Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  “My Queen …”

  You shake your head.

  “Takhisis, Great Queen, truly I thank you for this gracious offer. But I play this game—as you call it—to win. And I will play it to the end.”

  And it will be a bitter end—for you! I have given you the chance your skill and daring earned for you. You would spurn it?

  “Your Majesty is too gracious. I am unworthy of such attention.…”

  And now you mock me! Smile your twisted smile while you can, mage, for when you slip, when you fall, when you make that one, small mistake—I will lay my hands upon you. My nails will sink into your flesh, and you will beg for death. But it will not come. The days are eons long here, Raistlin Majere. And every day, I will-come to see you in your prison—the prison of your mind. And, since you have provided me with amusement, you will continue to provide me with amusement. You will be tortured in mind and in body. At the end of each day, you will die from the pain. At the beginning of each night, I will bring you back to life. You will not be able to sleep, but will lie awake in shivering anticipation of the day to come. In the morning, my face will be the first sight you see.

  What? You grow pale, mage. Your frail body trembles, your hands shake. Your eyes grow wide with fear. Prostrate yourself before me! Beg my forgiveness!…

  “My Queen …”

  What, not yet on your knees?

  “My Queen … it is your move.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  lasted overcast! If it’s going to storm, I wish it would do it and be done with it,” muttered Lord Gunthar.

  Prevailing winds, Tanis thought sarcastically, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He also kept Dalamar’s words to himself, knowing that Lord Gunthar would never believe them. The half-elf was nervous and on edge. He was finding it difficult to be patient with the seemingly complacent knight. Part of it was the strange-looking sky. That morning, as Dalamar had predicted, there came no dawn. Instead, purplish blue clouds, tinged with green and flickering with eerie, multicolored lightning, appeared, boiling and churning above them. There was no wind. No rain fell. The day grew hot and oppressive. Walking their rounds upon the battlements of the High Clerist’s Tower, the knights in their heavy plate-mail armor wiped sweat from their brows and muttered about spring storms.

  Only two hours ago, Tanis had been in Palanthas, tossing and turning on the silk sheets of the bed in Lord Amothus’s guest room, pondering Dalamar’s cryptic final words. The half-elf had been up most of the night, thinking about them, and thinking, too, of Elistan.

  Word had come to the palace near midnight that the cleric of Paladine had passed from this world into another, brighter realm of existence. He had died peacefully, his head cradled in the arms of a befuddled, kindly old wizard who had appeared mysteriously and left just as mysteriously. Worrying about Dalamar’s warning, grieving for Elistan, and thinking he had seen too many die, Tanis had just dropped into an exhausted sleep when a messenger arrived for him.

  The message was short and terse:

  Your presence required immediately. High Clerist’s Tower—Lord Gunthar uth Wistan.

  Splashing cold water into his face, rebuffing the attempts of one of Lord Amothus’s servants to help buckle him into his leather armor, Tanis dressed and stumbled out of the Palace, politely refusing Charles’s offer of breakfast. Outside waited a young bronze dragon, who introduced himself as Fireflash, his secret dragon name being Khirsah.

  “I am acquainted with two friends of yours, Tanis Half-Elven,” the young dragon said as his strong wings carried them easily over the walls of the sleeping city. “I had the honor to fight in the Battle of the Vingaard Mountains, carrying the dwarf, Flint Fireforge, and the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, into the fray.”

  “Flint’s dead,” Tanis said heavily, rubbing his eyes. He’d seen too many die.

  “So I heard,” the young dragon replied respectfully. “I was sorry to hear it. Yet, he led a rich, full life. Death to such a one comes as the final honor.”

  Sure, Tanis thought tiredly. And what of Tasslehoff? Happy, good-natured, good-hearted kender, asking nothing more of life than adventure and a pouch full of wonders? If it was true—if Raistlin had killed him, as Dalamar had intimated—what honor was there in his death? And Caramon, poor drunken Caramon—did death at the hands of his twin come as the final honor or was it the final stab of the knife to end his misery?

