by Kevin Stein
The man screamed and struggled desperately in Caramon’s tight grip.
Reaching out one gold-skinned hand, Raistlin placed five fingers on the thief’s forehead. The man writhed beneath the mage’s touch and began to howl.
“Shut up,” Caramon grunted, “and listen to my brother!”
“When you see the man in the black hood, you will tell him that my brother and I are coming to Mereklar and that we will not rest until we have found him. Do you understand that?”
“Yes! Yes!” cried the man pitifully.
“And now I put this curse upon you. The next time you take a life in cold blood, the ghost of the murdered man will rise up and follow you. By day it will dog your steps. By night it will hound your dreams. You will do anything to try to rid yourself of it, but to no avail. The ghost will drive you to madness and, finally, at the end, it will cause you to turn your foul knife on yourself.”
Raistlin removed his hand. “Let him go, Caramon.”
The big man released the assassin, who fell to his knees. He remained crouched on the ground, glancing furtively at the brothers. Caramon made a threatening gesture with his dagger, and the man leaped to his feet and dashed, panic-stricken, into the forest. For long minutes after, they could hear him crashing into trees and blundering into bushes.
“That was a horrible curse,” said Caramon, awed. “I didn’t know you could cast those kind of spells on people.”
“I can’t,” said Raistlin, then began to cough, doubling over with the spasms that racked his thin body.
He held out his arm to his brother, who gently took it and guided the mage back to his blankets.
“You mean … there’s not really a curse on him?” asked Caramon, confused. He assisted his twin to lie down.
“Oh, there is a curse on him,” said Raistlin, when he could speak again. “But I didn’t cast it.” The mage’s thin lips parted in a slight smile. “He will do that himself. Don’t just stand there gaping at me! I’m chilled to the bone. Go gather more wood. I will keep the staff lighted until you have built the fire.”
Caramon shook his head, not understanding.
Going to pick up the wood he had dropped during his attack on the killers, the warrior almost fell over Earwig’s sleeping roll. In the excitement, he had forgotten the kender. Caramon remembered the assassins standing over Earwig, their spears held high. Kneeling down, the warrior put his hand on the small, blanket-covered form.
“Earwig?” Caramon said worriedly.
From the depths of the blanket came a yawning sound, a stretching motion, and eventually a head popped out of the top. Looking around in sleepy confusion in the brightening early morning light, the sound-sleeping kender saw the hacked and bloodied corpses lying on the ground, broken weapons scattered about, the grass torn and churned by trampling feet.
Earwig’s mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged. He looked from Raistlin to Caramon wildly and back again. The kender threw back his head and began to wail.
“It’s all right, Earwig,” said Caramon soothingly. “Don’t cry. You’re safe. The killers are gone.”
“I know!” cried Earwig, flinging himself on the ground and kicking his feet in the sod. “Don’t rub it in!”
“What?” demanded the warrior, startled. “What’s the matter, then?”
“How could you, Caramon?” sobbed Earwig. “I thought we were friends! A fight—and you let me sleep through the whole thing!”
Chapter 2
Dawn broke, and Caramon’s optimistic prediction proved correct: it was, indeed, a fine day. The temperature rose to a comfortable level, warm enough for walking, but still cool enough to be pleasant. The sun, bright in a sky that was clear of clouds, clear of chaos, shone down upon the companions.
The dead bodies of the would-be assassins still lay in the clearing. Earwig, to make up for having missed last night’s action, was occupied in searching the bodies, “looking for some clue to tell us who these people were,” as he put it. In one of the thieves’ pockets he found a broach made from strands of gold woven together to look like rope. Opening the broach by a hidden catch only a kender would have discovered, Earwig found inside a collection of miniature musical instruments made of silver, bone, and ebony, perfectly detailed, waiting to be played by a tiny orchestra.
Closing the medallion and tossing it onto a blanket with the other “treasure,” Earwig went over to another body and saw three rings on the dead brigand’s hands, each of gold and glittering with diamonds, sparkling in the morning’s light. But what caught Earwig’s attention was a mysterious twist of wire that had fallen from the thief’s pocket.
