Around the campfires stood or sat groups of men, talking and laughing, eating and drinking, working over their equipment. The night air was filled with jests and oaths and tall tales. Here and there were groans of pain, as men rubbed shoulders and arms that ached from unaccustomed exercise. Hands calloused from swinging hoes were blistered from wielding spears. But these were accepted with good-natured shrugs. They could watch their children play around the campfires and know that they had eaten, if not well, at least adequately that night. They could face their wives with pride. For the first time in years, these men had a goal, a purpose in their lives.
There were some who knew this goal might well be death, but those who knew this recognized and understood it and made the choice to remain anyway.
“After all,” said Garic to himself as his replacement came to relieve him of his guard duty, “death comes to all. Better a man meet it in the blazing sunlight, his sword flashing in his hand, than to have it come creeping up on him in the night unawares, or clutch at him with foul, diseased hands.”
The young man, now that he was off duty, returned to his campfire and retrieved a thick cloak from his bedroll. Hastily gulping down a bowl of rabbit stew, he then walked among the campfires.
Headed for the outskirts of the camp, he walked with purpose, ignoring many invitations to join friends around their fires. These he waved off genially and continued on his way. Few thought anything of this. A great many fled the lights of the fires at night. The shadows were warm with soft sighs and murmurs and sweet laughter.
Garic did have an appointment in the shadows, but it was not with a lover, though several young women in camp would have been more than happy to share the night with the handsome young nobleman. Coming to a large boulder, far from camp and far from other company, Garic wrapped his cloak about him, sat down, and waited.
He did not wait long.
“Garic?” said a hesitant voice.
“Michael!” Garic cried warmly, rising to his feet. The two men clasped hands and then, overcome, embraced each other warmly.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you ride into camp today, cousin,” Garic continued, gripping the other young man’s hand as though afraid to let him go, afraid he might disappear into the darkness.
“Nor I you,” said Michael, holding fast to his kinsmen and trying to rid his throat of a huskiness it seemed to have developed. Coughing, he sat down on the boulder and Garic joined him. Both remained silent for a few moments as they cleared their throats and pretended to be stern and soldierly.
“I thought it was a ghost,” Michael said with a hollow attempt at a laugh. “We heard you were dead.…” His voice died and he coughed again. “Confounded damp weather,” he muttered, “gets in a man’s windpipes.”
“I escaped,” Garic said quietly. “But my father, my mother, and my sister were not so lucky.”
“Anne?” Michael murmured, pain in his voice.
“She died quickly,” Garic said quietly, “as did my mother. My father saw to that, before the mob butchered him. It made them mad. They mutilated his body—”
Garic choked. Michael gripped his arm in sympathy. “A noble man, your father. He died as a true Knight, defending his home. A better death than some face,” he added grimly, causing Garic to look at him with a sharp, penetrating glance. “But, what is your story? How did you get away from the mob? Where have you been this last year?”
“I did not get away from them,” Garic said bitterly. “I arrived when it was all over. Where I had been did not matter”—the young man flushed—“but I should have been with them, to die with them!”
“No, your father would not have wanted that.” Michael shook his head. “You live. You will carry on the name.”
Garic frowned, his eyes glinted darkly. “Perhaps. Though I have not lain with a woman since—” He shook his head. “At any rate, I could only do for them what I could. I set fire to the castle—”
Michael gasped, but Garic continued, unhearing.
“—so that the mobs should not take it over. My family’s ashes remain there, among the blackened stones of the hall my great-great-grandfather built. Then I rode aimlessly, for a time, not much caring what happened to me. Finally, I met up with a group of other men, many like myself—driven from their homes for various reasons.
“They asked no questions. They cared nothing about me except that I could wield a sword with skill. I joined them and we lived off our wits.”
“Bandits?” Michael asked, trying to keep a startled tone from his voice and failing, apparently, for Garic cast him a dark glance.
