Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  4

  THE STREETS GREW NARROWER AND MORE CROOKED, THE CROWDS thinned. Kitiara and the dragon had entered the old part of Hope’s End. Most of the original homes and dwellings had been torn down, their stone used to make the large warehouses and granaries that replaced them. By day, tradesmen came and went. By night, vermin—both four-legged and two-legged—were the primary occupants. On rare occasions, the lord mayor, in a fit of energy and civic pride, would order the sheriff and his men to descend on the warehouse district and evict those who sought refuge there, ferreting them out of the nooks and crannies where they lay hidden.

  With the coming of war, most of the two-legged vermin had abandoned ship, fleeing to safer cities. Since the warehouses held nothing in them anymore, no tradesmen walked the streets or made deals on the street corners. This part of town, the west side, was empty and deserted, or so it appeared. Still, Kit kept a watchful eye out. She couldn’t imagine what Immolatus hoped to find here, unless he had some notion that the dragons had stored their eggs in a warehouse.

  The day was almost finished, the sun setting in a haze of smoke from the burned fields beyond the city walls. The shadows of the mountain fell across the city, bringing early night with them. Immolatus finally called a halt, but only, it seemed to Kit, because he’d run out of street.

  The dragon appeared immensely pleased with himself however. “Ah, just as I expected.”

  The street ran headlong into a high crumbling granite wall, or so it appeared. Catching up with the dragon, Kitiara saw that she’d been mistaken. The street actually passed through the wall, in between two tall pillars. Rusted holes in the rock indicated that iron gates might have been used to control the flow of traffic in and out of the area. Looking through the entryway, Kitiara saw a courtyard and a building.

  “What is this place?” Kitiara asked, regarding the building with a disparaging frown.

  “A temple. A temple to the gods. Or perhaps I should say a temple to one god.” Immolatus cast the building a look of pure loathing.

  “Are you sure?” Kit said, comparing it unfavorably to the grand Temple of Leurkhisis. “It’s so small and … shabby.”

  “Rather like the god himself.” Immolatus sneered.

  The temple was small. Thirty paces would take Kit from the front to the back. In the front, three broad steps led to a narrow porch under a roof supported by six slender columns. Two windows looked out upon a courtyard paved with broken flagstones. Chickweed and some sort of choking vine were growing through the cracks. Here and there, among the weeds, a few wild rosebushes still flourished, climbing up the wall surrounding the courtyard. The roses were tiny and white and caught the last rays of the sun, the blossoms seemed to almost glow in the twilight. The roses filled the air with a sweet, spicy scent, which the dragon found offensive, for he coughed and snorted and covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve.

  The temple was made of granite, and had once been covered with marble on the outside. A few slabs of marble—yellow-stained and damaged—still remained. Most of the other marble slabs had been torn off, used elsewhere. The front doors were cast in gold, they gleamed in the sunlight. A frieze, carved around the sides of the building, was almost completely obliterated, scarred with deep gouges, as if it had been attacked by picks and hammers. What images it had once portrayed had been erased.

  “Eminence, how do you know what god this temple was built to honor?” Kitiara asked. “I see no writing, no symbols, nothing to indicate the name of the god.”

  “I know,” said Immolatus, and his voice grated.

  Kitiara walked past the stone pillars into the courtyard to gain a better view. The golden doors were dented and battered. She wondered that the doors were still there at all, that they hadn’t been melted down for their value. Admittedly gold wasn’t worth much these days, not as much as the far more practical steel. No one ever marched to war with a sword made of gold. Still, if those doors were solid gold, they would be worth something. She would remember to tell Commander Kholos, advise him to take the doors with him when he left the city.

  She could see a slight crack between the two golden doors, realized that they stood partially open. Kit had the strangest idea that she was being welcomed, invited to come inside. The idea was repugnant to her. She had the strong impression that something in there wanted something from her, was out to rob her of something precious. The temple had probably become a haunt for thieves.

  “What was the god called, Eminence?” Kit asked.

