Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  What had happened to King Wilhelm? Why was he intent on destroying this city and its inhabitants? Was it possible that the king had a good reason? Was this mayor telling the truth or, finding his city in a now untenable position, was this all a complete fabrication? The baron marched and Raistlin watched in silence, curious as to the outcome.

  In the end, he was not to know it. The baron halted at a midpoint.

  “I have made my decision,” he said, his tone heavy. “Now tell me the truth, Your Honor. How many servants do you have in the house and where are they?”

  “Two, my lord,” the mayor said meekly. “A married couple, who have been with me a long, long time. You need fear nothing from them, sir. They both sleep soundly and would not waken if the city wall fell on them.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” the baron said gravely. “Wizard, find these servants and see to it that they continue to slumber.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Raistlin said, as he was bound to say, though he was extremely loath to leave.

  “After that, go tell my guards that I will be ready to depart shortly.”

  “He won’t hurt them?” the mayor asked anxiously, referring to the servants.

  “He won’t hurt them,” the baron replied.

  The mayor was pale and unhappy, dismayed by the baron’s dark and frowning expression and his ominous words. He supplied directions on where to find the servants. Raistlin lingered a moment longer, hoping the baron would give some hint as to his intentions. He waited so long that the baron glanced his way, frowning. Raistlin had no choice but to carry out the order or face an angry reprimand.

  “These servants are probably fast asleep,” Raistlin fumed as he ascended the stairs to the servants’ quarters, a small room with a single gabled window located in the top part of the house, not far below the stork’s nest. “Sending me to deal with them was just an excuse. The baron doesn’t trust me, that’s what it is. He has manufactured this fool’s errand in order to get rid of me. He would have allowed Horkin to remain.”

  As it turned out, the baron’s instincts were accurate. Perhaps he had heard some sound that had indicated the servants might be stirring. Raistlin opened the door to the bedroom to find the middle-aged retainer seated on the edge of the bed, tugging on his boots while his wife poked him in the back, saying frantically that she was certain someone was in the house.

  Raistlin cast his spell just as the wife caught sight of him in the moonlight. Sleep closed her mouth over her scream. The husband dropped the other boot with a clunk and fell back on the bed. The spell would last a long time. Just to be safe, however, Raistlin locked the door and carried away the key, which he would afterward deposit on the kitchen table.

  Somewhat mollified by the fact that there had indeed been danger of discovery, Raistlin returned to the kitchen, where he found Caramon keeping watch out the back window.

  “Where’s Scrounger?”

  “He went to the front to make sure no one came in that way.”

  “I’ll go fetch him. The baron says that he will be ready to leave shortly. You are to make certain the way is secure.”

  “Sure, Raist. What did he decide to do? Are we going to attack?”

  “Does it matter one way or the other to us, my brother?” Raistlin asked indifferently. “We are being paid to obey orders, not question them.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” said Caramon. “Still, aren’t you curious to know?”

  “Not in the least,” Raistlin said and left to retrieve Scrounger.

  The baron gave no hint as to his intentions on their way back. The streets were empty. They took no chances but kept close to buildings, paused to look searchingly down side streets and alleyways before they passed them. They were about to cross the last street, the warehouse directly ahead of them, when Caramon, who had been walking in the lead, caught a glow of light from the corner of his eye and fell back against the side of an abandoned house.

  “What is it?” the baron whispered.

  “Light. Down at the end of the street,” Caramon whispered. “It wasn’t there when we left.”

  Motioning the others to remain in the shadows, the baron looked around the corner in the direction Caramon had indicated.

  “I’ll be blessed,” he said softly, awed. “You have to come see this!”

  The others stepped around him into the street. They halted, stared, struck by the sight, even to the point of forgetting that they were standing out in the open.

