War of the Twins: Legends, Volume Two (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  The Dewar marched out, and the courtyard was empty except for the camp followers. The women wiped away their tears and, chatting among themselves, returned to their tasks. The children clambered up onto the walls to cheer the army as long as it was in sight. The gates to Pax Tharkas swung shut at last, sliding smoothly and silently upon their oiled hinges.

  Standing on the battlements alone, Michael watched the great army surge southward, their spear tips shining in the morning sun, their warm breath sending up puffs of mist, the chanting of the dwarves echoing through the mountains.

  Behind them rode a single, solitary figure, cloaked in black. Looking at the figure, Michael felt cheered. It seemed a good omen. Death now rode behind the army, instead of in front.

  The sun shone upon the opening of the gates of Pax Tharkas; it set upon the closing of the gates of the great mountain fastness of Thorbardin. As the water-controlled mechanism that operated the gates groaned and wheezed, part of the mountain itself appeared to slide into place upon command. When shut and sealed, in fact, the gates were impossible to tell from the face of the rock of the mountain itself, so cunning was the craftsmanship of the dwarves who had spent years constructing them.

  The shutting of the gates meant war. News of the marching of the Army of Fistandantilus had been reported, carried by spies upon the swift wings of griffons. Now the mountain fastness was alive with activity. Sparks flew in the weapons makers’ shops. Armorers fell asleep, hammers in their hands. The taverns doubled their business overnight as everyone came to boast of the great deeds they would accomplish on the field of battle.

  Only one part of the huge kingdom beneath the ground was quiet, and it was to this place that the hero of the dwarves turned his heavy footsteps two days after Caramon’s army had left Pax Tharkas.

  Entering the great Hall of Audience of the King of the Mountain Dwarves, Kharas heard his boots ring hollowly in the bowl-shaped chamber that was carved of the stone of the mountain itself. The chamber was empty now, save for several dwarves seated at the front on a stone dais.

  Kharas passed the long rows of stone benches where, last night, thousands of dwarves had roared approval as their king declared war upon their kinsmen.

  Today was a War Meeting of the Council of Thanes. As such, it did not require the presence of the citizenry, so Kharas was somewhat startled to find himself invited. The hero was in disgrace—everyone knew it. There was speculation, even, that Duncan might have Kharas exiled.

  Kharas noted, as he drew near, that Duncan was regarding him with an unfriendly eye, but this may have had something to do with the fact that the king’s eye and left cheekbone above his beard were undeniably black and swollen—a result of the blow Kharas had inflicted.

  “Oh, get up, Kharas,” Duncan snapped as the tall, beardless dwarf bowed low before him.

  “Not until you have forgiven me, Thane,” Kharas said, retaining his position.

  “Forgiven you for what—knocking some sense into a foolish old dwarf?” Duncan smiled wryly. “No, you’re not forgiven for that. You are thanked.” The king rubbed his jaw. “ ‘Duty is painful,’ goes the proverb. Now I understand. But enough of that.”

  Seeing Kharas straighten, Duncan held out a scroll of parchment. “I asked you here for another reason. Read this.”

  Puzzled, Kharas examined the scroll. It was tied with black ribbon but was not sealed. Glancing at the other thanes, who were all assembled, each in his own stone chair sitting somewhat lower than the king’s, Kharas’s gaze went to one chair in particular—a vacant chair, the chair of Argat, Thane of the Dewar. Frowning, Kharas unrolled the scroll and read aloud, stumbling over the crude language of the Dewar.

  Duncan, of the Dwarves of Thorbardin, King.

  Greetings from those you now call traitor.

  This scroll is deliver to you from us who know that you will punish Dewar under the mountain for what we did at Pax Tharkas. If this scroll is deliver to you at all, it mean that we succeed in keeping the gates open.

  You scorn our plan in Council. Perhaps now you see wisdom. The enemy is led by the wizard now. Wizard is friend of ours. He make army march for the Plains of Dergoth. We march with them, friend with them. When the hour to come, those you call traitor will strike. We will attack the enemy from within and drive them under your axe-blades.

