Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “Sir Nigel?” she risked calling.

  There was no answer. No help from that quarter. She had seen him buried beneath the mountain of rock. But his vow was fulfilled. He’d found a way to protect the eggs. A pity he hadn’t killed the dragon in the process. It was up to her now. She was on her own. As usual.

  She found her sword, partially buried in rubble. And she still had her knife. Immolatus had his magic—powerful, deadly magic. He was in his vulnerable human form, the path he walked was dark, his back was to her. His real back this time, not an illusion.

  Kitiara drew her knife from the top of her booth, rubbed the grit from her eyes, spit the dust from her mouth. Entering the corridor, she padded soft-footed after the dragon.

  17

  BREAKING RANKS, THE SOLDIERS SURGED THROUGH THE OPEN CITY gates, carrying the battering ram with them. Once inside, temporarily out of danger, they came to a halt, breathless and seething with anger as word spread like flaming dwarf spirits that men in the rear ranks had dropped down dead, with black-fletched arrows in their backs. Some in the forward companies actually turned around, headed out the gate, prepared to go back to the field and claim vengeance.

  Officers shouted, bullied, and tried to restore order, as the citizens of Hope’s End watched warily from the walls. They had been told these hardened mercenaries brought salvation, but the first sight of them—howling for blood—left the civilians pale and shaking. The lord mayor was put in mind of the old saying—better the kender in front of you than the kender with his hand in your back pocket. He was clearly regretting that he’d ever opened the gates to these cold-eyed professionals, swearing terrible oaths of death on those who had betrayed them.

  “Shut those gates!” the baron shouted from the back of his war-horse. The horse plunged and danced with excitement, nostrils flared, ears laid back, nipping at anyone who came too close. “Haul those wagons back in place! Archers, to the wall!

  “Those bastards!” he yelled to Commander Morgon, who—greatly daring—had caught hold of the horse’s bridle. “Did you see what they did? Fired at us when our backs were turned! By heavens, I’ll find that Commander Kholos and cut out his liver! I’ll have it with potatoes and onions!”

  “Yes, my lord. I saw, sir.” Commander Morgon calmed the horse, calmed the master at the same time. “You were right, Baron! I was wrong. I admit it freely.”

  “And don’t think I’m ever going to let you forget it! Ha, ha, ha!” The baron roared his manic laugh, which just about finished the terror-stricken citizens. “By Kiri-Jolith,” he added, glowering around him at the stamping, sword-clashing, swearing soldiers of his command, “these fools have gone berserk! I’ll have order restored, Commander Morgon! Now!”

  C Company had been responsible for clearing the barricades from the gates. The battering ram, pounding once on the gate, had been the signal for C Company to swing the gates wide open. Their two bowmen provided covering fire for their comrades, before retreating back inside the city in good order. C Company stood ready, poised for action, keeping themselves free of the tumult.

  “Shut the gates!” Master Senej commanded, hearing the baron’s order. “Keep everyone inside the city walls!”

  The men of C Company acted swiftly to obey. Some sprang to the gates. Others shoved or struck with the flat of their blades those soldiers who had lost all reason and were trying to leave the city in order to revenge their fallen comrades.

  “Stand there, Majere!” Sergeant Nemiss ordered, posting Caramon in the very center of the road, as the men worked to push the heavy wooden gates shut behind him. “Don’t let anyone past!”

  “Yes, sir.” Caramon took up his position, unmindful of enemy arrows, which were flying through the slowly closing gate. His massive legs spread to maintain his balance, his arm muscles flexed. Those who tried to get past him were either hurled backward, plucked off their feet, or—as a last extremity—given a gentle buffet on the head intended to restore them to their senses.

  The gates slammed shut. The flights of arrows ceased as the enemy paused to consider the unlooked-for situation and regroup.

  “What now, sir?” Commander Morgon asked. “Do we stay here under siege?”

  “That depends entirely on Kholos,” said the baron. “If you were him, what would you do, Morgon?”

