"Something will turn up," said Raistlin calmly. Raising his frail hand, he made a weak gesture and the barmaid hurried to his side.
The soft glow of twilight darkened to night. The inn became even more crowded, hot, and noisy. The knight's wife slept through the turmoil, her exhaustion so apparent that many looked upon her with pitying eyes and muttered that she deserved a better fate. The boy fell asleep, too, curled up on the floor at his mother's feet. He never stirred when Caramon lifted him in his strong arms and tucked him near his mother. Earwig returned and sat down next to Caramon. Flushed and happy, he emptied out his bulging pouches onto the table and began to sort their contents, keeping up a nonstop, one-sided conversation at the same time.
After two hours, Sir Gawain returned. Each man in the inn who saw him enter nudged a neighbor into silence so that all were quiet and watching him attentively as he stepped into the common room.
"Where's my son?" he demanded, staring around darkly.
"Right here, safe and warm and sound asleep," answered the barmaid, pointing out the slumbering child. "We haven't made off with him, if that's what you're thinking."
The knight had grace enough to look ashamed. "I'm sorry," Gawain said gruffly. "I thank you for your kindness."
"Knight or barmaid, death takes us all alike. At least we can help one another through life. I'll wake your lady."
"No," said Gawain and put out his hand to stop her. "Let her sleep. I want to ask you" — he turned to the proprietor — "if she and my son can stay the night. I will have money to pay you in the morning," he added stiffly.
"You will?" The proprietor stared at him suspiciously. "His Lordship hired you?"
"No," answered the knight. "It seems he has all the fighters he needs to handle the goblins."
An audible sigh whispered through the room. "Told you so," said Caramon to his brother.
"Shut up, you fool!" Raistlin returned sharply. "I'm interested to know where he's planning to find money this night."
"His Lordship says that there is a woodland not far from here, and in that woodland is a fortress that is of no use to him or to anyone because there is a curse laid upon it. Only — "
"A cursed fortress? Where? What kind of curse?" demanded an excited Earwig, scrambling up onto the table to get a better view.
"The Maiden's Curse," called out several in answer. "The fortress is called Death's Keep. No one who has entered it has ever returned."
"Death's Keep!" breathed the kender, misty-eyed with rapture. "What a wonderful-sounding place!"
"A true Knight of Solamnia may enter and return. According to His Lordship, it takes a true knight to lift the curse. I plan to go there and, with the help of Paladine, perform this deed."
"I'll come wi — " Earwig was offering magnanimously, when Caramon yanked the kender's feet out from underneath him, sending the green-clad figure sprawling face-first on the floor.
"His Lordship has promised to reward me well," concluded Gawain, ignoring the crash and the kender's protest.
"Uh, huh," sneered the proprietor, "And who's going to pay your family's bill if you don't return, Sir True Knight? You're not the first of your kind to go up there, and I've never seen a one come back!"
Nods and low voices in the crowd affirmed this.
"His Lordship has promised to provide for them if I fall," answered Gawain in a calm and steady voice.
"His Lordship? Oh, that's quite all right then," said the proprietor, happy once more. "And my best wishes to you, Sir Knight. I'll personally escort the lady and your boy — a fine child, if I may say so — to their room."
"Wait just a minute," said the barmaid, ducking beneath the proprietor's elbow and coming to stand in front of the knight. "Where's the mage who'll be going with you to Death's Keep?"
"No mage accompanies me," answered Gawain, frowning. "Now, if there is nothing further you want of me, I must leave." He looked down at his sleeping wife and, with a gentle hand, started to reach out to touch her hair. Fearing it would waken her, however, he drew back. "Good-bye, Aileen. I hope you can understand." Turning swiftly, he started to leave, but the proprietor grabbed his elbow.
"No mage! But didn't His Lordship tell you? It takes a knight AND a mage to lift the Maiden's Curse! For it was because of a knight and a mage that the curse was placed on the keep."
"And a kender!" Earwig shouted, scrambling to his feet. "I'm positive I heard that it takes a knight and a mage and a kender!
"His Lordship mentioned some legend about a knight and a mage," said Gawain scornfully. "But a true knight with faith in his god needs the help of no other being on Krynn."
