet uncertain how to begin. And then as he thought about Sturm, suddenly he could see the Knight’s face once again, so clearly that he marveled. But it was not as he had seen it in life—stern, noble, cold. And then Caramon knew—he was seeing Sturm’s face in death! Marks of terrible suffering and pain had smoothed away the harsh lines of pride and inflexibility. There was compassion and understanding in the dark, haunted eyes and—it seemed to Caramon—that the Knight smiled on him sadly.
For a moment, Caramon was so startled by this vision that he could say nothing, only stare. But the image vanished, leaving in its place only the face of a young Knight, grim, frightened, exhausted—determined.…
“Michael,” Caramon said, keeping his hands raised, “I had a friend once, a Knight of Solamnia. He—he’s dead now. He died in a war far from here when—But that doesn’t matter. Stur—my friend was like you. He believed in the Code and … and the Measure. He was ready to give his life for them. But, at the end, he found out there was something more important than the Code and the Measure, something that the Code and the Measure had forgotten.”
Michael’s face hardened stubbornly. He gripped his spear tighter.
“Life itself,” Caramon said softly.
He saw a flicker in the Knight’s red-rimmed eyes, a flicker that was drowned by a shimmer of tears. Angrily, Michael blinked them away, the look of firm resolution returning, though—it seemed to Caramon—it was now mingled with a look of desperation.
Caramon caught hold of that desperation, driving his words home as if they were the point of a sword seeking his enemy’s heart. “Life, Michael. That’s all there is. That’s all we have. Not just our lives, but the lives of everyone on this world. It’s what the Code and the Measure were designed to protect, but somewhere along
the line that got all twisted around and the Code and the Measure became more important than life.”
Slowly, still keeping his hands raised, he took a step toward the young man.
“I’m not asking you to leave your post for any treacherous reason. And you and I both know you’re not leaving it from cowardice.” Caramon shook his head. “The gods know what you must have seen and heard tonight. I’m asking you to leave it out of compassion. My brother’s inside there, maybe dying, maybe dead. When he made you swear that oath, he couldn’t have foreseen this happening. I must go to him. Let me pass, Michael. There is nothing dishonorable in that.”
Michael stood stiffly, his eyes straight ahead. And then, his face crumpled. His shoulders slumped, and the spear fell from his nerveless hand. Reaching out, Caramon caught the young man in his big arms and held him close. A shuddering sob tore through the young man’s body. Caramon patted his shoulder awkwardly.
“Here, one of you”—he looked around—“find Garic—Ah, there you are,” he said in relief as the young Knight came running over. “Take your cousin back to the fire. Get some hot food inside him, then see that he sleeps. You there—” he motioned to another guard—“take over here.”
As Garic led his cousin away, Crysania started to enter the tent, but Caramon stopped her. “Better let me go first, lady,” he said.
Expecting an argument, he was surprised to see her meekly step aside. Caramon had his hand on the tent flap when he felt her hand upon his arm.
Startled, he turned.
“You are as wise as Elistan, Caramon,” she said, regarding him intently. “I could have said those words to the young man. Why didn’t I?”
Caramon flushed. “I—I just understood him, that’s all,” he muttered.
“I didn’t want to understand him.” Crysania, her face pale, bit her lip. “I just wanted him to obey me.”
“Look, lady,” Caramon said grimly, “you can do your soul-searching later. Right now, I need your help!”
“Yes, of course.” The firm, self-confident look returned to Crysania’s face. Without hesitation, she followed Caramon into Raistlin’s tent.
Mindful of the guard outside, and any other curious eyes, Caramon shut the tent flap quickly. It was dark and still inside; so dark that at first neither could make out anything in the shadows. Standing near the entrance, waiting until their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Crysania clutched at Caramon suddenly.
“I can hear him breathing!” she said in relief.
Caramon nodded and moved forward slowly. The brightening day was driving night from the tent, and he could see more clearly with each step he took.
“There,” he said. He hurriedly kicked aside a camp stool that blocked his way. “Raist!” he called softly as he knelt down.
The archmage was lying on the floor. His face was ashen, his thin lips blue. His breathing was shallow and irregular, but he was breathing. Lifting his twin carefully, Caramon carried him to his bed. In the dim light, he could see a faint smile on Raistlin’s lips, as though he were lost in a pleasant dream.
“I think he’s just sleeping now,” Caramon said in a mystified voice to Crysania, who was covering Raistlin with a blanket. “But something’s happened. That’s obvious.” He looked around the tent in the brightening light. “I wonder—Name of the gods!”
Crysania looked up, glancing over her shoulder.
The poles of the tent were scorched and blackened, the material itself was charred and, in some places, appeared to have melted. It looked as though it had been swept by fire, yet incongruously, it remained standing and did not appear to have been seriously damaged. It was the object on the table, however, that had brought the exclamation from Caramon.
“The dragon orb!” he whispered in awe.
Made by the mages of all three Robes long ago, filled with the essence of good, evil, and neutral dragons, powerful enough to span the banks of time, the crystal orb still stood upon the table, resting on the silver stand Raistlin had made for it.
Once it had been an object of magical, enchanting light.
Now it was a thing of darkness, lifeless, a crack running down its center. Now—“It’s broken,” Caramon said in a quiet voice.