  The dragon opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. “I won’t foul my mouth by pronouncing his name.”

  Kit smiled derisively. “One would almost think you were afraid of this god, who obviously isn’t around anymore.”

  “Don’t underestimate him,” Immolatus snarled. “He’s sneaky. His name is Paladine. There! I’ve said it and I curse it!”

  A gout of flame burst from his mouth, flared briefly on the broken flagstones of the empty courtyard, burned a few weeds, then flickered out.

  Kit hoped to heaven no one had seen the tantrum. Red-robed wizards, even the greatest of them, are not known to be able to spit fire.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of him,” said Kit.

  “You are a worm,” said Immolatus.

  Kit’s hand clenched over the hilt of her sword. Dragon he might be, but he was in human form, and she guessed that it would take him a moment or two to change from clothes to scales. In that moment, she could strike him dead.

  “Calm down, Kit,” she remonstrated with herself. “Remember all the trouble it cost you to find the beast and bring him to Ariakas. Don’t let him provoke you. He wants to lash out at something, and I don’t blame him. This place is unnerving.”

  She was starting to have an active dislike for her surroundings. There was a serenity, a peacefulness about the temple and the grounds, which she found annoying. Kitiara was not one to waste time pondering the complexities of life. Life was meant to be lived, not contemplated.

  She was reminded, suddenly, of Tanis. He would have liked this place, she thought disdainfully. He would have been content here, sitting on the cracked front steps, gazing up at the sky, asking questions of the stars, foolish questions to which there could be no answer. Why was there death in the world? What happened after death? Why did people suffer? Why was there evil? Why had the gods abandoned them?

  As far as Kit was concerned, the world was the way the world was. Seize your part of it, make of that part what you could, leave the rest to take care of itself. Kit had no patience with Tanis’s cobweb spinning, as she termed it. His image, coming to her unbidden and unwanted, further increased her irritation.

  “Well, this has been a waste of time!” she stated. “Let’s leave before Kholos starts flinging molten rocks over the wall.”

  “No,” said Immolatus, glowering at the temple and gnawing his lip. “The eggs are there. They are inside.”

  “You’re not serious!” Kitiara stared at him incredulously. “How big are these golden dragons? Are they as big as you?”

  “Perhaps,” said Immolatus disdainfully. He rolled his eyes, refused to look at her, gazed off into the haze-filled sunset. “I never paid them that much attention.”

  “Hunh,” Kit grunted. “And you expect me to believe that a creature as big or bigger than you crawled into that building”—she jabbed a finger at it—“and laid eggs inside!” Her patience snapped. “I think you’re playing me for a fool. You and Lord Ariakas and Queen Takhisis! I’m finished with the lot of you.”

  She turned away, started back down the dead-end street.

  “If the pea that you term a brain weren’t rattling around inside your skull, banging off the walls, and caroming into dark corners, the truth might occur to you,” said Immolatus. “The eggs were laid in the mountains and then the entrance sealed up and a watch placed on them. The temple is the guardhouse, as it were. The fools thought they would be safe here, that they would escape our knowledge. Probably intended
that the priests would remain to guard them. But the priests fled before the mobs, either that or they were killed. Now no one remains to guard the eggs. No one.”

  The dragon’s reasoning was highly logical. Turning back to face him, Kitiara surreptitiously sheathed her sword, trusting he hadn’t noticed she’d drawn it.

  “All right, Lord. You enter the temple, find the eggs, count them, identify them, or do whatever it is you’re supposed to do with them. I will stay here and keep watch.”

  “On the contrary,” said Immolatus, “you will enter the temple and search for the eggs. I’m certain there must be a tunnel leading to hatching chambers. Once you have found it, follow the tunnel until you discover the second entrance in the mountains. Then report back to me.”

  “It is not my responsibility to search for the eggs, Eminence,” Kitiara returned grimly. “I don’t even know what dragon eggs look like. I don’t ‘sense’ them or smell them or whatever it is you do. This is your assignment, given to you by Queen Takhisis.”