Freeing himself of the proprietor's plucking hand, the knight started toward the door.
"Are you truly so eager to throw away your life, Sir Knight?" The sibilant whisper cut through the hubbub in the inn, bringing with it a deathlike silence. "Do you truly believe that your wife and son will be better off when you are dead?"
The knight stopped. His shoulders stiffened, his body trembled. He did not turn, but glanced back at the mage over his shoulder. "His Lordship promised. They will have food and a roof over their heads. I can buy them that, at least."
"And so, with a cry of 'My Honor is My Life' you rush off to certain defeat when, by bending that proud neck and allowing me to accompany you, you have a chance to achieve victory. How typical of you all," said Raistlin with an unpleasant smile. "No wonder your Order has fallen into ruin."
Gawain's face flushed in anger at this insult. His hand went to his sword. Caramon, growling, reached for his own sword.
"Put away your weapons," snapped Raistlin. "You are a young man, Sir Knight. Fortune has not been kind to you. It is obvious that you value your life, but, being desperate, you know no other way to escape your misfortune with honor." His lip twisted as he said the last word. "I have offered to help. Will you kill me for that?"
Gawain's hand tightened around the sword's hilt.
"Is it true that a knight and a mage are needed to lift the curse?" he asked of those in the inn. ("And a kender!" piped up a shrill voice indignantly.)
"Oh, yes. Truly," averred everyone around him.
"Have there been any who have tried it?"
At this the men in the inn glanced at each other and then looked at the ceiling or the floor or the walls or stared into their mugs.
"A few," said someone.
"How few?" asked Caramon, seeing that his brother was in earnest about accompanying the knight.
"Twenty, thirty maybe."
"Twenty or thirty! And none of them ever came back? Did you hear that, Raist? Twenty or thirty and none of them ever came back!" Caramon said emphatically.
"I heard." Using his staff to support him, Raistlin rose from the booth.
"So did I!" said Earwig, dancing with excitement.
"And we're still going, aren't we," Caramon said gloomily, buckling his sword belt around his waist. "Some of us, that is. Not you, Nosepicker."
"Nosepicker!" Hearing this foul corruption of a name long honored among kender, Earwig was momentarily paralyzed with shock and forgot to dodge Caramon's large hand. Catching hold of the kender by the long ponytail, the big warrior skillfully tied him by the hair to one of the inn's support posts. "The name's Lockpicker!" he shrieked indignantly.
"Why is it you're doing this, mage?" asked Gawain suspiciously as Raistlin walked slowly across the room.
"Yeah, Raist, why is it we're doing this?" Caramon shot out of the comer of his mouth.
"For the money, of course," said Raistlin coolly. "What other reason would there be?"
The crowd in the inn was on its feet, clamoring in excitement, calling out directions and advice and laying wagers on whether or not the adventurers would return. Earwig, tied fast, screamed and pleaded and begged and nearly yanked his hair out by the roots trying to free himself.
It was only the barmaid who saw Raistlin's frail hand very gently ruffle the sleeping child's hair in passing.
&nb
sp; Half the patrons of the inn accompanied them down an old, disused path to the fringes of a thick forest. Here, beneath ancient trees that seemed ill-disposed to have their rest disturbed, the crowd bid them good fortune.
"Do you need torches?" one of the men shouted.
"No," answered Raistlin. "SHIRAK," he said softly, and the crystal ball on top of his staff burst into bright, beaming light.
The crowd gasped in appreciative awe. The knight glanced at the glowing staff askance.
"I will take a torch. I will not walk in any light that has darkness as its source."
The crowd bid them farewell, then turned back to the inn to await the outcome. Odds were running high in favor of Death's Keep living up to its name. The wager seemed such a sure thing, in fact, that Raistlin had some difficulty in persuading Caramon not to bet against themselves.
Torch in hand, the knight started down the path. Raistlin and his brother walked some paces behind, for the young knight walked so swiftly, the frail mage could not keep up.
"So much," said Raistlin, leaning on his staff, "for the courtesy of the knights."
Gawain instantly halted and waited, stony-faced, for them to catch up.
"Not only courtesy but just plain good sense to keep together in a forest as dark and gloomy as this one," stated Caramon. "Did you hear something?"
