by Kevin Stein
The man fished a steel piece from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Rising from his seat with unusual haste, considering he’d been sitting in the inn for three days—ever since he’d posted the sign—the man ran out into the woods and was soon lost to sight in the shadows.
Chapter 1
Raistlin awoke from deep slumber to the sound of pipes—a haunting, eerie sound that reminded him of a time of everlasting pain, a time of torture and torment. Propping himself up on weak elbows from his red, tattered sleeping roll, he stared into the embers of the fire.
The dying coals only served to remind Raistlin of his ill health. How long had it been since he took the test? How much time had passed since the wizards in the Tower of High Sorcery had demanded this sacrifice in return for his magic? Months. Only months. Yet it seemed to him that he’d been suffering like this all his life.
Lying back down, Raistlin lifted his hands up in front of his face, examining the bones, veins, and sinews, barely discernible in the dimly lit grove. The firelight gave his flesh an unearthly reddish tinge, reflecting off his golden skin—the gold skin he had earned in his gambit for personal power, gold skin he had earned fighting for his life.
Smiling grimly, Raistlin clenched his hand into a fist. He’d won. He’d been victorious. He had defeated them all.
But his moment of triumph was short-lived. He began to cough uncontrollably, the spasms shaking and convulsing him like a battered puppet.
The pipes played on while Raistlin managed to catch his breath. He fumbled at his waist to find a small burlap bag filled with herbs. Holding this over his nose and mouth, he breathed the sickly sweet scent of crushed leaves and boiled twigs. The spasms eased, and Raistlin dared let himself hope that this time he’d found a cure. He refused to believe he would be this feeble all of his life.
The herbs left a bitter taste on his lips. He stashed the pungent bag away in a purse under his cloth belt, which was a darker red than the rest of his robes from constant use and wear. He didn’t look for the blood that was beginning to slowly dry on the medicine pouch. He knew it would be there.
Breathing slowly, Raistlin forced himself to relax. His eyes closed. He imagined the many and varied lines of power running through his life—the glowing, golden weave of threads of his magic, his mind, his soul. He held his life in his hands. He was the master of his own destiny.
Raistlin listened to the pipes again. They did not play the eerie, unnatural music he thought he had heard upon waking—the music of the dark elf, the music he dreamed about in his worst nightmares since his indoctrination into the higher orders of sorcery. Instead it was the shrill, lively music of an inconsiderate kender.
Throwing off the heavy blankets piled on top of him, Raistlin shivered in the cold evening air. He clutched his staff with hands eager to feel the smooth wood once again safely in their grip, and pulled himself upright.
“Shirak,” Raistlin said softly.
Power flowed from his spirit into the staff, mingling with the magic already housed in the black-wood symbol of the mage’s victory. A soft white light beamed from the crystal clutched in a dragon’s claw atop the staff.
As soon as the light flooded the grove, the music stopped abruptly. Earwig looked up in surprise to see the red-hooded figure of the magician looming over him.
“Oh, hi, Raistlin!” The kender grinned.
“Earwig,” said the mage softly, “I’m trying to sleep.”
“Well, of course, you are, Raistlin,” answered the kender. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“But I can’t sleep, Earwig, because of the noise.”
“What noise?” The kender looked around the campsite with interest.
Raistlin reached out his gold-skinned hand and snatched the pipe from Earwig’s grasp. He held it up in front of the kender’s nose.
“Oh,” said Earwig meekly. “That noise.”
Raistlin tucked the pipes into the sleeve of his robes, turned, and started back to his bed.
“I can play you a lullaby,” suggested Earwig, leaping to his feet and trotting along behind the mage. “If you give me back my pipes, that is. Or I could sing one for you—”
Raistlin turned and stared at the kender. The firelight flickered in the hourglass eyes.
“Or maybe not,” said Earwig, slightly daunted.
But a kender never stayed daunted for long. “It’s really boring around here,” he added, keeping up with the mage. “I thought being on night watch would be fun, and it was for a while, because I kept expecting something to jump out of the woods and attack us since Caramon said that was why we had to keep watch, but nothing has jumped out and attacked us and it’s really getting boring.”
