War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

“How are you?” he asked Garic, looking intently at the young Knight.

  “I’m all right,” Garic answered, and his face flushed with shame. “Th-they took me … from behind.”

  “Yeah.” Caramon saw the matted blood in the young man’s hair. “It happens. Don’t worry about it.” The big warrior smiled without mirth. “They took me from the front.”

  Garic nodded again, but it was obvious from the expression on his face that this defeat preyed on his mind.

  He’ll go over it, Caramon thought wearily. We all have to face it sooner or later.

  “I’ll see my brother now,” he said, starting out of the tent with uneven steps. Then he stopped. “Lady Crysania?”

  “Asleep. Knife wound glanced off her … uh … ribs. I—We dressed it … as well as we could. We had to … rip open her robes.” Garic’s flush deepened. “And we gave her some brandy to drink.…”

  “Does she know about Raist—Fistandantilus?”

  “The wizard forbade it.”

  Caramon raised his eyebrows, then frowned. Glancing around at the wrecked tent, he saw the trail of blood on the trampled dirt floor. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the tent flap and walked unsteadily outside, Garic following.

  “The army?”

  “They know. The word spread.” Garic spread his hands helplessly. “There was so much to do. We tried to go after the dwarves—”

  “Bah!” Caramon snorted, wincing as pain shot through his head. “They would have collapsed the tunnel.”

  “Yes. We tried digging, but you might as well dig up the whole damn desert,” Garic said bitterly.

  “What about the army?” Caramon persisted, pausing outside Raistlin’s tent. Inside, he could hear a low moaning sound.

  “The men are upset,” Garic said with a sigh. “Talking, confused. I don’t know.”

  Caramon understood. He glanced into the darkness of his brother’s tent. “I’ll go in alone. Thank you for all you’ve done, Garic,” he added gently. “Now, go get some rest before you pass out. I’m going to need you later on, and you’ll be no help to me sick.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garic said. He started to stagger off, then stopped, turning back. Reaching beneath the breastplate of his armor, he withdrew a blood-soaked bit of parchment. “We—we found this … in your hand, sir. The handwriting’s dwarven.…”

  Caramon looked at it, opened it, read it, then rolled it back up without comment, tucking it into his belt.

  Guards surrounded the tents now. Gesturing to one, Caramon waited until he saw Garic being helped to his bed. Then, bracing himself, he stepped into Raistlin’s tent.

  A candle burned on a table, near a spellbook that had been left open—the archmage had obviously been expecting to return to his studies soon after dinner. A middle-aged, battle-scarred dwarf—Caramon recognized him as one of Reghar’s staff—crouched in the shadows near the bed. A guard beside the entrance saluted when Caramon entered.

  “Wait outside,” Caramon ordered, and the guard left.

  “He won’t let us touch ’im,” the dwarf said laconically, nodding toward Raistlin. “Wound’s gotta be dressed. Won’t help much, of course. But it might hold some of ’im inside for a bit.”

  “I’ll tend to him,” Caramon said harshly.

  Hands on his knees, the dwarf shoved himself up. Hesitating, he cleared his throat as if wondering whether or not to speak. Decision made, he squinted up at Caramon with shrewd, bright eyes.

  “Reghar said I was to tell you. If you want me to do it … you know—end it quick, I’ve done it afore. Sort of a knack I’ve got. I’m a butcher by trade, you see—”

  “Get out.”

  The dwarf shrugged. “As you say. Up to you. If it was my brother, though—”

  “Get out!” Caramon repeated softly. He did not look at the dwarf as he left, nor even hear the sounds of his heavy boots. All his senses were concentrated on his twin.

  Raistlin lay on his bed, still dressed, his hands clenched over the horrible wound. Stained black with blood, the mage’s robes and flesh were gummed together in a ghastly mass. And he was in agony. Rolling involuntarily back and forth upon the bed, every breath the mage exhaled was a low, incoherent moan of pain. Every breath he drew in was bubbling torture.

  But to Caramon, the most awful sight of all was his brother’s glittering eyes, staring at him, aware of him, as he moved nearer the bed. Raistlin was conscious.

  Kneeling down beside his brother’s bed, Caramon laid a hand upon his twin’s feverish head. “Why didn’t you let them send for Crysania?” he asked softly.