The three listened, holding their breaths. Tree leaves rustled, a twig snapped. Knight and warrior put hand to weapon. Raistlin slid his hand inside his pouch, grasping a handful of sand and calling to mind words of a sleep spell.
"Here I am!" said a shrill voice cheerfully. A small, green and orange figure burst into the light. "Sorry I'm late," said Earwig. "My hair got caught in the booth." He exhibited half of what had once been a long tassel. "I had to cut myself loose!"
"With MY dagger!" said Caramon, snatching it away.
"Is that one yours? Isn't that odd? I could have sworn I had one just like it!"
Sir Gawain came to a halt, scowling. "It is bad enough I must travel in the company of a magic-user — "
"I know," said Earwig, nodding sympathetically. "We'll just have to make the best of it, won't we?"
"Ah, let the little fellow come along," said Caramon, feeling remorseful when he looked at what had once been the kender's jaunty top-knot. "He might come in handy if we're attacked."
Gawain hesitated, but it was obvious that the only way to get rid of the kender would be to slice him in two, and though the Oath and the Measure didn't specifically ban a knight from murdering kender, it didn't exactly encourage it, either.
"Attack!" he snorted. The knight resumed his pace, Earwig skipping along beside him. "We are in no danger until we reach the keep. At least so His Lordship told me."
"And what else did His Lordship tell you?" Raistlin asked, coughing.
Gawain glared at him dourly, obviously wondering of what use this sickly mage would be to him.
"He told me the tale of the Maiden's Curse. A long time ago, before the Cataclysm, a wizard of the red robes — such as yourself — stole away a young woman from her father's castle and carried her to this keep. A knight, the young woman's betrothed, discovered the abduction and followed after to rescue her. He caught up with the mage and his victim in the keep in this forest.
"The wizard, furious at having his evil plans thwarted, called upon the Queen of Darkness to destroy the knight. The knight, in his turn, called for Paladine to come to his aid. The forces unleashed in the ensuing battle were so powerful that they not only destroyed the wizard and the knight, but they have, even after death, continued to drag others into their conflict."
"And you wouldn't let me make that bet!" said Caramon reproachfully to his brother.
Raistlin did not appear to hear him. He was, seemingly, lost in thought.
"Well," said Gawain abruptly, "and what do you think of that tale?"
"I think that, like most legends, it has outgrown the truth," answered Raistlin. "A wizard of the red robes, for example, would not call upon the Queen of Darkness for aid. That is something only wizards of the black robes do."
"It seems to me," said Gawain grimly, "that your kind dabbles in darkness no matter what color robes they wear — the fox cloaking himself in sheep's wool, so the saying goes."
"Yeah," retorted Caramon angrily. "And I've heard a few sayings myself about YOUR kind, Sir Kettle-head. One goes — "
"That will do, my brother," remonstrated Raistlin, his thin fingers closing firmly over Caramon's arm. "Save your breath for what lies ahead."
The group continued on in a silence that was tense and smoldering.
"What happened to the maiden?" Earwig asked suddenly. All three started, having forgotten, in their preoccupation, the kender's presence.
"What?" growled Gawain.
"The maiden. What happened to her? After all, it's called the Maiden's Curse."
"Yes, it is," said Raistlin. "An interesting point."
"Is it?" Earwig jumped up and down gleefully, scattering the contents of his pouches across the path and nearly tripping Caramon. "I came up with an interesting point!"
"I don't see why it's called the Maiden's Curse, except that she was the innocent victim," answered the knight as an afterthought.
"Ah," said Earwig with a gusty sigh. "An innocent victim. I know what that feels like!"
The three continued on their way. The walking was easy, the path through the forest was smooth and straight. Too smooth and too straight, according to Caramon, who maintained that it seemed bound and determined to deliver them to their doom as swiftly as possible. Several hours after midnight, they arrived at the fortress known as Death's Keep.
Dark and empty, its stone facade glimmered grayish white in the lambent light of the stars and a pale, thin silver moon. Massive and stalwart, the keep had been designed for function, not beauty. It was square, with a tower at each comer for the lookouts. A wall connecting the towers surrounded a structure whose main purpose had probably been to house troops. Large wooden doors, banded with steel, permitted entrance and egress.
