Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  The rest of that day, they practiced with shield and spear. In the afternoon, they practiced throwing the spears. By day’s end, Caramon’s arm was so weak and trembly from the unaccustomed exertion that he doubted if he’d be able to lift a spoon to eat his dinner.

  Scrounger had gamely tried to throw the spear, but after hurling himself right along with it a couple of times—landing flat on his face the first time and nearly spearing Caramon the second—he’d been excused from duty. Sergeant Nemiss employed him in fetching and carrying buckets of water for the men. It was plain to see that she didn’t expect to have to deal with the young man in the future.

  The thought of leave, of being able to spend a few hours in town, cheered the recruits considerably. Of their own accord, they ran back to the barracks, carrying their spears with them, singing a lively, bawdy marching song Sergeant Nemiss taught them.

  The men gulped down their dinner and then left to scrub themselves raw, comb their hair, trim their beards, and put on their best clothes. Caramon started to follow their example—he was hoping to snatch a quick pint of ale before starting his scrounging—but he noted that Scrounger was lying down on his bunk, his hands beneath his head.

  “Aren’t we going into town with the rest of them?” Caramon asked.

  “Nope.” Scrounger shook his head.

  “But … how are you going to scrounge for anything?”

  “You’ll see,” Scrounger promised.

  Caramon heaved a sigh that came from his toes. He put down the comb he’d been dragging painfully through his curly hair and, sitting disconsolately on his bunk, watched the rest of the men set off joyfully for town. Nearly all the soldiers who were off duty had been given leave this night. Only those standing guard or who had other assignments stayed behind. Caramon saw his brother leave in the company of Master Horkin. He overheard the two of them talking about visiting a mageware shop, then Horkin telling Raistlin that he knew of a tavern that served the finest ale in all of Ansalon.

  Caramon had never felt so low-spirited in his life.

  “We can at least get a couple of hours sleep,” said Scrounger, once the barracks was silent. So very silent.

  Which only goes to prove, Caramon thought, closing his eyes and snuggling into the straw mattress on the bunk, that things were never as bad as they seemed.

  19

  CARAMON!”

  Someone, it seemed, was always waking him.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s time!”

  Caramon sat up. Forgetting he was now sleeping on a bunk and not a bed of straw, he rolled over as usual. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor with no very clear notion of how he’d arrived there. Scrounger bent over him anxiously, shining a dark lantern full into his eyes.

  “Are you hurt, Caramon?”

  “Naw! And shut the cover on that damn thing!” Caramon growled, half-blinded.

  “Sorry.” Scrounger slid shut the cover, and the light vanished.

  Caramon rubbed his bruised hip, his heart pounded. “ ’S all right,” he mumbled incomprehensibly. “What time’s it?”

  “Close to midnight. Hurry up! No, no armor. It makes too much noise. Besides, it’s intimidating. Here, I’ll shine the light.”

  Caramon dressed rapidly, eyeing his friend all the while.

  “You’ve been somewhere. Where’ve you been?” Caramon asked.

  “To town,” said Scrounger. He was in high spirits. His eyes sparkled, and he was grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear. His glee had the unfortunate tendency to emphasize his kender heritage. Caramon, looking at his friend, thought of the apple tree, and quaked.

  “We’re in luck tonight, Caramon. Absolute, positive luck,” Scrounger said. “But then, I’ve always been lucky. Kender generally are. Have you ever noticed that? Mother used to say it was because once upon a time the kender were the favorites of some old god named Whizbang or something like that. Of course, he’s not around anymore. According to her, this god got mad at some uppity priest and threw a rock at his head and had to leave town in a hurry before the guards came after him. But the luck he gave the kender rubbed off, and so they still have it.”

  “Really?” Caramon was owl-eyed. “Is that so? I’ll have to tell that to Raist. He collects stories about the old gods. I don’t think he ever heard of one called Whizbang. He’ll likely be interested.”

  “Here, let me help you with that boot. What was I saying? Oh, yes. Luck. There are two trading caravans in town! Think of that! One dwarven and one human. They’re here to sell supplies to the baron. I’ve just been to pay a visit to each of them.”

