Like the giant oaks, their roots were sunk deep into the mountains. Generations of them had lived and died in Hope’s End. This city, whose origins dated back—or so legend had it—to the Last Dragon War, had withstood the Cataclysm.
My great-grandparents are buried here. My children were born here. I am too young to start out on my own. I am too old to start afresh somewhere else. This is the house of my youth. This is the business my grandmother started. Must I give it all up and flee? Must I kill to protect it?
A terrible choice, a bitter choice.
After the last of the refugees had fled, the gates to the city rumbled closed. Heavy wagons trundled into place behind the gates, wagons loaded with boulders and rocks to form a barricade that would halt the enemy should the gates be forced open. Every available container was filled with water to fight fires. Merchants turned soldier and spent the day at target practice. Older children were taught to retrieve spent arrows.
The citizens expected the best and prepared for the worst—at least what they considered the worst. They still had faith in their king. At best, they imagined the army marching in orderly manner down the road, setting up camp. They pictured the commander riding out politely to parley, pictured their own representatives walking out under a flag of truce to meet with the commander. He’d make threats, they would react with dignity and stand their ground. Eventually he would give some, they would give some. Finally, after maybe a day of hard and difficult negotiating, they would come to an agreement and everyone would go home to supper.
The worst, the very worst they imagined could happen, was that perhaps it would be necessary to send a few arrows over the heads of the soldiers, arrows carefully aimed, of course, so that no one was hurt. Just to show that they were serious. After that, the army commander—undoubtedly a reasonable man—would see that besieging the city was a waste of time and manpower. And after that they would negotiate.
Horns sounded the alarm throughout the city. The army of Good King Wilhelm had come into view. Everyone who could walk clambered up atop the walls.
The city of Hope’s End butted up against the mountains on three sides, looked out over a fertile valley on the fourth. Small farm holdings dotted the valley. The first small seedlings of the spring planting were starting to push through the fresh-tilled ground, a silken scarf of green spread across the valley. A road cut through a mountain pass, led into the valley and from there into Hope’s End. Generally, at this time of day, one might stand upon the wall and see a farmer with his oxcart driving down the road, or a party of kender, or a tinker with his wagon filled with pots and kettles or some weary traveler looking gladly at the city walls and thinking of a meal and a warm bed.
Now came pouring down the road a river of steel, whose occasional ripples and eddies, tipped by metal that flashed in the sunlight, engulfed the small farms. The steel river flowed into the valley like a fall of rushing water, booted feet shaking the ground, a cascade of drum rolls marking their advance. Soon the flicker of flames could be seen, thin wisps of smoke rising from house and barn, as the soldiers looted the granaries, butchered the animals, and either killed or enslaved the farmers and their families.
The river of steel gathered in the valley, swirled into whirlpools of activity—soldiers setting up camp, pitching tents in the fields, trampling the seedlings, chopping down trees, plundering and looting the farms. They paid scant attention to the city and the people lining its walls, people who watched with pale faces and fast-beating hearts. At length, one small knot of soldiers separated themselves from the main body and rode toward the city gates. They rode under a flag of truce, a white banner nearly hidden by the smoke of the burning fields. The soldiers halted within hailing distance of the wall. One of the soldiers, wearing heavy armor, rode forward three paces.
“City of Hope’s End,” shouted the commander in a deep voice. “I am Kholos, commander of the army of Blödehelm. You have two choices: surrender or die.”
The citizens on the walls looked at each other in astonishment and consternation. This was certainly not what they had expected. After some jostling, the lord mayor came forward to reply.
“We … we want to negotiate,” he cried.
“What?” the commander bawled.
“Negotiate!” the mayor yelled desperately.
“All right.” Kholos sat back more comfortably on his horse. “I’ll negotiate. Do you surrender?”
“No,” said the lord mayor, drawing himself up with dignity. “We do not.”
“Then you die.” The commander shrugged. “There, we negotiated.”
“What happens if we surrender?” a voice shouted from the crowd.