But no soldiers had come here in a long, long time. The battlements were crumbling and in some places had completely fallen down. The walls were split by gigantic cracks, perhaps caused by the Cataclysm, perhaps by the supposedly magical battle that had been fought within. One of the towers had collapsed in upon itself, as had the roof of the central building, for they could see the skeletal outline of broken beams show up black against the myriad glistening stars.
"The keep is deserted," said Caramon, staring at it in disgust. "There's no one here, magical or otherwise. I'm surprised those jokers back at the inn didn't send us out here with a bag and tell us to stand in the middle of the path yelling, 'here, snipe!'"
"That will be the task I set for you, my bumbling brother!" Raistlin began to cough, but stifled the sound in his sleeve. "Death's Keep is NOT deserted! I hear voices plainly — or I could if you would silence yours!"
"I, too, hear someone calling out," said Gawain, awed. "A knight of my order is trapped in there, and he shouts for help!" The knight, sword in hand, bolted forward. "I'm coming!" he shouted.
"Me, too!" cried Earwig, leaping in a circle around Raistlin. "I hear voices! I'm positive I hear voices! What are they saying to you? Do you want to know what they're saying to me? 'Another round of ale!' That's what I hear them calling out."
"Wait!" Raistlin reached to grasp the knight, but Gawain was running swiftly toward huge double wooden doors. Once this gate would have been closed, locked fast against any foe. Now it stood ominously open. "He's an imbecile! Go after him, Caramon! Don't let him do anything until I get there!"
"Another round of ale?" Caramon gazed blankly at his brother.
"You blithering dunderhead!" Raistlin hissed through clenched teeth. He pointed a trembling finger at the keep. "I hear a voice calling to ME, and I recognize it as coming from one of my own kind! It is the voice of a mage! I think I am beginning to understand what is going on. Go afte
r him, Caramon! Knock him down, sit on him if that is all you can do to hold him, but you must prevent Gawain from offering his sword to the knight!"
"Knight? What? Oh, all right, Raist! I'm going. No need to look at me like that. C'mon, Nosepicker."
Earwig's topknot bobbed indignantly. "That's Lock — . Oh, never mind! Hey, wait up!"
Caramon, followed by the jubilant kender, dashed off after the knight, but he was late in starting and Gawain had already rushed headlong into the keep. Reaching the wooden doors, Caramon hesitated before entering and cast an uneasy glance back at his brother.
Raistlin, leaning on his staff, was walking as fast as he could, coughing with nearly every step until it seemed he must drop. Still, he kept going, and he even managed to lift his staff and angrily gesture with it to Caramon, commanding him to enter the keep without delay.
Earwig had already darted inside. Discovering he was alone, he turned around and dashed back. "Aren't you coming? It's wonderfully dark and spooky in here. And you know what?" The kender sighed in ecstasy. "I really am beginning to hear voices. They want me to come and help them fight! Just think of that. Can I borrow your dagger?"
"No!" Caramon snarled. He, too, could hear the voices now. Ghostly voices.
"My cause is just! All know wizards are foul creatures, spawned of darkness. For the pride and honor of our Order of the Sword, join with me!"
"My cause is just! All know the knights hide behind their armor, using their might to bully and threaten those weaker than themselves. For the pride and honor of our Order of the Red Robes, join with me!"
Caramon was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that the keep wasn't as deserted as he'd first thought. Reluctantly, wishing his brother were at his side, he entered the keep. The big warrior wasn't afraid of anything in this world that was made of flesh and blood. These eerie voices had a cold, hollow sound that unnerved him. It was as if they were shouting to him from the bottom of a grave.
He and the kender stood in a long passage leading from the outer wall to the inner hall. The corridor was adorned with various defensive mechanisms for dealing with an invading enemy. He could see starlight through arrow slits lining the cracked stone walls. Bereft of his brother's lighted staff and the knight's torch, Caramon was forced to grope his way through the darkness, following the flickering flame shining ahead of him, and he nearly bashed his head on an iron portcullis that had been partially lowered from the ceiling.
The War of the Lance t2-3 Page 3