Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  Kit shivered. “The sooner I get back to sunlight and fresh air the better. Now for the gate. Let’s hope this leads me to where I want to go.…”

  “You need go no farther,” said a voice. “The treasure of which I spoke is here for you to find.”

  “Where are you?” Kitiara demanded. “Let me see you!”

  She heard a whispered cry, caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Her hand reached instinctively for her sword and she muttered a curse as her fingers closed over air. Placing her back against the sarcophagus, she turned to confront whatever was in the mausoleum, ready to fight with fists, feet, and teeth, if necessary.

  Nothing attacked her. Nothing threatened her. The movement came from a part of the circular room near the second door, the door leading out of the mausoleum. On the floor lay what appeared to be a body. Just when Kitiara had decided it was a dead body, it stirred, moaned in pain.

  “Sir Nigel?” Kitiara hissed.

  No answer.

  Kit was exasperated. Just when it seemed she must be nearing the end of her search, she’d run into yet another obstacle.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she advised the person, “but there’s nothing I can do for you. I’m on an urgent errand and I don’t have much time. I’ll send someone back for you.…”

  The person moaned again.

  Kitiara headed resolutely toward the door. Halfway there, she recalled the Knight’s words. The treasure was here. Perhaps this person had found it first. Kit veered from her path. Keeping a sharp lookout for attackers lurking in the shadows, thinking that this might be a trap, she moved swiftly to where the body lay huddled on the floor and knelt down beside it.

  The body was that of a woman, Kit saw in astonishment. A woman dressed in black, skintight clothing, clothing meant to be worn beneath metal armor. She lay on her stomach, her face pressed against the stone floor. She had been in a horrific fight, by the look of her. Long bloody gashes had torn her clothes. Her black curly hair was matted with blood. A large pool of blood had formed beneath her stomach. Judging by that and the victim’s ashen skin, Kit guessed that the woman was near death. Kit searched, but found no treasure. Disappointed, she started to rise to her feet, then paused, looked more closely at the dying woman.

  Something about her seemed familiar.

  Kit reached out her hand to brush aside the woman’s hair, get a better look at the face. Her fingers touched …

  Black curly hair cut short. The hair Kit was touching she’d touched many, many times before. The hair was her own.

  Kitiara snatched her hand back. Her mouth went dry, breathing ceased. Terror stole her reason. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t move.

  The hair was her own. The face was her own.

  “I have always loved you, half-elf,” the dying woman whispered.

  The voice was her own. Kitiara looked upon herself, wounded, dying.

  Kit jumped to her feet and fled. She hit the iron gate running, flung her weight against it, beat on it with her fists when it wouldn’t open. Pain from bruised flesh brought her to her senses. The darkness that had blinded her cleared from her eyes. She saw that the gate had a handle and, with a sob of relief, she grabbed it and turned.

  The catch clicked. She shoved open the gate, raced through it, slammed the gate shut behind her with all her strength. She leaned against the gate, too weak from fear to keep moving. Panting for air, she waited for her heartbeat to slow, the sweat to dry on her palms, her legs to stop shaking.

  “That was me!” she gasped, shuddering. “That was me back there. And I was dying. Dying horribly, painfully … ‘I have always loved you …’ My voice! My words!” Kitiara buried her face in her hands, prey to such terror as she had never before known. “No! Please, no! I … I …”

  Kit drew in a breath. “I am a fool!” She slumped against the door, shivering, a reaction to her fear. She gave herself a mental slap, intended to clear her mind of what had to be visions, fancies, a waking dream. …

  “It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real.” She sighed and swallowed, swallowed again. The moisture had returned to her mouth and with it the bitter aftertaste of terror. “I’m tired. I haven’t slept well. When a person doesn’t sleep, he starts to see things. Remember Harwood in the Plains of Dust, fighting goblins? Stayed awake three nights running, then went rampaging through the camp, screaming that snakes were crawling on his head.”

  Kitiara stood leaning against the gate, hugging her chill body, trying to banish the memory of the dream.