Kholos laughed, sneered. “I’ll tell you what happens if you surrender. You make my life a whole lot easier. Here are your terms. First, all able-bodied men will put down their arms, leave the city, and form a line, so that my slave-masters may take a good look at you. Second, all young and comely women will form a line so that I may take my pick. Third, the remainder of the citizens of Hope’s End will haul out their treasure and stack it up here, at my feet. Those are your terms for surrender.”
“This is … this is unconscionable!” the lord mayor gasped. “Such terms are outrageous! We would never accept!”
Commander Kholos turned his horse’s head and galloped back to his camp, his guards following him.
The people of Hope’s End prepared for battle, prepared for killing, prepared to die.
They believed they defended a cause. They believed they fought against an injustice. They had no idea that the war wasn’t about them, that they were nothing more than small disposable pieces in a greater cosmic game, that the dread general who had ordered this attack hadn’t even known the name of the city until he looked it up on a map, that the commanders of the newly formed dragonarmies viewed this as a training exercise.
The people of Hope’s End believed that at least their deaths might count for something, when in reality, the smoke rising from the ashes of the city’s funeral pyres would form a single dark cloud in an otherwise lovely blue sky, a single dark cloud that would be torn to shreds in the chill wind of the waning day, vanish, and be forgotten.
2
AT ABOUT THE TIME GOOD KING WILHELM WAS DISEMBOWELING the rebellious city’s ambassador, the army of the Mad Baron began its march toward that doomed metropolis. Led by the baron waving his plumed hat and laughing heartily for no good reason other than his pleasure at the prospect of action, the baron’s soldiers paraded down the road amidst cheers and well-wishes from Langtree’s assembled townsfolk. After the last heavily laden supply wagon had rolled out the gates, the townsfolk returned to their homes and businesses, grateful for the peace and quiet, sad for the lost revenue.
The baron gave his troops plenty of time to reach their objective. The soldiers marched no more than fifteen miles per day. He wanted his troops fresh and ready to fight, not falling over from exhaustion. Wagons carried their armor, their shields and rations, so they did not have to stop for anything along the route, except for a brief rest at midday. Anyone who dropped out of the march from exhaustion, illness, or injury was teased unmercifully but was permitted to ride in the wagons alongside the drivers.
The men were in good spirits, eager for battle and glory and the pay at the finish. They sang songs as they marched, songs led by the baron’s rich baritone. They played tricks and jokes upon the new recruits. Each man knew that this battle might be his last, for every soldier knows that somewhere is an arrowhead marked with his blood or a sword with his name etched on the blade. But such knowledge makes the life he is living at the moment that much sweeter.
The only person who was not enjoying the march was Raistlin. His weak body could not withstand even a moderate walking pace for very long. He grew weary and footsore after the first five miles.
“You should ride in the supply wagons, Raist,” Caramon told him helpfully. “Along with the other—” He went red in the face and bit his tongue.
“Along with the rest of the weak and infirm,” Raistlin finished the sentence.
“I-I didn’t mean that, Raist,” Caramon stammered. “You’re a lot stronger now than you used to be. Not that you were weak or anything, but—”
“Just be quiet, Caramon,” Raistlin said irritably. “I know perfectly well what you meant.”
He limped off in high dudgeon, leaving Caramon to look after him and shake his head with a sigh.
Raistlin pictured the scornful looks of the other soldiers as they marched past him, lying recumbent on a sack of dried beans. He pictured his brother helping him out of the wagon every night, solicitous and patronizing. Raistlin resolved then and there that he would march with the rest of the army if it killed him—which it likely would. Dropping dead on the trail was preferable to being pitied.
Raistlin had lost track of Horkin during the march, supposed that the robust mage was in the front ranks, setting the pace. When the word came that Raistlin was to report to the master-at-wizardry, he was considerably astonished to find Horkin back with the supply wagons.
“I heard you were walking, Red,” Horkin said.