  If you to have doubt of our loyalty, hold our people hostage beneath the mountain until such time we return. We promise great gift we deliver to you as proof loyalty.

  Argat, of the Dewar, Thane

  Kharas read the scroll through twice, and his frown did not ease. If anything, it grew darker.

  “Well?” demanded Duncan.

  “I have nothing to do with traitors,” Kharas said, rolling up the scroll and handing it back in disgust.

  “But if they are sincere,” Duncan pursued, “this could give us a great victory!”

  Kharas raised his eyes to meet those of his king, who sat on the dais above him. “If, at this moment, Thane, I could talk to our enemy’s general, this Caramon Majere, who—by all accounts—is a fair and honorable man, I would tell him exactly what peril threatens him, even if it meant that we ourselves would go down in defeat.”

  The other thanes snorted or grumbled.

  “You should have been a Knight of Solamnia!” one muttered, a statement not intended as a compliment.

  Duncan cast them all a stern glance, and they fell into a sulking silence.

  “Kharas,” Duncan said patiently, “we know how you feel about honor, and we applaud you for that. But honor will not feed the children of those who may die in this battle, nor will it keep our kinsmen from picking clean our bones if we ourselves fall. No,” Duncan continued, his voice growing stern and deep, “there is a time for honor and a time when one must do what he must.” Once again, he rubbed his jaw. “You yourself showed me that.”

  Kharas’s face grew grim. Absent-mindedly raising a hand to stroke the flowing beard that was no longer there, he dropped his hand uncomfortably and, flushing, stared down at his feet.

  “Our scouts have verified this report,” Duncan continued. “The army has marched.”

  Kharas looked up, scowling. “I don’t believe it!” he said. “I didn’t believe it when I heard it! They have left Pax Tharkas? Before their supply wagons got through? It must be true then, the wizard must be in charge. No general would make that mistake—”

  “They will be on the Plains within the next two days. Their objective is, according to our spies, the fortress of Zhaman, where they plan to set up headquarters. We have a small garrison there that will make a token defense and then retreat, hopefully drawing them out into the open.”

  “Zhaman,” Kharas muttered, scratching his jaw since he could no longer tug at his beard. Abruptly, he took a step forward, his face now eager. “Thane, if I can present a plan that will end this war with a minimum of bloodshed, will you listen to it and allow me to try?”

  “I’ll listen,” said Duncan dubiously, his face setting into rigid lines.

  “Give me a hand-picked squadron of men, Thane, and I will undertake to kill this wizard, this Fistandantilus. When he is dead, I will show this scroll to his general and to our kinsmen. They will see that they have been betrayed. They will see the might of our army lined up against them. They must surely surrender!”

  “And what are we to do with them if they do surrender?” Duncan snapped irritably, though he was going over the plan in his mind even as he spoke. The other thanes had ceased muttering into their beards and were looking at each other, heavy brows knotting over their eyes.

  “Give them Pax Tharkas, Thane,” Kharas said, his eagerness growing. “Those who want to live there, of course. Our kinsmen will, undoubtedly, return to their homes. We could make a few concessions to them—very few,” he added hastily, seeing Duncan’s face darken. “That would be arranged with the surrender terms. But there would be shelter and protection for the humans and our kinsmen during the winter—they could work i
n the mines.…”

  “The plan has possibilities,” Duncan muttered thoughtfully. “Once you’re in the desert, you could hide in the Mounds—”

  He fell silent, pondering. Then he slowly shook his head. “But it is a dangerous course, Kharas. And all may be for nought. Even if you succeed in killing the Dark One—and I remind you that he is said to be a wizard of great power—there is every possibility you will be killed before you can talk to this General Majere. Rumor has it he is the wizard’s twin brother!”

  Kharas smiled wearily, his hand still on his smooth-shaven jaw. “That is a risk I will take gladly, Thane, if means that no more of my kinsmen will die at my hands.”