  “So you have a plan?” Caramon felt relief wash over him.

  “No, not exactly.” Scrounger hedged. “Trading is like bread dough. You have to give the yeast a chance to work.”

  “What does that mean?” Caramon asked, suspicious.

  “I know how to start it out, but the trade has to grow all on its own. C’mon.”

  “Where to?”

  “Hush, not so loud! Our first stop’s the stables.”

  So they were going to ride into town. Caramon thought that a good idea. His arm was stiff and sore from spear chucking, and now his rump hurt from the tumble he’d taken. The less exercise he had this night the better.

  The two crept out of the barracks. Solinari and Lunitari were both out, one full and one waning. Thin, high clouds draped across the moons like silken scarves, so that neither gave much light, smudging the stars.

  Guards walked the walls of the baron’s castle, stopping now and then to grouse good-naturedly about missing the fun in town. Their watch was outside the castle courtyard, not inside, and so they didn’t notice the two figures slipping from shadow to shadow, heading for the stables. Caramon wondered how Scrounger had managed to convince someone to give them horses, but every time he started to ask, Scrounger shushed him.

  “Wait here! Keep a lookout,” Scrounger ordered and, leaving Caramon at the stable door, the half-kender slipped inside.

  Caramon waited nervously. He could hear sounds from inside the stable, but he couldn’t place them. One of them was a loud thud, accompanied by the jingling of metal. Then the sound of something heavy scraping across a floor. Finally Scrounger emerged, panting but triumphant, hauling a leather saddle with him.

  Caramon eyed the saddle, conscious that something was missing. “Where’s the horse?”

  “Just take this, will you?” Scrounger said, dumping the heavy object at Caramon’s feet. “Whew! I didn’t think it would be that heavy. The saddle was up on a post. I had to haul it off, and it was a struggle. You can carry that, though, can’t you?”

  “Well, sure, I can,” said Caramon. He looked at it more intently. “You know, this looks like the saddle Master Senej uses on his horse.”

  “It is,” said Scrounger.

  Caramon grunted, pleased that he’d recognized it. He lifted the saddle without a great deal of effort. A thought occurred to him. “Carry it where?” he asked.

  “Into town. This way.” Scrounger started off.

  “No, sir!” Caramon flung the saddle down on the ground. “No, sir. Sergeant Nemiss said no stealing, and she said I was responsible, and while I really don’t think that the apple tree would bear my weight if they were to hang me from it, there’s probably an oak around that would.”

  “It’s not stealing, Caramon,” Scrounger argued. “It’s not borrowing either. It’s trading.”

  Caramon remained skeptical. He shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Look, Caramon, I guarantee that the company commander will sit on his horse on a saddle tomorrow, just like he sat on his horse on a saddle today. I guarantee it. You have my word. I don’t like the looks of that apple tree any more than you do.”

  “Well …” Caramon hesitated.

  “Caramon, I have to make this trade,” said Scrounger. “If I don’t, they’ll throw me out of the army. The only reason I’ve lasted this long is because the baron thinks I’m a no
velty. But that won’t last once we go campaigning. Then I’ll have to earn my keep. I have to prove to them that I can be a valuable member of the company, Caramon. I have to!”

  The glee had gone from Scrounger’s face. He was serious, in desperate earnest.

  “It’s against my better judgment”—Caramon heaved a sigh and picked up the saddle, grunting at the strain on his sore arm—“but all right. How do we get out of here?”

  “The front gate,” said Scrounger unconcernedly.

  “But the guards—”

  “Let me do the talking.”

  Caramon groaned but said nothing. Hoisting the saddle onto his head, he accompanied Scrounger to the gate.

  “Where do you two think you’re going?” asked the gate guard, looking considerably amazed at what appeared to be a giant sprouting a saddle for a head.

  “Master Senej sent us, sir,” said Scrounger, saluting. “This stirrup’s loose. He told us to take it into town first thing in the morning.”

