by Kevin Stein
Manion’s dwelling was similar to the other houses owned by the officials of Mereklar—a large rectangular building of white stone with panes of glass in every wall. It had, however, a run-down look. The Minister of Internal Affairs was not a wealthy man. Some said he squandered his money on women and in the taverns. He didn’t own his own carriage, but Lord Brunswick’s estate was close enough for him to walk to.
Lord Manion set off down the street toward the middle of the city. The way led him through part of the town, then into a park. As he walked, he peered up into the sky to observe the stars and moons, smiling at the nearly full circles of Solinari and Lunitari.
Soon, he thought. Very soon.
Manion’s heavy black boots clicked along the white stone sidewalks. The night was silent. The city’s inhabitants had shut themselves in, barring their doors against a vague and unknown terror.
The lord was smiling, shaking his head at their folly when, turning a corner, he suddenly heard a throaty growl.
Manion looked back up the street. The sidewalk was brightly lit by the magical lights. He saw nothing and continued on his way, peering back over his shoulder from time to time.
Lord Manion heard the growl again, closer, and now a soft padding of footsteps. Instead of turning around and stopping to see what it was, the lord increased his pace. His boots sounded loudly on the pavement until he reached the park. He breathed easier. The soft ground muffled his steps, the tall trees hid his form. He couldn’t hear his pursuer anymore.
And then it was there again, following him, undeterred by darkness. The growl sounded closer and more menacing.
The lord began to sweat, drawing his breath in shallow, short gasps. Ducking behind a tree, pressing his back into the hard bark, he pulled a dagger from a sheath—a long jeweled blade, curved near the narrow tip—and held it, point-down, in his hand. He waited, as still as the night, for as many heartbeats as he dared, listening intently, extending his sense of sight and hearing as far as they would go.
He heard nothing, saw nothing. Lord Manion breathed a small sigh of relief.
An arm slammed his head back against the tree. A hand grabbed his dagger and threw it into a nearby hedge, disabling and disarming the man in one, efficient action. “How did you get here?” the attacker whispered. He was dressed in black, a shadow against shadows.
Manion stared into the eyes of his assailant—eyes that were red in the lambent light of the moons. The lord spit with loathing and hatred.
“Answer me!” the man in black hissed, driving his arm farther into the minister’s throat.
The lord lifted a leg and kicked his attacker in the stomach, sending the assailant flying backward. Manion leaped at the man he had just thrown, landing on top of him, grasping for his throat.
The man in black brought his right arm across in a horizontal arc, sweeping his hand against Manion’s chest. Claws ripped opened a great gash of black against the white, silk shirt. The lord screamed in agony. The attacker drove his other hand into the minister’s throat, lifting him off the ground, sending him sprawling.
Manion, shaking his head to clear it, renewed the battle in a frenzy, fighting with his bare hands. The claws slashed again, tearing flesh. The lord fell to his knees. The assailant brought his right leg up in a kick that snapped Manion’s head backward, causing him to land with his arms and legs spread out, completely vulnerable. Bending over the minister, the man in black reached down with an arm, attempting to drag the lord to his feet.
Manion slammed his head into the attacker’s chest. Grabbing the dark-clothed limbs, he rushed forward, dashing the man full-force into a tree.
Air whooshed from the attacker’s lungs, and he fell to his knees and hands, as the minister had done moments before. Manion lifted the man up by the collar and struck him in the face, causing his head to rebound back against the wood. The assailant ducked the next blow sluggishly, though just quickly enough. The lord’s fist slammed against the tree, cracking the bark, throwing rough chips into the air. Manion, still holding onto the attacker with his other hand, threw him to the ground and kicked him with such force that the front of his boot ripped off.
The other man collapsed, and the lord stood over him. A look of cruelty and hatred twisted his features. He lifted his leg, preparing to smash his foot down directly on the man’s head. The slight hesitation was all the attacker needed. He grabbed Manion’s leg, wrenching it around, breaking it at the hip. Manion collapsed with a terrifying cry.