The kender picked up the looped metal that twisted around and back into itself with no apparent purpose, with no specific form. Shaking the wire, he heard a small sound come from within—a sound of glass rattling against metal. He held it up to the light and saw a bead in the center of the coils. Earwig gazed at it for many minutes, fascinated by this mysterious object, until he grew bored and added it to his collection.
The kender went from body to body, collecting gold and diamonds and other precious things, holding them in his hand, feeling their weight and shape, only to toss them aside, forgotten, as he reached down to pick up an old writing quill with a bright silver tip, a piece of purple glass, and a wood carving of an eagle, no bigger than the middle of his palm. Worth and values set by other races mean nothing to kender. Curiosity makes them desire anything that enchants their eye, regardless of what they already hold in their hands.
“Well, did you find anything?” Caramon asked.
“That’s it,” said Earwig proudly, pointing at the blanket. “Well, aren’t you going to look at it?” he asked, noting Caramon’s hesitation.
“I guess so,” said the big man heavily, starting to kneel down. “But it shivers my skin to paw through possessions of the dead.”
“Why? You took their weapons.”
“That’s different.”
“How? I don’t understand—”
“It just is! All right?” Caramon glared at the kender.
“You are too squeamish, Brother,” said Raistlin in his soft voice, coming up to stand behind them. “Move over. You’re blocking the light. I have no superstitious fear of a dead man’s personal belongings.”
The mage bent down. His slender, delicate hands ran lightly over the objects scattered before him. Some he lifted and inspected with an expert eye. Earwig watched eagerly.
“Those are the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen. Did you ever see any that big, Raistlin?”
“Glass,” remarked the mage, tossing the ring aside in contempt.
Earwig appeared slightly crestfallen, but cheered up again. “That golden chain is quite heavy, isn’t it, Raistlin?”
“It should be. It’s lead. What’s this?”
The mage lifted a silver charm between thumb and forefinger. Holding it in his palm, he exhibited it to his brother. Caramon, looking at it, made a face.
“Ugh! Who would wear that?”
“I would!” said Earwig, staring at the trinket longingly.
The charm was shaped into the likeness of a cat’s skull, with tiny rubies in the eye sockets.
“Which one was wearing this?” Raistlin asked.
Earwig thought. “None of them. I found it in the grass, over there.” He pointed near Raistlin’s neatly rolled-up blankets.
“The leader,” grunted Caramon.
“Yes,” Raistlin agreed, staring at the charm. A shudder passed through his body, his hand trembled. “It is evil, Caramon. A thing of darkness. And it is old. Its time stretches back before the Cataclysm.”
“Get rid of it!” said the warrior tersely.
“No, I—” Raistlin hesitated, then turned to Earwig. “Would you truly like to wear this?”
“Oh, yes!” sighed the kender. “Wow! A ‘thing of darkness’!”
“Raist—” began Caramon, but his brother shot him a swift, warning glance, and the big man hushed.
Raistlin rose and stretched his thin body, then began to cough in the chill morning air. Turning, he made his way back to the fire. Caramon followed.
“What do we do with that stuff?”
“Leave it. There is nothing of value.”
Glancing back, Caramon saw Earwig happily stuffing as much of the treasure as he could into his packs and pouches.
“You’ve made the kender a target, Raistlin,” said the big man.
The mage knelt by the fire, his thin body huddling near for warmth. “Not a target, brother,” he corrected coolly. “Bait.”
“Either way, he’s in danger. Whoever wore that might be looking for it. He’ll know the kender was a witness to his crime. What were those words you said over the necklace? Some sort of protective spell?”
Raistlin snorted. “Don’t be a fool, Caramon. It was a simple cantrip, one that will prevent the kender from removing the necklace. As for the danger, he’s in less danger than either you or I would be, wearing that charm. No one takes kender seriously. They’ll assume he found it and put it on for a lark. We must watch for those who might take an unusual interest in it.”
