Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “Big as an ox,” said one of the veterans. “Probably about as bright, too.”

  “I like ’em big,” said his comrade. “They stop more arrows that way. We’ll put him in the front ranks.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” said Caramon, pleased. “Oh, by the way,” he added modestly, “I don’t really need any training. I can just skip all that part.”

  “Oh, you can, can you?” said the sergeant.

  Raistlin groaned. Shut up, Caramon! his twin said mentally. Shut up and walk away!

  Caramon was charmed by the attention, however. “Yes, I know everything there is to know about fighting. Tanis taught me.”

  “Tanis taught you, did he?” said the sergeant, leaning forward. His friends covered their mouths with their hands, rocked back on their heels, enjoying the sport. “And who would this Tanis be?”

  “Tanis Half-Elven,” said Caramon.

  “An elf. An elf taught you to fight.”

  “Well, really, it was mostly his friend, Flint. He’s a dwarf.”

  “I see.” The sergeant stroked his grizzled chin. “An elf and a dwarf taught you to fight.”

  “Me and my friend Sturm. He’s a Solamnic Knight,” Caramon added proudly.

  Shut up, Caramon! Raistlin urged silently, desperately.

  “And then there was Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” Caramon went on, not heeding his twin’s mental command. “He’s a kender.”

  “A kender.” The sergeant was awed. “An elf, a dwarf, and a kender taught you to fight.” He turned to his fellows, who were red-faced with suppressed laughter. “Boys,” he said solemnly, “tell the general to resign. We have his replacement.”

  At this, one of the men groaned and stomped his foot, trying desperately to contain his mirth. The other lost his composure and had to turn his back. His shoulders shook, he wiped away the tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary, sir,” Caramon hastened to assure them. “I’m not that good yet.”

  “Oh, so the general can stay?” the sergeant asked. One corner of his mouth twitched.

  “He can stay,” said Caramon magnanimously.

  Raistlin closed his eyes, unable to watch anymore.

  “Thank you. We appreciate it,” said the sergeant with deep gratitude. “And now”—the sergeant looked at the list—“Caramon Majere—” He paused. “Or would that be Sir Caramon Majere?”

  “No, I’m not the Knight,” said Caramon, anxious that there should be no misunderstanding. “That was Sturm.”

  “I see. Well, take your place in line with the others, Majere,” said the sergeant.

  “But, I told you, you really don’t need to waste time training me,” Caramon said.

  The sergeant stood up, leaned forward and said softly, “I don’t want to make the others feel bad. They might get discouraged and quit. So just play along, will you, Sir Caramon?”

  “Sure. I can do that.” Caramon was accommodating.

  “Oh, and by the way, Majere,” said the sergeant, as Caramon was walking over to join his chagrined twin, “if the drillmaster—that would be Master Quesnelle—makes any mistakes, you be sure and tell him. He’ll appreciate the help.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that,” said Caramon. Smiling, he joined Raistlin. “Gee, that sergeant’s a nice guy.”

  “You are the world’s biggest idiot,” Raistlin said softly, furiously.

  “Huh? Me? What’d I do?” Caramon demanded, amazed.

  Raistlin refused to discuss it, however. He turned his back on his twin to watch as Scrounger approached the table.

  The sergeant eyed him. “Look, kid, why don’t you run along home. Come back in ten years when you’ve grown up.”

  “I’m grown up enough,” Scrounger said confidently. “Besides, Sergeant, you need me.”

  The sergeant rubbed his forehead. “Oh, yeah. Give me one good reason.”

  “I’ll give you several. I’m a scrounger and a good one. Whatever you need, I can get it. What’s more, I can climb any wall standing. I can fit into tunnels mice would refuse to enter. I’m quick and I’m fast and I’m good with a knife in the dark. I can walk through the woods so quiet that compared to me caterpillars make the ground shake. I can slip into a three-story window and take the golden locket from around milady’s throat and kiss her into the bargain, and she’ll never hear me or see me. That’s what I can do for you, Sergeant,” said Scrounger. “And more.”

  The veterans had quit laughing. They were regarding Scrounger with interest. So was the sergeant.

  “And you can talk the wings off a fly.” The sergeant gazed at the young man intently. “All right. Put your name down. If you live through training, you might be of some use to the baron after all.”

