Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  And then, it was gone.

  Not an arrow had flown, not a spell had been cast. Khirsah and the bronze dragons circled uneasily, eyeing their evil cousins with fury, yet constrained by their oaths not to attack those who had not attacked them first. The knights stood upon the battlements, craning their necks to watch the huge, awesome creation fly over them, skimming the topmost spire of the High Clerist’s Tower as it went, sending a few stones tumbling down to crash into the courtyard below.

  Swearing beneath his breath, Tanis ran for the door, slamming into Gunthar as the knight, a perplexed look upon his face, was coming inside.

  “I can’t understand,” Gunthar was saying to his aides. “Why didn’t she attack us? What is she doing?”

  “She’s attacking the city directly, man!” Tanis gripped Gunthar by the arms, practically shaking him. “It’s what Dalamar said all along! Kitiara’s plan is to attack Palanthas! She’s not going to fool with us and now she doesn’t have to! She’s going over the High Clerist’s Tower!”

  Gunthar’s eyes, barely visible beneath the slits of his helm, narrowed. “That’s insane,” he said coldly, tugging on his mustache. Finally, irritably, he yanked his helm off. “Name of the gods, Half-Elven, what kind of military strategy’s that? It leaves the rear of her army unguarded! Even if she takes Palanthas, she hasn’t got strength enough to hold it. She’ll be caught between the walls of the city and us. No! She has to finish us here, then attack the city! Otherwise we’ll destroy her easily. There’s no escape for her!”

  Gunthar turned to his aides. “Perhaps this is a feint, to throw us off-guard. Better prepare for the citadel to strike from the opposite direction—”

  “Listen to me!” Tanis raved. “This isn’t a feint. She’s going to Palanthas! And by the time you and the knights get to the city, her brother will have returned through the Portal! And she’ll be waiting for him, with the city under her control!”

  “Nonsense!” Gunthar scowled. “She can’t take Palanthas that quickly. The good dragons will rise up to fight—Damn it, Tanis, even if the Palanthians aren’t such great soldiers, they can hold her off through sheer numbers alone!” He snorted. “The knights can march at once. We’ll be there within four days.”

  “You’ve forgotten one thing,” Tanis snapped, firmly but politely shoving his way past the knight. Turning on his heel, he called out, “We’ve all forgotten one thing—the element that makes this battle even—Lord Soth!”

  CHAPTER

  12

  ropelled by his powerful hind legs, Khirsah leaped into the air and soared over the walls of the High Clerist’s Tower with graceful ease. The dragon’s strong wing strokes soon caused himself and his rider to overtake the slowly moving citadel. And yet, noted Tanis grimly, the fortress is moving rapidly enough to arrive in Palanthas by dawn tomorrow.

  “Not too close,” he cautioned Khirsah.

  A black dragon flew over, circling overhead in large, lazy spirals to keep an eye on them. Other blacks hovered in the distance and, now that he was on the same level as the citadel, Tanis could see the blue dragons as well, flying around the gray turrets of the floating castle. One particularly large blue dragon Tanis recognized as Kitiara’s own mount, Skie.

  Where is Kit? Tanis wondered, trying unsuccessfully to peer into the windows, crowded with milling draconians, who were pointing at him and jeering. He had a sudden fear she might recognize him, if she were watching, and he pulled his cloak hood over his head. Then, smiling ruefully, he scratched his beard. At this distance, Kit would see nothing more than a lone rider on dragonback, probably a messenger for the knights.

  He could picture clearly what would be occurring within the citadel.

  “We could shoot him from the skies, Lord Kitiara,” one of her commanders would say.

  Kitiara’s remembered laughter rang in Tanis’s ears. “No, let him carry the news to Palanthas, tell them what to expect. Give them time to sweat.”

  Time to sweat. Tanis wiped his face. Even in the chill air above the mountains, the shirt beneath his leather tunic and armor was damp and clammy. He shivered with the cold and pulled his cloak more closely about him. His muscles ached; he was accustomed to riding in carriages, not on dragons, and he briefly thought with longing of his warm carriage. Then he sneered at himself. Shaking his head to clear it (why should missing one night’s sleep affect him so?), he forced his mind from his discomfort to the impossible problem confronting him.