  “I’d pull back my troops, establish my supply lines, and wait until everyone in the city starved to death, my lord,” Morgon replied.

  “Very good, Commander Morgon,” said the baron. “What do you think Kholos will do?”

  “Well, my lord, I think he’s going to be madder than a wet wyvern. My guess is that he will throw everything he’s got at us, try to breach the gates and cut us down where we stand.”

  “My thoughts precisely. I’m going up on the wall to take a look. Have the officers arrange their companies into column, center company leading, line companies to follow. You’ve got ten minutes and no more!”

  Commander Morgon ran off, shouting for his officers. He issued orders quickly. Soon the drums were beating, the trumpets braying. Sergeants yelled, kicked, and shoved the men into position. Reassured by the familiar sounds that promised discipline and order, the soldiers settled down and reformed into ranks with alacrity.

  “Do we put the barricades back in place, sir?” Master Senej asked.

  Commander Morgon glanced up at the wall where the baron stood in conference with the lord mayor and the city’s officers. Morgon shook his head. “No, Senej. I think I know what the baron has planned. Keep them ready just in case, though.”

  During the height of the confusion, Raistlin searched for Horkin. At first Raistlin was unable to find the master in the midst of the tumult and he began to be worried, especially when he heard of the casualties. The gates were swinging shut and Raistlin had begun to think that “dear Luni” had abandoned her drinking buddy, when he saw Horkin come lurching through the gate, lending an arm to a fellow soldier with an arrow shaft stuck clean through his leg. The man’s pain must have been intense, he could not put his foot to the ground without gasping and shuddering.

  “I’m glad to find you, sir!” Raistlin said earnestly. He had not known until that moment how much he valued the bluff and gruff Horkin.

  Raistlin added his arm to help share the burden of the wounded man. Between the two of them, they carried him to a quiet place beneath the trees, where more wounded had congregated. “I feared you were among the fallen. What happened out there?”

  “Treachery, Red,” said Horkin with a dark glance back out the gate. “Treachery and murder. We’ve been betrayed, there’s no doubt about it. As to the why and wherefore, I know nothing.” He cast Raistlin a shrewd glance. “It seems you might know more than I do, Red. The baron told me that you accompanied him to the mayor’s dwelling last night. He said you proved quite useful.”

  “I gave an old couple probably the best night’s rest they’ve had in years,” Raistlin returned dryly, “and that was the extent of my service. As to what the baron and the mayor discussed, I have no more knowledge than yourself. He sent me from the room.”

  “Don’t take it to heart, Red. That’s the baron all over. The fewer who know a secret, the more likely to keep a secret, that’s his motto. One reason he’s lived so long. And now”—Horkin looked about him—“what are we to do with the wounded?”

  “I was about to tell you, sir. I believe that I have found a place to shelter the wounded. Did you know that there is an old temple to Paladine in the city, sir?”

  “A temple to Paladine? Here?” Horkin rubbed his chin.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a safe distance from the fighting. If we could commandeer a wagon, we could transport the wounded in that.”

  “And why do you think this old temple would be a good place to house our wounded?” Horkin asked.

  “I saw the temple last night, sir. It seems, well …” Raistlin hesitated. “It seems a blessed place, sir.”

  “It might have been blessed once, Red,” said Ho
rkin with a sigh. “But not anymore.”

  “Who can tell, sir?” Raistlin said in a low voice. “You and I both know that one goddess has not left Krynn.”

  Horkin considered. “You say it’s a safe distance from the fighting?”

  “As safe as anything can be, sir,” Raistlin replied.

  “It must be old. Is it in ruins?”

  “It has certainly been neglected, sir. We would need to investigate further, of course, but the building seems to be in fairly good shape.”

  “I suppose it can’t hurt to go look at it,” said Horkin. “And who knows? Even if Paladine is long gone, perhaps there’s some residual holiness still hanging about. I just hope the roof is sound,” he added, glancing skyward. “There’ll be rain before nightfall. If the roof leaks, we’ll find someplace else, blessing or no blessing. Go check your temple out, Red. I’ll round up a wagon. Tell Sergeant Nemiss to give you an escort.”

