Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  Master Quesnelle was on him like a cat on a stinkbug. “You! What did you say?”

  The poor fellow realized his error. “Yes, s-s-sir,” he stammered.

  Master Quesnelle nodded. “That’s better. Just to impress that on your feeble mind, I want you to run around this field ten times, repeating to yourself, ‘Sir, sir, sir.’ Move!”

  The recruit stared, his mouth opened. The sergeant loomed up in front of him, glaring. The recruit dropped his sword and shield to the ground and prepared to run.

  The sergeant halted him, handed him his heavy sword and his very heavy shield. The recruit staggered off, began running around the perimeter of the training ground, yelling, “Sir, sir, sir” at intervals.

  The master lowered his sword, the wooden blade dug into the ground.

  “Did I make a mistake?” he asked, and he sounded almost plaintive. “I was under the impression you men were here because you wanted to be soldiers. Was I wrong?”

  Master Quesnelle’s eye ranged over the recruits, who shrank down behind their shields or tried to hide behind the men standing in front of them. The master frowned.

  “When I ask a question, I want a battle roar back from you. Is that understood?”

  Half the men caught on, responded with a growl. “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that understood?” the master bellowed.

  This time the response was loud, unified, and direct. A great shout burst from the group. “Yes, sir!”

  Master Quesnelle nodded briefly. “Well, it looks like we have some spirit here after all.” He raised his wooden sword. “Do you know what to do with this?” he asked.

  Several looked blank. A few, Caramon among them, remembered the drill and shouted back, “Yes, sir!”

  Master Quesnelle appeared exasperated. “Do you know what to do with this?” he yelled, shaking his sword in the air.

  The roar was near-deafening.

  “No, you don’t,” he said calmly. “But you will by the time we’re finished. Before you learn to use the weapon, you need to learn to use your body. Take your sword in your right hand. Place your right foot behind your left foot and put your weight on it. Bring your shield up like this.” He lifted his shield in a defensive posture, held it to protect the vulnerable side of his body. “When I yell ‘thrust,’ you give me that roar, and you step forward and give the enemy in front of you a good running-through. You freeze in that position. When I yell ‘recover,’ you return to the ranks. Thrust!”

  The master threw in the command on the heels of the word before it, tripping up all but the most attentive. Half the ranks thrust, and the others wavered, uncertain what to do. Scrounger was quick off the mark, and so was Caramon, whose blood was stirring and who was starting to enjoy himself. He stood in the second row on the end. His tabard hung on him like a dirty dishcloth, soaked through and chafing his arms. He gleefully thrust and yelled, and, after a moment, the rest of the ranks joined in.

  “Freeze!” Master Quesnelle yelled. “Nobody move.”

  The recruits were poised at an awkward angle, holding their swords horizontal to the ground as if they had just made an attack. The master waited, looking them over complacently. Soon arm muscles began to burn, then to quiver trying to hold the weight of the heavy sword. Still no one moved. Caramon was starting to feel a bit of discomfort. He glanced at Scrounger, saw his friend’s arm shaking, the sword wobbling. Sweat mingled with the rain. Scrounger clamped his teeth over his lower lip with the effort to hold the sword, whose tip was weaving and bobbing. Slowly the blade started to drop toward the ground. Scrounger watched in agony, helpless, his strength gone.

  “Recover!” Master Quesnelle yelled.

  Every man shouted in relief, the best battle yell any of them had made thus far.

  “Thrust!”

  Mercifully, the wait time before the recover was less.

  “Recover!”

  “Thrust!”

  “Recover!”

  Scrounger was gasping, but he held on to the sword grimly. Caramon was beginning to feel a bit worn. The man who had been running around yelling “sir” took his place back in line and began the exercise. After an hour, Quesnelle permitted the men to stand at the recover for a few moments, giving them time to catch their breath and ease their aching muscles.

  “Now, do any of you slugs know why we fight in ranks?” the master asked.

  Feeling that here was his chance to offer needed assistance to the master-at-arms, Caramon was the first to raise his sword in the air.