  Feeling a touch on his shoulder, Raistlin turned.

  “You the mage?” asked the soldier unnecessarily, since Raistlin was the only man in the compound wearing wizard’s robes. “Come with me.”

  Raistlin nodded and stepped out of line. Caramon stepped out after him.

  “You a mage, too?” the soldier asked, coming to a halt.

  “No, I’m a soldier. I’m his brother. Where he goes, I go.”

  “Not now, Caramon!” Raistlin said in a low voice.

  The soldier shook his head. “I have orders to bring the mage. Take your place back in line, Puke.”

  Caramon frowned. “We’re never separated.”

  “Caramon!” Raistlin turned to his twin. “You have shamed me enough this day. Do as you are told. Get back in line!”

  Caramon’s face went red, then white. “Sure, Raist,” he mumbled. “Sure. If that’s what you want. …”

  “That is what I want.”

  Caramon, hurt, returned to line, took his place beside Scrounger.

  Raistlin accompanied the soldier through the gate and into the baron’s castle.

  12

  THE SOLDIER LED RAISTLIN INTO THE COURTYARD, WHICH WAS bustling with activity. Soldiers stood about in groups laughing and talking, or squatted on the ground, playing at knucklebones, a game involving tossing the foot bones of a sheep up in the air and catching them in a prescribed fashion, or pitching coins against the side of a wall.

  Grooms led horses into or out of stalls, dogs were everywhere underfoot. A servant had hold of a yelping kender by the ear and was dragging him out of the main entryway. Some of the soldiers cast curious glances at Raistlin as he passed, others rudely stared. Coarse comments accompanied him through the castle gate and into the courtyard.

  “Where are we going, sir?” Raistlin asked.

  “The barracks,” said his guide, indicating a row of low stone buildings lined with windows.

  The soldier entered the main door to the barracks, led Raistlin down a cool, dark hallway off which were the rooms where the soldiers billeted. Raistlin was impressed with the neatness and cleanliness of the building. The stone floor was still wet from its morning scrub-down, fresh straw had been spread on the floors of the sleeping rooms, bedrolls were tightly wrapped and stowed in an orderly manner. Each man’s personal possessions were wrapped in his bedroll.

  At the end of the hall they came to a set of stone stairs spiraling downward. The soldier descended the stairs. Raistlin followed along behind. At the end of the stairs stood a wooden door. Halting, the soldier gave a thunderous knock. There came a crash from inside, as of glass breaking.

  “You whore’s son!” yelled an irritated voice. “You’ve made me drop my potion! What in the Abyss do you want?”

  The soldier grinned, winked at Raistlin. “I have the new mage, sir. You said I was to bring him here.”

  “Well, who the devil thought you’d be so blasted quick about it!” the voice grumbled.

  “I can take him away, sir,” said the soldier, speaking in respectful tones.

  “Yes, do that. No, don’t. He can clean up this mess, since he was the cause of it.”

  There came the sound of footsteps, a door bolt lifting with a clank. The door swung
open.

  “Meet Master Horkin,” said the soldier.

  Expecting a war wizard, Raistlin expected height, power, intelligence. He expected to be awe-inspired, or at least inspired. Lemuel’s father had been a war wizard. Lemuel had often described his father, and Raistlin had discovered a portrait of him hanging in the Tower of High Sorcery—a tall man, with black hair streaked with white, a hawk nose and hawk eyes, and the long-fingered, slender-boned hands of the artist. That was his dream of what a war wizard would look like.

  At the sight of the mage standing in the doorway, glaring at him, Raistlin’s dream cracked down the center, spilling its contents in a flood of disappointment.

  The mage was short, he came to about Raistlin’s shoulder, but what he lacked in height he made up for in girth. He was relatively young, in his late forties, but there was not a hair on his head, not a hair anywhere, not an eyebrow or an eyelash. He was thick-necked, thick-shouldered, with ham-fisted hands—small wonder he had dropped the delicate potion bottle. He was red-faced, choleric, with fierce blue eyes whose blueness was emphasized by the redness of his face.