“Dulak,” Raistlin whispered, starting to cough again. The light from the globe dimmed and died. The mage sank down onto his sleeping mat, his tired legs barely supporting him.
“Here, Raistlin, let me help you,” offered Earwig, spreading out the blankets. The kender stood, gazing down at the mage hopefully. “Would you make the staff light up again, Raistlin?”
The mage hunched his thin body beneath the heavy quilt.
“Could I have my pipes back?”
Raistlin closed his eyes.
Earwig heaved a gusty sigh, his gaze going to the sleeve of the mage’s robes into which he’d seen his pipes disappear.
“Good night, Raistlin. I hope you feel better in the morning.”
The mage felt a small hand pat his arm solicitously. The kender trotted away, small feet making little noise in the dew-wet grass.
Just as Raistlin was finally drifting off to sleep, he heard, once again, the shrill sound of the pipes.
Caramon awoke hours before the dawn, just in time for his watch. The companions had agreed to set two guards, Earwig taking the first watch, Caramon the second. Caramon preferred to take the last watch of the night, known as “the dead man’s watch” because it was a time when there was the greatest possibility of trouble.
“Earwig, turn in,” said Caramon, only to find his order had already been obeyed.
The kender lay fast asleep, a set of pipes clutched tightly in his hand.
Caramon shook his head. What could you expect from a kender? By nature, kender were not afraid of anything, living or dead. It was extremely difficult, therefore, to impress upon a kender the need to set a guard on the campsite.
Not that the warrior believed they were in any danger; the lands around them were peaceful and calm. But Caramon could no more have gone to his rest without setting a watch then he could have gone for a day without eating. It was one reason—at least so he had told his brother—that they needed Earwig to accompany them on their journey.
The warrior settled himself beneath a tree. He enjoyed this time of night. He liked to see the moons and stars fade into morning’s first light. The constellations turned and wheeled and faced each other—the platinum dragon Paladine, the five-headed dragon Takhisis, between them the god Gilean, the symbol of balance. Few others on Krynn believed in these ancient gods anymore, or even remembered the names of their constellations. Caramon had learned them from his brother. Sometimes the warrior wondered if Raistlin believed in the despised gods. If he did, he never mentioned it or worshipped them openly. Probably a good thing, Caramon reflected. This day and age, that type of faith could get you killed.
Caramon connected the bright points, his imagination drawing lines and curves, forming the stars into symbols of good and evil. He found the twins’ namesake—the god Majere, called the Single Rose by the elves (according to his friend, Tanis), the Mantis by the Knights of Solamnia (according to Sturm). The constellation lay deep in the pool of darkness overhead. Caramon knew from Raistlin that it was supposed to grant stability of thought, peace of mind. The heavens did give him a feeling of stability, of lasting equilibrium in the world. No matter what happened, the constellations would always be there.
Giving the stars a salute, Caramon heaved himself to his feet. Time to work. Mo
ving silently, careful not to awake his sleeping brother, Caramon piled his weapons at his feet and began giving each a cursory examination. There were three swords, all aged and battle worn. One was a bastard sword, also called a hand-and-a-half sword, because it could be used with either one or two hands. The hilt was dirty, blackened with blood. The cross-guard—a simple, unadorned metal bar running across the hilt where it met the four-foot blade—was notched and cut from parrying the attacks of countless opponents.
The other swords were smaller: an old, worn broadsword with a counterweight at the bottom and a main-gauche—a one and a half foot long parrying dagger with a large basket hilt and wide blade. These were the arms of a skilled warrior, of one who never sacrificed his honor to win a confrontation. They were old and trusted friends.
Caramon’s other weapons were the spoils of war, the gifts of the dead. One, two, or even three dagger blades jutted out from hilts carved into the likenesses of demons and dragons. There was a double-edged stiletto, its blade curved like a snake, and several small throwing weapons such as darts and hand-axes. Other weapons included a brass cestus, punch-daggers, ring blades. All these had been taken from enemies who no longer needed them.
