Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “What I didn’t realize,” he admitted, his pride deflating a bit, “was that lifting the cover itself would not activate the spell. Pages had to be turned as well, probably a certain number of pages. Of course, now that I think about it, that would be only logical.”

  Raistlin gazed out at the blackened grass, at the bits of ash, all that was left of the book, floating in the air. “A very elegant weapon,” he said. “Simple, subtle. Ingenious.”

  “Humpf!” Horkin growled. Recovering from his shock, he walked out with the baron and Raistlin to inspect the damage. “What’s so blamed ingenious about it?”

  “The very fact that you carried the book away, sir. The Black Robe could have arranged for the spell to go off the moment you picked it up, but he didn’t. He wanted you to take the book back to camp, take it among your own troops. Then, when you opened it …”

  “By Luni, Red! If what you say is true”—Horkin passed a trembling hand over a brow now daubed in cold sweat—“we’ve all had a narrow escape!”

  “It would have killed a lot of men,” the baron agreed, peering into the deep hole. He clapped his arm affectionately around Horkin. “Not to mention my best mage.”

  “One of your best mages, my lord,” said Horkin, giving Raistlin a nod and an expansive grin. “One of them.”

  “True,” said the baron, and he reached out to shake Raistlin by the hand. “You’ve more than earned a place among us, Majere. Or perhaps”—he looked at Horkin and winked—“I should say ‘Sir Majere.’ ”

  The baron straightened, turned to see his horse disappearing down the road. “Poor old Jet. Books exploding under his nose. He’ll be halfway to Sancrist by now. I best go see if I can find him and calm him down. A pleasant evening to you, gentleman.”

  “And to you, my lord,” said Horkin and Raistlin, both bowing.

  “Red, I’ve got to hand it to you,” said Horkin, draping his arm companionably around Raistlin’s shoulders. “You saved old Horkin’s bacon. I’m grateful. I want you to know that.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Raistlin, adding modestly, “I have a name, you know, sir.”

  “Sure you do, Red,” said Horkin, giving him a slap on the shoulder that nearly bowled him over. “Sure you do.”

  Whistling a merry tune, Horkin lumbered off after the baron.

  18

  WAKE UP, LITTLE BOYS!” CAME A LILTING, MOCKING FALSETTO VOICE. “Up, little boys, and greet the new day!” The voice altered to a gravelly shout, “I’m your mamma now, lads, and mamma says it’s time to wake up!”

  Well aware that a swift kick to his behind was the sergeant’s gentle means of prodding his recruits to action, Caramon rolled out of his bedding, scattering straw left and right, and jumped to a standing position. Around him, men scrambled to obey. The barracks was still dark, but birds were up already—the fools—which meant that dawn was not far off.

  Caramon was used to waking early. Many and many were the days of his youth when he’d rolled out of bed before even the birds were awake to trudge to the farm fields, timing his arrival just as dawn was breaking in order to lose none of the precious daylight. But Caramon never left his bedroll, never left his mound of straw, without deep regret.

  Caramon loved sleep. He savored it. He craved it. Caramon had come to the conclusion long ago that a person spent more time sleeping than doing anything else in this life and therefore, Caramon decided, he should be good at it. He practiced at it all he could.

  Not so his twin. Raistlin actually seemed to resent sleep. Sleep was some wicked thief, sneaking up on him before he was ready, stealing the hours of his life from him. Raistlin was always up early in the morning, even on holidays, a phenomenon Caramon couldn’t understand. And many were the nights Caramon had found his twin slumped over his books, too tired to remain awake, yet refusing to deliver up his precious time to the stealthy robber, forcing sleep to wrestle him into submission.

  Rubbing his eyes, trying to goad his mind, still relishing a pleasant dream, into wakefulness, Caramon thought sadly that for a man who enjoyed sleeping, he’d picked the wrong career. When he was a general himself someday, he’d sleep until noon, and anyone who would dare wake him would get a poke in the ribs … a poke in the ribs …

  “Caramon!” Scrounger was poking him in the ribs.

  “Huh?” Caramon blinked.