  Duncan glared at him, then, rubbing his swollen jaw, he heaved a sigh. “Very well,” he said. “You have our leave. Choose your men with care. When will you go?”

  “Tonight, Thane, with your permission.”

  “The gates of the mountain will open to you, then they will close. Whether they open again to admit you victorious or to disgorge the armed might of the mountain dwarves will be dependent upon you, Kharas. May Reorx’s flame shine on your hammer.”

  Bowing, Kharas turned and walked from the hall, his step swifter and more vigorous than it had been when he arrived.

  “There goes one we can ill afford to lose,” said one of the thanes, his eyes on the retreating figure of the tall, beardless dwarf.

  “He was lost to us from the beginning,” Duncan snapped harshly. But his face was haggard and lined with grief as he muttered, “Now, we must plan for war.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  “No water again,” Caramon said quietly.

  Reghar scowled. Though the general’s voice was carefully expressionless, the dwarf knew that he was being held accountable. Realizing that he was, in large part, to blame, didn’t help matters. The only feeling more wretched and unbearable than guilt is the feeling of well-deserved guilt.

  “There’ll be another water hole within half a day’s march,” Reghar growled, his face setting into granite. “They were all over the place in the old days, like pock marks.”

  The dwarf waved an arm. Caramon glanced around. As far as the eye could see there was nothing—not tree, not bird, not even scrubby bushes. Nothing but endless miles of sand, dotted here and there with strange, domed mounds. Far off in the distance, the dark shadows of the mountains of Thorbardin hovered before his eyes like the lingering remembrance of a bad dream.

  The Army of Fistandantilus was losing before the battle even started.

  After days of forced marching, they had finally come out of the mountain pass from Pax Tharkas and were now upon the Plains of Dergoth. Their supplies had not caught up with them and, because of the rapid pace at which they were moving, it looked as if it might be more than a week before the lumbering wagons found them.

  Raistlin pressed the need for haste upon the commanders of the armies and, though Caramon opposed his brother openly, Reghar supported the archmage and managed to sway the Plainsmen to their side as well. Once again, Caramon had little choice but to go along. And so the army rose before dawn, marched with only a brief rest at midday, and continued until twilight when they stopped to make camp while there was still light enough to see.

  It did not seem like an army of victors. Gone were the comradeship, the jokes, the laughter, the games of evening. Gone was the singing by day; even the dwarves ceased their stirring chant, preferring to keep their breath for breathing as they marched mile after weary mile. At night, the men slumped down practically where they stood, ate their meager rations, and then fell immediately into exhausted sleep until kicked and prodded by the sergeants to begin another day.

  Spirits were low. There were grumblings and complaints, especially as the food dwindled. This had not been a problem in the mountains. Game had been plentiful. But once on the Plains, as Caramon had foretold, the only living things they saw were each other. They lived on hard-baked, unleavened bread and strips of dried meat rationed out twice per day—morning and night. And Caramon knew that if the supply wagons didn’t catch up with them soon, even this small amount would be cut in half.

  But the general had other concerns besides food, both of which were more critical. One was a lack of fresh water. Though Reghar had told him confidently that there were water holes in the Plains, the first two they discovered were dry. Then—and only then—had the old dwarf dourly admitted that the last time he’d set eyes on these Plains was in the days before the Cataclysm. Caramon’s other problem was the rapidly deteriorating relationships between the allies.

  Always threadbare at best, the alliance was now splitting apart at the seams. The humans from the north blamed their current problems on the dwarves and the Plainsmen since they had supported the wizard.

  The Plainsmen, for their part, had never been in the mountains before. They discovered that fighting and living in mountainous terrain was cold and snowy and, as the chief put it crudely to Caramon, “it is either too up or too down.”

  Now, seeing the gigantic mountains of Thorbardin looming on the southern horizon, the Plainsmen were beginning to think that all the gold and steel in the world wasn’t as beautiful as the golden, flat grasslands of their home. More than once Caramon saw their dark eyes turn northward, and he knew that one morning he would awaken and find they had gone.