“I don’t like it, Raist,” persisted Caramon with unusual stubbornness.
“I didn’t like being nearly murdered in my sleep!” his twin snapped. He rose to his feet, leaning on the magical staff. “Come along. It’s time we were going. I want to get there before dark.”
“There? Where? Mereklar?” Caramon scattered the coals of the fire with his booted foot and tossed water on them.
“No. The Inn of the Black Cat.”
Caramon never ceased to be amazed by his brother. Ever since the infamous test required of every mage who aspired to enter the higher realms of magic—the test that could prove lethal—Raistlin’s health had been shattered. His body was thin, barely skin and bones. He coughed persistently. Sometimes Caramon wondered fearfully if his brother would be able to draw another breath. Plagued by terrible dreams, Raistlin tossed and turned and often screamed aloud in his sleep. Some mornings, he was barely able to crawl from his bed.
Yet this morning, the young mage seemed unusually well. He walked with a brisk step, barely leaning on his staff. He had eaten—for him—a good breakfast consisting of bread and fruit. He had not needed to drink the herbal tea that soothed his cough nor breathe the fumes of the bag. His eyes were bright, glittering in the morning light.
“It’s this mystery,” Caramon said to himself. “He thrives on intrigue. I’m glad Raist is handling it. Me—I’d rather face an army of goblins. I hate skulking about.”
The warrior heaved a sigh. He spent the day walking with his broadsword in hand, sending piercing, darting glances into the woods, expecting another ambush at any moment.
Caramon’s other companion was also enjoying himself. Earwig skipped down the path, twirling in the air the kender’s favorite weapon—the hoopak. A walking stick with a sling fitted to the yoke at the top, Earwig’s hoopak was unusual in that the top could be removed, turning the staff into a blowgun. It fired small, sharp, barbed darts that the kender carried in the inner right sleeve of his traveling outfit.
Earwig was, in fact, extremely fond of weapons of all sorts and prided himself on his collection. An unusual throwing knife with five blades curving out in separate directions was his pride and joy. He also carried another invention of his own—eggshells filled with special powders and liquids that could be released on impact. Besides these, he owned many other weapons, but usually forgot or absentmindedly exchanged them for other, more exciting, objects.
Earwig had been with the twins only a short time, but he was willing to follow them as they began new adventures. He was fascinated by the magician with the strange eyes and shining golden skin and was happy to be with someone so interesting and unique. The kender did feel sorry for Raistlin, however. The mage was so gloomy. Earwig took it upon himself, therefore, to regale the mage with tales of fantastic adventures in other parts of Krynn or stories he had heard from friends and relatives, trying to cheer Raistlin from the continual melancholy that surrounded him as heavily as his red robes.
The mage would simply ignore him or, if Raistlin was in a particularly bad mood, he would attempt to sweep Earwig out his way with his staff.
When this happened, Earwig would skip over to talk with Caramon, who was always interested in stories and had a few wild tales of his own that even the kender had difficulty believing.
Today, Earwig noted that Raistlin seemed unusually cheerful. The kender was determined to keep the conjurer in a good mood, so he began telling one of his favorite jokes.
“Hey, Raistlin,” he began, “have you ever heard of Dizzy Longtongue, the kender who could throw his hoopak with such skill and accuracy he could make it return to his hand? Well, one day a minotaur made a bet with the kender that he couldn’t throw his staff around the girth of a forest, and Dizzy said, ‘I’ll bet you the gold in my pocket against the ring in your nose that I can make my hoopak come back to me from around the forest.’ The minotaur accepted and said that if he didn’t make it, he would have Dizzy for dessert with dinner. Dizzy naturally agreed.”
Earwig paused, waiting for some reaction from Raistlin. But the mage, occasionally coughing, kept his hooded gaze on the road.