  Brooding, Tanis fell asleep upon the dragon’s back, awaking only when Khirsah landed in the courtyard of the High Clerist’s Tower. Looking around grimly, Tanis’s spirits did not rise. He had ridden with death only to arrive with death, for here Sturm was buried—another final honor.

  Thus, Tanis was in no good humor when he was ushered into the Lord Gunthar’s chambers, high in one of the tall spires of the High Clerist’s Tower. It commanded an excellent view of sky and land. Staring out the window, watching the clouds with a growing feeling of ominous foreboding, Tanis only gradually became aware that Lord Gunthar had entered and was talking to him.

  “I beg your pardon, lord,” he said, turning around.

  “Tarbean tea?” Lord Gunthar said, holding up a steaming mug of the bitter-tasting drink.

  “Yes, thank you,” Tanis accepted it and gulped it down, welcoming the warmth spreading through his body, ignoring the fact that he had burned his tongue.

  Coming over to stand next to Tanis and stare out the window at the storm, Lord Gunthar sipped his tea with a calm that made the half-elf want to rip off the knight’s mustaches.

  Why did you send for me? Tanis fumed. But he knew that the knight would insist upon fulfilling the ages-old ritual of politeness before coming to the point.

  “You heard about Elistan?” Tanis asked finally.

  Gunthar nodded. “Yes, we heard early this morning. The knights will hold a ceremony in his honor here at the Tower … if we are permitted.”

  Tanis choked upon his tea and hastily swallowed. Only one thing would prevent the knights from holding a ceremony in honor of a cleric of their god, Paladine—war. “Permitted? Have you had some word, then? News from Sanction? What do the spies—”

  “Our spies have been murdered,” Lord Gunthar said evenly.

  Tanis turned from the window. “What? How—”

  “Their mutilated bodies were carried to the fortress of Solanthas by black dragons and were dropped into the courtyard last evening. Then came this strange storm—perfect cover for dragons and …” Lord Gunthar fell silent, staring out the window, frowning.

  “Dragons and what?” Tanis demanded. A possibility was beginning to form in his mind. Hot tea sloshed over his shaking hand. Hastily, he set the cup down on the window ledge.

  Gunthar tugged at his mustaches, his frown deepened. “Strange reports have come to us, first from Solanthas, then Vingaard.”

  “What reports. Have they seen something? What?”

  “They’ve seen nothing. It’s what they’ve heard. Strange sounds, coming from the clouds—or perhaps even from above the clouds.”

  Tanis’s mind went back to Riverwind’s description of the Siege of Kalaman. “Dragons?”

  Gunthar shook his head. “Voices, laughter, doors opening and slamming, rumblings, creakings.…”

  “I knew it!” Tanis’s clenched fist smote the window ledge. “I knew Kitiara had a plan! Of course! This has to be it!” Gloomily, he stared out into the churning clouds. “A flying citadel!”

  Beside him, Gunthar sighed heavily. “I told you I respected this Dragon Highlord, Tanis. Apparently, I did not respect her enough. In one fell swoop, she has solved her problems of troop movements and logistics. She has no need for supply lines, she carries her supplies with her. The High Clerist’s Tower was designed to defend against ground attack. I have no idea how long we can hold out against a flying citadel. At Kalaman, draconians jumped from the citadel, floating down upon their wings, carrying death into the streets. Black-robed magic-users hurled down balls of flame, and with her, of
course, are the evil dragons.

  “Not that I have any doubts the knights can hold the fortress against the citadel, of course,” Gunthar added sternly. “But it will be a much stiffer battle than I had at first anticipated. I’ve readjusted our strategy. Kalaman survived a citadel’s attack by waiting until most of its troops had been dropped, then good dragons carrying men-at-arms on their backs flew up and took control of the citadel. We’ll leave most of the Knights here in the fortress, of course, to fight the draconians who will drop down upon us. I have about a hundred standing by with bronze dragons ready to fly up and begin the assault on the flying citadel itself.”

  It made sense, Tanis admitted to himself. That much of the battle of Kalaman Riverwind had told him. But Tanis also knew that Kalaman had been unable to hold the citadel. They had simply driven it back. Kitiara’s troops, giving up the battle of Kalaman, had been able to easily recapture their citadel and fly it back to Sanction where Kit had, apparently, once more put it to good use.