  “Her Majesty could not have foreseen that the eggs would be guarded by a Temple of Paladine.” Immolatus cast the temple a baleful glance. His eyes, slits of red, slid back to Kit. “I cannot go. I cannot enter.”

  “You won’t, you mean!” Kitiara was angry.

  “No, I cannot,” Immolatus said. He crossed his arms over his chest, hugging his elbows. “He won’t let me,” he added in sulking tones, like a child banished from a game of goblin ball.

  “Who won’t?” Kit demanded.

  “Paladine.”

  “Paladine! The old god?” Kit was amazed. “I thought you said he was gone.”

  “I thought he was. Her Majesty assured me he was.” Immolatus breathed a flicker of fire. “But now I’m not so certain. It wouldn’t be the first time she has lied to me.” He snapped his teeth viciously. “All I know is that I cannot enter that temple. If I tried, he would kill me.”

  “Oh, but he’ll let me just walk right in!”

  “You are only a human. He cares nothing about you, knows nothing of you. You should have no difficulty. And if you do find trouble, I’m certain you are capable of dealing with whatever you encounter. I’ve seen the way you handle your sword.” Immolatus grinned at her discomfiture. “And now, uth Matar, you really should be on your way. As you keep reminding me, we haven’t much time. I will meet you back at Commander Kholos’s camp. Remember, find the chamber where the eggs are located and the entrance in the mountains. Mark down everything in this book.”

  He handed her a small leather-bound volume. “And don’t dawdle. This wretched city upsets my digestion.”

  He walked away. Kitiara permitted herself a fond image of the tip of her blade protruding from beneath the dragon’s breastbone, the hilt buried in his back. She stood in the broken courtyard, enjoying the vision for long moments after the dragon had departed. Various wild thoughts entered her head. She would leave, abandon Immolatus and her mission. The hell with Ariakas, the hell with the dragonarmy. She had done well enough without them, she didn’t need them, any of them.

  An aching in her hand, clenched over the hilt of her sword, brought her to her senses. She had but to look out over the walls to see the myriad campfires of the army of General Ariakas, campfires whose numbers were almost as great as the stars above. And this army was but a fraction of his might. Someday he would rule all of Ansalon and she intended to rule at his side. Or perhaps in his stead. One never knew. And she would not achieve these goals, any one of them, as an itinerant sell-sword.

  Which meant that, god or no god, she had to go into that blasted temple, a place that seemed so welcoming and yet at the same time filled her with a strange, cold fear, a dread foreboding.

  “Bah!” said Kitiara and walked quickly across the broken courtyard.

  She climbed the two stairs leading to the battered golden doors, halted at the top to have a brief argument with herself concerning this unreasoning terror, which only seemed to grow worse the closer she came to the temple.

  Kitiara peered inside the opening between the doors, stared into the darkness beyond. She watched and listened. She no longer believed that thieves might be using this temple as a hideout, not unless they were thieves made of sterner stuff than herself. But Something was inside that temple and whatever the Something was, it had scared away a red dragon, one of the most powerful creatures on Krynn.

  She saw nothing, but that meant nothing. The deepest night was not so dark, the Dark Queen’s heart was not so dark, as this abandoned temple. Berating herself for not bringing along a torch, Kit was startled past all amazement when silver light flared suddenly, dazzling and half-blinding her.

  Drawing her sword from the scabbard, she fell back on the defensive. She held her ground, she did not leave, though a panicked voice—the same voice of unreasoning fear—cried out to her to abandon the mission and run away, run far away.

  Just like the dragon.

  He fled. A creature far more dangerous, far more deadly, a creature far stronger than I am, Kitiara thought. Why should I go where Immolatus will not? He is not my commander. He cannot order me. So I return to General Ariakas a failure. I can lay the blame on Immolatus. Ariakas will understand. It is the dragon’s fault. …

  Kitiara stood inside the golden doors, hesitating, wavering, listening gladly to the cowardly voice inside her and hating herself for actually giving serious consideration to its suggestions. Never before had she experienced fear like this. She had never imagined that anything could frighten her so much.