“Yes, bandits,” the young man answered coldly. “Does that shock you? That a Knight of Solamnia should so forget the Code and the Measure that he joins with bandits? I’ll ask you this, Michael—where were the Code and the Measure when they murdered my father, your uncle? Where are they anywhere in this wretched land?”
“Nowhere, perhaps,” Michael returned steadily, “except in our hearts.”
Garic was silent. Then he began to weep, harsh sobs that tore at his body. His cousin put his arms around him, holding him close. Garic gave a shuddering sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I have not cried once since I found them,” he said in a muffled voice. “And you are right, cousin. Living with robbers, I had sunk into a pit from which I might not have escaped, but for the general—”
“This Caramon?”
Garic nodded. “We ambushed him and his party one night. And that opened my eyes. Before, I had always robbed people without much thought or, sometimes, I even enjoyed it—telling myself it was dogs like these who had murdered my father. But in this party there was a woman and the magic-user. The wizard was ill. I hit him, and he crumpled at my touch like a broken doll. And the woman—I knew what they would do to her and the thought sickened me. But, I was afraid of the leader—Steeltoe, they called him. He was a beast! Half-ogre.
“But the general challenged him. I saw true nobility that night—a man willing to give his life to protect those weaker than himself. And he won.” Garic grew calmer. As he talked, his eyes shone with admiration. “I saw, then, what my life had become. When Caramon asked if we would come with him, I agreed, as did most of the others. But it wouldn’t have mattered about them—I would have gone with him anywhere.”
“And now you’re part of his personal guard?” Michael said, smiling.
Garic nodded, flushing with pleasure. “I—I told him I was no better than the others—a bandit, a thief. But he just looked at me, as though he could see inside my soul, and smiled and said every man had to walk through a dark, starless night and, when he faced the morning, he’d be better for it.”
“Strange,” Michael said. “I wonder what he meant?”
“I think I understand,” Garic said. His glance went to the far edge of the camp where Caramon’s huge tent stood, smoke from the fires curling around the fluttering, silken flag that was a black streak against the stars. “Sometimes, I wonder if he isn’t walking through his own ‘dark night.’ I’ve seen a look on his face, sometimes—” Garic shook his head. “You know,” he said abruptly, “he and the wizard are twin brothers.”
Michael’s eyes opened wide. Garic confirmed it with a nod. “It is a strange relationship. There’s no love lost between them.”
“One of the Black Robes?” Michael said, snorting. “I should think not! I wonder the mage even travels with us. From what I have heard, these wizards can ride the night winds and summon forces from the graves to do their battles.”
“This one could do that, I’ve no doubt,” Garic replied, giving a smaller tent next to the general’s a dark glance. “Though I have seen him do his magic only once—back at the bandit camp—I know he is powerful. One look from his eyes, and my stomach shrivels inside of me, my blood turns to water. But, as I said, he was not well when we first met up with them. Night after night, when he still slept in his brother’s tent, I heard him cough until I did not t
hink he could draw breath again. How can a man live with such pain, I asked myself more than once.”
“But he seemed fine when I saw him today.”
“His health has improved greatly. He does nothing to tax it, however. Just spends all day in his tent, studying the spellbooks he carries with him in those great, huge chests. But he’s walking his ‘dark night,’ too,” Garic added. “A gloom hangs about him, and it’s been growing the farther south we travel. He is haunted by terrible dreams. I’ve heard him cry out in his sleep. Horrible cries—they’d wake the dead.”
Michael shuddered, then, sighing, looked over at Caramon’s tent. “I had grave misgivings about joining an army led, they say, by one of the Black Robes. And of all the wizards who have ever lived, this Fistandantilus is rumored to be the most powerful. I had not fully committed myself to join when I rode in today. I thought I would look things over, find out if it’s true they go south to help the oppressed people of Abanasinia in their fight against mountain dwaves.”
Sighing again, he made a gesture as if to stroke long mustaches, but his hand stopped. He was clean-shaven, having removed the ages-old symbol of the Knights—the symbol that led, these days, to death.