  “I really don’t need anyone, sir,” Raistlin said.

  After spending the night dreaming of the temple bathed in silver moonlight, Raistlin was now more convinced than ever that Solinari had drawn the mage’s attention to the temple for a reason. Raistlin had no idea what that reason might be. He wanted to enter the temple alone, wanted to open himself to the will of the god. To do that, he needed to be attuned to whatever voice might choose to speak to him. He did not want some loud-mouthed clod stomping about, making crude remarks and offending whatever spirits might linger in the holy place.

  “You’ll probably want to take your brother with you,” said Horkin.

  “No, sir,” Raistlin returned emphatically, this being the clod he’d had in mind. The temple was his discovery, belonged to him. He conveniently forgot the fact that it was Caramon who had first seen the temple. “I really don’t need anyone—”

  “You’ll need a good fighter, Red,” Horkin said crisply. “Never know what you might find lurking about in an old temple. I’ll speak to Sergeant Nemiss. Perhaps she’ll even let you have Scrounger.”

  Raistlin gave an inward groan.

  The gray and lowering clouds, which had blanketed the city almost since the day the army had arrived, were blown to rags by a strong chill wind coming down from out of the mountain. The air temperature dropped precipitously, changing from early summer to late fall in a breath. Rain might fall tonight, as Horkin anticipated, but for now bright sunshine—so bright that it seemed newly minted—and crisp, fresh air lifted the hearts of those in the besieged city, although that hope dimmed somewhat when they looked over the walls to see the immense army of Commander Kholos marching to attack.

  The baron laid out his plan. It was met by dismay from the lord mayor and his officers at first, but they were soon persuaded that this was Hope’s End’s last hope. The baron left to put his plan into action, as the first black-fletched arrows launched over the walls.

  The refreshing wind dried the sweat on Caramon’s body, and he filled his lungs with it, expanding his muscular chest with each huge breath, much to the admiration of several housewives, who peeped at him from behind closed shutters. Caramon had at first been devastated at having to miss the fighting, but the thought of finding shelter for his wounded comrades somewhat mollified him.

  Scrounger was pleased with the assignment, figuring he would have been of little use in the upcoming battle anyway. He looked forward to investigating the temple and regaled them with stories of lost and forgotten treasure well known to lie hidden in such places.

  “You don’t suppose that someone might have thought to look for treasure in the last three hundred years or so,” Raistlin said sarcastically.

  He was in a bad mood. Everything irritated him, from the change in the weather to the company he was forced to keep. The wind caught at his robes, blew them around his ankles, nearly tripping him. The breeze was chill, set him shivering, and something in the air took him by the throat, made him cough so hard he had to lean against a building until he regained his strength.

  “If there’s treasure, there’s bound to be a guard on the treasure,” Scrounger said in a thrilled whisper. “You know what inhabits old temples, don’t you? The undead! Skeletal warriors. Ghouls. Maybe even a demon or two …”

  Caramon was starting to look uneasy. “Raist, maybe this isn’t such a—”

  “I promise to deal with any ghouls we meet, Caramon,” Raistlin said in a croaking voice.

  Behind them, they could hear the trumpets and the drums and a great shout, given by the men of the baron’s army.

  “That’s the signal to attack!” Caramon said, halting and looking back over his shoulder.

  “Which means that there will be more wounded,” said Raistlin, with a jab of conscience.

  Recalling the gravity of their mission, the three increased their pace. There was no further talk of undead or of treasure.

  Arriving back at the warehouse, they followed the street that led to the temple and easily found the building.

  “Is that the right place?” Caramon said, his brow wrinkled.

  “It has to be!” Raistlin began to cough.

  Last night, surrounded by darkness, the temple had seemed a place of awe and mystery. Viewed in the bright light of day, the temple was a disappointment. The columns supporting the roof were cracked. The roof itself sagged. The walls were stained and discolored, the courtyard drowning in weeds.