The attacker stood. Lifting the Minister of Affairs off the ground by the throat with one arm, he snarled, exposing unusually long and pointed teeth. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.
“You will be destroyed, as will all your kind!” Manion cried hoarsely.
“Will we?” questioned the man in black. He jerked the lord’s head back. The neck snapped. The minister went limp, though—for a moment—his eyes appeared remarkably alive. Remarkably malevolent.
Tossing Manion to the ground, the assassin bent down over the corpse. Sharp claws rent cloak and clothes, skin and sinew.
“You will have whatever you need, Raistlin,” Shavas said.
The discussions had been concluded. Lord Cal had not returned, and Caramon was wondering if Shavas had sent him out on some sort of trumped-up mission in order to get rid of him.
“Thank you, Councillor … and officials of Mereklar,” Raistlin said with a slight sneer.
“When will you start?” Lady Masak asked.
“I have already started, Lady Masak.” The mage smiled. The woman appeared somewhat alarmed.
Everyone began to make preparations to leave, gathering up any notes they had taken during the talk, when the door flew open.
Lord Cal stepped in. “Councillor! I must speak with you!”
The man’s voice was strained, tense. Going to Shavas, he whispered something. Color drained from the woman’s face. She swallowed, opened her mouth, closed it.
“Gentlemen.” Lord Cal glared at Raistlin and his companions. “I must speak with the ministers in private. Would you excuse us, please?”
It wasn’t a request, but a command. Raistlin and Caramon left the room, Caramon returning in a moment to grab the kender.
“I didn’t know he meant me!” Earwig said, wriggling in the warrior’s grasp. “No one ever called me a gentleman before!”
The door shut behind them. Raistlin waited until he heard the lock click, then he swiftly withdrew one of the pouches hanging from his belt. Removing the cup he used to mix his drink, he placed it against one of the walls and put his ear to it, listening intently. There came a scraping sound from inside and Raistlin sprang backward, thrusting the cup beneath the folds of his robe.
The door opened, and Shavas entered the hall. “I’m sorry, but we must end the meeting now. My carriage will take you back to your lodgings.” She gazed at them, as if she wanted to say something, but couldn’t make up her mind. Then, shaking her head, she dispatched a servant, turned, and reentered the council room, closing the door behind her.
“What did you hear?” Caramon came over to Raistlin, who was leaning on his staff, staring after the woman thoughtfully.
“Lord Manion. He’s been killed. His body was found in a park not far from here.”
Caramon stared. “Killed?”
“Excuse me, sirs.” The coachman entered. “Councillor Shavas has instructed me to take to your inn.”
“Maybe we’re not ready to g—” Caramon began.
Raistlin laid a hand on his arm. “I am feeling tired. I could use a night’s rest.” He took a step forward, then suddenly halted, glancing around. “My staff! I left it behind in the council room!”
“No, you didn’t,” said Caramon. “You had it just a moment—” The warrior stared. The staff was nowhere to be seen.
“I don’t want to interrupt the meeting. If you could wait for us, sir,” said Raistlin to the coachman, “we’ll be right out. You can wait outside,” he added pointedly.
The driver appeared dubious, but—not having any instructions to the contrary—he left the room.
Raistlin breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Now, Caramon, we must leave this house without anyone noticing us. There must be another door … Ah, yes. We’ll use this one.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the park, to inspect the body ourselves.”
“Wow!” breathed Earwig in awe.
Raistlin started down the hall, walking rapidly, with unusual energy. Caramon trailed behind. He’d seen enough dead men in his life and didn’t particularly relish the sight of another.
“Hey, Raist!” he said, remembering. “What about your staff?”
The mage turned around. The Staff of Magius was in his hand. “What about it?” he asked.
The park where the attack had taken place was now well lit by lamps and torches, held by guardsmen wearing blue uniforms and tall helmets. They stood in a wide circle around the corpse, staring down at it, talking in low, horror-filled voices. None noticed the silent intrusion of the mage, creeping out of the shadows to stand behind them.
What was left of Lord Manion lay sprawled on the grass, his limbs twisted at odd angles. The head, it appeared, had nearly been torn from the body.
