Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  Kholos held his ground and it seemed that he alone might yet turn the tide of battle. Heavily armored, he scorned to use a shield, fought with two weapons, a longsword in one hand and a dirk in the other. He thrust and slashed, seeming to use very little effort. Three men fell to the ground before him, one with his skull cleaved in two, another decapitated, the third from a dirk stab to the heart.

  So formidable was Kholos that Center Company’s advance faltered. The most experienced of the veterans fell back before him. The baron halted, shocked at the sight of that goblinish face twisted into a horrible smile, a smile made hideous with battle-lust and the delight in killing.

  “You betrayed us!” the baron roared. “By Kiri-Jolith, I swear that I’ll nail your head to my tent post this night! And spit on it in the morning!”

  “Mercenary scum.” Trampling bodies beneath his feet, Kholos strode forward. “I challenge you to single combat! A fight to the death! If you’ve the stomach for it, you cheap sell-sword.”

  The baron’s face split into a grin. “I accept!” he yelled. Glancing behind him, he shouted, “You men know what to do!”

  “Yes, sir,” Commander Morgon bellowed.

  The baron marched forward to meet his foe. His men held back, watching grimly.

  Kholos swung a vicious blow with his longsword, but he was used to fighting taller enemies. The sword whistled clean over the head of the baron, who crouched low and made a running dive for Kholos’s knees. The move took Kholos completely by surprise. The baron barreled into Kholos, took him down to the ground.

  “Now!” shouted Commander Morgon.

  The soldiers of Center Company rushed forward, leapt on top of the fallen commander, swords slashing and stabbing.

  The baron crawled out from under the crush.

  “Are you hurt, my lord?” Commander Morgon asked, assisting the baron to stand.

  “I don’t think so,” said the baron. “I think this is mostly his blood. I can’t believe that bastard thought I’d actually fight him in honorable combat! Ha, ha, ha!”

  Morgon waded back into the fray, grabbed hold of his soldiers, pulled them back.

  “All right, boys! Fun’s over. I think the bastard’s dead.”

  The men gradually fell back, breathing hard, bloody but grinning. The baron walked over to look at the body of the commander, weltering in his own blood, his eyes staring skyward, a look of utter surprise on his yellow, goblin face.

  The baron nodded in grim satisfaction, then turned, his sword in his hand. “Our work’s not done yet, men—” he began.

  “I’m not so sure of that, my lord,” said Commander Morgon. “Look at that, will you, sir?”

  The baron looked around the field. The officers of Kholos’s command staff who were not dead or wounded were on their knees, hands raised in surrender. The rest of the enemy was fleeing the field, running for the shelter of the woods, the baron’s men in pursuit.

  “It’s a rout, sir!” said Morgon.

  The baron frowned. Caught up in their own battle-lust, his troops had broken ranks, were scattered all over the field. The enemy was on the run now, but it would take only one courageous and level-headed officer to halt the rout, regroup his men, and turn defeat into victory.

  “The bugler?” The baron looked around. “Where in the name of Kiri-Jolith is my goddamned bugler?”

  “I think he was killed, my lord,” said Morgon.

  The sight of sunshine gleaming off brass caught the baron’s eye. Among the enemy officers stood a boy, shivering and frightened, a bugle clutched in his white-knuckled hand.

  “Bring me that boy!” the baron commanded.

  Commander Morgon grabbed hold of the boy, dragged him forward. The boy fell to his knees in abject terror.

  “Stand up and look at me, blast you. Do you know ‘A Posey from Abanasinia’?” the baron demanded.

  The boy slowly and fearfully regained his feet, stared at the baron in blank astonishment.

  “Do you know it, boy?” the baron roared. “Or don’t you?”

  The boy gave a trembling nod. The tune was a common one.

  “Good!” The baron smiled. “Sound the first chorus, and I’ll let you go.”

  The boy shivered, panicked, confused.

  “It’s all right, son,” the baron said, his voice softening. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “My regiment uses that tune as Recall. Go ahead and blow it.”