  At the end of the street stood a building, a decaying, tumbledown building, that must have, at one time, been lovely. The remnants of graceful columns supported a roof decorated with carvings, whose images had been obliterated, either by time’s blows or man’s. The building was surrounded by a courtyard, its flagstones broken and overrun with weeds. Caramon would have walked right past this relic, taken no notice of it at all, had it not been for the moonlight.

  Either by design or by accident, the building captured Solinari’s moonbeams and held them within the stone, as a child captures fireflies in a jar, causing the building to shimmer with an argent radiance.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” said the baron in a voice that was hushed and reverent.

  “Me neither,” said Scrounger. “It’s so beautiful it makes me hurt, right here.” He laid his hand over his heart.

  “Is it magic, Raist?” Caramon asked.

  “Enchantment, surely.” Raistlin spoke in a whisper, fearful that the sound of his voice might break the spell. “Enchantment,” he repeated, “yet not magic.”

  “Huh?” Caramon was confused. “What other kind of magic is there?”

  “Once there was the magic of the gods,” Raistlin said.

  “Of course!” the baron exclaimed. “That must be the Temple of Paladine. I saw it marked on the map. Probably one of the few temples to the old god left standing in all of Ansalon.”

  “The Temple of Paladine,” Raistlin repeated. He glanced at Solinari, the silver moon. According to legend, the son of Paladine. “Yes, that would explain it.”

  “I must pay my respects before we depart,” the baron said.

  Recalling that they had urgent matters to decide before morning, he continued on his way to the warehouse. Caramon and Scrounger followed. Raistlin trailed behind them all. When they came to the warehouse, he paused at the door for a last look at the wondrous sight. His gaze left the temple, again drawn to the silver moon, to Solinari.

  The god of the silver moon had appeared to Raistlin before now; all three of the gods, Solinari, Lunitari, and Nuitari had honored the young mage with their attention. It was to Lunitari that Raistlin owed his primary allegiance, but a wizard who chooses to worship one of the siblings must in some part of his soul worship the other two.

  Raistlin had always honored Solinari, though the young mage had the idea that the god of White Magic did not entirely approve of him. Gazing at the temple shining in the silver moonlight, Raistlin had the sudden impression that Solinari had lit the temple purposely, to call their attention to it as one might light a beacon fire. If that was true, did the light burn to warn them away from a perilous lee shore or was the light placed there to guide them through the storm?

  “Raist?” Caramon’s voice shattered his brother’s reverie. “Say, guys, have you see my brother? He was right behind me … Oh, there you are. I was worried. Where have you been? Still looking at that old temple, huh? Gives you a kind of strange feeling inside, doesn’t it?

  “You know, Raist,” Caramon added impulsively, “I’d like to go inside there, walk around. I know it’s a temple to an old god who’s not with us anymore, but I think if I went inside, I’d find the answer to my most important questions.”

  “I doubt seriously if the temple could tell you when your next meal is going to be,” Raistlin said.

  He did not know why, but he was always provoked beyond reason when Caramon spoke aloud what Raistlin had been thinking.

  A cloud drifted across t
he moon, a piece of black cloth dropped over the silver orb. The temple disappeared, lost in the darkness. If it had ever known the answers to life’s mysteries, the temple had long ago forgotten them.

  “Hunh.” Caramon grunted. “You better come inside, Raist. We’re not supposed to be out here. Against orders.”

  “Thank you, Caramon, for reminding me of my duty,” Raistlin returned, pushing past his twin.

  “Sure, Raist,” Caramon said cheerfully. “Any time.”

  In a corner of the warehouse, Master Senej and Sergeant Nemiss were meeting with the baron. They spoke in low tones. No one could hear what they said, not even Scrounger, who’d been caught lurking behind a barrel by an irritated Sergeant Nemiss and sent off to stand watch as punishment. The soldiers studied the faces of the three, searching in the shifting expressions for some sign of the baron’s intentions.

  “Whatever it is the baron’s saying,” Caramon said softly, “Master Senej doesn’t look happy about it.”

