Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “They’ll start searching for us, sir. They’ll have all day to find us.”

  “Do you have a better way, Wizard?” The master glowered.

  “Yes, sir. My own way. I will see to it that we enter the city safely and secretly. No one will be the wiser.”

  The master and the sergeant were dubious. The only mage they trusted was Horkin and that was because he was more soldier than wizard. Neither of them liked Raistlin, they considered him weak and undisciplined. The coughing incident had only bolstered their bad opinion. But they had been ordered to take him and ordered to make use of him. The master and the sergeant exchanged glances.

  “Well, I don’t suppose we’ve got much to lose,” Master Senej said ungraciously.

  “Go ahead, Majere. You men”—Sergeant Nemiss glanced back at the archers—“keep your arrows nocked, just in case.” She did not add that the first person they should shoot if the mage betrayed them was the mage himself, but that pretty much went without saying.

  “How will you climb down there, Majere?” the sergeant asked.

  A good question. The Staff of Magius possessed a spell that would allow the caster to float through the air light as a feather. Raistlin had read about the spell in the book on Magius he’d discovered in the Tower of High Sorcery. He’d tried practicing it a couple of times. The first resulted in a nasty fall from a rooftop. The second had been a success. He had never jumped from such a height, however. He was not certain how far the spell would carry him. This did not appear to be the time to experiment.

  “I will climb down the same way I climbed up,” he said, and the word was passed for Caramon.

  Caramon secured a length of rope to a rock and tossed it over the edge.

  “Wait!” Sergeant Nemiss held them.

  One of the guards walking his beat on the wall passed right below them. They waited until he turned and began walking away.

  Raistlin climbed onto his twin’s broad back. Caramon grasped the rope with both hands, slid over the side, and began to rappel down the cliff face. They began their descent in shadow but soon passed into the light of the watch fires, reflecting off the cliff face.

  The soldiers on the ledge held their collective breath. All it would take was one guard in the tower to look casually out of the arrow slits that served as windows and they would be discovered.

  Raistlin looked over his shoulder at the wall and the tower. A guard’s bulk blotted out the light in the narrow opening.

  “Caramon, stop!” Raistlin breathed.

  Caramon held in his position. He could not remain here long, supporting himself and his twin. His arms were already tired. They quivered from the strain. He and Raistlin would be ideal targets dangling helplessly from the rope. Raistlin waited for the man to cry out, but he left the window. No alarm followed. He had not seen them.

  “Now!” Raistlin gasped.

  Caramon began his descent again. The last few feet, his arms gave out. He slid down the rope, peeling most of the skin from his palms, and landed heavily on the wall. Raistlin slid from his back and scrambled for cover. He and Caramon ducked into the shadow of the wall, waited, cringing, certain that someone must have heard them.

  The men inside the tower were talking loudly, arguing about something from the sound of it. They had not heard a thing. Raistlin peered down the length of the wall. The next guard tower was a good fifty yards distant. Nothing to worry about there.

  “What do you want me to do?” Caramon whispered.

  “Hand over your flask,” Raistlin said softly.

  “Flask?” Caramon tried to look innocent. “I don’t—”

  “Damn it, Caramon! Give me the flask of dwarf spirits you have stashed away in your pants. I know you carry it!”

  Wordlessly, chagrined, Caramon dug the small pewter flask from beneath his armor and handed it to his twin.

  “Wait for me here,” Raistlin ordered.

  “But, Raist, I—”

  “Hush!” Raistlin hissed. “Do as I say!”

  He left without further argument.

  Not knowing what his brother intended and fearing to imperil him by disobeying, Caramon remained crouched in the shadows, his hand on the hilt of his short sword.

  Raistlin crept silently along the wall until he reached the window of the guard tower. Inside, he could hear the guards talking. Raistlin paid no attention to anything they said. His entire concentration was focused on his spells. Kneeling beneath the slit in the wall, he drew forth a small box and slid open the lid. He called the words of the spell to mind, was gratified to note that the magic came to him immediately. His fear gone, he was amazed at his own calmness. He drew out a pinch of sand and tossed it in through the opening, spoke the words of magic.