  “So that the enemy can’t break through and attack us from the side and rear, sir,” Caramon replied, proud of his knowledge.

  Master Quesnelle nodded, looked surprised. “Very good. Majere, isn’t it?”

  Caramon’s chest swelled. “Yes, sir!”

  Quesnelle extended his shield arm to one side, the arm holding his sword to the other. Keeping both arms fully extended—shield in one hand, sword in the other—he charged toward the front rank, who eyed him with trepidation, not knowing what to do, expecting him to halt when he reached them.

  The master continued charging straight into the men. His shield flattened one recruit, who had not moved out of the way fast enough, the master’s sword struck another full in the face. The master broke through the first rank and bore down on the second, who began ducking and dodging and trying to avoid being hit.

  Master Quesnelle battered his way straight toward Caramon.

  “You’re in for it now,” cried Scrounger, dropping down behind the huge shield.

  “What’d I do?” Caramon demanded in dismay.

  The master stood in front of Caramon, nose-to-nose, or rather, nose-to-breastbone. The master lowered his arms and glared up at Caramon, who had never been so frightened by anything in his life, not even a disembodied hand he had encountered at the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth.

  “Tell me, Majere,” the master shouted, “if these men are standing in ranks, how in the name of Kiri-Jolith did I just charge through them to get to you?”

  “You’re very good, sir?” was Caramon’s weak reply.

  Master Quesnelle held out his arms and turned. His shield whacked Caramon hard in the chest, knocked him backward. Quesnelle snorted and charged to the front, bashing and battering and scattering recruits as he went.

  He turned to face the now disorganized company.

  “I have just shown you why professional soldiers keep very tight ranks. Tighten ranks! Move! Move! Move!”

  The men shuffled closer together until they stood shoulder to shoulder, the distance between shields only six inches at the maximum.

  Master Quesnelle looked them over, grunted in satisfaction. “Thrust!” he shouted, and the exercise began again. “Recover! Thrust! Recover!”

  The recruits kept this up for a good half-hour, then the master called a halt. The men stood at recover, bodies rigid. The rain had ceased, but there was no sign of the sun, which was apparently in no mood to rise any time soon.

  Quesnelle extended his arms, sword and shield again, and hurled himself on the front rank. This time, the recruits were ready for him. The master’s chest hit the center man’s shield. He tried to go through, but the center man, exerting all his force, held the master-at-arms at a standstill. Quesnelle backed up a pace and tried to dodge between shields, but the men locked their shields in place.

  The master retreated. Seemingly satisfied, he tossed his sword and shield onto the ground. The recruits relaxed, thinking the practice was at an end. Suddenly, without warning, the master turned on his heel, lurched forward and launched himself bodily straight into the front rank.

  The front rank was startled but knew what to do. They brought their shields up to meet the master. He hit the front and fell back to stand before them. Quesnelle’s single eye glinted.

  “I think we may have some soldiers here after all.”

  Picking up his weapons, he took his place at the head of the company.

  “Thrust!”

  The m
en lunged forward in unison.

  “Recover!”

  The men fell back. Though tired, they were pleased with themselves, proud of the master’s praise. It occurred to Caramon at that moment—and not before—to wonder what had become of his twin.

  14

  FOR A BENT PENNY, RAISTLIN WOULD HAVE WALKED AWAY, LEFT THIS ARMY, left this town. He had spent his first night staring into the bleak darkness, toying with the temptation. The situation was intolerable. He had come here hoping to learn battle magic, and what did he find? A crude and bullying man who knew less about magic than Raistlin did, yet who was not the least impressed by Raistlin’s credentials.

  Raistlin had cleaned up the broken beaker and its sticky contents, which had a strong smell of maple syrup and which Raistlin more than half suspected of being intended for Horkin’s supper. After that, Horkin took him to view their quarters.

  Raistlin was more fortunate than his twin, in that he and Horkin spent the night in the castle, not in the barracks. Admittedly, they were quartered in a small dungeonlike room below ground level, but they were given cots, were not forced to sleep on the stone floor. The cot was not in the least comfortable, but Raistlin came to appreciate it as he heard the rats skittering and screeching in the night.