  “But it’s night,” the guard protested.

  “After midnight, sir,” said Scrounger. “Morning now. We’re only obeying orders, sir.” He lowered his voice. “You know what a stickler Master Senej can be.”

  “Yes, and I know he thinks the world of that saddle,” said the guard. “Go along then.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Scrounger marched out the gate. Caramon plodded dolefully after him. The guard’s last statement—about the master thinking the world of this saddle—had caused his heart to get tangled up with his socks.

  “Scrounger,” he began.

  “Yeast, Caramon,” said Scrounger, shining the lantern on the road. “Just think of yeast.”

  Caramon tried to think of yeast, he truly did. But that only reminded him that he was hungry.

  “There are the caravans,” said Scrounger, sliding the cover over the dark lantern.

  Bonfires blazed in both camps. Tall humans passed back and forth in front of one fire; short, stout dwarves walked past the other.

  Caramon dropped the saddle, glad for a chance to rest. One camp was made up of a circle of large covered wagons with horses tethered off to one side. The other camp was a circle of smaller wagons, none of them covered, all with ponies standing beside them, tethered to their respective wagons.

  As the two watched, a tall man left the first camp and crossed over to the second.

  “Reynard!” he shouted, speaking Common. “I need to talk to you!”

  A dwarf stood up from the fire and clumped out to meet the human.

  “Are you ready to meet my price?”

  “Look, Reynard, you know I don’t have that much steel on me.”

  “So what’s the baron paying you in—wood?”

  “I have to buy supplies,” the man whined. “It’s a long way back to Southlund.”

  “And it’ll be longer riding bareback. Take my offer or leave it!” the dwarf said crossly. He started to walk off.

  “Are you sure we can’t come to some other arrangement?” the man asked, halting him. “You can make it for me! I don’t mind waiting.”

  “I do,” the dwarf returned. “I can’t spare ten days lollygagging around here losing money just to make you a saddle, and you not wanting to meet my price for the one I do have. No. Come back when you have something to offer.” The dwarf returned to his fire and his ale and his companions.

  Caramon looked down at the saddle. “You’re not thinking—”

  “It’s fermenting, my friend,” Scrounger whispered. “It’s fermenting. Let’s go.”

  Caramon hefted the saddle, followed Scrounger to the human camp.

  “Who goes there?” A man peered at them from one of the wagons.

  “A friend,” Scrounger called out.

  “It’s a big guy and a little guy,” the lookout reported. “And the big guy’s got a saddle. The boss might be interested.”

  “A saddle!” A middle-aged man with grizzled hair and beard jumped to his feet, eyed them warily. “Seems a funny time of night for saddles to come walking into camp. What do you two want?”

  “We heard from some friends of ours that you were looking for a good saddle, sir,” said Scrounger politely. “We also heard that you were a little short of steel at the moment. We have a saddle—a fine one, as you can see. Caramon, put the saddle there in the firelight where these gentlemen can get a close look at it. Now, we’re willing to barter. What have you got to trade me for this fine saddle?”

  “Sorry,” the man said. “The boss is the one who needs the saddle, and he’s in his wagon. Come back tomorrow.”

  Scrounger shook his head sadly. “We would like to, sir, we really would. But we go on long-range patrol tomorrow. We’re with the baron’s army, you see. Caramon, pick up the saddle. I guess our friends were mistaken. Good evening to you, gentlemen.”

  Caramon reached down, picked up the saddle, and heaved it back up on his head again.

  “Wait a moment!” A tall man—the same one they’d seen talking to the dwarf—jumped down out of one of the wagons. “I overheard what you said to Smitfee here. Let me have a look at that saddle.”

  “Caramon,” said Scrounger, “put down the saddle.”

  Caramon sighed. He had no idea that trading was this strenuous. It was far less trouble to work for a living. He plunked down the saddle in the dirt.

  The human examined it, ran his hand over the leather, peered closely at the stitching.

  “Looks a little worn,” he said disparagingly. “What do you want for it?”