  The voices slid into incoherence, then silence. Something fell to the floor and broke with a loud crash. Raistlin cringed, waited a moment, just to make certain that the noise had not attracted attention. No one came to investigate. These guards were probably the only people in the tower. Cautiously Raistlin rose to his feet and looked inside.

  Three men sprawled on a wooden table, deep in a magical slumber. The crash he’d heard was a mug, fallen from a nerveless hand. The arrow slit was too narrow for a man to enter. Raistlin uncorked the flask, tossed it into the room. The flask landed square on the table. The potent liquor sloshed over the table, dripped onto the floor. The place soon reeked of dwarf spirits.

  Raistlin paused a moment to admire his handiwork. When the officer of the watch arrived, he would find three guards who had hoped to ease the monotony of their watch by a taste of spirits, only to imbibe a bit too much. Preferable to the officer finding three of his men had suddenly fallen sound asleep while on guard duty. Much preferable to the officer finding three guards with arrows sticking out of their backs.

  When they wakened, the three would deny they had been drinking. No one will believe them. They would be punished for their dereliction in duty, perhaps even executed. Raistlin looked at them. One of the men was quite young, maybe not even seventeen. The other two were older, family men, perhaps, with wives at home, waiting, worrying …

  Raistlin lowered himself from the window. These men were the enemy. He could not allow them to become people.

  These three guards were settled for the night. The other guard had vanished into the shadows. Running soft-footed, Raistlin returned to his brother.

  “All is well,” he reported.

  “What happened to the guards?” Caramon asked.

  “No time for explanations!” Raistlin said. “Hurry! Bring the men down.”

  Caramon tugged three times on the rope.

  A few moments later, the Tumbler shimmied down the rope, followed by the sergeant.

  “The tower?” she asked.

  “All is well, sir,” Raistlin reported.

  Sergeant Nemiss twitched an eyebrow. “Tumbler, go look,” she said.

  Angry words came to Raistlin’s lips. He had sense enough to eat them, choke them back down. He stood in silence while the sergeant checked up on him.

  “They’re all taking a snooze, sir,” Tumbler reported, grinning. He winked at Raistlin.

  “Good,” was all Sergeant Nemiss said, but she granted Raistlin a look of approval, then tugged on the rope. Scrounger slid down next, his grin wide and excited. The sergeant issued orders.

  “Tumbler, find a good place to send the men over the wall. Scrounger, keep watch on that other tower.”

  The first signs of gray sky hinted that morning was very close. Tumbler peered over the edge of the far side of the wall. He returned to report that below them was an alleyway behind a large building, perhaps the very warehouse they were hoping to use for a hiding place.

  “No one about, sir,” he stated.

  “There soon will be,” the sergeant muttered. Her troops were still in shadows, but day was dawning with what seemed cruel rapidity. “Get the men down there fast.” She glanced out in the direction of the besieging armies. “Where’s that da
mn diversion we were promised?”

  The men slid along the rope swiftly. Caramon remained at the wall, ready to assist the soldiers to make a silent landfall. He sent them across the ramparts. Tumbler tied a length of rope around one of the wall’s crenellations, held the rope fast while the men slithered down the wall and ran down the alley. One of the men waved his arm and pointed at the building. Apparently they had found a way to enter.

  “Sir!” Scrounger reported. “Someone’s coming from the other tower! Walking this way!”

  The sergeant swore. Most of the men had descended, but five still remained on the rock ledge, including Master Senej. And there was still no sound or sign of the promised attack from their allies.

  “It’s probably an officer,” the sergeant said, “making his rounds. I’ll go—” She drew her knife.

  “I’ll handle him, sir,” Raistlin offered.

  “Wizard! No—” the sergeant began.

  But Raistlin was gone, keeping to the shadows, moving so silently he melded with the darkness.