  He was about to point this out to Lord Gunthar when he was interrupted.

  “We expect the citadel to attack us almost any moment,” Gunthar said, calmly staring out the window. “In fact—”

  Tanis gripped Gunthar’s arm. “There!” He pointed.

  Gunthar nodded. Turning to an orderly by the door, he said, “Sound the alarm!”

  Trumpets pealed, drums beat. The knights took their places upon the battlements of the High Clerist’s Tower with orderly efficiency. “We’ve been on alert most of the night,” Gunthar added unnecessarily.

  So disciplined were the knights that no one spoke or cried out when the flying fortress dropped down from the cover of the storm clouds and floated into view. The captains walked their rounds, issuing quiet commands. Trumpets blared their defiance. Occasionally Tanis heard the clinking of armor as, here and there, a knight shifted nervously in place. And then, high above, he heard the beating of dragon wings as several flights of bronze dragons—led by Khirsah—took to the skies from the Tower.

  “I am thankful you persuaded me to fortify the High Clerist’s Tower, Tanis,” Gunthar said, still speaking with elaborate calm. “As it was, I was able to call upon only those knights I could muster at practically a moment’s notice. Still, there are well over two thousand here. We are well-provisioned. Yes,” he repeated again, “we can hold the Tower—even against a citadel, I have no doubt. Kitiara could not have more than a thousand troops in that thing.…”

  Tanis wished sourly that Gunthar would quit emphasizing that. It was beginning to sound as if the knight were trying to convince himself. Staring at the citadel as it came nearer and nearer, some inner voice was shouting at him, pummeling him, screaming that something wasn’t right.…

  And yet he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. The flying citadel was now plainly visible, having dropped down completely out of the clouds. The fortress absorbed his entire attention. He recalled the first time he had seen it at Kalaman, recalled the riveting shock of the sight, at once horrifying and awe-inspiring. As before, he could only stand and stare.

  Working in the depths of the dark temples of the city of Sanction, under the supervision of Lord Ariakas—the commander of the dragonarmies whose evil genius had nearly led to the victory of his Dark Queen—black-robed magic-users and dark clerics had managed to magically rip a castle from its foundations and send it up into the skies. The flying citadels had attacked several towns during the war, the last being Kalaman in the war’s final days. It had nearly defeated the walled city that had been well-fortified and expecting assault.

  Drifting upon clouds of dark magic, illuminated by flashes of blinding multicolored lightning, the flying citadel came nearer and nearer. Tanis could see the lights in the windows of its three towers, he could hear the sounds that were ordinary when heard upon land but seemed sinister and appalling heard coming from the skies—sounds of voices calling orders, weapons clashing. He could continue to hear, so he thought, the chants of the black-robed magic-users preparing to cast their powerful spells. He could see the evil dragons flying about the citadel in lazy circles. As the flying citadel drew nearer still, he could see a crumbling courtyard on one side of the fortress, its broken walls lying in ruins from where it had been dragged out of its foundation.

  Tanis watched in helpless fascination, and still that inner voice spoke to him. Two thousand knights! Gathered at the last moment and so ill-prepared! Only a few flights of dragons. Certainly the High Clerist’s Tower might hold out, but the cost would be high. Still, they just needed to hold a few days. By that time, Raistlin would have been defeated. Kitiara would have no more need to try to attack Palanthas. By that time, too, more knights would have reached the High Clerist’s Tower, along with more good dragons. Perhaps they could defeat her here, finally, once and for all.

