Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “In other days I might have,” Raistlin said with a slight smile, remembering the time he had challenged another renegade wizard, with almost disastrous results. “I have since learned my lesson. I am not such a fool as to go up against this man, who—as he said—has more magic in his little finger than I do in my entire body.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Red,” Horkin said. “You’ve got potential. You’re young yet, that’s all. Someday, you’ll be a match for the best of them.”

  Raistlin regarded the master with astonishment. This was the first compliment Horkin had ever paid him and the chill of the young man’s fear warmed with pleasure.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Likely that day will be long in coming,” Horkin continued cheerfully. “Seeing that you can’t even cast a burning-hands spell now without setting your own clothes afire.”

  “I told you, sir, I was not feeling well that day—” Raistlin began.

  Horkin grinned. “Just teasing, Red. Just teasing.”

  Raistlin was in no mood for Horkin’s jollity. “If you will excuse me, sir, I am very tired. It must be well past midnight and from what I understand there is a battle to be fought tomorrow morning. With your permission, I will go to bed.”

  “It’s all very strange,” muttered Horkin to himself after his apprentice had departed. “This albino wizard. Like nothing I’ve encountered before and I’ve been pretty well all over this continent. But then it seems to me that Krynn itself is becoming a very strange place. A very strange place indeed.”

  Shaking his head, Horkin went off to drink a late night’s toast to the world’s strangeness with the baron.

  8

  THE BARON HAD SAID NOTHING TO HIS TROOPS ABOUT COMMANDER Kholos and his insulting remarks. But the baron had not forbidden his bodyguards to talk of what they had seen and heard in the ally’s camp. The commander’s words about “yelping curs” spread among the mercenaries like a forest fire during the night, jumping from one knot of angry men to the next, starting blazes all over camp. The men began to say that they’d take the west wall, damn the commander’s eyes, and not only that, they’d take the whole blasted city, too, before he’d finished his breakfast.

  When word came that the flank company, under command of Master Senej, would have the honor of attacking in the morning, the rest of the soldiers regarded them with raw envy, while members of the lucky company busily polished their armor and tried to look nonchalant, as if this were all in a day’s work.

  “Raist!” Caramon burst like a gust of wind into his brother’s tent. “Did you hear—”

  “I am trying to sleep, Caramon,” Raistlin said caustically. “Go away.”

  “But this is important. Raist, it’s our squad that’s—”

  “You knocked over my staff,” Raistlin observed.

  “Sorry. I’ll pick it—”

  “Don’t touch it!” Raistlin ordered. Rising from his bed, he retrieved the staff, moved it to stand by the head of his cot. “Now, what is it you want?” he asked wearily. “Make it quick. I am extremely tired.”

  Not even his brother’s ill temper could destroy Caramon’s pride and excitement. He seemed to fill the entire tent as he spoke, his good health and his powerful body swelling in the darkness, expanding to take up all the space, sucking away all the air, leaving his twin crushed and smothered.

  “Our squad’s been chosen to lead the assault tomorrow morning. ‘First to fight,’ that’s what the master said. Are you coming with us, Raist? This’ll be our first battle!”

  Raistlin stared into the darkness. “If so, I have not yet received any orders.”

  “Oh, uh, that’s too bad.” Caramon was momentarily deflated. But excitement soon returned, swelling him again. “You will. I’m sure of it. Just think! Our first battle!”

  Raistlin turned his head on the pillow, away from his brother.

  Caramon felt suddenly that it was time to leave. “I got to sharpen my sword. I’ll see you in the morning, Raist. G’night.” He departed with as much noise and clamor as he had entered.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Raistlin, standing outside Horkin’s tent. “Are you asleep?”

  There came a grumbling growl in response. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to wake you, sir.” Raistlin slipped inside the tent where his master lay on a cot, blankets pulled up to his chin. “But I have just heard that my brother’s company has been ordered to attack the west wall tomorrow morning. I thought perhaps you would like me to prepare some magicks—”

  Horkin sat up, his eyes squinched shut against the light of the Staff of Magius. The mage did not sleep in his robes, which were folded neatly on top of his pack at the side of cot. He slept in what he termed his “altogether.”