  Worn out and aching from his coughing fit, chilled to the bone, Raistlin was beginning to regret ever having seen the temple, much less suggesting it as a refuge for the wounded. The building was far more shabby and decrepit than he had imagined. Recalling Horkin’s injunction about the leaky roof, Raistlin doubted if there was a roof to the place at all. He could imagine this raw wind blowing a gale through the drafty ruins.

  “It was a mistake to come here,” he said.

  “No, it wasn’t, Raist,” Caramon said stoutly. “There’s a good feeling about this place. I like it. We’ll have to make sure it’s safe first, secure the perimeter.” He’d heard Sergeant Nemiss use that expression and had been waiting for an opportunity to use it himself. “Secure the perimeter,” he repeated with a relish.

  “What perimeter? There is no perimeter!” Raistlin returned crossly. “There is nothing but a dilapidated old building and a weed-covered courtyard.”

  He was extremely disappointed and he couldn’t understand why. What had he expected to find here? The gods?

  “The building looks to be sturdy enough. Solid architecture. I think it must have been built by dwarves,” Caramon stated with all the authority of one who knows absolutely nothing about the matter.

  “It must be solid, to stand all these centuries.” Scrounger added the voice of practicality.

  “We should at least go check it out,” Caramon urged.

  Raistlin hesitated. Last night, Solinari had seemed to point the way, had urged his disciple to come to this once-holy place. But that had been at night, in the moonlight, a time when the mind—so stolid and trustworthy during the daylight hours—gives way to its dream-side and twists the dark shadows into all varieties of fanciful, frightful forms. Last night, the building had seemed so beautiful, safe, blessed. Today, there was something sinister about it.

  He felt very strongly that he should turn away, leave in haste, and never come back.

  “You can stay here in the street where it’s safe, Raist,” Caramon said with well-meaning solicitude. “Scrounger and I’ll go take a look.”

  Raistlin shot his brother a glance that might have been one of the black-fletched arrows.

  “Did I say ‘safe’?” Caramon went red in the face, as red as if the arrow had pierced his forehead and drawn blood. “I meant ‘warm.’ That’s what I meant to say, Raist. I didn’t mean—”

  “Come along, the two of you,” Raistlin snapped. “I will take the lead.”

  Caramon opened his mouth to suggest that this was a rash course of action, that he—as the stronger and larger and better armed—should take the lead. At
the sight of his brother’s tightly drawn lips and glittering eyes, Caramon thought better of the notion and fell meekly into step behind.

  The courtyard provided no cover. They would be in sight and range of anyone hiding inside the temple. Raistlin was disturbed to see that some of the chickweed growing up through the flagstones was trampled and broken. Someone else had walked across this courtyard and recently at that. The broken stems were still green, the leaves only starting to wither.

  Raistlin pointed silently to the evidence that they might not be alone. Caramon put his hand to the hilt of his sword. Scrounger drew his knife. The three proceeded across the courtyard, eyes searching, ears pricked to catch the least sound. They heard nothing but the wind sweeping dead leaves into corners, saw nothing but the shadows of high, white clouds scuttle across the cracked flagstone. Drawing near the golden doors, Raistlin began to relax. If others had been here, they were gone now. The temple was deserted, he was certain.

  But on reaching the steps leading up to the temple, Raistlin noted that the golden doors, which he had thought were closed, actually stood slightly ajar, as if someone inside had opened the doors a crack to peep out at them.

  Seeing this, Caramon boldly took the lead, placing his body in front of his brother’s. “Let us look inside, Raist.”

  Drawing his sword, he ran up the stairs, flattened himself with his back against the wall near the door. Scrounger dashed after him, took his place on the opposite side of the door, his knife in his hand.

  “I don’t hear anything,” he said in a whisper.

  “I don’t see anything,” Caramon returned. “It’s dark as the Abyss in there.”

  He reached out his hand to press on the door, let in more light. As he did, the sun lifted above the city walls, a beam of sunshine struck the doors at the same time as did Caramon’s fingers, making it seem as if his touch was the sun’s touch. He burnished the gold, set it shining.