  Master Senej was frowning and shaking his head. He was overheard to say, “don’t trust” in loud and stern tones. Sergeant Nemiss was apparently not pleased, either, for she made an emphatic gesture with her hand, as if throwing away something. The baron listened to their arguments, appeared to consider them. Eventually, however, he shook his head. A slicing motion of his hand ended the debate.

  “You have your orders, master,” he said, for everyone in the warehouse to hear.

  “Yes, sir,” Master Senej replied.

  “Tumbler,” the sergeant called. “The baron’s ready to leave now. You’ll escort the baron back to camp.”

  “Yes, sir. Do I come back here, sir?”

  “There won’t be time before the attack,” the sergeant said, her voice deliberately calm and even.

  The men glanced at each other. The attack was going forward. Few said anything, either in pleasure or disappointment. They had come to fight, and fight was what they would do.

  Tumbler saluted and gathered up his coil of rope.

  He and the baron departed. Sergeant Nemiss and Major Senej conferred for a few moments longer, then the sergeant went to check the watch. The master lay down on the floor, pulled his hat over his face.

  The men followed his example. Caramon was soon snoring loudly, so loudly that Sergeant Nemiss kicked him, told him to roll over and quit making such a racket; they could probably hear him in Solamnia.

  Scrounger slept curled up in a tight, compact ball, rather like a dormouse, even to putting his hands over his eyes.

  Raistlin, who had slept most of the day, was not tired. He sat with his back against the wall and recited his spells, over and over, until he had them fixed firmly in his mind.

  The words of magic were still on his lips when sleep stole upon him, bringing him dreams of a temple bathed in silver moonlight.

  14

  PUNY HUMAN BODY, MY ASS!” KIT MUTTERED, ON THE TRAIL OF the dragon.

  Having heard Immolatus complain bitterly about having to walk half a block from the inn to the tavern, Kitiara had figured she would catch up with him at the first creek where he’d stop to soak his aching feet. His track was easy to find—branches broken, bushes hacked to shreds, weeds trampled. The dragon was traveling at a pace that astonished Kit, left her far behind at the outset of the chase. Concentrating intently on his goal, Immolatus appeared to have forgotten he had taken human form. In his mind, he was barreling through the forest with lashing tail and crushing claws.

  Already tired, Kit had to push herself to try to overtake him, for she wanted to catch him in the wilderness, before he reached the cavern where he could safely transform back to his old dragony self. And she had to catch him before night fell, for he could see in the dark and she could not.

  Once Kit made up her mind to action, she set about her task resolutely, swiftly, with no second thoughts or hesitation. Self-doubt was a weakness, tiny cracks in the foundation that would someday bring down the wall; faulty links in the chain mail would allow the arrow to penetrate. Tanis had been afflicted with this weakness. He constantly questioned, constantly analyzed his own actions and reactions. Kit had found this habit of his particularly annoying, and had tried constantly to break him of it.

  “When you decide to do a thing, do it!” she had scolded him. “Don’t dither and blather and mull over it. Don’t dive into the river and then flounder about wondering if you’re going to sink. You will sink if you do that. Jump in and start swimming. And never look back to shore.”

  “I suppose it’s the elf blood in me,” Tanis had replied. “Elves never make any major decisions until they have thought the matter over for at least a year or two, gone round to all their friends and relatives and discussed the problem, done research, read tomes, consulted the sages.”

  “And what happens then?” Kit had demanded, still irritated.

  “By then they’ve usually forgotten what it was they meant to do in the first place,” he had replied, smiling.

  She had laughed; he could always tease her out of a bad humor. She did not laugh now and she was sorry she’d thought about him again. The one time Tanis had made up his mind to act was the decision he’d made to leave her. Taking her own advice, she put him out of her mind and continued on.