“His neck’s been broken,” said one of the guards. “And ’is throat ripped open. In fact, most of ’is insides has been torn out, like a giant hand reached in and yanked ’em.”
Caramon, peering over his brother’s shoulder, felt his stomach turn. The big man looked away. He’d seen violent death before, but that was on the battlefield. Death by stealth, by night, made him sick.
Earwig stared. He stood, twisting his ring, his usually cheerful face turning a dull leaden color. “Raistlin,” he said, gulping and tugging on the mage’s sleeve.
The mage silenced him with a glance.
“A hand didn’t do this,” said another guard. “Leastwise not a human hand. It was claws! Gigantic claws!”
“Lady Shavas,” spoke a voice that Caramon recognized as Lord Cal’s. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a gruesome sight.”
“I am Councillor. It is my duty.”
Shavas stepped forward into the light. She stared at the grisly corpse on the ground, then put her hand over her mouth and turned away. The other council members, trailing along behind, pushed through the guards to view the body.
“Brunswick, take the councillor home,” ordered Lord Cal.
The minister started to lead Shavas away when she suddenly looked up and saw Raistlin. “You!” she cried in a hollow voice.
“What are these men doing here? Guards, I want them removed! Now!” Lord Alvin commanded, pointing.
Shavas recovered herself. “Please, Raistlin. Leave us. This is a personal loss.…”
One of the guards reached forward to grab the mage’s arm, but a glance from the hourglass eyes stopped him in his tracks. Caramon took a step nearer, to be ready if his brother needed assistance. Earwig, quiet and subdued, was still staring at the body.
“Everything will be fine, Councillor,” said Raistlin reassuringly. “We will say nothing about this to anyone.”
“But I—”
“What are you doing here, wizard? How did you know about this man’s death, unless you helped commit his murder?” demanded Lord Cal. “It’s obvious he died as the result of some foul magical spell!”
“Is it?” the mage inquired with bland interest. “I suppose that explains the absence of blood?”
The question caught them all by surprise. Shavas sucked in a whistling breath through her teeth. Lord Alvin pointed at the mage with a trembling hand.
“Nobody ever died by violence in this town until you entered it!”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Raistlin. He glanced again at the corpse. “The man obviously died while on his way to the meeting. I was with Councillor Shavas the entire time.”
“Mages can get others to do their dark deeds for them, or so I’ve heard,” said Lord Cal grimly. “Others—like their familiars! Like giant cats!”
The councillor shot Cal a look so filled with venom that Caramon took a step back to avoid being poisoned by the glare.
Raistlin turned. “Perhaps I should leave your city to its own devices—”
“I’m sure that will not be necessary, Raistlin,” Shavas said. Gliding over to the mage, she put a hand on his robed shoulder, keeping her eyes averted from the horror on the ground. “Isn’t that correct, Lord Cal?”
The lord tensed, as if afraid of some veiled threat. Clearing his throat, he said, “No, of course not.”
Shavas slumped, letting her body sag against Raistlin’s. He put his arm around her, supporting her.
“Raistlin!” said Earwig urgently.
“Not now!” The mage didn’t even glance at the kender. He and Shavas whispered together softly.
Caramon watched his brother and the councillor, feeling something hot and angry stir deep inside him. Raistlin hated to be touched! And here he was, holding Shavas! How could he do this to me? the warrior demanded inwardly in frustration.
He was about to say something, he didn’t know for certain what, when he saw a cat move out from under a bush to stand next to a tree. The animal was regarding him with bright eyes that shone red in the torchlight. Caramon beckoned, and the cat darted forward. Standing on its hind paws, it clawed at his leg.
“Well, at least someone loves me,” said Caramon, recognizing his black-furred friend of the other afternoon. “You want to come up?”
The cat leaped onto Caramon’s shoulder, balancing perfectly. His brother and Shavas were still conferring. Raistlin kept his arm around her. The warrior reached up to scratch the feline behind the ear.
“There is a test I can make,” Raistlin said, moving away from the councillor, “to tell if the man died by magical means.”