  “The Mad Baron likes mages,” Horkin had told his new subordinate. “We get better food than the soldiers, we’re treated better, too. ‘Course, we deserve it. Our work’s harder and more dangerous. I’m the only mage left in the baron’s company. He started out with six of us. Some of them real corkers, too. Tower mages, like yourself, Red. Ironic, ain’t it? Old Horkin, the stupidest of them all, the only one to survive.”

  Though exhausted, Raistlin could not sleep. Horkin snored so loudly that Raistlin half-expected the castle’s other inhabitants to come running to see if a quake were shaking the castle walls.

  By midnight, he had resolved to leave the next day. He would find Caramon and together they would depart, head back … where? Back to Solace? No, out of the question. To go back to Solace would be to go back in defeat. But there were other towns, other castles, other armies. His sister had spoken often of a great army forming in the north. Raistlin played with that idea for a while, eventually abandoned it. To go north was to run into Kitiara, and he had no desire to see her. They might try Solamnia. The Knights were reportedly looking for warriors and would probably be glad to take Caramon. But the Solamnics did not take kindly to magi of any sort.

  Raistlin tossed and turned on his cot, which was barely wide enough to accommodate his slender frame. Horkin overlapped his cot by about six inches all around. Lying there, listening to what sounded like rats chewing on the cot legs, Raistlin realized suddenly that he’d suffered only one severe coughing spasm all day. Generally, he could count on having five or more.

  He pondered this. “Can this hard life actually be beneficial to me?” he wondered. “The damp, the cold, the foul water, the putrid swill they term food … I should be half-dead by now. Yet, I have rarely felt more alive. My breath comes easier, the pain in my lungs is diminished. I have not drunk my tea all day.”

  He reached down to touch the Staff of Magius, which he kept lying beside the bed, always close to hand. He felt the slight tingle in the wood, the warmth of the magic spread through his body. “Perhaps it is because for the first time in many months, I am not dwelling on myself,” he admitted. “I have other things to think about than if I am going to be able to draw the next breath.”

  By the advent of dawn, Raistlin had decided to stay. At the very least, he might be able to learn some new spells from the little-used spellbooks he had seen standing on the shelves. He fell asleep to the sound of Horkin’s rumbling snore.

  That morning, Raistlin was ordered to perform yet more menial tasks—sweeping the laboratory, washing empty beakers in a tub of soapy water, carefully wiping the dust from the books on the shelves. He enjoyed the dusting, mainly because he had a chance to study the spellbooks, and he was impressed by some of what he found. His hopes had been revived. If Horkin was able to utilize these books, he might not be the amateur he appeared.

  Raistlin’s hopes were dashed almost the next moment, when Horkin appeared at his elbow.

  “Quite a few spellbooks here,” Horkin said carelessly. “I’ve read only one, couldn’t make much sense of it.”

  “Why do you keep them, then, sir?” Raistlin asked in frozen tones.

  Horkin shrugged and winked. “They’ll make good weapons if we’re ever besieged.” Lifting one of the larger, thicker books, he thumped it disrespectfully. “Put one of these tomes in a catapult and launch it, and it’ll do some damage, by Luni.”

  Raistlin stared, appalled.

  Horkin chuckled, gave Raistlin a painful nudge in the ribs with an elbow. “I’m joking, Red! I’d never do anything like that. These books are too valuable. I could probably get—oh, six or seven steel for the lot. They’re not mine, you know. Most were captured during the Alubrey expedition six years ago.

  “Now, you take this fancy black one.” Horkin removed a book from the shelf, stood looking at it fondly. “I took it from a Black Robe last campaign season. He was running fast—to the rear, mind you—but I guess he thought he needed to run a bit faster, ’cause he flung aside the book, which must have been weighing him down. I picked it up and brought it back.”

  “What spells does it contain?” Raistlin asked, his hands itching to snatch the book from his master’s hands.

  “Beats the heck out of me,” Horkin said cheerfully. “I can’t even read the runes on the cover. I never looked inside. Why waste my time with a bunch of gobbledygook? Must have some choice spells though. Maybe someday you can take a look at it.”