  Reassured, the boy brought his instrument to his lips. The first note was a failure. The baron winced. Gamely, the boy licked his lips and tried again. The clear sounds of the call cut across the sounds of battle and pursuit.

  “Good, boy, good!” the baron said with approval. “Repeat it, and keep repeating it!”

  The boy did as he was told. The familiar call brought the men to their senses. They broke off the attack, looked around for their officers, began to reform into ranks.

  “March them back to the city, Morgon,” the baron ordered. “Pick up any of our wounded on the way.” He cast a grim glance in the direction of the enemy encampment. “We may have to do this all over again tomorrow.”

  “I doubt it, my lord,” said Morgon. “Their officers are either dead or our prisoners. The soldiers will wait for nightfall, then break camp and head for home. There won’t be a tent standing there by morning.”

  “A wager on that, Morgon?”

  “A wager, my lord.”

  The two clasped hands. “This is one bet I hope I lose,” said the baron.

  Morgon ran off to organize the withdrawal. The baron was about to follow, realized that the trumpet was still blowing raucously and desperately.

  “Very good, son,” the baron said. “You can stop blowing now.”

  The boy lowered his trumpet hesitantly to his side.

  The baron nodded, waved his hand. “Run along, lad. I said I’d let you go. You’re free. No one will hurt you.”

  The boy didn’t move. He stood staring at the baron, wide-eyed.

  The baron, shrugging, started to walk away.

  “Sir, sir!” the boy called. “Can I join your army?”

  The baron stopped, looked back. “How old are you, boy?”

  “Eighteen, sir,” he answered.

  “You mean thirteen, don’t you?”

  The boy hung his head.

  “You’re too young for a life like this, son. You’ve seen too much death already. Go home to your ma. Likely she’s worried sick about you.”

  The boy didn’t budge.

  The baron shook his head, resumed walking. He heard footsteps patter along behind him. He sighed again, but did not turn around.

  “My lord, are you all right?” Master Senej asked.

  “Dead tired,” the baron answered. “And I hurt all over. But otherwise unharmed, praise be to my god.” He glanced behind him, motioned the officer to come near. “Can you use some help, Senej?”

  The master nodded. “Yes, my lord. We’ve got a lot of wounded, not to mention all these prisoners. I could definitely use another hand.”

  The baron jerked his thumb back at the boy. “You’ve got one. Go with Master Senej, boy. Do as you’re told.”

  “Yes, my lord!” The boy smiled tremulously. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Shaking his head, the baron trudged across the field, heading back to the city of Hope’s End, whose bells were ringing in wild triumph.

  21

  A GLORIOUS FIGHT, RED!” HORKIN SAID, GLEEFULLY RUBBING HIS hands, which were black with flash powder. He came through the gates with the first of the wounded, to find his apprentice waiting for him. “You should have been there.”

  Horkin gazed intently at Raistlin. “I take that back. Looks like you saw some action yourself, Red. What happened?”

  “Do we really have time to waste on this, sir?” Raistlin asked. “With all these wounded to care for? I found the temple. I think it would be an excellent shelter, but I’d like you to take a look at it.”

  “Perhaps you’re
right,” said Horkin, giving Raistlin a searching glance.

  “This way, sir,” said Raistlin and turned away.

  Raistlin explained that the temple had been shaken by tremors, nothing unusual for this region, according to the citizens. Horkin examined the temple, studied the pillars and the walls and finally deemed it sound. All that was needed now was a source for water. A search revealed a well of clear, cold springwater at the rear of the temple. Horkin gave orders that the wounded should be brought to this restful place.

  The wagons bearing the wounded trundled through the streets. The grateful citizens crowded around with offers of blankets, food, bedding, medicines. Soon blankets covered the temple floor in neat and even rows. The surgeon plied his tools. Raistlin and Horkin and skilled healers from the city worked among the men, doing what they could to ease their pain and make them comfortable.

  No miracles of healing occurred in the temple. Some of the soldiers died, others lived, but it did seem to Horkin’s mind that those who died were more at peace and that the wounded who survived healed much more rapidly and completely than could have been expected.