  “You were sleeping standing up,” Scrounger said, regarding his friend with admiration. “Like a horse. Sleeping standing up!”

  “Was I?” Caramon asked with pride. “I didn’t know a person could do that. I’ll have to tell Raist.”

  “Helmets, shields, and weapons!” the sergeant bawled. “Outside in ten minutes.”

  Scrounger yawned a huge yawn.

  It didn’t seem possible a fellow that skinny could open his mouth that wide. “You’re going to split your head in half if you do that too much,” Caramon said worriedly.

  “Majere,” said the sergeant in a nasty tone, “are you going to favor us with your presence today? Or do you plan to spend the day filling in the latrines!”

  Caramon dressed quickly, then donned his helmet, strapped on his sword belt, and hefted his shield.

  The recruits dashed outside just as the first rays of light straggled past some low-lying clouds on the horizon. They lined up on the road in front of the barracks, forming three ranks. They’d done the same every morning since they had arrived, and by now they were good at it.

  Master Quesnelle strode out to take his place in front of the assembled soldiers. Caramon waited expectantly for the order to march. The order did not come.

  “Today, men, we are dividing you into companies,” the master-at-arms announced. “Most of you will remain with me, but some of you have been chosen to join Company C, the skirmishers, under the leadership of Master Senej. When I call out your name, take two steps forward. Ander Cobbler. Rav Hammersmith. Darley Wildwood.” The list continued. Caramon stood in semiwakefulness, letting the sun warm muscles stiff from sleeping on the stone floor. He wasn’t expecting to be called. Company C was where they sent the very best men. Caramon started to drift off.

  “Caramon Majere.”

  Caramon woke with a start. His feet took two practiced and precisè steps forward, acting in advance of his sleep-fuddled brain. He glanced sidelong at Scrounger, smiled, and waited for them to call his friend’s name.

  Master Quesnelle rolled up the list with a snap. “Those men whose names I have just called, fall out and report to Sergeant Nemiss over there.” The master pointed to a lone soldier standing in the middle of the road.

  The other recruits wheeled expertly and marched off. Caramon remained where he was. He looked unhappily back at Scrounger, whose name had not been called.

  “Go on!” Scrounger urged him, not daring to speak aloud but mouthing the words. “What are you doing, you big idiot? Go!”

  “Majere!” Master Quesnelle’s voice grated. “Have you gone deaf? I gave you an order! Move that big ass of yours, Majere!”

  “Yes, sir!” Caramon shouted. He wheeled, stepped out, and with his left hand grabbed hold of Scrounger by the collar of his shirt. Lifting the young man off his feet, Caramon brought Scrounger along with him.

  “Caramon, what—Caramon, stop it! Caramon, lemme go!” Scrounger twisted and pulled, trying desperately to break Caramon’s hold, but he could not free himself of the big man’s firm grasp.

  Master Quesnelle was just about to come down on Caramon with the cold force and fury of an avalanche, when he caught sight of the Mad Baron, standing in the background, watching with interest. The Mad Baron made a small sign with his hand. Master Quesnelle, turning red in the face, snapped his mouth shut.

  Caramon marched double-quick time. “You forgot to call his name out, sir,” he said in meek, apologetic tones as he hastened past the irate master-at-arms.

  “Yes, I guess I did,” Quesnelle said, grumbling.

  The rest of the company carried on with the normal routine: morning run, bre
akfast, basic maneuver practice. The twelve recruits whose names had been called stood rigidly at attention in front of their new officer.

  Sergeant Nemiss was a medium-sized woman with the dusky black complexion of those who came from Northern Ergoth. She had luminous brown eyes and a sweet, pretty face, which, as the new recruits were about to discover, had nothing whatsoever to do with her true personality. Sergeant Nemiss was, in fact, a mean drunk with a fiery temper, continually getting into brawls—one reason she was a sergeant and would remain a sergeant for the rest of her days.

  Sergeant Nemiss stood and stared at the twelve—thirteen, counting Scrounger—for a good long time. Her gaze fixed on poor Scrounger, who withered beneath it. The sergeant’s expression didn’t alter, except perhaps to grow rather sorrowful. “You,” she said, pointing, “stand over there.”