“Though my father still lives, Garic,” Michael continued, “I think he might well trade his life for your father’s death. We were given a choice by the lord of Vingaard Keep—we could stay in the city and die or leave and live. Father would have died. I, too, if we’d had only ourselves to think of. But we could not afford the luxury of honor. A bitter day it was when we packed what we could on a mean cart and left the Hall. I saw them settled in a wretched cottage in Throytl. They’ll be all right, for the winter at least. Mother is strong and does the work of a man. My little brothers are good hunters.…”
“Your father?” Garic asked gently when Michael stopped talking.
“His heart broke that day,” Michael said simply. “He sits staring out the window, his sword on his lap. He has not spoken one word to anyone since the day we left the family hall.”
Michael suddenly clenched his fist. “Why am I lying to you, Garic? I don’t give a damn about oppressed people in Abanasinia! I came to find the treasure! The treasure beneath the mountain! And glory! Glory to bring back the light in his eyes! If we win, the Knights can lift their heads once more!”
He, too, gazed at the small tent next to the large one—the small tent that had the sign of a wizard’s residence hung upon it, the small tent that everyone in the camp avoided, if possible. “But, to find this glory, led by the man called the Dark One. The Knights of old would not have done so. Paladine—”
“Paladine has forgotten us,” Garic said bitterly. “We are left on our own. I know nothing of black-robed wizards, I care little about that one. I stay here and I follow because of one man—the general. If he leads me to my fortune, well and good. If not”—Garic sighed deeply—“then he has at least led me to find peace within myself. I could wish the same for him,” he said, beneath his breath. Then, rising, he shook off his gloomy thoughts.
Michael rose, too.
“I must return to camp and get some sleep. It is early waking tomorrow,” Garic said. “We’re preparing to march within the week, so I hear. Well, cousin, will you stay?”
Michael looked at Garic. He looked at Caramon’s tent, its bright-colored flag with the nine-pointed star fluttering in the chill air. He looked at the wizard’s tent. Then, he nodded. Garic grinned widely. The two clasped hands and walked back to the campfires, arms around each other’s shoulders.
“Tell me this, though,” Michael said in a hushed voice as they walked, “is it true this Caramon keeps a witch?”
CHAPTER
3
here are you going?” Caramon demanded harshly. Stepping into his tent, his eyes blinked rapidly to try to get accustomed to the shadowy darkness after the chill glare of the autumn sun.
“I’m moving out,” Crysania said, carefully folding her white clerical robes and placing them in the chest that had been stored beneath her cot. Now it sat open on the floor beside her.
“We’ve been through this,” Caramon growled in a low voice. Glancing behind him at the guards outside the tent entrance, he carefully lowered the tent flap.
Caramon’s tent was his pride and joy. Having originally belonged to a wealthy Knight of Solamnia, it had been brought to Caramon as a gift by two young, stern-faced men, who—though they claimed to have “found” it—handled it with such skilled hands and loving care that it was obvious they had no more “found” it than they had found their own arms or legs.
Made of some fabric none in this day and age could identify, it was so cunningly woven that not a breath of wind penetrated even the seams. Rainwater rolled right off it; Raistlin said it had been treated with some sort of oil. It was large enough for Caramon’s cot, several large chests containing maps, the money, and jewels they brought from the Tower of High Sorcery, clothes and armor, plus a cot for Crysania, as well as a chest for her clothing. Still, it did not seem crowded when Caramon received visitors.
Raistlin slept and studied in a smaller tent made of the same fabric and construction that was pitched near his brother’s. Though Caramon had offered to share the larger tent, the mage had insisted upon privacy. Knowing his twin’s need for solitude and quiet, and not particularly enjoying being around his brother anyway, Caramon had not argued. Crysania, however, had openly rebelled when told she must remain in Caramon’s tent.
In vain, Caramon argued that it was safer for her there. Stories about her “witchcraft,” the strange medallion of a reviled god she wore, and her healing of the big warrior had spread quickly through the camp and were eagerly whispered to all newcomers. The cleric never left her tent but that dark glances followed her. Women grabbed their babies to their breasts when she came near. Small children ran from her in fear that was half mocking and half real.