CHAPTER
4
he Army of Fistandantilus sailed across the Straits of Schallsea in a ramshackle fleet made up of many fishing boats, row boats, crude rafts, and gaudily decorated pleasure boats. Though the distance was not great, it took over a week to get the people, the animals, and the supplies transported.
By the time Caramon was ready to make the crossing, the army had grown to such an extent that there were not enough boats to ferry everyone across at once. Many craft had to make several trips back and forth. The largest boats were used to carry livestock. Converted into floating barns, they had stalls for the horses and the scrawny cattle and pens for the pigs.
Things went smoothly, for the most part, though Caramon got only about three hours of sleep each night, so busy was he with the problems that everyone was sure only he could solve—everything from seasick cattle to a chest-load of swords that was accidentally dropped overboard and had to be retrieved. Then, just when the end was in sight and nearly everyone was across, a storm came up. Whipping the seas to froth, it wrecked two boats that slipped from their moorings and prevented anyone from crossing for two days. But, eventually, everyone made it in relatively good shape, with only a few cases of seasickness, one child tumbling overboard (rescued), and a horse that broke its leg kicking down its stall in a panic (killed and butchered).
Upon landing on the shores of Abanasinia, the army was met by the chief of the Plainsmen—the tribes of barbarians inhabiting the northern plains of Abanasinia who were eager to gain the fabled gold of Thorbardin—and also by representatives from the hill dwarves. When he met with the representative of the hill dwarves, Caramon experienced a profound shock that unnerved him for days.
“Reghar Fireforge and party,” announced Garic from the entrance to the tent. Standing aside, the knight allowed a group of three dwarves to enter.
That name ringing in his ears, Caramon stared at the first dwarf in disbelief. Raistlin’s thin fingers closed painfully over his arm.
“Not a word!” breathed the archmage.
“But he—he looks … and the name!” Caramon stammered in a low voice.
“Of course,” Raistlin said matter-of-factly, “this is Flint’s grandfather.”
Flint’s grandfather! Flint Fireforge—his old friend. The old dwarf who had died in Tanis’s arms at Godshome, the old dwarf—so gruff and irascible, yet so tender-hearted, the dwarf who had seemed ancient to Caramon. He had not even been born yet! This was his grandfather.
Suddenly the full scope of where he was and what he was doing struck Caramon a physical blow. Before this, he might have been adventuring in his own time. He knew then that he hadn’t really been taking any of this seriously. Even Raistlin “sending” him home had seemed as simple as the archmage putting him on a boat and bidding him farewell. Talk of “altering” time he’d put out of his mind. It confused him, seeming to go round in a closed, endless circle.
Carmon feld hot, then cold. Flint hadn’t been born yet. Tanis didn’t exist, Tika didn’t exist. He, himself, didn’t exist! No! It was too implausible! It couldn’t be!
The tent tilted before Caramon’s eyes. He was more than half afraid he might be sick. Fortunately, Raistlin saw the pallor of his brother’s face. Knowing intuitively what his twin’s brain was trying to assimilate, the mage rose to his feet and, moving gracefully in front of his momentarily befuddled brother, spoke suitable words of welcome to the dwarves. But, as Raistlin did so, he shot a dark, penetrating glance at Caramon, reminding him sternly of his duty.
Pulling himself together, Caramon was able to thrust the disturbing and confusing thoughts from his mind, telling himself he would deal with them later in peace and quiet. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Unfortunately, the peace and quiet time ne
ver seemed to come about.…
Getting to his feet, Caramon was even able to shake hands calmly with the sturdy, gray-bearded dwarf.
“Little did I ever think,” Reghar said bluntly, sitting down in the chair offered him and accepting a mug of ale, which he quaffed at one gulp, “that I’d be making deals with humans and wizards, especially against my own flesh and blood.” He scowled into the empty mug. Caramon, with a gesture, had the lad who attended him refill it.
Reghar, still with the same scowl, waited for the foam to settle. Then, sighing, he raised it to Caramon, who had returned to his chair. “Durth Zamish och Durth Tabor. Strange times makes strange brothers.”
“You can say that again,” Caramon muttered with a glance at Raistlin. The general lifted his glass of water and drank it. Raistlin—out of politeness—moistened his lips from a glass of wine, then set it down.
“We will meet in the morning to discuss our plans,” Caramon said. “The chief of the Plainsmen will be here then, too.” Reghar’s scowl deepened, and Caramon sighed inwardly, foreseeing trouble. But he continued in a hearty, cheerful tone. “Let’s dine together tonight, to seal our alliance.”
At this, Reghar rose to his feet. “I may have to fight with the barbarians,” he growled. “But, by Reorx’s beard, I don’t have to eat with them—or you either!”
Caramon stood up again. Dressed in his best ceremonial armor (more gifts from the knights), he was an imposing sight. The dwarf squinted up at the warrior.
“You’re a big one, ain’t you?” he said. Snorting, he shook his head dubiously. “I mistrust there’s more muscle in your head than brain.”
Caramon could not help smiling, though his heart ached. It sounded so much like Flint talking!
But Raistlin did not smile.
“My brother has an excellent mind for military matters,” the mage said coldly and unexpectedly. “When we left Palanthas, there were but three of us. It is due to General Caramon’s skill and quick thinking that we are able to bring this mighty army to your shores. I think you would find it well to accept his leadership.”
War of the Twins: Legends, Volume Two (Dragonlance Legends) Page 26