  The dwarves, for their part, viewed the humans as cowardly weaklings who ran crying home to mama the minute things got a little tough. Thus they treated the lack of food and water as a petty annoyance. The dwarf who even dared hint he was thirsty was immediately set upon by his fellows.

  Caramon thought of this and he thought of his numerous other problems as he stood in the middle of the desert that evening, kicking at the sand with the toe of his boot.

  Then, raising his eyes, Caramon’s gaze rested on Reghar. Thinking Caramon was not watching him, the old dwarf lost his rocky sternness—his shoulders slumped, and he sighed wearily. His resemblance to Flint was painful in its intensity. Ashamed of his anger, knowing it was directed more at himself than anyone else, Caramon did what he could to make amends.

  “Don’t worry. We’ve enough water to last the night. Surely we’ll come on a water hole tomorrow, don’t you think?” he said, patting Reghar clumsily on the back. The old dwarf glanced up at Caramon, startled and instantly suspicious, fearing he might be the butt of some joke.

  But, seeing Caramon’s tired face smiling at him cheerfully, Reghar relaxed. “Aye,” the dwarf said with a grudging smile in return. “Tomorrow for sure.”

  Turning from the dry water hole, the two made their way back to camp.

  Night came early to the Plains of Dergoth. The sun dropped behind the mountains rapidly, as though sick of the sight of the vast, barren desert wasteland. Few campfires glowed; most of the men were too tired to bother lighting them, and there wasn’t any food to cook anyway. Huddling together in their separate groups, the hill dwarves, the northerners, and the Plainsmen regarded each other suspiciously. Everyone, of course, shunned the Dewar.

  Caramon, glancing up, saw his own tent, sitting apart from them all, as though he had simply written them off.

  An old Krynnish legend told of a man who had once committed a deed so heinous that the gods themselves gathered to inflict his punishment. When they announced that, henceforth, the man was to have the ability to see into the future, the man laughed, thinking he had outwitted the gods. The man had, however, died a tortured death—something Caramon had never been able to understand.

  But now he understood, and his soul ached. Truly, no greater punishment could be inflicted upon any mortal. For, by seeing into the future and knowing what the outcome will be, man’s greatest gift—hope—is taken away.

  Up until now, Caramon had hoped. He had believed Raistlin would come up with a plan. He had believed his brother wouldn’t let this happen. Raistlin couldn’t let this happen. But now, knowing that Raistlin truly didn’t care what became of these men and dwarves and the fami
lies they had left behind, Caramon’s hope died. They were doomed. There was nothing he could do to prevent what had happened before from happening again.

  Knowing this and knowing the pain that this must inevitably cost him, Caramon began to unconsciously distance himself from those he had come to care about. He began to think about home.

  Home! Almost forgotten, even purposefully shoved to the back of his mind, memories of his home now flooded over him with such vivid clarity—once he let them—that sometimes, in the long, lonely evenings, he stared into a fire he could not see for his tears.

  It was the one thought that kept Caramon going. As he led his army closer and closer to their defeat, each step led him closer to Tika, closer to home.…

  “Look out there!” Reghar grabbed hold of him, shaking him from his reverie. Caramon blinked and looked up just before he stumbled into one of the strange mounds that dotted the Plains.

  “What are these confounded contrivances anyway?” Caramon grumbled, glaring at it. “Some type of animal dwelling? I’ve heard tell of squirrels without tails who live in homes like these upon the great flatlands of Estwilde.” He eyed the structure that was nearly three feet tall and just as wide, and shook his head. “But I’d hate to meet up with the squirrel who built this!”

  “Bah! Squirrel indeed!” Reghar scoffed. “Dwarves built these! Can’t you tell? Look at the workmanship.” He ran his hand lovingly over the smooth-sided dome. “Since when did Nature do such a perfect job?”

  Caramon snorted. “Dwarves! But—why? What for? Not even dwarves love work so much that they do it for their health! Why waste time building mounds in a desert?”