“Like the rest of the soldiers, sir,” said Raistlin, prepared to be affronted. “You needn’t worry, sir. I am a little tired now, that’s all. I will be better in the morning—”
“Bah! Here’s your mount, Red.”
Horkin indicated a donkey, tied to one of the wagons. The donkey seemed a placid sort, stood chewing hay, paying no attention to the organized confusion of making camp. “This is Lillie. She’s very tractable, so long as you keep your pockets filled with apples.” Horkin scratched the donkey between her ears.
“I thank you for your concern, sir,” said Raistlin stiffly, “but I will continue to march on foot.”
“Suit yourself, Red,” said Horkin, shrugging. “But you’ll have a devil of time keeping up with me that way.”
He nodded toward another donkey who might have been Lillie’s twin, so much did they resemble each other, even down to a black streak that ran from shoulder to rump.
“Do you ride, sir?” Raistlin asked, astonished.
Horkin was a thoroughgoing soldier, as the saying went. He had once by his own account force-marched seventy miles in one day carrying a full pack. Thirty miles per day was a stroll in the garden, according to Horkin.
“You are riding this time for my sake, aren’t you, sir?” the young mage asked coldly.
Horkin placed a kindly hand on Raistlin’s thin shoulder. “Red, you’re my apprentice. And I’m honest when I say this. I really don’t give a damn about you. I’m riding because I have a reason for riding, a reason you’ll see in the morning. You could be of some assistance to me, but if you choose to march—”
“I’ll ride, sir,” Raistlin said, smiling.
Horkin left for the comfort of his bedroll. Raistlin remained behind, making friends with Lillie and wondering what perverse twist in his nature made him resent Caramon for caring and respect Horkin for not caring.
If Raistlin thought he was going to have an easy time of it, he learned his mistake the very next day. The two mages rode at the rear of the long column, alongside the supply wagons. Raistlin was enjoying the ride, enjoying the warm sunshine, when suddenly Horkin gave a wild shout and jerked on the reins, turned his donkey’s head so violently that the animal brayed in protest. Kicking the donkey in the flanks, Horkin plunged recklessly off the trail, shouting for Raistlin to follow.
Raistlin did not have much say in the matter for Lillie did not like to be parted from her stablemate. The donkey trotted after Horkin and carried Raistlin with her. The two donkeys crashed through brush, stumbled down a steep gully, and dashed off across a meadow of clover.
“What is it, sir?” Raistlin cried.
He jounced uncomfortably on the donkey, whose gait was far different from that of a horse, his robes flapping around him, his hair streaming out behind. He was certain that Horkin was on the trail of nothing less than an army of goblins, and that his master intended on taking them on single-handed. Raistlin glanced back over his shoulder, hoping to see the rest of the army come racing along behind.
The rest of the army was, by now, out of sight.
“Sir! Where are you going?” Raistlin demanded.
He finally caught up, not through his own doing but because Lillie, apparently a most competitive animal, could not tolerate being left behind.
“Daisies!” Horkin shouted triumphantly, pointing to a field of white. He spurred his donkey on to greater efforts.
“Daisies!” Raistlin muttered, but he didn’t have time for wonderment. Lillie had once again entered the race.
Horkin halted his donkey in the very midst of the field of white and yellow flowers, jumped from the saddle.
“C’mon, Red! Get off your ass!” Horkin grinned at his little joke. Grabbing an empty gunnysack from his saddle roll, he tossed it to Raistlin, took another for himself. “No time to waste. Pick the flowers and the leaves. We’ll use both.”
“I know that the daisy is good for easing coughs,” Raistlin said, plucking flowers most industriously. “But none of the soldiers are currently suffering—”
“The daisy is what’s known as a battlefield herb, Red,” Horkin explained. “Grind it up, make an ointment from it, spread it on wounds, and it keeps them from putrefying.”
“I didn’t know this, sir,” said Raistlin, gratified at learning something new.