  “Shut off that damn light, Red! What are you trying to do? Blind me? There, that’s better. Now, what is this folderol you’re singing me?”

  Patiently Raistlin repeated himself. Quenching the light of his staff, he stood in the darkness of the tent, a darkness that smelled of stale sweat and crushed flowers.

  “You woke me up to tell me that?” Horkin grumbled. Lying back down, he grabbed hold of the blanket, twitched it up over his shoulders. “We’ll both need our sleep, Red. We’ll have wounded tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Raistlin said. “But about the battle—”

  “The baron hasn’t given me any orders about the battle tomorrow, Red. But then”—Horkin tended to be sarcastic when he was sleepy—“perhaps he gave them to you.”

  “No, sir,” Raistlin said. “I just thought—”

  “There you go, thinking again!” Horkin snorted. “Listen to me, Red. Tomorrow’s fight is a feint, a skirmish. We’re testing the city’s defenses. And the last thing you want to do when you’re testing the enemy is to show them everything you’ve got! We’re the big finish, you and I, Red. The baron brings us mages in at the last act to the dismay and wonderment of all. Now go and let me get some sleep!”

  Horkin pulled the blankets up over his head.

  No one wanted to settle down to sleep that night. Everyone wanted to stay up and talk and boast of what deeds he would do tomorrow or complain bitterly that he was being left out or go offer advice and well-wishes to those fortunate enough to be in on the first assault. The sergeants let them talk it out, then went through the camp, ordering everyone to hit the hay, they’d need their rest for the morrow. Eventually, the camp quieted, though few actually slept.

  Raistlin returned to his tent, where he was seized with an unusually severe fit of coughing. He spent most of the night attempting to breathe.

  The baron lay in his tent thinking regretfully of all the things he might have said to flatten Commander Kholos.

  Horkin, having been awakened by Raistlin, could not go back to sleep. He lay awake in bed, muttering imprecations on the head of his assistant and thinking about the upcoming assault. Horkin’s usually cheerful face was grave. He sighed and with a muttered prayer to his drinking buddy, dear Luni, he fell asleep.

  Scrounger lay awake staring into the darkness in fear and trembling because someone had told him that he was going to be left behind during the assault due to the fact that he was too short.

  After Caramon had polished his armor until it was a wonder he didn’t wear a hole in it, he rolled himself in his blanket, lay down, and thought, “You know, I might die tomorrow.” He was pondering this eventuality and wondering how he felt about it when he woke to find it was morning.

  The sky was pearl gray, covered with low-hanging clouds. And though it was not yet raining, everything in camp was wet. The air itself was damp and soggy, hot without the hint of a breeze. The company flag hung limp and listless on its standard. All sounds were muted in the thick air. The blacksmith’s usually ringing blows sounded discordant and tinny.

  Master Senej’s company was up early. They fell into line in front of the mess tent.

  “First to fight, first to breakfast!” Caramon said, grinning as he clapped Scrounge
r on the back. “I like this arrangement!”

  During the nights leading up to the attack, the flank company had been out scouting, which meant that they were the last ones into camp and the last to line up for breakfast or what was left of breakfast after the rest of the troops had descended on it like gully dwarves. Caramon, who had been subsisting on cold oatmeal for the past few days, eyed the rashers of sizzling bacon and fresh hot bread with immense satisfaction.

  “Aren’t you eating?” he asked Scrounger.

  “No, Caramon, I’m not hungry. Do you really think what Damark said was true? Do you really think the sergeant won’t let me—”

  “Go on, fill your plate!” Caramon urged. “I’ll eat what you don’t want. He’ll have some of those wheat cakes, too,” Caramon told the cook.

  Caramon settled down at the long plank table with two loaded plates. Scrounger sat beside him, chewing on his nails and casting pleading glances at the sergeant every time she walked past.