  But it was not his odd looks that caused Raistlin to stiffen, caused his lip to curl. The mage—and to term him so was to pay him a compliment he likely did not deserve—wore brown robes. Brown robes—the mark of those who had never taken the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery, the mark of a mage who did not possess skill enough to pass or lacked the ambition to try to pass or was, perhaps, afraid. Whatever the reason, this mage had not committed himself to magic, had not given himself to it. Raistlin could have no respect for a man such as this.

  He was consequently startled and piqued to see his own disdain reflected right back at him. The brown-robed mage was regarding Raistlin with no very amiable air.

  “Oh, for Luni’s sake, they’ve sent me a blasted Tower mage,” Horkin growled.

  To his deep chagrin, Raistlin was seized with a coughing fit. Fortunately it was short-lived, but it did nothing to impress Horkin.

  “And a sickly one at that,” he said in disgust. “What the hell are you good for, Red?”

  Raistlin opened his mouth, proud to name his accomplishments.

  “I’ll bet you can cast a sleep spell,” Horkin said, answering his own question. “A fine lot of good that’ll do us. Give the enemy a nice little nap on the battlefield. They wake up refreshed and ready to slit our guts open. What the devil are you gawking at?” This to the soldier. “I assume you have work to do.”

  “Yes, sir, Master Horkin.” The soldier saluted, turned, and departed.

  Horkin grabbed hold of Raistlin’s arm, yanked him inside the laboratory with a jerk that nearly took him off his feet, and slammed the door shut behind him. Raistlin looked around disparagingly, his worst fears realized. The so-called laboratory was a dark and shadowy subterranean room made of stone. A few battered spellbooks stood forlornly on a shelf. Various weapons hung on the wall—bludgeons, maces, a battered-looking sword, and some other wicked-looking implements Raistlin did not recognize. A beat-up, stained cabinet contained bottles filled with spices and herbs.

  Horkin let go of the young mage, gazed at him speculatively, eyeing Raistlin as he might have eyed a carcass in the butcher’s stall. He obviously did not think much of what he saw.

  Raistlin stiffened beneath the insulting inspection.

  Horkin put his meaty hands on his hips or at least in that general vicinity. He was built like a wedge, his shoulders and chest the most massive part.

  “I am Horkin, Master Horkin to you, Red.”

  “My name is—” Raistlin began stiffly.

  Horkin held up a warning hand. “I don’t care about your name, Red. I don’t want to know your name. If you survive your first three or so battles, then maybe I’ll learn your name. Not before. I used to learn the names, but it was a goddamned waste of time. Soon as I’d get to know a puke, he’d up and die on me. These days I don’t bother. Clutters up my mind with useless information.”

  His blue eyes shifted away from Raistlin.

  “Now that is a damn fine staff,” Horkin said, regarding the staff with far more interest and respect than he had regarded the young mage. Horkin reached out a thick-fingered hand.

  Raistlin smiled to himself. The Staff of Magius knew its true and rightful owner, would not permit another to touch it. More than once, Raistlin had heard the crackle of the staff’s magic, heard subsequent yelps and shrieks (mostly from kender) and seen the malefactor who had attempted to either touch the staff or make off with it wring a burned hand. Raistlin made no move to stop Horkin from seizing the staff, did not warn him.

  Horkin took hold of the Staff of Magius, ran his hand up and down the wood, nodded approvingly at the feel. He held the crystal to his eye, examined it with one eye shut, peered through it. Holding the staff in two hands, he made a few passes with it, lunging out in a motion that stopped just short of cracking the amazed Raistlin in the ribs.

  Horkin handed the staff back. “Well balanced. A fine weapon.”

  “This is the Staff of Magius,” Raistlin said indignantly, holding the staff protectively.

  “Oh, the Staff of Magius, is it?” Horkin grinned. He had a leering grin, thrusting out his lower jaw, with the result that his lower canines jutted up over his top lip. He moved closer to Raistlin to whisper. “I’ll tell you what, Red. You can buy a dozen of those staves for two steel in any mageware shop in Palanthas.”

  Horkin shrugged. “Still, there is a mite of magic packed in that thing. I can feel it twizzle my hand. I don’t suppose you have any idea of what the staff can do, do you, Red?”