  Raistlin grimaced. Gritting his teeth, he forced the words out through blood-stained lips. “Paladine … will … not … heal … me!” The last was a gasp, ending in a strangled scream.

  Caramon stared at him, confused. “But—you’re dying! You can’t die! You said—”

  Raistlin’s eyes rolled, his head tossed. Blood trickled from his mouth. “Time … altered.… All … changed!”

  “But—”

  “Leave me! Let me die!” Raistlin shrieked in anger and pain, his body writhing.

  Caramon shuddered. He tried to look upon his brother with pity, but the face, gaunt and twisted in suffering, was not a face he knew.

  The mask of wisdom and intelligence had been stripped away, revealing the splintered lines of pride, ambition, avarice, and unfeeling cruelty beneath. It was as if Caramon, seeing a face he had known always, were seeing his twin for the first time.

  Perhaps, Caramon thought, Dalamar saw this face in the Tower of High Sorcery as Raistlin burned holes in his flesh with his bare hands. Perhaps Fistandantilus, too, saw the face as he died.…

  Repulsed, his very soul shaken with horror, Caramon tore his gaze from that hideous, skull-like visage and, hardening his own expression, reached out his hand. “At least let me dress the wound.”

  Raistlin shook his head vehemently. A blood-covered hand wrenched itself free from holding his very life inside him to clutch at Caramon’s arm. “No! End it! I have failed. The gods are laughing. I can’t … bear …”

  Caramon stared at him. Suddenly, irrationally, anger took hold of the big man—anger that rose from years of sarcastic gibes and thankless servitude. Anger that had seen friends die because of this man. Anger that had seen himself nearly destroyed. Anger that had seen love devoured, love denied. Reaching out his hand, Caramon grasped hold of the black robes and jerked his brother’s head up off the pillow.

  “No, by the gods,” Caramon shouted with a voice that literally shook with rage. “No, you will not die! Do you hear me?” His eyes narrowed. “You will not die, my brother! All your life, you have lived only for yourself. Now, even in your death, you seek the easy way out—for you! You’d leave me trapped here without a second’s thought. You’d leave Crysania! No, brother! You will live, damn you! You’ll live to send me back home. What you do with yourself after that is your concern.”

  Raistlin looked at Caramon and, despite his pain, a gruesome parody of a smile touched his lips. It almost seemed he might have laughed, but a bubble of blood burst in his mouth instead. Caramon loosened his hold of his brother’s robes, almost but not quite, hurling him backward. Raistlin collapsed back upon the pillow. His burning eyes devoured Caramon. At that moment the only life in them was bitter hatred and rage.

  “I’m going to tell Crysania,” Caramon said grimly, rising to his feet, ignoring Raistlin’s glare of fury. “At least she must have the chance to try to heal you. Yes, if looks could kill, I know I’d be dead right now. But, listen to me, Raistlin or Fistandantilus or whoever you are—if it is Paladine’s will that you die before you can commit greater harm in this world, then so be it. I’ll accept that fate and so will Crysania. But if it is his will that you live, we’ll accept that, too—and so will you!”

  Raistlin, his strength nearly spent, kept hold of his bloody clasp around Caramon’s arm, clutching at him with fingers already seeming to stiffen in death.

  Firmly, his lips
pressed together, Caramon detached his brother’s hand. Rising to his feet, he left his brother’s bedside hearing, behind him, a ragged moan of agonized torment. Caramon hesitated, that moan going straight to his heart. Then he thought of Tika, he thought of home.…

  Caramon kept walking. Stepping outside into the night, heading quickly for Crysania’s tent, the big warrior glanced to one side and saw the dwarf, standing nonchalantly in the shadows, whittling a piece of wood with a sharp knife.

  Reaching into his armor, Caramon withdrew the piece of parchment. He had no need to reread it. The words were few and simple.

  The wizard has betrayed you and the army. Send a messenger to Thorbardin to learn the truth.

  Caramon tossed the parchment upon the ground.

  What a cruel joke!

  What a cruel and twisted joke!

  Through the hideous torment of his pain, Raistlin could hear the laughter of the gods. To offer him salvation with one hand and snatch it away with the other! How they must revel in his defeat!