  “Oh, hullo, Raist,” Caramon said, looking up from his food to find his brother standing over him.

  Raistlin was pale and wan, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. His robes were soaked with rain and his own sweat. The hand holding the staff trembled.

  “You don’t look good, Raist,” Caramon said worriedly, rising to his feet, breakfast forgotten. “Do you feel all right?”

  “No,” Raistlin returned in a rasping voice. “I don’t feel ‘all right.’ I never feel ‘all right.’ If you must know, I have been up all night. No, don’t fuss over me! I am better now. I cannot stay long. I have my duties to attend to. Rolling bandages in the healing tent.” He sounded bitter. “I just came by to wish you well.”

  Raistlin’s thin fingers touched Caramon’s forearm, startling him.

  “Take care of yourself, my brother,” Raistlin said quietly.

  “Uh, sure. I will. Thanks, Raist,” Caramon said, touched.

  He started to add that his twin should also take care of himself, but by the time the words were out, Raistlin was gone.

  “Gee, that was odd,” said Scrounger as Caramon resumed his seat and his breakfast.

  “Not really,” Caramon said, smiling, elated. “We’re brothers.”

  “I know. It’s just that I …”

  “You what?” Caramon looked up.

  Scrounger had been about to say that he had never before known Raistlin to do or say anything the least bit brotherly and that it was odd for him to start now. But seeing Caramon’s open face and his honest pleasure, the half-kender changed his mind.

  “You want my eggs?”

  Caramon grinned. “Hand ’em over.”

  He had no chance to finish his own eggs, however. The attack was set for early morning and before he was halfway through breakfast, the drums began to beat, calling the men of Flank Company to arms. As the soldiers were putting on their gear, a light rain began to fall. Water dribbled down metal helms into their eyes and seeped into their leather padding, causing it to chafe the skin. Beads of water formed in the men’s beards, droplets hung off the men’s noses. The soldiers wiped their eyes to see. Their hands fumbled on the wet metal of buckles. Leather straps proved recalcitrant in the damp. No amount of tugging would cause them to cinch properly. Swords slipped from wet hands.

  Most strange and ominous, the rain caused the city walls to change color. The walls were formed of rock that was a light brown in color. The rain brought out a red tint in the rock, made the walls look as if they had been washed with a thin coating of blood. The soldiers cast dour glances at the west wall that was their objective and then looked glumly at the sky, hoping the sun would reappear.

  Scrounger assisted Caramon to put on the leather armor, which was different from the armor the Flank Company usually wore. This armor was padded along the arms and the torso, then covered with strips of metal. The armor was heavy but provided much better protection than the lightweight leather armor the men wore during scouting missions. The men had borrowed the armor from A Company, along with the large shields they would be carrying into battle this day.

  Scrounger was glum, kept blinking his eyes. The rumor he’d heard had proven true. He’d been ordered to stay behind while the rest of the company advanced for the attack. Scrounger had pleaded and even argued until Sergeant Nemiss lost patience with him. She brought forth one of the huge shields the soldiers would be carrying and tossed it to the half-kender. The shield knocked him flat.

  “See there,” she said. “You can’t even lift it!”

  The men laughed. Scrounger struggled out from under the heavy shield, still arguing. Sergeant Nemiss clapped him on the shoulder and told him he “was a game little fighting cock” and that “if he could find a big shield he could carry, he could come along.” Then she ordered Scrounger to help the other soldiers with their armor.

  He did as he was ordered, complaining and protesting the entire time that it wasn’t fair. He had as much training as anyone. The others would think he was a coward. He didn’t see why he couldn’t use his old shield and so on. Suddenly, however, Scrounger’s complaints ended.

  Caramon felt badly for his friend, but he thought that the whining had really gone on long enough. He breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that Scrounger had finally acceptied his cruel fate. “I’ll see you after we take that wall,” said Caramon, putting on his helm.

  “Good luck, Caramon,” said Scrounger, holding out his hand with a smile.

