“As soon as night falls, we’ll begin the march,” Sergeant Nemiss continued. “We hope to be through the mountains, ready to enter the city around dawn. Our allies are supposed to mount a diversion to keep the eyes of the rebels fixed on the front of the wall, not the back.”
Someone in line made a rude sound.
Sergeant Nemiss nodded. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I think the same, but there’s not much we can do about it. Any questions?”
Someone wondered what happened if anyone was separated from the group.
“Right, that’s a good one,” the sergeant answered. “If any of you get separated, return to camp. Don’t try to sneak into the city on your own. You could put the entire plan at risk. No more questions? You’re dismissed. Meet back here at sunset.”
The men returned to their tents to pack up their gear. They left their tents in place so that the enemy would think they were still sleeping in them. They took with them only short swords, dirks and knives. No shields, no mail, no long swords or spears. Two men skilled in archery carried two of the valued elven longbows and quivers of arrows. All wore leather armor, no mail or plate, deemed too heavy and cumbersome for mountain climbing and too noisy for stealth. Each man carried a coil of rope over his shoulder. They would find water on the trail and march with short rations.
The prospect dismayed Caramon, but he bore up under the blow by reminding himself of the hardships of war. Caramon was feeling much better at the prospect of action. Caught up in the excitement of the moment, he was able to banish the terrible memories of the attack on the wall. Never one to dwell on the past, Caramon looked forward confidently to the future. He accepted whatever came, did not waste time worrying over what might have been or what might be coming.
By contrast, Raistlin worried over what he considered his failure when confronting the renegade wizard, fretted that he did not have his spells letter-perfect, imagined every dire event that might occur to him, from tumbling down the side of the mountain to being captured and tortured by the enemy. By the time the company was ready to move out, he had worked himself into such a fever of dread that he feared he was too weak to make the trip. He considered pleading illness and was on his feet to report to Horkin when he heard a name being shouted through the camp.
“Magius! Pass the word for Magius.”
Magius! A name that might have rung through Huma’s camp hundreds of years ago, but had no place in this day and age. Then Raistlin remembered. He had given the name Magius to the wizard Immolatus. Ducking out of his tent, Raistlin called, “What do you want with Magius?”
“Why, do you know him?” a soldier asked. “I have a message for him.”
“I know of him,” Raistlin said. “Give me the message. I will see to it that it is delivered.”
The soldier did not hesitate. The scroll case he was supposed to deliver was covered with strange-looking symbols that appeared to be magical. The sooner he was free of the thing, the better. He handed it over.
“Who sent this?” Raistlin asked.
“The wizard in the other camp,” the soldier replied and left quickly, not anxious to stay around to see what the case contained.
Retreating to his tent, Raistlin shut the flap and tied it tightly. He inspected the scroll case with the greatest care, alive to the possibility that it might be rigged for his destruction. He sensed an aura of magic about the case, but that was only natural. The magic did not appear to be very strong, however. Still, it was wise not to take a chance.
Raistlin placed the scroll case on the ground, facing away from him. Drawing his small knife, he positioned the tip of the blade on the lid of the case. He worked the tip in between the lid and the case itself and slowly, carefully began to prize off the lid.
The tent was hot from the afternoon sun. His tension increased the heat tenfold. Sweat bathed his neck and breast. He continued grimly with his task. He almost had it, the lid was close to coming off, when the knife slipped from his wet hand, jarred the case. The lid suddenly popped loose, rolled away.
Raistlin scrambled backward, nearly overturning his cot, his heart lurching in fright.
Nothing happened. The lid wobbled over the uneven ground, came to rest at the edge of the tent.
Raistlin paused to wipe his forehead and calm his heartbeat, then reached out and gingerly lifted the scroll case. He peered cautiously inside.
A bit of parchment paper had been stuffed into the case. He could make out handwriting. He held the case to the light, tried to see if the words were ordinary or the words of a magical spell. He couldn’t tell and finally, impatient and no longer mindful of the consequences, he snatched the paper from the case.
