Raistlin smiled. There was no light in his eyes from that thin-lipped smile, but Caramon was too flushed and pleased to notice.
“It is only the simple truth, my brother,” Raistlin replied, shrugging. “And it helped accomplish our objective, since we need these dwarves as our allies. I have often told you that you have hidden resources if you would only take the time and trouble to develop them. We are twins after all,” the mage added sardonically. “I did not think we could be so unlike as you had convinced yourself.”
The mage started to leave again but once more felt his brother’s hand on his arm. Checking an impatient sigh, Raistlin turned.
“I wanted to kill you back in Istar, Raistlin—” Caramon paused, licking his lips—“and … and I think I had cause. At least, from what I knew then. Now, I’m not so certain.” He sighed, looking down at his feet, then raising his flushed face. “I—I’d like to think that you did this—that you put the mages in a position where they had to send me back in time—to help me learn this lesson. That may not be the reason,” Caramon hastened to add, seeing his brother’s lips compress and the cold eyes grow colder, “and I’m sure it isn’t—at least all of it. You are doing this for yourself, I know that. But—I think, somewhere, some part of you cares, just a little. Some part of you saw I was in trouble and you wanted to help.”
Raistlin regarded his brother with amusement. Then he shrugged again. “Very well, Caramon. If this romantic notion of yours will help you fight better, if it will help you plan your strategies better, if it will aid your thinking, and—above all—if it will let me get out of this tent and back to my work, then—by all means—cradle it to your breast! It matters little to me.”
Withdrawing his arm from his brother’s grasp, the mage stalked to the entrance to the tent. Here he hesitated. Half-turning his hooded head, he spoke in a low voice, his words exasperated, yet tinged with a certain sadness.
“You never did understand me, Caramon.”
Then he left, his black robes rustling around his ankles as he walked.
The banquet that evening was held outdoors. Its beginnings were less than propitious.
The food was set on long tables of wood, hastily constructed from the rafts that had been used to cross the straits. Reghar arrived with a large escort, about forty dwarves. Darknight, Chief of the Plainsmen, who—with his grim face and tall, proud stance, reminded Caramon forcibly of Riverwind—brought with him forty warriors. In turn, Caramon chose forty of his men whom he knew (or at least hoped) could be trusted and could hold their liquor.
Caramon had figured that, when the groups filed in, the dwarves would sit by themselves, the Plainsmen by themselves, and so forth. No amount of talking would get them to mingle. Sure enough, after each group had arrived, all stood staring at each other in grim silence; the dwarves gathered around their leader, the Plainsmen around theirs, while Caramon’s men looked on uncertainly.
Caramon came to stand before them. He had dressed with care, wearing his golden armor and helmet from the gladiatorial games, plus some new armor he’d had made to match. With his bronze skin, his matchless physique, his strong, handsome face, he was a commanding presence and even the dour dwarves exchanged looks of reluctant approval.
Caramon raised his hands.
“Greetings to my guests!” he called in his loud, booming baritone. “Welcome. This is a dinner of fellowship, to mark alliance and newfound friendship among our races—”
At this there were muttered, scoffing words and snorts of derision. One of the dwarves even spat upon the ground, causing several Plainsmen to grip their bows and take a step forward—this being considered a dreadful insult among Plainspeople. Their chief stopped them, and, coolly ignoring the interruption, Caramon continued.
“We are going to be fighting together, perhaps dying together. Therefore, let us start our meeting this first night by sitting together and sharing bread and drink like brothers. I know that you are reluctant to be parted from your kinsmen and friends, but I want you to make new friends. And so, to help us get acquainted, I have decided we should play a little game.”
At this, the dwarves’ eyes opened wide, beards wagged, and low mutterings rumbled through the air like thunder. No grown dwarf ever played games! (Certain recreational activities such as “Stone Strike” and “Hammer Throw” were considered sports.) Darknight and his men brightened, however; the Plainsmen lived for games and contests, these being considered almost as much fun as making war on neighboring tribes.