  Caramon stared hard at his friend. He’d seen that same sweet and innocent smile before on the face of another good friend, Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Caramon knew kender well enough to be highly suspicious. He couldn’t imagine what Scrounger might be up to and before he could give the matter serious thought, Sergeant Nemiss called the company to attention.

  Master Senej rode his horse to the front of the ranks. Dismounting, he made a quick but thorough inspection, tugging on armor to make sure it wasn’t going to come loose, examining the points of the spears to make certain they were sharp. Inspection completed, he faced his troops. The entire camp had gathered to listen and to watch.

  “We’re going to test the western defenses today, men. We want to see if there are any surprises waiting for us in that city. The drill is simple. Close ranks as tight as possible, hold your shields high, and march in formation toward the wall. We’ll take a hell of a beating from their archers, but most of the arrows will hit our shields.

  “Our own archers will try to clear the wall as best they can, but don’t think they’re going to solve our problems. Having seen our archers at practice, I’m more worried about them hitting us than I am about them clearing the wall.”

  Archer Company began to jeer and boo. The Flank Company laughed. Tension eased, which was what the master intended. He knew that unless the enemy was completely incompetent, his men would be facing overwhelming odds. How overwhelming the odds and how skilled the enemy were two questions he was about to have answered. He did not mention the army of their allies, who had gathered to watch the assault. The hulking figure of their commander could be seen mounted on his battle horse a safe distance from the firing.

  “Enough talk then!” Master Senej shouted. “As soon as we get the signal that the Archer Company is in place, we’ll do our duty and be back in time for lunch.” His gaze roamed the lines, fixed on Caramon. The master smiled and added, “We’re first in line for lunch, too, Majere.”

  Caramon felt his face redden, but he was always ready to laugh at himself and he joined good-naturedly in the ribbing.

  C Company marched to the front of the camp and assembled in tight formation, three ranks deep. Caramon stood in the last rank. Master Senej took his place in the front of the ranks. An aide led his horse away. The master was going to walk with his men. As the master raised his sword, Caramon felt a hand tugging the back of his armor. Twisting his head, he looked around and saw Scrounger crowding close behind him, nearly stepping on the big man’s heels.

  “The sergeant said I could come if I f
ound a shield,” Scrounger said. “I guess you’re it, Caramon. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Caramon didn’t know whether he minded or not. He didn’t have time to consider. Off to the right, a flag dipped and raised again. Archer Company was in place. The master raised his sword.

  “Forward! Flank Company—first to fight!”

  The company gave a cheer and began to march forward at a slow but steady pace, their flag bearer proudly taking the lead behind the master.

  Back in camp, the trumpets and drums of the baron’s signalers began to play a marching tune with a pounding beat making it easier for the men to keep in step. Left feet came down with the beat of the bass drum. The soldiers moved forward in unison, locked together with their shields and spears at the ready.

  The music heightened Caramon’s excitement. He looked at the men next to him, his comrades, and his heart swelled with pride. He had never felt so close to anyone before, not even to his twin, as to these men moving forward to face death together. The little flutter of fear that had bothered his stomach and gripped his bowels disappeared. He was invincible, nothing could harm him. Not this day.

  A small creek crossed the field between the camp and the city wall that was their objective. The creek bed was dry in the summer, but the sides were fairly steep and it would take time to cross, particularly as the grass that covered the bank was slippery wet with the light rain. The company met the creek bed at an angle, the right flank of the company crossing before the left. Small gaps appeared in the line while the soldiers slowed to watch their footing, then the line reformed on the other side.

  “Why haven’t they fired at us?” Scrounger wondered. “Why are they waiting?”

  Sergeant Nemiss, off to Caramon’s left, barked, “Shut up and keep tight. They’ll fire soon enough. Sooner than you’re ready!”

  A soft sibilant sound, unlike any sound Caramon had ever heard in his life—a hissing and a whirring and a swishing sound all combined—caused the hair to rise on the back of his neck.