  Scrounger gave Caramon a look and a smile, which said, “Well, we tried.” He marched out to stand by himself at the side of the road.

  Sergeant Nemiss shook her head and turned back to face the rest.

  “You men have been chosen to join my company. Master Senej commands the company. I am his second-in-command. It is my job to train any new recruits in Master Senej’s company. Do I make myself clear?”

  The twelve yelled out, “Yes, sir!” in unison. Scrounger started to say, “Yes, sir,” from force of habit but dried up when the sergeant glared at him.

  “Good. You men have been chosen not because you’re better than the rest but because you’re not as bad as the rest.” Sergeant Nemiss scowled. “Don’t get it into your fat heads that this means you’re good. You’re not good until I tell you you’re good, and just standing here looking at you reprobates, I can tell right away that you’re not even good enough to lick the boots of good soldiers.”

  The recruits stood sweating in the sun, not saying a word.

  “Majere, fall out. The rest of you, go back to the barracks, gather up your things, and meet me here in five minutes. You’re all moving to Master Senej’s company barracks. Questions? Good, now move! Move! Move! Majere, over here.”

  The sergeant motioned Caramon to come stand beside Scrounger, who smiled hesitantly, ingratiatingly, and hopefully at the officer.

  Sergeant Nemiss was not impressed. She eyed them both, particularly Scrounger, taking in his slender build, his quick, long-fingered hands, his unfortunately slightly pointed ears. Sergeant Nemiss’s frown deepened.

  “Just what the hell am I supposed to do with you—what’s your name?”

  “Scrounger, sir,” said Scrounger in respectful tones.

  “Scrounger? That’s not a name!” The sergeant glowered.

  “It’s my name, sir,” said Scrounger cheerfully.

  “And that’s what you can do with him, sir,” said Caramon. “Scrounger here’s an expert at scrounging.”

  “Stealing, you mean,” said the sergeant. “I’ll have no thieves in my outfit.”

  “No, sir,” said Scrounger, shaking his head emphatically, keeping his eyes straight ahead as he’d been taught. “I don’t steal.”

  The sergeant stared meaningfully at Scrounger’s ears. Scrounger shifted his glance sideways, focused on the sergeant for an instant. “I don’t ‘borrow’ things, either, sir.”

  “He’s a scrounger, sir,” said Caramon helpfully.

  “You’ll forgive me, Majere,” said the sergeant, looking exasperated, “if I don’t understand just what that term means or how the devil it’s going to be of any use to me!”

  “It’s really pretty simple, sir,” said Scrounger. “I find things for people that they want and they’re willing to trade other things in return. It’s a gift, sir,” he added modestly.

  “Is it?” The sergeant’s lip curled. She paused, considering. “All right. I’ll give you one chance. You bring me something I can use for the outfit—something of value, mind you—by this time tomorrow morning and I’ll let you remain with this company. If you fail, you’re out of here. Fair enough?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Scrounger, his face flushed with pleasure.

  “Since this was your idea, Majere, you’re detailed to go with him.” The sergeant held up a warning finger. “No thievery involved. If I found out you’ve stolen anything, soldier, I’ll string you up to that apple tree you see standing over there. We don’t tolerate thieves in this army. The baron’s worked hard to develop good relations with the townsfolk, and we intend to keep it that way. Majere, I’m holding you responsible. That means that if he steals, the same thing happens to you that will happen to him. If he so much as heists a peanut, you’ll both swing for it.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir,” said Caramon, though he gulped a little when the sergeant wasn’t looking.

  “May we leave now on our assignment, sir?” asked Scrounger eagerly.

  “Hell, no, you may not leave!” the sergeant snapped. “I have only two weeks to whip you clods into shape, and I’m going to need every second. The new recruits are going to be given leave tonight to go into town—”

  “We are, sir?” Caramon interrupted, overjoyed.

  “All but you two,” said the sergeant coolly. “You two can carry out your assignment tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Caramon sighed deeply. He’d been looking forward to going back to the Swelling Ham.

  “Now go get your things, and report back here on the double!”