Magius the Younger. I truly enjoyed our conversation. I was sorry to see you leave. Perhaps I said something to offend you. If so, I want to apologize and also to return your things you inadvertently left behind. When the city falls to our might, I look forward to renewing our acquaintance. We can have a pleasant chat.
The message was signed, Immolatus.
“So this is what he thinks of me,” Raistlin said bitterly. “He takes me for a simple-minded fool who would walk into a trap so blatantly obvious that a blind, deaf, and dumb gully dwarf would avoid it. No, my two-faced friend, as interesting as you are, I have no intention of remaking your acquaintance.”
He crumpled the missive in his hand. On his way to join C Company, he flung it contemptuously into a campfire. All thoughts of refusing to go on this mission evaporated in the heat of the insult. He was so fired up for action now that if had he not been assigned to this mission, he would have volunteered for it. He took his place beside Caramon.
“Move out!” The word passed quietly down the line from man to man. “Move out!”
The sky was overcast. A light rain continued to fall. The damp soaked into everything—the bread was soggy, firewood wouldn’t light. The soldiers complained of the wet. Sergeant Nemiss and Master Senej were both in good humor. Heavy clouds meant no moonlight or starlight this night.
C Company marched for three hours before they reached the cliffs that rose up behind the city of Hope’s End. The distance was not that great—a good brisk walk of less than an hour would have taken them to the same place had they traveled in a straight line. Master Senej wanted to make certain that no one in the city gained an inkling of their plan and, though it was not likely that even the sharpest-eyed scout on the wall could have seen them, C Company took a circuitous route, marching directly away from the city and then doubling back.
Advance scouts had been sent ahead to search for a suitable location for the company to begin their ascent. At first, the scouts couldn’t find any place. They began to fear that they would have to report to Major Senej that he better think of a new plan. The problem was fording the Hope River, for which the city had been named, a deep, swift-flowing river that cut through a canyon at the bottom of the mountain. The river was dotted with mills, whose wheels still turned, creaking and groaning, though the mills themselves were abandoned, their contents looted. The scouts began to worry.
The sun had set and C Company was on its way by the time the scouts found a place to ford the river. Flowing down out of the mountain, the river split around an island of rock, forming two relatively shallow streams that merged together farther down and tumbled headlong into the canyon. Pleased and relieved, the scouts hastened back to the assigned meeting place to serve as guides to the ford.
The soldiers waded into the rushing water, holding their weapons high. Though the air was warm, the water, coming down out of the mountains, was frigid. Caramon offered to carry his twin, but Raistlin gave him a look that might have turned butter rancid. He girded his robes up around his waist and entered the stream.
He crossed slowly, testing each step, terrified of plunging into the icy current. He was not concerned so much with himself as with his magical scrolls. Though they were safely secured in scroll cases, which were tightly sealed, he could not afford to take the chance tha
t even the tiniest drop of water should seep in, set the ink to running, spoil the magic. When at last he was safely across, he was chilled to the bone, shivering so with the cold that his teeth chattered in his head.
The rocks that formed the island also formed a natural bridge across the second stream. Raistlin would be spared having to enter the water again. His relief was short-lived. The climb over the rock bridge proved as difficult as wading through the water, if not quite as uncomfortable. Raistlin’s legs and feet were numb from the cold. He couldn’t feel his toes, the rock was slippery from the constant rain. Even the veterans lost their footing, muttering soft curses as they slipped and slithered in the darkness. More than one came perilously close to falling into the water below. Between Caramon and Scrounger, who proved extremely adept at rock climbing, they managed to assist Raistlin over the most difficult parts.
C Company finally reached the bottom of the cliffs, where the real work would begin. Breathing heavily, nursing cuts and bruises, the men eyed the dark immensity of the mountain in silence. The scouts pointed out a ledge far above. Beyond that ledge, they could see the top of the cliff.