  She had broken the uneasy truce that had existed between the Dragon Highlord and the free people of Ansalon. She had left the haven of Sanction, she had come out into the open. This was their opportunity. They could defeat her, capture her perhaps. Tanis’s throat constricted painfully. Would Kitiara let herself be taken alive? No. Of course not. His hand closed over the hilt of his sword. He’d be there when the knights tried to take the citadel. Perhaps he could persuade her to give herself up. He would see that she was treated justly, as an honorable enemy—

  He could see her so clearly in his mind! Standing defiantly, surrounded by her enemies, prepared to sell her life dearly. And then she would look over, she would see him. Perhaps those glittering, hard dark eyes would soften, perhaps she would drop her sword and hold out her hands—

  What was he thinking about! Tanis shook his head. He was daydreaming like a moon-struck youth. Still, he’d make certain he was with the knights.…

  Hearing a commotion down on the battlements below, Tanis looked hastily outside, although he really had no need. He knew what was happening—dragonfear. More destructive than arrows, the fear generated by the evil dragons, whose black wings and blue could now be seen against the clouds, struck the knights as they stood waiting upon the battlements. Older knights, veterans of the War of the Lance, held their ground, grimly clutching their weapons, fighting the terror that filled their hearts. But younger knights, who were facing their first dragons in battle, blenched and cowered, some shaming themselves by crying out or turning from the awesome sight before them.

  Seeing some of these fear-stricken young knights on the battlements below him, Tanis gritted his teeth. He, too, felt the sickening fear sweep over him, felt his stomach clench and the bile rise to his mouth. Glancing over at Lord Gunthar, he saw the knight’s expression harden, and he knew he experienced the same thing.

  Looking up, Tanis could see the bronze dragons who served the Knights of Solamnia flying in formation, waiting above the Tower. They would not attack until attacked—such were terms of the truce that had existed between the good dragons and the evil ones since the end of the war. But Tanis saw Khirsah, the leader, toss his head proudly, his sharp talons flaring in the reflected glare of the lightning. There was no doubt in the dragon’s mind at least, that battle would soon be joined.

  Still, that inner voice nagged at Tanis. All too simple, all too easy. Kitiara was up to something.…

  The citadel flew closer and closer. It looked like the home of some foul colony of insects, Tanis thought grimly. Draconians literally covered the thing! Clinging to every available inch of space, their short, stubby wings extended, they hung from the walls and the foundation, they perched upon the battlements and dangled from the spires. Their leering, reptilian faces were visible in the windows and peered from doorways. Such awed silence reigned in the High Clerist’s Tower (except for the occasional harsh weeping of some knight, overcome by fear) that there could be heard from the citadel above the rustling of the creatures’ wings and, over that, faint sounds of chanting—the mingled voices of the wizards and clerics whose evil power kept the terrible device afloat.

  Nearer and nearer it came
, and the knights tensed. Quiet orders rang out, swords slid from scabbards, spears were set, archers nocked their arrows, buckets of water stood filled and ready to douse fires, divisions assembled within the courtyard to fight those draconians who would leap down and attack from the skies.

  Above, Khirsah aligned his dragons in battle formation, breaking them into groups of twos and threes, hovering, poised to descend upon the enemy like bronze lightning.

  “I am needed below,” Gunthar said. Picking up his helm, he put it on and strode out the door of his headquarters to take his place at the observation tower, his officers and aides accompanying him.

  But Tanis did not leave, nor even answer Gunthar’s belated invitation to come with them. The voice inside him was growing louder, more insistent. Shutting his eyes, he turned from the window. Blocking out the debilitating dragonfear, blotting out the sight of that grim fortress of death, he fought to concentrate on the voice within.

  And finally, he heard it.

  “Name of the gods, no!” he whispered. “How stupid! How blind we’ve been! We’ve played right into her hands!”

  Suddenly Kitiara’s plan was clear. She might have been standing there with him, explaining it to him in detail. His chest tight with fear, he opened his eyes and leaped toward the window. His fist slammed into the carved stone ledge, cutting him. He knocked the tea mug to the floor, where it shattered. But he noticed neither the blood that flowed from his injured hand nor the spilled tea. Staring up into the eerie, cloud-darkened sky, he watched the floating citadel come nearer and nearer, draw closer and closer.

  It was within long-bow-shot range.

  It was within spear range.

  Looking up, nearly blinded by the lightning, Tanis could see the details on the armor of the draconians, he could see the grinning faces of the mercenary humans who fought in the ranks, he could see the shining scales of the dragons flying overhead.