He waved the Staff of Magius over the body, closing his eyes to prepare a spell. Shavas’s terse voice broke his concentration.
“We cannot allow you do to that, Master Mage! We have certain … sacred rituals that must be performed before the body is interred in the ground.”
“I would not do anything that interferes with your religious beliefs—”
“I’m afraid I must insist. Please, Raistlin.” Choking back tears, Shavas put her hand to the necklace at her throat. “This is very difficult for me. He was … a close friend!”
Raistlin lowered the staff. “I’m sorry, Councillor. I have been thoughtless, it seems. Forgive me.”
Lady Shavas beckoned to a guardsman, then leaned over to speak softly into his ear. The soldier nodded once and ran off.
“This evening has been a great strain on all of us,” she said, addressing everyone in the park. “It is time for us all to return to our homes.”
The soldier came back, driving a carriage that he had commandeered. It was obvious to Caramon that this time they weren’t going to be able to convince the fellow to wait for them outside.
Raistlin drew his hood up over his head. Taking his brother’s arm, he said softly, “Come, Caramon, Earwig … Let us go.”
The cat dug its claws into Caramon’s shoulder, drawing a very small trickle of blood.
“Ouch! Hey!” he exclaimed, attempting to dislodge the animal. The cat, however, would not be moved but clung to Caramon tenaciously. They clambered into the carriage. Once Caramon was inside and seated, the cat jumped lightly from his shoulder and curled up in his lap, its red eyes fixed on the twin opposite. The carriage, driven by the soldier, rumbled through the empty, silent streets.
“Raistlin,” said Earwig in a small voice.
“What is it, kender?” the mage asked wearily.
“That man. He’s the one who tried to kill me.”
Caramon jerked his head up, staring. Raistlin, however, did not move.
“What do you think, Raist?” Caramon asked, feeling a chill of horror creep over his body.
“I think,” said the mage, “that we have o
ne more day, my brother. One more day.”
Chapter 15
No one spoke during the carriage ride. No one made a sound except the cat, who purred loudly, rumbling like a small thunderstorm. Earwig sat in one corner of the carriage, scratching his hand. Raistlin sat huddled in another, his cowl pulled low over his head. He might have been thinking or fast asleep. Caramon sat miserably, his broad shoulders spanning two corners, wishing he was back in Solace.
“I’d ask Tanis about this mess,” he said quietly to himself, a wave of homesickness sweeping over him. The half-elf was the wisest man Caramon knew. Always calm and steady-going, Tanis rarely allowed anything to shake him—with the possible exception of the twins’ older sister, Kitiara. Caramon heaved a great sigh. He wouldn’t see Tanis again for a long time, perhaps ever, the way the world seemed to be falling headlong into darkness. They were supposed to meet again in five—no, now make it four—years time. It seemed an eternity. Caramon sighed again. The cat licked his hand with its rough tongue.
“Barnstoke Hall, sirs,” said the soldier-driver.
The carriage rolled to a halt. The companions climbed out, the soldier watching every step. It was obvious he wasn’t going to leave until they were safely inside the inn. From the look of him, Caramon thought, he might be planning to spend the night.
The fighter, cat tucked under one arm, attempted to open the door of the hall, but discovered it was locked. He pounded on it loudly. Minutes passed, then the proprietor slid open a panel in the door and peered outside. Seeing the companions, he slid the panel shut. They waited another several moments, hearing bolts being drawn and chains rattling. Finally the door opened a crack, barely large enough for the warrior to squeeze through.
The proprietor slammed the door shut again immediately after the three were inside. He was trembling so hard he could barely stand.
“Forgive me, sirs, but there’s been a terrible accident in town! Lord Manion—”
“We know,” snapped Raistlin, moving past the man. “And it was no accident.”
Caramon noticed that his brother barely needed the assistance of the staff to walk anymore. Raistlin’s gait was strong, even after being up all hours of the night. He had not coughed once. The mage reminded Caramon so much of what he had been before the test that tears came to the warrior’s eyes. He blinked them back and prayed to whatever gods were listening that this change would last.