  It had to be a dream. No other explanation.

  “If I walked back in there,” she told herself, “I’d find nothing. No body. Nothing. That’s what I’d find. Nothing.”

  But she didn’t walk back in there.

  Kitiara drew a deep breath and, feeling the horror start to fade, she shook off the unreasoning fear and looked at her surroundings.

  She stood inside a large cavern, an enormous cavern. A glow came from the far end of the cavern, a glow that might have been created by torchlight shining on mounds of silver and of gold.

  “Come now, this is better,” said Kitiara, cheering up immensely. “I think I may be getting somewhere.”

  She hurried in the direction of the shining light, glad to have a purpose, extremely glad to leave the ill-fated chamber behind her.

  The cavern floor was smooth, the cavern itself commodious. Immolatus in dragon form could have fit himself in here and still accommodated two or three large red friends. If ever there was an ideal location for dragons to hide their eggs, this was it. Excited at the prospect, Kitiara broke into a run. The blood pumped through her body, brought warmth back to numb feet and hands.

  She reached her destination, breathing hard, but feeling refreshed and renewed. And triumphant.

  Nestled in an alcove in the cavern were hundreds of eggs. Enormous eggs. One egg was as tall as Kitiara or taller and so wide around that she might extend her arms and only embrace a small portion of the shell. Each egg radiated with a soft light. Some of the eggs shone with a golden light, some gleamed silver. There were a great many. Kitiara couldn’t begin to count them, but counting them was what she was going to have to do. A task that would be tedious and boring. Still, she found herself looking forward to it.

  Cataloging eggs and mapping their location for future reference would be drudge work, guaranteed to brush away the last vestiges of horror that webbed her mind. Just as she reached this satisfying conclusion, she felt a breath of air, fresh air, touch her cheek. She inhaled deeply.

  A large tunnel, large enough for a dragon’s body, led to the secret entrance for which Immolatus had been searching. An enormous hole in the side of the mountain, a hole completely hidden from the outside by a stand of fir trees. Pushing her way past the trees, Kitiara stepped out onto a large rock ledge. She looked up into the night sky, hazy with smoke, looked down on the doomed city of Hope’s End. It must be about midnight. Time enough to complete her work and make her way down the mountainside to the camp of Commander Kholos.

  Kitiara returned to the chamber of the eggs, which gave off light enough for her to see by, and went to work, thankful to have something to occupy her thoughts. Taking out the small leather-bound book Immolatus had given her, Kit searched until she found a bit of sandstone, which she could use like chalk.

  First she drew a map of the location of the hidden entrance, making careful calculation of where it stood in relation to the city walls and landmarks, so that Commander Kholos could find this cavern without going through the temple. She had to wonder how he was going to cart the eggs down the mountainside, for the way was steep. But that wasn’t her concern, thank the Dark Queen. Her task was finished.

  Map completed, she stood up and walked into the chamber of the eggs, a chamber suffused in golden and silver light, the light of unborn dragons, whose souls played among the star fields and danced on the ethers.

  What would happen to those souls who would never be born into this
life? Kit shrugged. That was not her concern either.

  She eyed the eggs, decided that it would be best to count them by rows in order not to lose track. Clambering onto a rock ledge that overlooked the chamber, Kitiara spread the book out on her lap.

  “You discovered the treasure,” said a voice behind her.

  Kitiara closed the book hastily, covered it with her hand, and turned around. “Sir Nigel,” she said. “So this is where you flitted off to. As for treasure, hah! I didn’t find anything except these things, whatever they are. Eggs, I guess. Big, aren’t they? Make a whopping big omelet. Big enough to feed an army. What sort of creature do you suppose laid them?”

  “This is not the treasure,” said the Knight. “The treasure was inside the mausoleum, a treasure left there by Paladine.”

  Kitiara managed a shaky grin. “Tell this Paladine that I prefer my treasure in rubies and emeralds.”

  “You have seen your death. A horrible one. You can yet change your fate, however,” Sir Nigel continued. “That is why the future was revealed to you. You have the power to alter it. Leave your task here unfinished. Do so, and you will take the first step to stop what otherwise must be.”