  Khirsah was trying his best to ignore the black dragon still hovering near them. The bronze increased his speed, and eventually the black, who had been sent simply to keep an eye on them, turned back. The citadel was left far behind, drifting effortlessly above mountain peaks that would have stopped an army dead.

  Tanis tried to make plans, but everything he thought of doing involved doing something more important first until he felt like one of those trained mice in a fair who runs round and round upon the little wheel, getting nowhere in a tremendous hurry. At least Lord Gunthar had actually bullied and badgered Amothus’s generals (an honorary title in Palanthas, granted for outstanding community service; not one general now serving had actually been in a battle) into mobilizing the local militia. Unfortunately, the mobilization had been regarded as merely an excuse for a holiday.

  Gunthar and his knights had stood around, laughing and nudging each other as they watched the civilian soldiers stumble through the drills. Following this, Lord Amothus had made a two-hour speech, the militia—proud of its heroics—had drunk itself into a stupor, and everyone had enjoyed himself immensely.

  Picturing in his mind the chubby tavern owners, the perspiring merchants, the dapper tailors and the ham-fisted smithies tripping over their weapons and each other, following orders that were never given, not following those that were, Tanis could have wept from sheer frustration. This, he thought grimly, is what will face a death knight and his army of skeletal warriors at the gates of Palanthas tomorrow.

  “Where’s Lord Amothus?” Tanis demanded, shoving his way inside the huge doors of the palace before they were open, nearly bowling over an astonished footman.

  “A-asleep, sir,” the footman began, “it’s only midmorning—”

  “Get him up. Who’s in charge of the Knights?”

  The footman, eyes wide, stammered.

  “Damn it!” Tanis snarled. “Who’s the highest ranking knight, dim-wit!”

  “That would be Sir Markham, sir, Knight of the Rose,” said Charles in his calm, dignified voice, emerging from one of the antechambers. “Shall I send—”

  “Yes!” shouted Tanis, then, seeing everyone in the great entry hall of the palace staring at him as if he were a madman, and remembering that panic would certainly not help the situation, the half-elf put his hand over his eyes, drew a calming breath, and made himself talk rationally.

  “Yes,” he repeated in a quiet voice, “send for Sir Markham and for the mage, Dalamar, too.”

  This last request seemed to confound even Charles. He considered it a moment, then, a pained expression on his face, he ventured to protest, “I am extremely sorry, my lord, but I have no way to way to send a message to—to the Tower of High Sorcery. No living being can set foot in that accursed grove of trees, not even kender!”

  “Damn!” Tanis fumed. “I have to talk to him!” Ideas raced through his mind. “Surely you’ve got goblin prisoners? One of their kind could get through the Grove. Get one of the creatures, promise it freedom, money, half the kingdom, Amothus himself, anything! Just get it inside that blasted Grove—”

  “That will be unnecessary, Half-Elven,” said a smooth voice. A black-robed figure materialized within the hallway of the palace, startling Tanis, traumatizing the footmen, and even causing Charles to raise his eyebrows.

  “You are powerful,” Tanis remarked, drawing near the dark elf magic-user. Charles was issuing orders to various servants, sending one to awaken Lord Amothus and another to locate Sir Markham. “I need to talk to you privately. C
ome in here.”

  Following Tanis, Dalamar smiled coolly. “I wish I could accept the compliment, Half-Elven, but it was simply through observation that I discerned your arrival, not any magical mind-reading. From the laboratory window, I saw the bronze dragon land in the palace courtyard. I saw you dismount and enter the palace. I have need to talk to you as much as you to me. Therefore, I am here.”

  Tanis shut the door. “Quickly, before the others come. You know what is headed this way?”

  “I knew last night. I sent word to you, but you had already left,” Dalamar’s smile twisted. “My spies fly on swift wings.”

  “If they fly on wings at all,” Tanis muttered. With a sigh, he scratched his beard, then, raising his head, looked at Dalamar intently. The dark elf stood, hands folded in his black robes, calm and collected. The young elf certainly appeared to be someone who could be relied upon to perform with cool courage in a tight spot. Unfortunately, just who he would perform for was open to doubt.