  Raistlin’s tortured body twisted in spasms and so did his soul, writhing in impotent rage, burning with the knowledge that he had failed.

  Weak and puny human! he heard the voices of the gods shout. Thus do we remind you of your mortality!

  He would not face Paladine’s triumph. To see the god sneering at him, glorying in his downfall—no! Better to die swiftly, let his soul seek what dark refuge it could find. But that bastard brother of his, that other half of him, the half he envied and despised, the half he should have been—by rights. To deny him this … this last blessed solace.…

  Pain convulsed his body. “Caramon!” Raistlin cried alone into the darkness. “Caramon, I need you! Caramon, don’t leave me!” He sobbed, clutching his stomach, curling up in a tight ball. “Don’t leave me … to face this … alone!”

  And then his mind lost the thread of its consciousness. Visions came to the mage as his life spilled out from between his fingers. Dark dragon wings, a broken dragon orb … Tasslehoff … a gnome …

  My salvation …

  My death …

  Bright, white light, pure and cold and sharp as a sword, pierced the mage’s mind. Cringing, he tried to escape, tried to submerge himself in warm and soothing darkness. He could hear himself begging with Caramon to kill him and end the pain, end the bright and stabbing light.

  Raistlin heard himself say those words, but he had no knowledge of himself speaking. He knew he spoke only because, in the reflection of the bright, pure light, he saw his brother turn away from him.

  The light shone more brightly and it became a face of light, a beautiful, calm, pure face with dark, cool, gray eyes. Cold hands touched his burning skin.

  “Let me heal you.”

  The light hurt, worse than the pain of steel. Screaming, twisting, Raistlin tried to escape, but the hands held him firmly.

  “Let me heal you.”

  “Get … away! …”

  “Let me heal you!”

  Weariness, a vast weariness, came over Raistlin. He was tired of fighting—fighting the pain, fighting the ridicule, fighting the torment he’d lived with all his life.

  Very well. Let the god laugh. He’s earned it, after all, Raistlin thought bitterly. Let him refuse to heal me. And then I’ll rest in the darkness.… the soothing darkness.…

  Shutting his eyes, shutting them tightly against the light, Raistlin waited for the laughter—

  —and saw, suddenly, the face of the god.

  Caramon stood outside in the shadows of his brother’s tent, his aching head in his hands. Raistlin’s tortured pleas for death cut through him. Finally, he could stand it no longer. The cleric had obviously failed. Grasping the hilt of his sword, Caramon entered the tent and walked toward the bed.

  At that moment, Raistlin’s cries ceased.

  Lady Crysania slumped forward over his body, her head falling onto the mage’s chest.

  He’s dead! Caramon thought. Raistlin’s dead.

  Staring at his brother’s face, he did not feel grief. Instead, he felt a kind of horror stealing over him at the sight, thinking, What a grotesque mask for death to wear!

  Raistlin’s face was rigid as a corpse’s, his mouth gaped open, no sound came from it. The skin was livid. The sightless eyes, fixed in the sunken cheeks, stared straight before him.

  Taking a step nearer, so numb he was unable to feel grief or sorrow or relief, Caramon looked closer at that strange expression on the dead man’s face and then realized, with a riveting shock, that Raistlin was not dead! The wide, fixed eyes stared at this world sightlessly, but that was only because they were seeing another.

  A whimpering cry shook the mage’s body, more dreadful to hear than his screams of agony. His head moved slightly, his lips parted, his throat worked but made no sound.

  And then Raistlin’s eyes closed. His head lolled to one side, the writhing muscles relaxed. The look of pain faded, leaving his face drawn, pallid. He drew a deep breath, let it out with a sigh, drew another.…

  Jolted by what he had seen, uncertain whether he should feel thankful or only more deeply grieved to know his brother lived, Caramon watched life return to his twin’s torn and bleeding body.

  Slowly shaking off the paralyzed feeling that comes sometimes to one awakened suddenly from a deep sleep, Caramon knelt beside Crysania and, grasping her gently, helped her stand. She stared at him, blinking, without recognition. Then her gaze shifted immediately to Raistlin. A smile crossed her face. Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer of thankfulness. Then, pressing her hand to her side, she sagged against Caramon. There was fresh blood visible on her white robes.