  Kitiara was tired and she was hungry. The burn on her hand hurt, she didn’t like being reminded of the horrible sight in that mausoleum. She had work to do and this blasted spirit was interrupting her.

  She turned her back on him, hunkered over her book. “Hey, I thought I heard your god calling you. Maybe you better go answer.”

  Sir Nigel made no response. Kit looked over her shoulder, was relieved to find that he had gone.

  Putting the ghost and his “treasure” out of her mind, she settled down to count eggs.

  7

  RED! PASS THE WORD FOR RED!”

  Raistlin was in his tent, taking advantage of a few quiet moments in the late evening to continue his study of the book about Magius. Raistlin had read the book through once, but parts remained unclear—the handwriting of the chronicler was almost unreadable in places—and Raistlin was now going through the book line by line, making his own copy for future reference.

  “Horkin wants you,” said one of the soldiers, poking his head inside. “He’s in the wizard tent.”

  “You sent for me, sir?” Raistlin said.

  “That you, Red?” Horkin did not look up. He was engrossed in his work, heating a concoction in a small pot hung on a tripod over a charcoal brazier. He took a sniff, frowned, and stuck the tip of his little finger into the pot. Shaking his head, he stirred the mixture. “Not hot enough.” He glared impatiently at the pot.

  “You sent for me, sir,” Raistlin said again.

  Horkin nodded, still not looking at him. “I know it’s late, Red, but I’ve a job for you. I think this one you might even like. More interesting than my socks.”

  He cast a sidelong glance at Raistlin, who flushed in embarrassment. True, he had been frustrated beyond measure at being made to perform menial tasks about camp, tasks that wouldn’t have challenged a gully dwarf: washing linens to be used for bandages, cutting those same linens, sorting through bags of herbs and flowers, watching some foul brew simmer over the brazier. The last tug of the dwarf’s beard had been darning Horkin’s socks.

  Horkin was no seamstress and when he discovered that Raistlin had a certain talent in this field—a talent gained during the lean days when he and his twin were orphaned, forced to live on their own—Horkin had given Raistlin the chore. Raistlin imagined that he had handled the onerous tasks with good grace. Apparently not.

  “Commander Morgon tells me that there’s a red-robed mage marching with the army of our allies. Morgon says he caught a glimpse of him walking through camp.”

  “Indeed, sir?” Raistlin was definitely interested.

  “I thought you might enjoy going on a trading expedition, if you’re not too tired.”

  “I’m not tired at all, sir.” Raistlin accepted the assignment with far more enthusiasm than any he’d received thus far. “What do you want me to take to trade?”

  Horkin rubbed his chin. “I’ve been considering. We’ve got those scrolls neither of us can read. Perhaps this mage can make something of them. Don’t let on you don’t know what’s in ’em, though. If he thinks you can’t read them, he’ll pass them off as trash and we won’t get a cracked amulet for them.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Raistlin. His chagrin at being unable to read the scrolls ran deep.

  “Speaking of amulets, I brought that box of stuff you sorted and labeled. Anything in there you think might be worth something?”

  “You never know, sir,” Raistlin replied. “Just because we don’t consider an artifact valuable doesn’t mean another wizard might not find a use for it. At any rate,” he added with a sly smile, “I can hint to him that they’re more than they are. I am your apprentice, after all. It’s not likely you would trust me to handle such magical objects if I understood their true power.”

  “I knew you were the right man for the job,” Horkin said, greatly delighted. “Throw in a couple of our healing ointments for good measure. And, don’t show this around”—Horkin handed over a bag of coins—“but if he has something really valuable and he won’t trade for it, you can pay in steel. Now, what are we in the market for?”

  The two went over what magic they already possessed, determined what they lacked, debated over what might be useful and how much Raistlin would be willing to pay.

  “Five steel for a scroll, ten for a potion, twenty for a spellbook, and twenty-five for an artifact. That’s my limit,” Horkin stated.