The kender, shrugging, continued. “Dizzy took a hundred pace running start before he let go of his hoopak with a mighty zing!” Earwig imitated Dizzy’s magnificent throw, arcing his hoopak over his head without letting go, the sling-thong making an appropriate buzz. “Dizzy and the minotaur waited for hours, listening for the sound of the returning hoopak. After a day had passed, the minotaur said, ‘Well, my lad, it looks like I’m having you for afters,’ and Dizzy said—”
“Look, Caramon.” Raistlin raised the staff and pointed. “An inn.”
“No, I don’t think that’s what Dizzy said.” Earwig scratched his head. “ ‘Look, Caramon, an inn,’ just doesn’t make sense, does it? Actually, what Dizzy said was—”
“I can’t see the sign.” Caramon peered through the trees.
“No, no, no!” Earwig cried, exasperated. “That wasn’t it, at all! And, if you must know, there’s a black cat on the sign. Now, if you’ll be quiet, I’ll tell you what Dizzy said to the minotaur who was about to eat him for dinner. He said—”
“Dinner,” said Raistlin softly. “I believe we should stop here for dinner and a night’s rest, my brother. Don’t you agree? It’s what you were wanting, after all.”
“Sure, Raist,” Caramon said without enthusiasm, eyeing the inn darkly. He thrust the broadsword back in its sheathe, but kept it loose in the scabbard.
Earwig, seeing these preparations, opened his eyes wide. “Oh, Caramon! Do you think there’s going to be trouble?”
The big man grunted. Raistlin, turning to Earwig with a smile, reached out his hand and arranged the kender’s necklace so that it was clearly visible on his small breast.
“Thanks, Raistlin,” said the kender, charmed. He couldn’t remember the mage being so attentive. He must like my jokes, he concluded inwardly. Aloud, he continued, “Dizzy said to the minotaur—”
But Raistlin and Caramon had both walked away.
The inn, a huge, two-story house next to the road, stood outside the edge of the forest. Its walls were white stucco with brown woodwork, obviously old but not falling to ruin, with darkly stained crossworks decorating the sills around the windows and ledges. Each pane of glass was clean and clear, and the setting orange sun reflected blindingly from the upper-story windows, catching the last rays before they were trapped in the forest’s paths and tangles of brush and tree.
His joke forgotten in his excitement, Earwig raced ahead to the tavern, constantly looking behind him, begging
the two men to hurry. Caramon was more than willing to increase his pace, but Raistlin suddenly seemed to have more and more difficulty walking. He leaned on the staff heavily, his back bent as if carrying some unseen weight on his shoulders, his feet slipping.
Was this sudden weakness real or feigned? Caramon wondered uneasily, aiding his brother’s faltering steps. With Raistlin, he never knew.
The three eventually reached the open fence of simple wooden posts that surrounded the inn. Caramon stared inside a large glass window, its panes held rigid by vertical and horizontal strips of wood, their simple, decorative carving hiding their practical use. The tavern appeared warm and friendly, and though the sun was just setting, many of the patrons were already sitting down with mugs of ale and goblets of wine.
Above their heads, a sign swung in the breeze with a muted screech, much like the call of a small cat. The illustration on the board was a depiction of a black cat, standing proudly with its head up and tail curved over its back.
“Interesting,” murmured Raistlin.
“It’s a cat,” said Caramon.
“Yes, a black one. Black cats are the favored familiar of the evil wizards of the black robes. Generally any depiction of a black cat is derogatory, portraying the animal as evil as its master. The cat in this picture seems protective, benevolent. Interesting.”
Caramon made no comment, but opened the huge wooden door that had been reinforced with iron bars and a large iron lock. Inside, the inn was as hot as a furnace. A huge fire in the center of the building burned brightly. The night air was turning cold, and the blaze was a welcome sensation to the companions. The big warrior stretched his muscles, extending his huge arms at his sides, arching his back, flexing his legs.
Earwig, curious to see what was going on, ran through the great archway that separated the dining room and drinking hall from the main entrance hall. Raistlin moved hurriedly to the fire. Leaning the staff against his shoulder, he held out both hands directly in front of the blaze, his gold skin reflecting dully in the light.