Waving his arm, Caramon gestured to a new, huge, cone-shaped tent that stood behind the tables and had been the object of many curious, suspicious stares from dwarves and Plainsmen alike. Standing over twenty feet tall, it was topped by Caramon’s banner. The silken flag with the nine-pointed star fluttered in the evening wind, illuminated by the great bonfire burning nearby.
As all stared at the tent, Caramon reached out and, with a yank of his strong hand, pulled on a rope. Instantly, the canvas sides of the tent fell to the ground and, at a signal from Caramon, were dragged away by several grinning young boys.
“What nonsense is this?” Reghar growled, fingering his axe.
A single heavy post stood in a sea of black, oozing mud. The post’s shaft had been planed smooth and gleamed in the firelight. Near the top of the post was a round platform made of solid wood, except for several irregularly shaped holes that had been cut into it.
But it was not the sight of the pole or the platform or the mud that brought forth sudden exclamations of wonder and excitement from dwarves and humans alike. It was the sight of what was embedded in the wood at the very top of the post. Shining in the firelight, their crossed handles flashing, were a sword and a battle-axe. But these were not the crude iron weapons many carried. These were of the finest wrought steel, their exquisite workmanship apparent to those who stood twenty feet below, staring up at them.
“Reorx’s beard!” Reghar drew a deep, quivering breath. “Yon axe is worth the price of our village! I’d trade fifty years of my life for a weapon such as that!”
Darknight, staring at the sword, blinked his eyes rapidly as swift tears of longing caused the weapon to blur in his vision.
Caramon smiled. “These weapons are yours!” he announced.
Darknight and Reghar both stared at him, their faces registering blank astonishment.
“If—” Caramon continued, “you can get them down!”
A vast hubbub of voices broke out among both dwarves and men. Immediately, everyone broke into a run for the pit, forcing Caramon to shout over the turmoil.
“Reghar and Darknight—each of you may choose nine warriors to help you! The first to gain the prizes wins them for his own!”
Darknight needed no urging. Without bothering to get help, he leaped into the mud and began to wade toward the post. But with each step, he sank farther and farther, the mud growing deeper and deeper as he neared his objective. By the time he reached the post, he had sunk past his knees in the sticky substance.
Reghar—more cautious—took time to observe his opponent. Calling on nine of his stoutest men to help, the dwarven leader and his men stepped into the mud. The entire contingent promptly vanished, their heavy armor causing them to sink almost immediately. Their fellows helped drag them out. Last to emerge was Reghar.
Swearing an oath to every god he could think of, the dwarf wrung mud out of his beard, then, scowling, proceeded to strip off his armor. Holding his axe high over his head, he waded back into the mud, not even waiting for his escort.
Darknight had reached the pole. Right at the base, the mud wasn’t so deep—there was firm ground below it. Grasping the pole with his arms, the chieftain dragged himself up out of the mud and wrapped his legs around it. He moved up about three feet, grinning broadly at his tribesmen who cheered him on. Then, suddenly, he began to slide back down. Gritting his teeth, he strove desperately to hang on, but it was useless. At last, the great chieftain slid slowly down to the base, amid howls o
f dwarven derision. Sitting in the mud, he glared grimly at the pole. It had been greased with animal fat.
More swimming that walking, Reghar at last reached the base of the pole. He was waist-deep in mud by that time, but the dwarf’s great strength kept him going.
“Stand aside,” he growled to the frustrated Plainsman. “Use your brains! If we can’t go up, we’ll bring the prize down to us!”
A grin of triumph on his mud-splattered, bearded face, Reghar drew back his axe and aimed a mighty blow at the pole.
Grinning to himself, Caramon winced in anticipation.
There was a tremendous ringing sound. The dwarf’s axe rebounded off the pole as if it had struck the side of a mountain—the pole had been hewn from the thick trunk of an iron-wood tree. As the reverberating axe flew from the dwarf’s stinging hands, the force of the blow sent Reghar sprawling on his back in the mud. Now it was the Plainsmen’s turn to laugh—none louder than their mud-covered chief.