  The man’s tone was cold and offhanded, but Caramon had seen the way the man’s hand lingered on the fine leather, and he was certain that the sharp-eyed Scrounger had seen it, too. The master’s saddle was a good one, the second finest in the company, next to the baron’s own.

  “Well, now,” Scrounger said, scratching his head. “What are you hauling?”

  The man looked surprised. “Beef.”

  “Do you have a lot?”

  “Barrels of it.”

  Scrounger thought this over. “All right, I’ll take my payment in beef. The saddle in exchange.”

  The man was wary. This seemed too easy. “How much do you want?”

  “All of it,” said Scrounger.

  The man laughed. “I’ve got sixteen hundred pounds of aging prime-grade beef! I only sold the baron a couple of barrels. No saddle in Krynn is worth that.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, sir.” Scrounger appeared disconsolate. “Very well, my friend and I will take one hundred pounds of beef, but they have to be the choicest cuts. I’ll show you what we want.”

  The man thought it over, then nodded and thrust out his hand. “You have a deal! Smitfee, get the two their beef.”

  “But, Scrounger,” Caramon said worriedly in a loud whisper, “The master’s saddle! He’s going to be—”

  “Hush!” Scrounger elbowed his friend. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Caramon shook his head. He had just watched his friend trade away the master’s saddle, the master’s highly prized saddle, for a barrel of beef. His arm and his rump were sore, and he was convinced that most of the hair on top of his head had been rubbed off by the saddle. To make matters worse, between the talk of bread and beef, his stomach was sounding hollow as a drum. He had the feeling he should call a halt to this dealing right now, grab the saddle, and march back to camp. He didn’t do it for two reasons: one, to do so would be to show disloyalty to his friend and two, if he never picked up that blasted saddle again, it would be too soon.

  The middle-aged hand led them to one of the far wagons. Hoisting out a barrel, he manhandled it to the ground.

  “Here you go, gentlemen,” he said. “One hundred pounds of high-grade beef. You won’t find anything better between here and the Khalkists.”

  Scrounger inspected the barrel closely, leaning down to peer through the slats. He stood up, put his hands on his hips, pursed his lips and looked over all the other barrels on the wagon.


  “No, this won’t do.” He pointed. “I want the barrel there, the one near the front. The one with the white mark on the side.”

  Smitfee looked over toward the caravan leader, who was standing protectively, legs straddled, over the saddle, just in case the two dealers had some idea of trying a doublecross. The caravan leader nodded.

  Smitfee eased down the second barrel to the ground.

  “All yours, lad.” Smitfee grinned and walked off.

  Caramon had the terrible feeling he knew what was coming, but he made a hopeful try. “I guess we’ll just leave this for the baron’s men to collect tomorrow with the wagon.”

  Scrounger gave him an ingratiating smile, shook his head. “No, we have to take this to the dwarven camp.”

  “What do the dwarves want with a hundred pounds of beef?” Caramon demanded.

  “Nothing, right now,” Scrounger said. “I think you could roll the barrel,” he added. “You don’t have to carry it.”

  Caramon walked up to the barrel, flipped it over on its side, and began to roll it over the bumpy and uneven ground. The task wasn’t as easy as one might think. The barrel wobbled and jounced, veering off in odd directions when least expected. Scrounger ran alongside, guiding as best he could. They nearly lost it once. Rolling down a slight hill, the barrel got going too fast. Caramon’s heart leaped into his throat when Scrounger hurled himself bodily at the barrel in order to stop it. By the time they reached the dwarven camp, both were hot and sweating and exhausted.

  They rolled the barrel into the dwarven camp, startling one of the ponies, who let out a shrill whinny. Dwarves appeared from everywhere at once. One, Caramon could have sworn, popped up from right beneath his nose, alarming him almost as much as he’d alarmed the pony.

  “Good evening, good sirs,” said Scrounger brightly, bowing to the dwarves. He laid his hand on the barrel, which Caramon was holding steady with his foot.

  “What’s in the barrel?” asked one of the dwarves, viewing it with suspicion.