  If she turned and walked away, every moment from this moment until the time of her death, she would see this place whenever she closed her eyes. She would relive her fear, relive her shame, relive her cowardice. She could not live with herself. Far better to end it right now.

  Sword in hand, she took a step forward into the bright, silver light.

  A barrier—invisible, wispy, thin as cobweb, yet strong, as though the web had been spun from strands of steel—stretched across her chest. She pushed against it, but found her way blocked. She could not pass.

  A man’s voice, low and resolute, spoke from the darkness. “Enter, friend, and welcome. But first lay down your weapon. Within these walls is a sanctuary of peace.”

  Kitiara’s breath caught in her constricting throat, her sword hand shook. The barrier kept her out, and her first thought was one of relief. Angered, she retained hold on her sword, shoved against the barrier.

  “I warn you,” said the man, and his voice was not threatening, but filled with compassion, “that if you enter this holy place with the purpose of doing violence, you will start down a road that will lead to your own destruction. Lay down the weapon and enter in peace and you will be welcome.”

  “You must take me for a fool to think I would give up my only means of defense,” Kitiara called out, trying to see the person speaking, unable to make him out against the bright light.

  “You have nothing to fear inside this temple except what you yourself bring into it,” the voice returned.

  “And what I’m bringing into it is my sword,” Kitiara said.

  She took a resolute step forward.

  The bands pressed tight across her chest, as if they would cut into her flesh, but she did not yield. The pressure melted away with such swiftness that she was caught unsuspecting and stumbled forward into the temple, almost falling. Catlike, she regained her balance and looked swiftly about her, pivoting, holding her sword before her, prepared for an attack. She looked to the front, to either side, behind.

  Nothing. No one. The silver light, which had blinded her outside the temple, was soft and diffused now that she was inside. The light illuminated all within; she could see every detail of the temple’s interior in the eerie glow. Kitiara would have preferred the darkness. The light had no source that she could locate, it seemed to radiate from the walls.

  The main room of the temple was rectangular in shape, devoid of decoration, and it was empty. No altar stood in front, no statu
e of the god, no braziers for incense, no chairs, no tables. No column cast a shadow in which an assassin could lurk. Nothing here was hidden. In the silver-white light, she could see everything.

  Set in the eastern wall, the wall that butted up against the mountain, was another large door, a door made of silver. Immolatus had been right, curse him. This door must lead to the caverns within the mountain. She looked for a lock or a bolt, but saw none. The door had no handle, no means of opening. There must be a way, she had only to discover it. But she didn’t want to leave an unknown enemy behind her.

  “Where are you?” Kitiara demanded. The idea came to her that perhaps her enemy had absconded through the silver door. “Come out, you coward. Show yourself!”

  “I stand here beside you,” said the voice. “If you cannot see me, it is because you yourself are blind. Put down your sword and you will see my hand outstretched.”

  “Yes, with a dagger in it,” Kitiara returned scornfully. “Ready to kill me once you have disarmed me.”

  “I repeat, friend, that whatever evil is here you have brought with you. Only the treacherous fear treachery.”

  Impatient at talking with empty air, Kitiara aimed at the sound of the voice, sliced her sword through what should have been the gut of her invisible enemy.

  The blade met no resistance, but a paralyzing shock, as if the metal had come in contact with a lightning bolt, jolted through her sword arm. Her hand and fingers stung, a tingling sensation flashed from her palm up her arm. She gasped in pain, very nearly dropped the weapon.

  “What have you done to me?” she cried angrily, clutching at the sword with both hands. “What magic do you use against me?”

  “I have done nothing to you, friend. What you do, you do to yourself.”

  “This is some sort of spell! Coward wizard! Face me and fight!”

  She whipped the blade through the air again, slashing and cutting.

  The pain was like a streak of fire burning her arm. The hilt of the sword grew hot to the touch, hot as if it had come straight from the blacksmith’s white-hot forge. Kitiara could not hold on to it. She flung the sword to the floor with a cry, nursed her burned hand.