Cross that ridge, said the scouts, and beyond lies the city wall.
“Majere, you’re the strongest,” said Sergeant Nemiss, handing him an iron grappling hook. “Throw that as high above the ledge as you can throw.”
Caramon swung the heavy grappling hook twice round and then released, his powerful arms heaving the hook straight up. The hook made a graceful arc and came crashing back down a few seconds later, nearly smashing in the sergeant’s skull. Sergeant Nemiss had to make a quick scramble to save herself.
“Sorry, sir,” Caramon mumbled.
“Try it again, Majere,” the sergeant ordered, this time from a safe distance.
Caramon threw again, this time taking care to launch the grappling hook at the mountain. The hook and rope sailed up at an angle. The hook clanged off a rock at the top and began to slide down the rock. At the last moment, it caught on a rock outcropping and snagged. Caramon pulled with all his might on the rope. The rope held.
“Tumbler, you’re up first,” the sergeant said. “Take more rope with you.”
No one knew Tumbler’s real name, including himself, for, he said, he had been called that as a child and now it came natural to him. He was from a family of circus folk, who had performed in fairs throughout Solamnia, including the royal circus in the lordcity of Palanthas. No one knew why he’d left the circus. He never spoke of it, though it was whispered that he’d lost his wife and partner in an accident during their rope-walking act and that he’d left the circus life, vowing never to return.
If this was true, his loss hadn’t soured his disposition. He was jovial and friendly and was always willing to show off his skills in camp, to the admiration of his comrades. He could walk on his hands as easily as most men did on their feet. He could bend and twist his body into knots, cause his double-jointed fingers to stick out in strange directions, and climb any tree or wall in existence.
Reaching the ledge, Tumbler secured several more ropes and tossed them down to the waiting soldiers below. The men formed lines and, one by one, began the climb.
Raistlin watched and pondered. He had barely enough strength in his thin arms to lift a full wine cup, let alone pull himself bodily up a rope.
Caramon recognized this fact, as well. “How’re you going to manage, Raist?” he asked in a whisper.
“You will carry me,” Raistlin said matter-of-factly.
“Hunh?” Caramon eyed the rope, the distance he would have to climb, and looked at his twin in some dismay.
Though Raistlin was thin, he was a full-grown man and, in addition, he had with him his staff, his scroll cases, and his spell components.
“You will never notice my weight, Caramon,” Raistlin said smoothly. “I will cast a spell on myself that will make me light as a chicken feather.”
“Oh? Will you? That’s fine then,” Caramon said with unquestioning trust. He bent his back so that Raistlin could climb on. “Lock your hands around my neck. Is your staff secure?”
The Staff of Magius was secure, as were the scroll cases, fastened by leather thongs that ran around Raistlin’s shoulders. Caramon began to climb the rope, pulling himself up hand over hand.
“Did you cast the spell, Raist?” he asked. “I didn’t hear any magic words.”
“I know my business, Caramon,” Raistlin returned.
Caramon continued to climb, adrenaline pumping. He noticed very little extra weight.
“Raist! Your spell’s working!!” he said over his shoulder. “I can barely feel you!”
“Shut up and pay attention to where you’re going!” Raistlin returned, trying not to let his cursed imagination think of what would happen if Caramon lost his grip on the rope.
When they reached the ledge, Raistlin slid off his brother’s back and sank down on the rock ledge, pressing his back against the cliff. He drew in a deep breath and almost immediately began to cough. Removing a small flask that hung from his belt, he sipped the special concoction that eased his breathing. His cough abated. He was already exhausted and the most difficult and dangerous part of the journey was yet to come.
“One more climb, men,” said the sergeant, handing Caramon the grappling hook.
The top of the cliff was not as high above them as the ledge had been from the ground. Caramon threw the hook and secured the rope on the first try. Tumbler scrambled up the rope with ease, secured his ropes, sent them spiraling back down.