  The sergeant started to go after him.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Caramon said with dignity, laying a hand on the sergeant’s arm, restraining her, “but Raist said he’d deal with the guard. He hasn’t let you down yet.”

  A large wooden water barrel banded by rings of iron stood on the wall, kept there to put out fires should the enemy hurl flaming missiles. Raistlin crouched behind the water barrel, watched as the officer approached. He walked with his head down, deep in thought. He had only to lift his head and, if his eyesight was quite good, he would see the thin length of rope descending from the rock. All would be over.

  “Master! Come quickly!”

  The man’s head snapped up. He did not look in front of him. He looked behind him, in the direction of the sound of the voice.

  “Master! Make haste! The enemy!”

  The officer hesitated, staring back at the tower he’d just left. Then, with perfect timing, the diversion came. Trumpets sounded, off-key and tinny, the sweetest music Raistlin had ever heard. The master-at-arms, now convinced of an imminent attack, turned and dashed back along the ramparts.

  Raistlin smiled, pleased with himself. He hadn’t used his ventriloquism skills in a long time, not since his days of working the local fairs. Good to know that he hadn’t lost his talent.

  By the time he returned, most of the company was over the wall and into the city. The sergeant had gone with them, along with Master Senej, leaving only Caramon and Tumbler.

  A thought occurred to Caramon. “How will you get down?” he asked Tumbler.

  “Same as you. The rope,” Tumbler replied.

  “But then, who’s going to stay up here and untie the other end?” Caramon argued. “Someone has to, otherwise they’ll know we’re here!”

  “A good point,” said Tumbler solemnly. “Why don’t you stay up here and untie the rope after I’m down.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” Caramon said, then he frowned. “But how will I get down if I untie the rope?”

  “That’s a problem,” said Tumbler, appearing concerned. “I don’t suppose you can fly? No? Then I guess you’ll have to let me worry about it.”

  Shaking his head, still concerned, Caramon climbed down the rope, his brother clinging to his twin’s broad back. Tumbler waited until they were down, then he followed, shinnying down the rope with ease. Arriving at the bottom, he looked back up at the rope, which was tied firmly to the crenellation. Tumbler gave the rope a jerk. The knot came loose. The rope slithered down the wall and landed at his feet. Tumbler looked over at the two and winked.

  “He said that knot was tight!” Caramon cried, aghast. “We could have been killed!”

  “Come along, Caramon,” Raistlin ordered irritably. His exhilaration was fading. The weakness that set in after his use of magic was starting to affect him. “You’ve wasted enough time proving to the world that you’re a fool.”

  “But, Raist, I don’t understand …”

  Still talking, Caramon trailed after his twin.

  Tumbler coiled the rope over his shoulder and hurried after them. He ducked into the warehouse just as the city woke in an uproar to prepare for the coming assault.

  12

  ONCE THE WAREHOUSE WAS TAKEN, SECURED, SEARCHED, AND DEEMED as safe a hiding place as could possibly be found inside an enemy city under siege, the sergeant of C Company set the watch and told the rest to get some sleep. Raistlin was already deep in an exhausted slumber, worn out from the physical exertion and the rigors of his spell-casting.

  Those keeping lookout tried hard to ignore the snoring of their comrades. The guards walked off their tiredness, pacing the length of the empty warehouse floor, pausing now and then to glance out the windows or exchange soft snatches of conversation. By the end of the watch, they were nodding at their posts, eyes closing and heads falling forward only to snap awake in sudden alertness at the sound of a footstep in the street or a rat in the rafters.

  The morning passed without incident. Few people walked the streets in this part of town. The gate tax had shut down the markets, emptied the warehouses of their goods. The only civilians who ventured past were apparently on their way somewhere else, for they looked neither to the left nor to the right but continued on, their heads bowed with trouble. Once four guards marched into view, causing those on watch to lay their hands on their swords and prepare to wake their comrades. But the guards kept on going and the watch looked at each other, nodded, and grinned. The mage’s tactics had apparently been successful. No one knew that the town’s defense had been breached. No one knew they were here.