  The first order of business for the baron was to visit the wounded. He came as he was, fresh from the battlefield—grimy, bloody, some of the blood his own, most of it his enemy’s. Though he was near to falling with exhaustion, he did not show it. He did not rush his visit, but took time to say a few words to each one of the casualities. He called all the soldiers by name, recalled his courage in the field. He seemed to have personally witnessed each valorous act. He promised the dying he would support their families. Raistlin would afterward learn that this was a vow the baron held sacred.

  His visit to the wounded concluded, the baron paused to chat with Horkin and Raistlin about the temple they had discovered. The baron was intrigued to hear that a tomb of a Solamnic Knight lay in a burial chamber beneath the cavern. Raistlin described most of their experience in detail, keeping to himself certain facts that were really no one else’s business. The baron listened attentively, frowned when he heard that the lid of the Knight’s sarcophagus had been opened.

  “That must be attended to,” he said. “Robbers may have already tried to loot the tomb. This gallant Knight should be allowed to continue his slumber in peace. You have no notion of what this treasure is, do you, Majere?”

  “The inscription made no mention of it, sir,” Raistlin answered. “My guess is that whatever it was, it now lies beneath tons of rock. The tunnel that leads out from the burial chamber is completely impassable.”

  “I see.” The baron eyed Raistlin closely.

  Raistlin returned the baron’s gaze steadily and it was the baron who shifted his eyes away from the stare of the strange hourglass pupils. Continuing his rounds of the wounded, the baron came to the cot where Caramon fretted and fidgeted, an extremely uncooperative patient. He wasn’t hurt, he maintained. Nothing wrong with him. He wanted to be up and around and doing. He wanted a proper meal, not some water they’d dragged a chicken through and called it soup. His vision was fine, or rather it would be if they’d just take off this confounded rag. Scrounger remained with the patient, trying to distract him with stories and reminding him twenty times a half-hour not to rub his eyes.

  Though busy with his other patients, Raistlin kept watch on the baron’s movements through the temple and when the baron came to his twin, Raistlin hastened over to be present during this conversation.

  “Caramon Majere!” the baron said, shaking his hand. “What happened to you? I don’t recall seeing you in the battle.”

  “Baron?” Caramon brightened. “Hullo, sir! I’m sorry I missed the fighting. I heard it was a glorious victory. I was here, sir. We—”

  Raistlin laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and, when the baron wasn’t looking, gave Caramon a hard pinch with his fingers.

  “Ouch!” Caramon yelped. “What—”

  “There, there,” said Raistlin soothingly, adding in an undertone, “He has these momentary flashes of pain, my lord. As for what happened to him, he was with me, exploring the temple. We were caught in the tunnels when the quake hit. Rock dust flew in Caramon’s eyes, blinding him. The blindness is temporary. He needs rest, that is all.”

  Raistlin’s fingers, digging into Caramon’s flesh, warned him to keep silent. A piercing glance at Scrounger caused the half-kender, who had opened his mouth, to shut it again.

  “Excellent! Glad to hear it!” the baron said heartily. “You’re a good soldier, Majere. I’d hate to lose you.”

  “Really, sir?” Caramon asked. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You rest like they tell you,” the baron added. “You’re under the healer’s orders now. I want you back on the line as soon as you’re fit.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you, sir,” Caramon said again, smiling proudly. “Raist,” he whispered, when he heard the baron’s heavy boots move away, “why didn’t you tell him what really happened? Why didn’t you tell him you fought the enemy wizard and beat him?”

  “Yes, why?” Scrounger asked eagerly, leaning across Caramon.

  The answer: because it was in Raistlin’s nature to be secretive, because he didn’t want Horkin asking prying questions, because he didn’t want Horkin or anyone else finding out about the amazing power of the staff, a power Raistlin had no idea how to use himself at the moment. All these reasons he could have given his brother and the half-kender, but he knew they wouldn’t understand.

  Sitting down by his brother’s side, Raistlin motioned Scrounger to come close. “We didn’t exactly cover ourselves in glory,” Raistlin told them dryly. “Our orders were to inspect the temple and return to report. Instead, we were about to set off in search of treasure.”