  “You should heal yourself,” Caramon said, helping her from the tent, his strong arm supporting her faltering footsteps.

  She looked up at him and, though weak, her face was beautiful in its calm triumph.

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” she answered softly. “This night, a greater victory is mine. Don’t you see? This is the answer to my prayers.”

  Looking at her peaceful, serene beauty, Caramon felt tears come to his eyes.

  “So this is your answer?” he asked gruffly, glancing out over the camp. The fires had burned down to heaps of ash and coal. Out of the corner of his eye, Caramon saw someone go running off, and he knew that the news would be quickly spread that the wizard and the witch, between them, had somehow managed to restore the dead to life.

  Caramon felt bile rise in his mouth. He could picture the talk, the excitement, the questions, the speculations, the dark looks and shaking heads, and his soul shrank from it. He wanted only to go to bed and sleep and forget everything.

  But Crysania was talking. “This is your answer, too, Caramon,” she said fervently. “This is the sign from the gods we have both sought.” Stopping, she turned to face him, looking up at him earnestly. “Are you still as blind as you were in the Tower? Don’t you yet believe? We placed the matter in Paladine’s hands and the god has spoken. Raistlin was meant to live. He was meant to do this great deed. Together, he and I and you, if you will join us, will fight and overcome evil as I have fought and overcome death this night!”

  Caramon stared at her. Then his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. I don’t want to fight evil, he thought wearily. I just want to go home. Is that too much to ask?

  Lifting his hand, he began to rub his throbbing temple. And then he stopped, seeing in the slowly brightening light of dawn the marks of his brother’s bloody fingers still upon his arm. “I’m posting a guard inside your tent,” he said harshly. “Get some sleep.…”

  He turned away.

  “Caramon,” Crysania called.

  “What?” He stopped with a sigh.

  “You will feel better in the morning. I will pray for you tonight. Good night, my friend. Remember to thank Paladine for his grace in granting your brother his life.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Caramon mumbled. Feeling uncomfortable, his headache growing worse, and knowing that he was soon going to be violentl
y sick, he left Crysania and stumbled back to his tent.

  Here, by himself, in the darkness, he was sick, retching in a corner until he no longer had anything left to bring up. Then, falling down upon his bed, he gave himself up at last to pain and to exhaustion.

  But as the darkness closed mercifully over him, he remembered Crysania’s words—“thank Paladine for your brother’s life.”

  The memory of Raistlin’s stricken face floated before Caramon, and the prayer stuck in his throat.

  CHAPTER

  10

  apping lightly on the guest stone that stood outside Duncan’s dwelling, Kharas waited nervously for the answer. It came soon. The door opened, and there stood his king.

  “Enter and welcome, Kharas,” Duncan said, reaching out and pulling the dwarf.

  Flushing in embarrassment, Kharas stepped inside his king’s dwelling place. Smiling at him kindly, to put him at ease, Duncan led the way through his house to his private study.

  Built far underground, in the heart of the mountain kingdom, Duncan’s home was a complex maze of rooms and tunnels filled with the heavy, dark, solid wood furniture that dwarves admire. Though larger and roomier than most homes in Thorbardin, in all other respects Duncan’s dwelling was almost exactly like the dwelling of every other dwarf. It would have been considered the height of bad taste had it been otherwise. Just because Duncan was king didn’t give him the right to put on airs. So, though he kept a staff of servants, he answered his own door and served his guests with his own hands. A widower, he lived in the house with his two sons, who were still unmarried, both being young (only eighty or so).

  The study Kharas entered was obviously Duncan’s favorite room. Battle-axes and shields decorated the walls, along with a fine assortment of captured hobgoblin swords with their curved blades, a minotaur trident won by some distant ancestor, and, of course, hammers and chisels and stone-working tools.

  Duncan made his guest comfortable with true dwarvish hospitality, offering him the best chair, pouring out the ale, and stirring up the fire. Kharas had been here before, of course; many times, in fact. But now he felt uncomfortable and ill at ease, as though he had entered the house of a stranger. Perhaps it was because Duncan, though he treated his friend with his usual courtesy, occasionally regarded the beardless dwarf with an odd, penetrating gaze.