  Raistlin would have given up half the years of his life to be able to read that book. He could not make out the runes either, but with study he was certain he could come to understand them. Just as, with study, he could come to understand the spells inside the book, a book Horkin could never read. A book that was nothing more to him than the price of a mug of ale.

  “Perhaps if you let me take it back to my quarters—” Raistlin began.

  “Not now, Red.” Horkin tossed the book carelessly back on the shelf. “No time to waste puzzling out Black Robe spells that you, being a Red Robe, probably couldn’t use anyway. We’re running low on bat guano. Scout around the castle walls and pick up all you can find.”

  Raistlin had seen the bats leaving the castle’s towers last evening in pursuit of insects. He left in pursuit of the bats’ droppings, the runes on the spellbook burning in his mind.

  “You can never have too much bat guano,” Horkin remarked on his way out with a wink.

  Raistlin spent two hours picking up the poisonous bat guano and putting it into a bag. He was careful to wash his hands well, then reported back to the laboratory, where he found Horkin eating supper.

  “You’re just in time, Red,” Horkin mumbled, crumbs from the maize bread dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He mourned the loss of the syrup he usually poured over the hard, dry, yellow mass. “Eat up.” He gestured to a second plate. “You’re going to need your strength.”

  “I am not hungry, sir,” Raistlin said diffidently.

  Horkin did not stop chewing. “That’s an order, Red. I can’t have you passing out in the middle of a battle ’cause your belly’s empty.”

  Raistlin pecked at the maize bread, was surprised to find that it actually tasted good to him. He must be hungrier than he imagined. He ate two large hunks and ended by conceding that maple syrup poured over the bread would have made a treat. Their meal finished, he cleaned up the dishes, while Horkin puttered around in a corner of the laboratory.

  “Well,” Horkin said, when Raistlin had completed his task, “are you ready to begin your training?”

  Raistlin smiled scornfully. He could not imagine that Horkin had anything to teach him. Raistlin guessed that the session would probably end with Horkin begging Raistlin to teach him. As to Horkin’s
story of the six deceased Tower mages who had gone before him, Raistlin didn’t believe a word of it. It was simply not possible that an unschooled, itinerant magic-user could have survived where skilled, trained magi could not.

  “Let me get my equipment,” said Horkin.

  Raistlin expected the magic-user to bring along spell components, perhaps a scroll or two. Instead, Horkin picked up two wooden dowels, two inches in diameter and three feet long. Grabbing a bundle of rags from the table, he stuffed the rags in a pocket of his brown robes.

  “Follow me.” He led Raistlin out into the rain, which had started again, after a brief letup. “Oh, and leave your staff here. You won’t be needing it today. Don’t worry,” he added, seeing Raistlin hesitate. “It’ll be safe enough.”

  Raistlin had not let the staff out of sight—and barely out of touch—since the day he’d received it from Par-Salian’s hand. He started to protest, but then he thought how silly he would look, fussing over the staff like a mother afraid of leaving her newborn babe in the care of others. Raistlin leaned the staff against a wall on which hung some of the weapons, with the rather absurd notion (he blushed to think of it) that Magius’s staff would feel at home in such martial company.

  Pulling his cowl over his head, Raistlin slogged through the mud. A mile’s walk brought them to the training grounds, where a company of soldiers were practicing at the far end of the field. The soldiers all wore the same blue-and-gray tabard, but Raistlin recognized Caramon, who stood head and shoulders above the rest. The soldiers didn’t appear to be doing anything useful that Raistlin could see. Just yelling and jabbing with their swords and yelling some more.

  The rain soaked through his robes. Soon he was shivering with the cold and was beginning to regret his decision to stay.

  Horkin shook off the water like a dog. “All right, Red, let’s see what they taught you in the mighty Tower of Wayreth.”

  He slashed the air with the two dowel rods, holding one in each hand, whipping them through the rain. Raistlin could not imagine what Horkin intended to do with the rods, which were not part of any spell that Raistlin could bring to mind. He was beginning to think that Horkin was slightly mad.