Glaring at each other, dwarf and human tensed. The laughter died, replaced by angry mutterings. Caramon held his breath. Then Reghar’s eyes went to the notched axe that was slowly sinking into the ooze. He glanced up at the beautiful axe, its steel flashing in the firelight, and—with a growl, turned to face his men.
Reghar’s escort, now stripped of their armor, had waded out to him by now. Shouting and gesturing, Reghar motioned them to line up at the base of the slick pole. Then the dwarves began to form a pyramid. Three stood at the bottom, two climbed upon their backs, then another. The bottom row sank into mud past their waists but, eventually finding the firm ground at the bottom, stood fast.
Darknight watched for a moment in grim silence, then he called to nine of his warriors. Within moments, the humans were forming their own pyramid. Being shorter, the dwarves were forced to make their pyramid smaller at the base and extend it up by single dwarves to reach the top. Reghar himself made the final ascent. Teetering on the pinnacle as the dwarves swayed and groaned beneath him, his arms strained to reach the platform—but he wasn’t tall enough.
Darknight, climbing over the backs of his own men, easily reached the underside of the platform. Then, laughing at the scowl on Reghar’s mud-covered face, the chieftain tried to pull himself through one of the odd-shaped openings.
He couldn’t fit.
Squeezing, swearing, holding his breath was no help. The human could not force even his wiry-framed body through the small hole. At that moment, Reghar made a leap for the platform.…
And missed.
The dwarf sailed through the air, landing with a splat in the mud below, while the force of his jump caused the entire dwarven pyramid to topple, sending dwarves everywhere.
This time, though, the humans didn’t laugh. Staring down at Reghar, Darknight suddenly jumped down into the mud himself. Landing next to the dwarf, he grabbed hold of him and dragged him to the surface of the ooze.
Both were, by this time, almost indistinguishable, covered head to foot with the black goop. They stood, staring at each other.
“You know,” said Reghar, wiping mud from his eyes, “that I’m the only one who can fit through that hole.”
“And you know,” said Darknight through clenched teeth, “that I’m the only who can get you up there.”
The dwarf grabbed the Plainsman’s hand. The two moved quickly over to the human pyramid. Darknight climbed first, providing the last link to the top. Everyone cheered as Reghar climbed up onto the human’s shoulders and easily squirmed through the hole.
Scrambling up onto the platform, the dwarf grasped the hilt of the sword and the handle of the axe and raised them triumphantly over his head. The crowd fell silent. Once again, human and dwarf eyed each other suspiciously.
This is it! Caramon thought. How much of Flint did I see in you, Reghar? How much of Riverwind in you, Darknight? So much depends on this!
Reghar looked down through the hole at the stern face of the Plainsman. “This axe, which must have been forged by Reorx himself, I owe to you, Plainsman. I will be honored to fight by your side. And, if you’re going to fight with me, you need a decent weapon!”
Amid cheers from the entire camp, he handed the great, gleaming sword down through the hole to Darknight.
CHAPTER
5
he banquet lasted well into the night. The field rang with laughter and shouts and good-natured oaths sworn in dwarven and tribal tongues as well as Solamnic and Common.
It was easy for Raistlin to slip away. In the excitement, no one missed the silent, cynical archmage.
Walking back to his tent, which Caramon had refurbished for him, Raistlin kept to the shadows. In his black robes, he was nothing more than a glimpse of movement seen from the corner of the eye.
He avoided Crysania’s tent. She was standing in the entry-way, watching the fun with a wistful expression on her face. She dared not join them, knowing that the presence of the “witch” would harm Caramon immensely.
How ironic, thought Raistlin, that a black-robed wizard is tolerated in this time, while a cleric of Paladine is scorned and reviled.
Treading softly in his leather boots across the field where the army camped, barely even leaving footprints in the damp grass, Raistlin found a grim sort of amusement in this. Glancing up at the constellations in the sky, he regarded both the Platinum Dragon and the Five-Headed Dragon opposite with a slight sneer.