They gathered the daisies and also some of the clover, which was good for wounds and other complaints. On the way back, Horkin again veered from the road, galloped off in search of brambles, which he said he used to cure the soldier’s most common complaint—dysentery. Now Raistlin understood the need for the donkeys. By the time the two mages had completed their foraging, the army was miles ahead of them. They rode all afternoon just to catch up.
Their work did not end at night, for after a day spent in backbreaking labor harvesting the plants, Horkin ordered Raistlin to pluck the petals from the flowers or boil the leaves or pound roots into pulp. Tired as he was—and Raistlin could not remember ever feeling so exhausted—he took care each night before he slept to write down in a small book all that he had learned that day.
He had no rest on those days when their herbal work was done, for if he was not picking flowers, he was practicing his spell-casting. Prior to this time, Raistlin had always been fussily particular about his spells. He did not say the words until he was certain he could correctly pronounce each one. He did not cast the spell until he knew he could cast it perfectly. Speed was what counted now. He had to cast his spell fast, without taking time to think whether an “a” was pronounced “aaa” or “ah.” He had to know the spell so well that he could recite the words rapidly, without thinking, without making a mistake. Trying to speak the words rapidly, Raistlin stammered and stuttered as badly as he had when he was eight years old. In fact, he told himself morosely, he’d said the words better at eight!
One might imagine that such practice was easy, a simple matter of repeating the words over and over as an actor memorizes his script. But an actor has the advantage of being able to rehearse his lines aloud no matter where he is, whereas the mage cannot, for fear of inadvertently casting the spell.
Raistlin was galled by the fact that Horkin—a mage of far less skill and learning—could say a spell so swiftly that Raistlin had a difficult time understanding him, cast the spell with never a miss. Raistlin persisted in his own practicing with grim determination. Whenever he had a free moment, he took himself off into the woods where he wouldn’t hurt anyone if he did manage to cast an “incendiary projectile” in less than three seconds, which at this juncture did not appear likely.
His days taken up with backbreaking labor, his nights with concocting medicines and potions, writing, and studying, Raistlin was amazed that he had not collapsed from fatigue. But, in fact, he had never felt so well, so alive and interested in life. Long accustomed to holding himself up for self-
evaluation, Raistlin came to the conclusion that he thrived on activity, both physical and mental; that without something to keep him occupied, his brain and body both stagnated. He coughed less frequently, though when the spasms came, they were unusually painful.
He even found Caramon less doltish than usual. Every night Raistlin joined his brother and his friend Scrounger for a supper of stewed chicken and hardtack. He actually enjoyed himself and found that he looked forward to their company.
As for Caramon, he was delighted at the change in his brother and, with his usual easygoing nature, did not spend time wondering at or questioning it. The night when Raistlin actually did manage to cast a fiery bolt, not once, but three times in rapid succession, he was so jovial during supper that Caramon secretly suspected his twin of imbibing dwarf spirits.
The march to Hope’s End proceeded without incident. Company C, riding as advance scouts for the army, arrived within sight of the city on the appointed day to find the army of Good King Wilhelm camped outside the walls. The air was gray with the stench of burning, the sounds of shrieks and screams sounded eerily out of the smoke.
“Is the battle over, sir?” Caramon asked in dismay, thinking he’d missed it.
Sergeant Nemiss stood in the shadow of a large maple tree, blinking away the stinging smoke, trying to see through the pall that hung over the valley to determine what was happening. Her men gathered around her, keeping themselves concealed at the edge of the tree line.
Sergeant Nemiss shook her head. “No, we haven’t missed the fight, Majere. Pah! The stuff gets in your mouth!” She swigged water from her canteen, spit on the ground.
“What’s on fire, sir?” Scrounger peered into the smoke and falling ash. “What’s burning?”
“They’re looting the countryside,” Sergeant Nemiss replied, after another drink of water. “Looting the homes and barns and setting fire to what they can’t carry off. Those screams you hear—those are the women they’ve captured.”
Brothers in Arms Page 24