  Kit had one advantage over the dragon in that she knew where she was going. With her usual thoroughness and attention to detail, she’d drawn an excellent map, using landmarks as guide-posts and keeping track of the distance by counting her paces. “Seventy paces from the lightning-struck oak to the bear’s-head rock. Turn left on the deer path, cross the stream, travel up the cliff to the high ledge.” Immolatus had studied the map, but he hadn’t taken it with him. Probably because the dragon was not accustomed to using a map. You have little need to know trails over streams if you’re flying far above those streams. Her thinking proved correct. She’d been following his trail for about three hours when she came across a place where had deviated from her directions. He had realized his mistake and doubled back, but he’d lost a considerable amount of time and Kit had gained it.

  She traveled swiftly, but not carelessly. She kept silent as possible, watched her footing so that she did not step on a dry stick or crash noisily through the underbrush. She would see him long before he heard or saw her. She had transferred the knife from her boot to her belt, within easy reach. He would never know what hit him.

  As for the dragon, he left a trail a blind gully dwarf could have followed: footprints in the mud, broken tree limbs, and once even a bit of red cloth, torn from his robes, caught in a bramble bush. Drawing near the mountains, entering the foothills, she found fewer signs of the dragon’s passing, but that was to be expected on the hard, rock-strewn ground. Here were no twigs to bend, no mud in which to heedlessly place a booted foot. Still, she was certain she was on the right track. Immolatus was, after all, following her directions.

  Shadows lengthened. Kit was footsore and tired, hungry and frustrated. She had only another hour of daylight left. The thought of giving up, of calling it quits, came to mind. Ambition dug his spurs into her flanks and drove her on.

  The sun was setting. She followed the sheepherder’s trail she had marked on her map, a trail that meandered up and down the rolling foothills. The sheep and their herders had fled to the safety of the city with the coming of war, but they had left their marks on the mountainside. She paused to rest from the heat in a small hut made snug with hay, drank from a waterskin dropped in the mad scramble to seek the shelter of the city walls. She was negotiating her way across a small, swift-rushing stream, taking care not to lose her footing. Instinct, or perhaps a smell or a sound, caused her to pause where she was, steady herself on the slippery rocks, look ahead instead of at her feet.

  Immolatus stood not twenty paces from her, farther up the path that wound along the side of a steep cliff. His back was turned. Kit recalled the map, remembered that at this point, one had to leave the path behind, begin the ascent into the mountains. The trail would look temptin
g, compared to climbing up into rough and rocky terrain. The path was deceptive, looked as if it would lead the way the dragon wanted to go. Kit had seen from her vantage point atop the mountain that the sheep trail led, as one might expect, to a small grassy valley. Immolatus was trying to decide which route to take, trying to call the map to memory.

  Caught out in the open, inwardly cursing, Kitiara clasped the knife’s hilt and prepared a charming smile, ready to greet the dragon joyfully when he turned around to find her stalking him. She had her excuse prepared—urgent information from Commander Kholos about the disposition of the troops. She’d heard from the soldiers in camp that a mercenary force had sneaked into the city during the previous night, was planning to attack the city from the inside at dawn, while Kholos and his troops attacked from the outside. She thought the dragon should be informed of this important development, and so forth and so on.

  Immolatus did not turn around.

  Kitiara watched him warily, wondering if this was a trick. He must have heard her splashing through the creek; she did not see how he could have missed hearing her. She had been proceeding carefully, but her attention had of necessity been concentrated more on not falling in the water than on moving with silent stealth.

  Immolatus remained standing with his head bowed, his back turned, studying his shoes or the trail or perhaps even taking a piss.

  This was a lucky break obviously. Kit did not question her luck, prepared to take advantage of it. Queen Takhisis was going to go into battle minus one red dragon. Kit took hold of the knife’s blade, balanced, aimed, and threw.

  She was dead on her target. The knife passed right between Immolatus’s shoulder blades. Passed through the shoulder blades and kept going, its steel blade catching the sunlight as its flight carried it beyond her sight. She heard steel hit rock with a small metallic clang, a scraping sound, and then nothing.