“I am well aware of your arguments,” Crysania remarked, continuing to fold her clothes and pack them away without looking up at the big man. “And I don’t concede them. Oh”—she stopped him as he drew a breath to speak—“I’ve heard your stories of witch-burning. More than once! I do not doubt their validity, but that was in a day and age far removed from this one.”
“Whose tent are you moving to, then?” Caramon asked, his face flushing. “My brother’s?”
Crysania ceased folding the clothes, holding them for long moments over her arm, staring straight ahead. Her face did not change color. It grew, if possible, a shade more pale. Her lips pressed tightly together. When she answered, her voice was cold and calm as a winter’s day. “There is another small tent, similar to his. I will live in that one. You may post a guard, if you think it necessary.”
“Crysania, I’m sorry,” Caramon said, moving toward her. She still did not look at him. Reaching out his hands, he took hold of her arms, gently, and turned her around, forcing her to face him. “I … I didn’t mean that. Please forgive me. And, yes, I think it is necessary to post a guard! But there is no one I trust, Crysania, unless it is myself. And, even then—” His breathing quickened, the hands on her arms tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I love you, Crysania,” he said softly. “You’re not like any other woman I’ve ever known! I didn’t mean to. I don’t know how it happened. I—I didn’t even really much like you when I first met you. I thought you were cold and uncaring, wrapped up in that religion of yours. But when I saw you in the clutches of that half-ogre, I saw your courage, and when I thought about what—what they might do to you—”
He felt her shudder involuntarily; she still had dreams about that night. She tried to speak, but Caramon took advantage of her reaction to hurry on.
“I’ve seen you with my brother. It reminds me of the way I was, in the old days”—his voice grew wistful—“you care for him so tenderly, so patiently.”
Crysania did not break free of his grasp. She simply stood there, looking up at him with clear, gray eyes, holding the folded w
hite robe close against her chest. “This, too, is a reason, Caramon,” she said sadly. “I have sensed your growing”—now she flushed, slightly—“affection for me and, while I know you too well to believe you would ever force attentions on me that I would consider unwelcome, I do not feel comfortable sleeping in the same tent alone with you.”
“Crysania!” Caramon began, his face anguished, his hands trembling as they held her.
“What you feel for me isn’t love, Caramon,” Crysania said softly. “You are lonely, you miss your wife. It is her you love. I know, I’ve seen the tenderness in your eyes when you talk about Tika.”
His face darkened at the sound of Tika’s name.
“What would you know of love?” Caramon asked abruptly, releasing his grasp and looking away. “I love Tika, sure. I’ve loved lots of women. Tika’s loved her share of men, too, I’ll wager.” He drew in an angry breath. That wasn’t true, and he knew it. But it eased his own guilt, guilt he’d been wrestling with for months. “Tika’s human!” he continued surlily. “She’s flesh and blood—not some pillar of ice!”
“What do I know of love?” Crysania repeated, her calm slipping, her gray eyes darkening in anger. “I’ll tell you what I know of love. I—”
“Don’t say it!” Caramon cried in a low voice, completely losing control of himself and grabbing her in his arms. “Don’t say you love Raistlin! He doesn’t deserve your love! He’s using you, just like he used me! And he’ll throw you away when he’s finished!”
“Let go of me!” Crysania demanded, her cheeks stained pink, her eyes a deep gray.
“Can’t you see!” Caramon cried, almost shaking her in his frustration. “Are you blind?”
“Pardon me,” said a soft voice, “if I am interrupting. But there is urgent news.”
At the sound of that soft voice, Crysania’s face went white, then scarlet. Caramon, too, started at the sound, his hands loosening their hold. Crysania drew back from him and, in her haste, stumbled over the chest and fell to her knees. Her face well hidden by her long, black, flowing hair, she remained kneeling beside the chest, pretending to rearrange her things with hands that shook.
War of the Twins Page 16