Raistlin once more climbed onto Caramon’s back. This time, Caramon could definitely feel his brother’s extra weight. The big man’s arms began to ache with the strain. He barely had strength enough to pull them both up the cliff. Fortunately the distance they had to cover was shorter or he would have never made it.
“I don’t think your spell was working that time, Raist,” Caramon said, panting, wiping sweat and rainwater from his face. “Are you sure you cast it? I still didn’t hear you say anything.”
“You were fatigued, that’s all,” said Raistlin shortly.
The captain ordered a rest, and then they began marching toward the city. The terrain was rough, the going slow. The men labored up steep rock outcroppings, slid down into boulder-strewn depressions. The time was well past midnight, and the watch fires burning on the city walls did not seem to be appreciably closer. Master Senej was looking grim, when the scouts returned with welcome news.
“Sir, we found a path that runs right down into the city. Probably an old goatherd’s trail.”
The path cut through the rocks. It was well worn, but narrow. The men were forced to walk single file and even then some, like Caramon, had to edge along parts of it sideways in order to fit. They came to a halt in a rocky clearing to see the city directly below them. Enemy soldiers stood guard on the walls or gathered around the watch fires, talking in low voices, occasionally glancing out to where the bonfires of the besieging armies burned brightly.
The watch fires lit parts of the cliff face as bright as day. The men felt exposed on the rock ledge, even though they knew that someone standing down below would have to look very hard to see them. Moving quietly, keeping to the shadows, the soldiers continued to follow the path leading down into the city. They were within spitting distance of the walls, when Raistlin’s worst fears were realized. He drew in a breath to find his air passages blocked. He struggled, trying to stifle his cough, but failed.
Master Senej halted, turned to glare.
“Stop that racket!” the sergeant hissed from her place in the front of the line.
“Stop that racket!” The word whispered from man to man, all of them looking angrily at Raistlin.
“He can’t help it!” Caramon growled back, standing in front of his twin.
Raistlin fumbled at the flask, brought it to his mouth, gulped down the ill-tasting liquid. Sometimes the herbal concoction didn’t work right away. Sometimes these coughing spells could last for
hours. If so, he was certain the men would toss him off the cliff. Either the herbal tea helped him this time or his sheer force of will dampened the smothering ash that seemed to fill his lungs.
C Company continued on until the city’s wall was almost directly beneath them. Master Senej sent the scouts ahead to reconnoiter. The soldiers flattened themselves against the cliff face, waited for the scouts to return. Raistlin took sips of his tea at intervals, was careful to keep his throat from drying out.
The scouts came back and this time their news was disappointing. The path led to a stream that entered the city through an aperture in the wall. The scouts had investigated the opening, hoping to be able to use it to enter themselves, but reported that it was so small not even Scrounger could squeak through. The only way into the city was over the wall. The men were almost level with a guard tower. A light burned brightly inside and they could see the silhouettes of at least three men moving back and forth in front of the arrow slits that served as windows.
“We’ll have to jump for it, I guess,” Master Senej said, eyeing the wall and the guard tower with a frown.
“We’re likely going to have every guard in that tower on top of us, sir,” said Sergeant Nemiss. “But I don’t see any other way in.”
Master Senej passed the word for the archers. Hearing the command, Raistlin left his position at the rear of the line.
“I need to reach the master,” he said, and the men assisted him, hanging on to him as he edged his way along the narrow ledge.
“Cover us from up here until we can get down off the wall, then follow us in.” The master was giving his orders to the bowmen. “Be accurate, that’s all I have to say. Shoot to kill. The first scream and we’re done for.”
“No matter how accurate they are, their officers will find the bodies filled with arrows, sir,” Raistlin said, climbing down to stand beside the archers. “They’ll know we’re in the city.”
“Yes, but they won’t know where we’re hiding,” the master argued.
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