  “That’s true,” said Caramon, his face flushing.

  “You wouldn’t want the baron to be disappointed in you,” Raistlin continued.

  “No, of course not,” Caramon said.

  “Me neither,” Scrounger said, chagrined.

  “Then we will keep the truth to ourselves. We hurt no one by doing so.” Raistlin rose to his feet, prepared to return to his duties.

  Scrounger plucked the sleeve of Raistlin’s robe.

  “Yes, what do you want?” Raistlin glowered.

  “What’s the real reason you don’t want us to tell?” Scrounger asked in an undertone.

  Raistlin made a show of glancing about to see if anyone was listening. He bent down, whispered in Scrounger’s ear. “The treasure.”

  Scrounger’s eyes opened wide. “I knew it! We’re going back for it!”

  “Someday, perhaps,” Raistlin said softly. “Don’t tell a soul!”

  “I won’t! I promise! This is so exciting,” Scrounger said and winked several times in a manner calculated to arouse instant suspicion in anyone who happened to be watching.

  Raistlin went about his duties, satisfied that his brother would keep silent out of shame and that Scrounger would keep silent out of hope. Raistlin would have never trusted a true kender with this secret, but in Scrounger’s case, the mage guessed that the human side would see to it that the kender side kept its mouth shut.

  Someday, Raistlin did intend to return. Perhaps the treasure was buried. Perhaps it was not.

  “If I could find out what the treasure was,” Raistlin said to himself, deftly wrapping a bandage around a soldier’s lacerated leg, “I might have some idea of where to start looking for it.”

  He spoke with several of the city’s inhabitants, asked subtle questions concerning the possibility of a treasure buried in the mountains.

  The residents smiled, shook their heads, and said that he must have been taken in by some traveling peddler. Hope’s End was a prosperous town, but certainly not a wealthy one. They knew of no treasure.

  Raistlin could almost believe that the people of Hope’s End were conspiring to keep the treasure from him, except that they were so damn complacent about it, so smiling in their denials, so amused by the entire notion. He began to think that perhaps
they were right, that this was all a kender tale.

  He went to his bed that night in an extremely bad mood, a mood not helped by the fact that he was troubled by fearful dreams in which he was being attacked by some immense, awful creature, a creature he could not see because a bright silver light had struck him blind.

  The next day, the baron held a ceremony to clean the tomb of the fallen rocks and dust, replace the lid of the sarcophagus over the dead Knight. The baron’s commanders accompanied him and, because they had discovered the Knight’s tomb, Raistlin and Caramon and Scrounger were invited to be part of the honor guard.

  Caramon wanted to remove the bandage. He could see fine, he said, except for a little blurriness. Raistlin was adamant. The bandage must stay. Caramon would have continued the argument, but the baron himself offered Caramon an arm in support, a great honor for the young soldier. Flushed with pleasure and embarrassment, Caramon accepted the baron’s guidance, walked proudly if haltingly at the baron’s side.

  The baron and the honor guard, carrying torches, entered the burial chamber with grave and solemn aspect, silent and respectful. The baron took his place at the head of the carved Knight. The company commanders ranged themselves around the tomb. They stood with hands clasped before them, heads bowed, some praying to Kiri-Jolith, others thinking somber thoughts, reflecting on their own mortality. Raistlin took his place at the head of the sarcophagus, keeping close to his brother. Glancing inside the tomb, Raistlin was momentarily paralyzed with astonishment.

  Inside the tomb was a leather-bound book.

  Raistlin thought back to yesterday, tried to recall if the book had been there or not. He didn’t remember seeing it, but the chamber had been dark yesterday, with only his staff for light. The book was pressed against the side of the marble casket. He might have easily overlooked the book in the shadows.

  The thought came to Raistlin that this book contained information about the treasure, perhaps revealed its hiding place. He trembled with desire. He needed that book and, even as he stood gazing at it, the baron had ceased his prayers, was ordering his commanders to prepare to slide the lid of the sarcophagus back in place.