Taking out a whetstone and cloth, the warrior began cleaning his weapons. Deciding to do his swords first, he sharpened them with the stone, wiping them down with a cloth he wet from the waterskin. He lifted the blades, inspecting them by Solinari’s silver light, holding each one up to his eye to make sure the blade was straight, bending it with his bare hands when it didn’t meet with his satisfaction. He looked for cracks or dents that meant the sword had to be thrown away lest it break in the middle of a battle. There were none. Caramon, an expert at all forms of personal combat, never allowed his tools to wear, knowing full well that preventive maintenance could save his life.
He put away his gear, sheathing the swords, or strapping them back onto his huge, muscular form. His arms could bend the thickest bars, lift the heaviest weight, move the largest obstacle. Veins stood out against the definition of muscles as firm as iron plates. The thinning leather thongs that held in place Caramon’s unadorned metal hauberk creaked when he breathed deeply, and the thick armored greaves he wore barely covered his lower legs. Strong and powerful, Caramon was born to fight, even as his brother was born to magic. It was difficult for most people to believe the two were twins.
The sky was clear, the stars shone brightly, with no hint of clouds.
“Tomorrow should be a fine day,” Caramon said to himself, stretching. He scratched his neck with his left hand while rubbing his face with his right. He was cold.
Earwig had let the fire die down until nothing was left but smoldering embers.
Sighing heavily, muttering imprecations on the head of the careless kender, Caramon began to walk the perimeter of the grove, searching for fallen limbs and sticks. Raistlin would need the warmth of a fire when he awoke. He would require flames to heat the herb mixture on which he relied to ease his cough.
Caramon was disappointed to find the immediate area devoid of any useful wood. Giving a backward glance at his brother still shrouded in his coverings, the warrior traveled deeper into the forest, hoping to spot some fuel without having to move too far from his companions.
He had been away from the camp fifteen minutes when he heard a strange sound back near the grove. At first, he thought it was the movement of some forest predator, but then he heard other movement—stealthy, furtive.
Caramon dodged behind a huge oak, quietly drawing the large bastard sword and the smaller, heavy main-gauche. Listening carefully, the warrior thought he could hear whispered signals being passed—signals of caution, signals to strike as one. He edged his way back to the clearing. The forest provided excellent cover, the same cover his opponents had used to hide their presence earlier.
“Five of the bastards,” Caramon counted to himself as he crouched in the shadow of another oak tree.
He heard again the sounds of their movements, learned their methods as he stalked them, listening for the whistles of the commander, the replies of his followers.
He considered sheathing his parrying dagger and using a throwing weapon, perhaps a dart or knife, to remove the intruders one by one. But as he neared the edge of the clearing, he lost all thought of strategy.
Solinari and Lunitari lit the scene in the grove, the silver and red light mixing to give double shadows that moved and swayed as the intruders did.
Three men holding war spears stood over Raistlin’s sleeping roll. Two others stood beside Earwig.
“These fools will never reach Mereklar,” said one, the tallest of the three, wearing a black hood over his head. Raising his spear, he plunged it into Raistlin’s body.
Bursting from the woods, roaring in outrage, Caramon dashed forward. He struck down one of the thieves standing over Earwig with the bastard sword as he stabbed the other through the stomach with the main-gauche. He left his parrying dagger in the thief’s body and gripped his sword in both hands. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds as he raced after the remaining three bandits.
One raised his spear to parry, but Caramon’s down-stroke shattered the haft and sank deep into his enemy, who died with a look of surprise on his face. But the blow cost Caramon.
The second leaped to stab the big warrior in the back, and the big man could not turn in time to block the attack. It didn’t matter. His brother was dead, his life was over anyway. Sobbing, Caramon saw, out of the corner of his eye, the blade’s flashing descent—
It halted in midair. The thug went stiff as a corpse.