The knowledge that Fistandantilus might have succeeded if it had not been for the unforeseen intervention of some wretched gnome had brought dark joy to Raistlin’s being. By all his calculations, the gnome was the key factor. The gnome had altered time, apparently, though just how he had done that was unclear. Still, Raistlin figured that all he had to do was to get to the mountain fortress of Zhaman, then, from there, it would be simple indeed to make his way into Thorbardin, discover this gnome, and render him harmless.
Time—which had been altered previously—would return to its proper flow. Where Fistandantilus had failed, he would succeed.
Therefore, even as Fistandantilus had done before him, Raistlin now gave the war effort his undivided interest and attention to make certain that he would be able to reach Zhaman. He and Caramon spent long hours poring over old maps, studying the fortifications, comparing what they remembered from their journeys in these lands in a time yet to come and trying to guess what changes might have occurred.
The key to winning the battle was the taking of Pax Tharkas.
And that, Caramon had said more than once with a heavy sigh, seemed well-nigh impossible.
“Duncan’s bound to have it heavily manned,” Caramon argued, his finger resting on the spot on the map that marked the great fort. “You remember what it’s like, Raist. You remember how it’s built, between those two sky-high mountain peaks! Those blasted dwarves can hold out there for years! Close the gates, drop the rocks from that mechanism, and we’re stuck. It took silver dragons to lift those rocks, as I recall,” the big man added gloomily.
“Go around it,” Raistlin suggested.
Caramon shook his head. “Where?” His finger moved west. “Qualinesti on one side. The elves’d cut us to meat and hang us up to dry.” He moved east. “This way’s either sea or mountain. We don’t have boats enough to go by sea and, look”—he moved his finger down—“if we land here, to the south, in that desert, we’re stuck right in the middle—both flanks exposed—Pax Tharkas to the north, Thorbardin to the south.”
The big man paced the room, pausing occasionally to glare at the map in irritation.
Raistlin yawned, then stood up, resting his hand lightly on Caramon’s arm. “Remember this, my brother,” he said softly, “Pax Tharkas did fall!”
Caramon’s face darkened. “Yeah,” he muttered, angry at being reminded of the fact that this was all just some vast game he seemed to be playing. “I don’t suppose you remember how?”
“No.” Raistlin shook his head. “But it will fall.…”
He paused, then repeated quietly
, “It will fall!”
Out of the forest, wary of the lights of lodge and campfire and even moon and stars, crept three dark, squat figures. They hesitated on the outskirts of the camp, as though uncertain of their destination. Finally, one pointed, muttering something. The other two nodded and, now moving rapidly, they hurried through the darkness.
Quickly they moved, but not quietly. No dwarf could ever move quietly, and these seemed noisier than usual. They creaked and rattled and stepped on every brittle twig, muttering curses as they blundered along.
Raistlin, awaiting them in the darkness of his tent, heard them coming from far off and shook his head. But he had reckoned on this in his plans, thus he had arranged this meeting when the noise and hilarity of the banquet would provide suitable cover.
“Enter,” he said wryly as the clumping and stomping of ironshod feet halted just outside the tent flap.
There was a pause, accompanied by heavy breathing and a muttered exclamation, no one wanting to be the first to touch the tent. This was answered by a snarling oath. The tent flap was yanked open with a violence that nearly tore the strong fabric and a dwarf entered, apparently the leader, for he advanced with a bold swagger while the other two, who came after him, were nervous and cringing.
The lead dwarf advanced toward the table in the center of the tent, moving swiftly though it was pitch dark. After years of living underground, the Dewar had developed excellent night vision. Some, it was rumored, even had the gift of elven-sight that allowed them to see the glow of living beings in the darkness.
But, good though the dwarf’s eyes were, he could make out nothing at all about the black-robed figure that sat facing him across the desk. It was as though, looking into deepest night, he saw something darker—like a vast chasm suddenly yawning at his feet. This Dewar was strong and fearless, reckless even; his father had died a raving lunatic. But the dark dwarf found he could not repress a slight shiver that started at the back of his neck and tingled down the length of his spine.
War of the Twins Page 27