  “I’m sorry you have to miss leave time, Caramon,” said Scrounger, shaking straw out of his blanket.

  “Bah! That’s all right.” Caramon shrugged off the thought of cold ale and warm, accommodating women. “Do you think you can pull this off?” he asked anxiously.

  “It’ll be tough,” Scrounger admitted. “Usually when I do a trade, I know what I’m trading for.” He gave the matter thoughtful, serious consideration. “But, yes, I think I can do it.”

  “I hope so,” Caramon said to himself. He gave the apple tree a nervous glance.

  Sergeant Nemiss led the men to a building located on the far side of the compound, halted them in front of the barracks.

  An officer mounted on a coal-black stallion came from around the corner of the barracks. He was a tall man with dark hair and a jaw that looked as if it had been sawed off square, planed, and sanded.

  He reined in his steed, looked over the men lined up in front of him. “My name is Master Senej. Sergeant Nemiss tells me you’re not as bad as all the other recruits. What I want to know is this—are you good enough to join Company C?”

  He roared out the name of the company, was answered by a deep-throated savage yell that came from inside the barracks. Soldiers dashed out, each man wearing a breastplate, helmet, tabard, carrying shield and sword. Caramon braced himself, thinking that the soldiers were about to attack. Instead, acting without any orders that Caramon had heard, the men of Company C came to a halt, forming into perfectly straight and orderly ranks. Their polished metal armor shone in the sunlight.

  In less than one minute, the entire company of ninety men was in battle formation. All stood at the ready, shields up.

  Senej turned back to the thirteen recruits. “As I said, I want to know if you’re good enough to join my company. My company is the best company in the regiment, and I intend to keep it that way. If you’re no good, you’re going back to the training company. If you’re good, you’ve got a home for as long as you live.”

  Caramon thought that he had never wanted anything so much in his life as to join this force of proud, confident soldiers. His chest swelled with pride to think he had been chosen to try for it, but his pride got lodged in his throat as he considered that he might not be good enough to make the cut.

  “Fall out, men. Sergeant Nemiss will show you where you bunk.”

  The recruits had been assigned to wooden cots with at least twice the distance between sleeping areas as in their old quarters. Each man had a barracks box at the foot of his bunk in which to store personal items. Caramon thought he’d never seen such luxury.

  After
breakfast, Sergeant Nemiss ordered the thirteen new recruits off to the side.

  “Now, you’re doing well so far. A word of advice. Don’t get friendly with the other lads just yet. They don’t like new boys until you’ve proven yourselves. Don’t take it personal. Once you’ve been through a campaign season with them, you’ll be getting invitations to weddings for the rest of your life.”

  One of the men raised his hand.

  “Yes, Manto, what is it?” the sergeant asked.

  “I was wondering, sir, what does Master Senej’s company do that makes it so special?”

  “Oddly enough,” said the sergeant, “that question isn’t as stupid as it sounds. Our company is special because we’re given all the special duties. We’re the flank company. When the baron asks for skirmishers to advance out in front of the line, we’re the ones. When there’s an enemy to find, and he’s playing slippery with us, we’re the soldiers who go and find him. We fight in the line when we’re ordered, but we do all the other dirty jobs that come up, too.

  “Today, you’re going to be issued a new weapon to go along with your sword. Now don’t get all excited. It’s just a spear. Nothing glamorous.” The sergeant reached out, hefted a spear that had been leaning against a wall, and held it out in front of her. “Where you go the spear goes until your training’s done.”

  Caramon held up his hand. “Uh, Sergeant. When’s our training done?”

  “You’re done when I say you’re done, Majere,” said the sergeant. “You’ll be done or washed out before we begin to march, and that’s only a couple of weeks away. You’ve got lots to do and lots to learn in the meantime. Stick close to me and do as I tell you, and you’ll come through just fine.”

  Nemiss took the thirteen out to the practice field, all carrying their new spears, all of the spears double-weight, just like their other practice equipment. Caramon hefted the spear with ease, but Scrounger could barely lift his. The butt end of Scrounger’s spear dragged the ground, forming a long furrow behind him all the way to the training ground. Sergeant Nemiss just looked at him and rolled her eyes.