Caramon stared, amazed, nearly dropping his sword. Then he heard softly chanted words coming from the edge of the forest and saw Raistlin emerge from the shadows. Caramon reached out an unsteady, trembling hand toward his brother.
“Raist?” he whispered.
Raistlin stopped him with a glance.
“What’s the matter, Caramon? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
Caramon let his hand sink back to his side. “I thought for a minute I had, Raist! I thought you were dead!” The big man could barely talk for his relief.
The mage’s face, shadowed by his red hood, showed no hint of emotion.
“Small thanks to you I wasn’t!” He walked over to look with cold curiosity at the remaining attacker. The thief’s limbs were stiffened by sorcery. He was unable to move, unable to overcome the irresistible will of magic.
“I went to get wood,” mumbled Caramon, shamefacedly. “I honestly didn’t think there was any danger. I haven’t heard word of thieves around these parts. And the fire was out and I knew you’d be chilled to the bone, and then there’s that stuff you drink—”
“Never mind!” Raistlin impatiently cut short his brother’s explanations. “No harm was done. You know what a light sleeper I am. I heard them coming from some distance away.” The mage paused, carefully scrutinizing their prisoner. “A bit unusual for professional thieves, don’t you think, Caramon?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact,” said the warrior, scratching his head. “They did seem sort of clumsy.”
“A pity the leader escaped.”
“Did he?” Caramon growled and glanced around.
“The man with the black hood. He ran off the moment you burst into the grove. I think a conversation with him might have been quite interesting. Did you hear his words before he struck what he thought was my limp and unresisting form?”
Caramon thought back, past blood and fear and grief, and heard in his memory, “These fools will never reach Mereklar!”
“I’ll be damned,” said the big warrior, stunned, the implication dawning on him.
“Yes, my brother. Not thieves, but hired killers.”
“I could go after him.”
“You would never find him. He is on home ground, and we are not. Let’s have a look at what we’ve captured. Shirak!”
The magical light of the staff gleamed. Raistlin held it close to th
e assassin while his brother grasped the greasy, leather helmet the man wore and yanked it off him. The face that stared back at them had been frozen by Raistlin’s spell just at the time he was prepared to strike down Caramon. The killer’s mouth was twisted in a grin of bloodlust. He had obviously been enjoying the idea of knifing a man in the back.
“I’m going to lift the spell. Hold onto him,” Raistlin instructed.
Caramon grabbed the man, encircling the scrawny neck with his huge arm, a dagger held to the assassin’s throat.
At a movement of Raistlin’s gold-skinned hand, the man’s body jerked. Finding himself free of the enchantment, the attacker attempted briefly to get away. Caramon tightened his grip slightly, the dagger pricking the killer’s skin.
“I won’t run!” the man whined, going limp. “Just don’t let him do no more of that magic on me!”
“I won’t … if you answer a few questions,” said Raistlin in his soft, whispering voice.
“Sure, I’ll tell you anything! Just don’t do that magic stuff again!”
“Who hired you to kill us?”
“I dunno. A fella in a black hood. I never saw his face.”
“His name?”
“I dunno. He didn’t tell us.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In an inn near Mereklar. The Black Cat. Last night. He said he had a job for us. He said we was just goin’ to rob you! He didn’t say nothing about killin!”
“You’re lying,” said Raistlin coolly. “You were hired to murder us in our sleep.”
“No! I swear! I was—”
“I’m tired of listening to his babbling. Shut him up, Caramon.”
“Permanently?” suggested Caramon, his hand engulfing the assassin’s throat.
Raistlin appeared to consider the matter. The thief kept silent, his face now twisted into an expression of terror.
“No, I have another use for him. Hold him tight.”
Raistlin pulled the hood back from over his head. The twin moons’ shimmering light reflected into his eyes—the eyes with the pupils of hourglasses, the eyes that saw everything decay, wither, and die. It glistened off the golden skin and the prematurely white hair that looked ghastly on a young man of twenty-one. Slowly, Raistlin approached the thief.