  Raistlin argued that his master was out of touch with current market prices, but Horkin refused to budge. Raistlin could do nothing but agree, though he privately resolved to take along some of his own money, do his own bargaining if he found something of value priced beyond what Horkin was willing to give.

  “Ah, it’s done!” Horkin said, looking with satisfaction into the pot, whose contents were now bubbling. He wrapped the handle in cloth, lifted the pot from the heat and carefully poured the contents into a large crock. Stopping the crock with a cork, he wiped off the sides and placed the crock into a basket. He handed the basket to Raistlin. “There, take that to the Red Robe. It’s a deal clincher if there ever was one.”

  “What is it, sir?” Raistlin asked, mystified. He had caught only a glimpse of the brew—some sort of cloudy liquid filled with whitish lumps. “A potion?”

  “Chicken and dumplings for his dinner,” said Horkin. “My own recipe. Give him a taste and he’ll hand over his smalls if that’s what you want.” He gave the crock a fond pat. “There’s not a wizard alive who won’t succumb to my chicken and dumplings.”

  Loaded down with artifacts, scroll cases, and the crock of chicken and dumplings, along with numerous jars of ointments and unguents and a flask of honey wine to smooth the wizard’s throat into saying “yes,” Raistlin left the baron’s camp and walked toward the camp of their ally. Horkin did not think to provide the young mage with an armed escort, although if he had heard Commander Morgon’s full report about what he and the baron had seen and heard in the ally’s camp that afternoon, he might have done so. As it was, Raistlin took only the Staff of Magius for light and his small, hidden knife for protection. After all, he thought, he was among friends.

  His first encounter was with the line of pickets of the allied force. The soldiers regarded him with considerable suspicion, but by now Raistlin was accustomed to dark looks and knew how to handle the situation. He stated his errand truthfully, said he was visiting a fellow wizard interested in doing a little trading. At first the soldiers had no idea what he was talking about. A Red Robe? They didn’t think so.

  Then one recalled that a Red Robe had arrived in camp earlier that evening, appearing out of nowhere. A slimy fellow, no one liked him, the soldier said. They’d thought of slitting his throat, but there was something about him … The Red Robe insisted on meeting with Kholos and, such was the unease the wizard ins
pired, he’d been taken immediately to the commander. The next thing the soldiers knew, they were pitching a tent for the Red Robe and treating him as if he were the commander’s long-lost brother-in-law. The soldiers passed Raistlin on through the lines, with only a cursory examination of what he carried—no one wanted to investigate a wizard’s wares too closely. Several hinted broadly that if Raistlin would like to leave his basket and take the Red Robe back with him, it would be much appreciated.

  Apparently, unlike the popular Horkin, this war wizard was not held in high regard by his fellow soldiers.

  “But then, neither am I,” Raistlin said to himself and continued on through the lines into the allied camp.

  He saw the punishment detail, but he did not understand what was transpiring. Seeing men lying comatose on the ground, he assumed this was merely some sort of strange practice common among soldiers and walked by without a second glance. He did not see the corpses dangling from the gibbets, but, from what he’d seen of harsh military discipline, even that might not have surprised him.

  He asked around for the tent of the war wizard. It was pointed out to him with reluctance and one man asked him outright if he was certain he wanted to have dealings with the wizard. All who spoke of him did so with surly looks behind which was a hint of fear. Raistlin’s estimation of this Red Robe rose accordingly.

  Raistlin eventually found the wizard’s tent, positioned at a distance from all the other tents in the encampment. The tent was large and commodious.

  Raistlin paused outside the tent, drew in a deep breath to calm his excitement and anticipation. He was about to meet a true war wizard, a fellow Red Robe, perhaps of high ranking. A wizard who might be in the market for an apprentice. Raistlin would not leave Horkin, not yet. He was bound by contract and honor to serve out his term with the baron. But here was a chance to make himself known and, perhaps, favorably impress the wizard. Who knew? This Red Robe might be so impressed that he would be willing to buy out Raistlin’s contract, take him on immediately.