  The rain ceased with the dawn. The midday sun rose high overhead. Raistlin slept as though he might never waken, his twin keeping watch over his brother. The rest of the men either continued their slumbers or lounged on the floor, glad of the chance to do nothing for a change, resting up for what was likely going to be a long and dangerous night.

  Except Scrounger.

  Scrounger was much more human than kender. The kender blood in him ran thin, but there were times when it would bubble up to the surface and break out all over him like a bad rash. The particular itch tormenting him at the moment was boredom. A bored kender is a dangerous kender, as anyone on Ansalon will tell you. A bored half-kender might be said to be only half as dangerous. However, those in the presence of a bored half-kender would do well to loosen their swords in their sheaths and be ready for trouble.

  Scrounger’d had his fill of sleep; he needed little sleep as it was, and after four hours he was up and ready for action.

  Action was a long way off, unfortunately. Scrounger whiled away an hour searching the warehouse from ceiling to cellar in hopes of finding something that might come in handy for bartering. Judging by the dust and chaff on the floor, the warehouse had been used as a granary. All Scrounger came across were some empty bags, the rats having done their own scrounging.

  Returning empty-handed from his foraging, Scrounger attempted to engage Caramon in conversation, but was sharply and angrily “shushed!,” told to keep his mouth shut so that he wouldn’t wake Raistlin. It appeared to Scrounger that nothing short of a gnomic Steam-powered Screaming Window Washing device, such as he had seen once, when younger, would wake the mage.

  Reminded of the device, Scrounger had been going to relate the interesting story to Caramon, all about how the device had not only failed to clean the windowpanes but had broken every one of them in the process. The owners of the windows had been furious and were about to set upon the gnomes, who, however, pointed out that the paneless windows now provided a perfectly clear and unobstructed view of the outdoors, which was all that the contract required. Proclaiming their machine a success, the gnomes left town. Another group of gnomes from the GlaziersGlassSpunandBlownMirrorsaSpecialtySevenYearsBadLuck Committee had arrived shortly after (they made it a policy to follow the windowwashers), but had been turned away at the border.

  Caramon shushed Scrounger again,
right at the interesting part where the gnomes set off their machine and the mayor’s ears had started to bleed. The half-kender wandered off.

  Scrounger made another desultory round of the warehouse, occasionally falling over a slumbering body lying unseen in the shadows, to be kicked and damned to the Abyss. In a sunlit corner, Master Senej and Sergeant Nemiss were hunched over a map, plotting the night’s attack. Here, at least, was something interesting. Scrounger stood near, peering down at the map.

  “This is the main street leading to the north gate. According to this map,” the master was saying, “this building standing right here will provide excellent cover for the men right up until the time they have to break out into the open to attack.”

  “And I’m saying, sir, that one of our spies told us this building burned down a month ago,” Sergeant Nemiss argued. “You can’t count on it being there. And if it’s not there, we’re in the open all the way from this block to the gate.”

  “There are trees here. …”

  “They’ve been cut down, sir.”

  “According to your spy.”

  “I know you don’t think much of him, sir, and I admit that he failed to warn us about the catapults, but—”

  “Wait a minute, Sergeant.” Aware of a shadow falling over the map, Master Senej looked up. “Can we help you, soldier?”

  “I can go,” Scrounger offered, ignoring the sarcasm. “I can go see if the house is still there and if the trees have been cut down. Please, sir. I really need to be doing something. I have this itching in my hands and my feet.”

  “Trenchfoot,” the master said, frowning.

  “Not trenchfoot, sir,” said Sergeant Nemiss. “Kender. Half-kender, that is.”

  The master’s frown darkened.

  “I could be there and back in two shakes of a griffon’s tail, sir,” Scrounger pleaded.

  “Out of the question,” Master Senej said shortly. “The risk that you’d be noticed and caught is too great.”

  “But, sir—” Scrounger begged.

  The master glowered. “Perhaps we should tie him up.”