  Raistlin was too appalled to speak. Two steel in Palanthas! The magic—the powerful magic, the compensation given to Raistlin for his shattered body—dismissed as a “mite” that “twizzled”! True, Raistlin didn’t yet know all the magic of which the staff was capable, but still—

  “Thought not,” said Horkin.

  He turned his back, walked over to a stone table, and lowered his massive body onto a stool, which appeared incapable of supporting his weight. He placed a pudgy finger on the page of a leather-bound book that lay open on a stone table.

  “I suppose there’s no help for it. I’ll have to start over again.” Horkin motioned to a broken beaker that had spilled its contents over the stone floor. “Clean up the mess, Red. There’s a mop and a bucket in the corner.”

  Anger seethed in Raistlin, bubbled over. “I will not!” he cried, thumping the toe of the staff into the stone floor to emphasize his ire. “I will not clean up your mess. I will not subordinate myself to a man who is beneath me. I took the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery! I risked my life for the magic! I was not afraid—”

  “Afraid?” Horkin interrupted the torrent. He looked up from his perusal of the tome, grimly amused. “We’ll see who’s afraid, by Luni.”

  “When you are in my presence,” said Raistlin coldly, nothing daunted, “you will refer to the goddess Lunitari with the respect she is due—”

  Horkin could move rapidly for such a big man. One moment he was seated on the stool, the next he seemed to materialize right in front of Raistlin like some imp bursting up out of the Abyss.

  “Listen to me, Red,” Horkin said, jabbing his finger in Raistlin’s thin chest. “First, you do not give me orders. I give you orders, and I expect you to obey those orders. Second, you will refer to me as Master Horkin or sir or master or master sir. Third, I can refer to the goddess any damn way I feel like. If I call her Luni it’s because I have the right to call her Luni. Many’s the night we’ve sat drinking together beneath the stars, passing the bottle, she and I. I wear her symbol over my heart.”

  He moved the finger from Raistlin’s chest to his own, pointing at a badge with the symbol of Lunitari embroidered upon it, which he wore on his left breast, a badge Raistlin had not noticed. “And I wear her emblem around my neck.”

  Horkin drew forth a silver pendant from beneath his robes, held it up for Raistlin to see, shoving
it in his face so that Raistln was forced to draw back to avoid having it jammed up his nose.

  “Luni, the darling, gave me this with her own fair hands. I have seen her, I have talked to her.” Horkins moved an impossible step closer, until he was practically standing on Raistlin’s toes. The elder mage glared up at Raistlin, into him, through him.

  “I may not wear her symbol,” said Raistlin, standing his ground, refusing to fall back farther, “but I wear her color, which, as you have so astutely noted, is red. And she has spoken to me, as well.”

  Silence as charged as a thunderbolt crackled between them. Raistlin looked closely at the symbol of Lunitari. Made of solid silver, the symbol of the goddess was old, very old, and finely crafted, glimmered with latent power. He could almost believe that it had come from Lunitari.

  Horkin looked closely at Raistlin, and perhaps the elder mage was thinking almost the very same thoughts as the younger.

  “Lunitari herself has spoken to you?” Horkin asked, lifting the finger he’d been using to jab Raistlin, holding it in the air, pointing to the heavens. “This you swear?”

  “Yes,” said Raistlin calmly. “By the red moon, I swear.”

  Horkin grunted. He thrust his face another impossible inch nearer Raistlin. “Yes, what, soldier?”

  Raistlin hesitated. He did not like this man, who was crude and uneducated, who probably did not possess a tenth of the magical power Raistlin possessed, and who would, nonetheless, force Raistlin to treat him as his superior. This man had belittled Raistlin, had insulted him. For a kender copper, Raistlin would have turned and stalked out of the laboratory. But in that last question, Raistlin detected a change of tone, a subtle note—not a tone of respect but of acceptance. Acceptance into a brotherhood, a hard brotherhood, a deadly brotherhood. A brotherhood that, if it accepted him in turn, would embrace him and hold to him with fierce, undying loyalty. The brotherhood of Magius and Huma.

  “Yes … Master Horkin,” Raistlin said. “Sir.”

  “Good.” Horkin grunted again. “I might make something of you, after all. None of the others have ever even known who I was talking about when I mentioned Luni, dear Luni.”