  Tanis rubbed his forehead. How confusing this was! How much easier it had been back in the old days—he sounded like someone’s grandfather!—when good and evil had been clearly defined and everyone knew which side they were fighting for or against. Now, he was allied with evil fighting against evil. How was that possible? Evil turns in upon itself, so Elistan read from the Disks of Mishakal. Shaking his head angrily, Tanis realized he was wasting time. He had to trust this Dalamar—at least, he had to trust to his ambition.

  “Is there any way to stop Lord Soth?”

  Dalamar nodded slowly. “You are quick-thinking, Half-Elven. So you believe, too, that the death knight will attack Palanthas?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Tanis snapped. “That has to be Kit’s plan. It’s what equalizes the odds.”

  The dark elf shrugged. “To answer your question, no, there is nothing that can be done. Not now, at any rate.”

  “You? Can you stop him?”

  “I dare not leave my post beside the Portal. I came this time because I know Raistlin is still far from it. But every breath we draw brings him nearer. This will be my last chance to leave the Tower. That was why I came to talk to you—to warn you. There is little time.”

  “He’s winning!” Tanis stared at Dalamar incredulously.

  “You have always underestimated him,” Dalamar said with a sneer. “I told you, he is now strong, powerful, the greatest wizard who has ever lived. Of course, he is winning! But at what cost … at what great cost.”

  Tanis frowned. He didn’t like the note of pride he heard in Dalamar’s voice when he talked about Raistlin. That certainly didn’t sound like an apprentice who was prepared to kill his Shalafi if need arose.

  “But, to return to Lord Soth,” said Dalamar coldly, seeing more of Tanis’s thoughts on the half-elf’s face than Tanis had intended. “When I first realized that he would undoubtedly use this opportunity to take his own revenge upon a city and a people he has long hated—if one believes the old legends about his downfall—I contacted the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest—”

  “Of course!” Tanis gasped in relief. “Par-Salian! The Conclave. They could—”

  “There was no answer to my message,” Dalamar continued, ignoring the interruption. “Something strange is transpiring there. I do not know what. My messenger found the way barred and, for one of his—shall we say—light and airy nature, that is not easy.”

  “But—”

  “Oh”—Dalamar shrugged his black-robed shoulders—“I will continue to try. But we cannot count on them, and they are the only magic-users powerful enough to stop a death knight.”

  “The clerics of Paladine—”

  “—are new in their faith. In Huma’s day, it was said the truly powerful clerics could call down Paladine’s aid and use certain holy words against death knights, but—if so—there are none now on Krynn who have that power.”

  Tanis pondered a moment.

  “Kit’s destination will be the Tower of High Sorcery to meet and help her brother, right?”

  “And try to stop me,” Dalamar said in a tight voice, his face paling.

  “Can Kitiara get through the Shoikan Grove?”

  Dalamar shrugged again, but his cool manner was, Tanis noticed, suddenly tense and forced. “The Grove is under my control. It will keep out all creatures, living and dead.” Dalamar smiled again, but this time, without mirth. “Your goblin, by the way, wouldn’t have lasted five seconds. However, Kitiara had a charm, given her by Raistlin. If she has it still, and the courage to use it, and if Lord Soth is with her, yes, she might get through. Once inside, however, she must face the Tower’s guardians, no less formidable than those in the Grove. Still, that is my concern—not yours—”

  “Too much is your concern!” Tanis snapped. “Give me a charm! Let me inside the Tower! I can deal with her—”

  “Oh, yes.” Dalamar returned, amused, “I know how well you dealt with her in the past. Listen, Half-Elven, you will have all you can handle trying to keep control of the city. Besides, you have forgotten one thing—Soth’s true purpose in this. He wants Kitiara dead. He wants her for himself. He told me as much. Of course, he must make it look good. If he can accomplish her death and avenge himself upon Palanthas, he will have succeeded in his objective. He couldn’t care less about Raistlin.”

  Feeling suddenly chilled to the very soul, Tanis could not reply. He had, indeed, forgotten Soth’s objective. The half-elf shuddered. Kitiara had done much that was evil. Sturm had died upon the end of her spear, countless had died by her commands, countless more had suffered and still suffered. But did she deserve this? An endless life of cold and dark torment, bound forever in some type of unholy marriage to this creature of the Abyss?

  A curtain of darkness shrouded Tanis’s vision. Dizzy, weak, he saw himself teetering on the brink of a yawning chasm and felt himself falling.…

  There was a dim sensation of being enfolded in soft black cloth, he felt strong hands supporting him, guiding him.…

  Then nothing.

  The cool, smooth rim of a glass touched Tanis’s lips, brandy stung his tongue and warmed his throat. Groggily, he looked up to see Charles hovering over him.

  “You have ridden far, without food or drink, so the dark elf tells me.” Behind Charles floated the pale anxious face of Lord Amothus. Wrapped in a white dressing robe, he looked very much like a distraught ghost.

  “Yes,” Tanis muttered, pushing the glass away from him and trying to rise. Feeling the room sway beneath his feet, however, he decided he better remain seated. “You are right—I had better have something to eat.” He glanced around for the dark elf. “Where is Dalamar?”

  Charles’s face grew stern. “Who knows, my lord? Fled back to his dark abode, I suppose. He said his business with you was concluded. I will, with your leave, my lord, have the cook prepare you breakfast.” Bowing, Charles withdrew, first standing aside to allow young Sir Markham to enter.

  “Have you breakfasted, Sir Markham?” Lord Amothus asked hesitantly, not at all certain what was going on and decidedly flustered by the fact that a dark elf magic-user felt free to simply appear and disappear in his household. “No? Then we will have quite a threesome. How do you prefer your eggs?”

  Perhaps we shouldn’t be discussing eggs right now, m’lord.” Sir Markham said, glancing at Tanis with a slight smile. The half-elf’s brows had knit together alarmingly and his disheveled and exhausted appearance showed that some dire news was at hand.

  Amothus sighed, and Tanis saw that the lord had simply been trying to postpone the inevitable.

  “I have returned this morning from the High Clerist’s Tower—” he began.

  “Ah,” Sir Markham interrupted, seating himself negligently in a chair and helping himself to a glass of brandy. “I received a message from Lord Gunthar that he expected to engage the enemy this morning. How goes the battle?” Markham was a wealthy young nobleman, handsome, good-natured, carefree, and easy-going. He had distinguished h
imself in the War of the Lance, fighting under Laurana’s command, and had been made a Knight of the Rose. But Tanis remembered Laurana telling him that the young man’s bravery was nonchalant—almost casual—and totally undependable. (“I always had the feeling,” Laurana said thoughtfully, “that he fought in the battle simply because there was nothing more interesting to do at the time.”)

  Remembering her assessment of the young knight, and hearing his cheerful, unconcerned tone, Tanis frowned.

  “There wasn’t one,” he said abruptly. An almost comic look of hope and relief dawned in Lord Amothus’s face. At the sight, Tanis nearly laughed, but—fearing it would be hysterical laughter—he managed to control himself. He glanced at Sir Markham, who had raised an eyebrow.

  “No battle? Then the enemy didn’t come—”

  “Oh, they came,” Tanis said bitterly, “came and went. Right by.” He gestured in the air. “Whoosh.”

  “Whoosh?” Amothus turned pale. “I don’t understand.”

  “A flying citadel!”

  “Name of the Abyss!” Sir Markham let out a low whistle. “A flying citadel.” He grew thoughtful, his hand absently smoothing his elegant riding clothes. “They didn’t attack the High Clerist’s Tower. They’re flying over the mountains. That means—”

  “They plan to throw everything they have at Palanthas,” Tanis finished.

  “But, I don’t understand!” Lord Amothus looked bewildered. “The knights didn’t stop them?”

  “It would have been impossible, m’lord,” Sir Markham said with a negligent shrug. “The only way to attack a flying citadel that stands a chance of succeeding is with flights of dragons.”

  “And by terms of the surrender treaty, the good dragons will not attack unless first attacked. All we had at the High Clerist’s Tower was one flight of bronzes. It will take far greater numbers than that—silver and golden dragons, as well—to stop the citadel,” Tanis said wearily.

  Leaning back in his chair, Sir Markham pondered. “There are a few silver dragons in the area who will, of course, immediately rise up when the evil dragons are sighted. But there are not many. Perhaps more could be sent for—”