Brother's Majere p-3

by Kevin Stein

  “That’s one of those poisoned darts, Caramon,” said the kender. “I found it on the floor the night the assassin came. You’ll be dead pretty soon.”

  “Why?” Caramon managed weakly, feeling himself begin to grow lightheaded. Heat rushed up from his arm to engulf his face and neck.

  “You must die, Majere!” the kender hissed, his face twisted into an expression of cruel triumph. “Our plans cannot be stopped!”

  Caramon fell to his knees, leaning back against the smooth, unmarked wall. His head bent to one side, black and silver stars flickered before his eyes. His mouth was dry, and his lips could barely shape the words.

  “Whose plans?”

  “Whose plans?” Earwig mocked.

  He raised his arm above his head, pulling down the sleeve on his brown tunic to reveal his hand. The gold band flashed in the torchlight.

  Beware the ring! Raistlin’s voice echoed in Caramon’s mind.

  The ceiling had darkened. Motes of light appeared, forming pictures and patterns the warrior found vaguely familiar. The poison dulled his mind like a stone against the edge of a sword.

  Earwig laughed. “Yes! Look! Look up into your doom! Worship our Queen! Our Queen of Darkness! Takhisis! Takhisis! We celebrate your return to the world!”

  Caramon didn’t understand. “Earwig,” he whispered, shivering. “Help me!”

  The kender stared down at his friend, and his features softened. Suddenly, he cried, “Help me, Caramon! I can’t stop!”

  Pulling a dagger from his belt, Earwig leaped off the stone and ran at the warrior.

  The Lord of the Cats slid through the streets of the city, a blur of dark shadow in the moonlit night. He bypassed most of the town’s guard, avoiding Lord Cal’s command troops by traveling up side streets and over buildings, climbing with incredible agility, using nothing more than his hands and long, perfect nails.

  At the edge of the city limits, he ascended to the rooftops to get a better view. He could see that most of the people were safely locked behind their doors, windows shut and barred. There were still a few roaming about the town, set on spilling the mage’s blood. But most of the mobs had dispersed, their members hurrying home to their wives and family before the coming of the Festival of the Eye. No children in Mereklar would be going out this night to beg for cookies.

  Reaching the last building on Southgate Street, Bast leaped the great distance between the dwelling and the wall, jumping gracefully through the air to land without sound. He came to his feet instantly, prepared for danger. He paused, listening intently, then turned to face the lands outside the white barriers of Mereklar. Standing straight, he raised his arms above his head and called to his dominion, summoning them to the world’s end.

  Waving the knife wildly, Earwig ran straight at Caramon. The big warrior managed to catch the kender and ward off the knife, both of them falling to the floor. Earwig struggled to free himself, the small body flailing on top of the fighter’s huge frame. Caramon, weakened by the poison, rolled over and pinioned the kender with a wrestling hold, his arm jammed under the small, pointed chin.

  “What in the name of the Abyss are you doing?” Caramon grunted.

  “You’re not dead yet!” Earwig shrieked.

  “No thanks to you! Oof-”

  The kender had slipped his leg underneath the fighter and kicked upward, landing his attack just below the abdomen.

  Caramon fell back with a groan. Earwig slashed with the knife, ripping open the warrior’s shoulder before the blade came up against the leather harness and flipped out of the kender’s hands.

  Finding himself defenseless, Earwig fell back, taking refuge behind the stone dais.

  Caramon leaned against the wall. The wound in his shoulder wasn’t deep, and he managed to stop the bleeding by pressing part of his shirt against it. He reached under his belt and pulled out his cestus, slipping it over his fingers, driving the metal into his flesh to help retain his failing consciousness. He, too, wondered why he wasn’t dead.

  As awful as I feel, I sort of wish I were, he thought briefly, pain twisting his insides.

  Earwig was staring at him hopefully, perhaps waiting for him to keel over. Using the smooth stone as a prop, Caramon slid back up the wall, pushing with his powerful legs. Three throwing spikes clattered beside his head, bouncing off the smooth stone and falling to his feet. The fighter was late to duck, then realized that the weapons had already missed. Three more projectiles flew out from behind the dais, and two struck him in the arm and chest, bouncing off his armor.

  If I don’t stop the kender soon, Caramon thought, it’ll be a race to see if I die from the poison or loss of blood! Taking a deep breath, he dropped to his knees and began to crawl around the giant disk, hoping to take the kender by surprise. The chamber was very quiet, and he knew he sounded as loud as a dwarf on a drinking binge, but he couldn’t help it.

  Caramon saw movement and sprang, attempting to grab his friend. But the kender dodged backward and threw an egg at the ground, breaking it open, creating billowing clouds of foul-smelling smoke.

  Beware the ring!

  If I can get hold of him, maybe I can get the cursed thing off his finger, Caramon thought desperately. The warrior peered through the smoke, blinking back tears that streamed down his cheeks.

  “Earwig, are you here?”

  “Of course, I’m here. I’m waiting to kill you!” The voice came from the opposite side of the chamber.

  “No, I don’t want to talk to you!” Caramon shouted, having the strangest impression that there were two different kender in the room. “I want to talk to Earwig! I’m his friend.”

  “Caramon, help-” came a muffled voice, but it was cut off.

  Good, if I can just keep him off-balance.… Caramon began to babble, talking about the first thing that came into his head. “Hey, Earwig, the cats really miss you, especially that black one that kept following you around. Remember him?”

  “All the cats will die! I’ll kill them, too!”

  “Why do you want to kill the cats, Earwig?”

  “I don’t, Caramon,” came the kender’s voice. “You’ve got to believe-” he faltered, then shouted, “The prophecy speaks. Hear its words. ‘The cats alive are the turning stone, they decide the fate, darkness or light.’ Darkness will triumph!”

  The kender had moved, and Caramon was no longer sure where, though the smoke was beginning to dissipate. He sat still, gathering his strength, hoping soon to be able to see.

  “Oh, by the way, Earwig. Catherine says to tell you she’s sorry. She feels real bad about what she did.”

  “Catherine? Catherine who?” It was Earwig who answered, sounding lost and frightened.

  “Catherine. The girl at the tavern. The one who kissed you.”

  “I remember! I … I … I need your help, Caramon. She’s trying to control me, and I can’t stop her!” Earwig cried.

  “I’ll help you, Earwig, just tell me where you are,” the fighter called.

  “I’m right here!”

  The kender leaped on Caramon’s shoulders. Grabbing Caramon by the hair, the kender pulled the warrior’s head back and tried to slash his neck with a knife.

  Caramon, roaring like a wounded bull, reached back over his head, caught Earwig, and jerked him forward. The kender slammed against the wall and lay motionless.

  The warrior eyed him warily a moment to see if he was shamming. The kender was obviously out cold.

  Caramon lifted the kender’s left arm and held it up to the dim light in the chamber. Grasping the gold ring, he tugged. As Raistlin had discovered, the band would not come off.

  “This is gonna hurt real bad, Earwig,” Caramon whispered.

  He saw blood seeping from under the gold, as if the finger were being bitten. Shuddering, he tried again, but the flow of blood increased and the ring stayed where it was. Earwig moaned and thrashed about in pain.

  “What am I going to do?” Caramon wracked his brain for an answer. The realm
of magic was far beyond his comprehension. “What would you do, Raist?” he muttered. He could almost hear his brother’s voice: “Cut off the finger.”

  Caramon slowly drew out his knife. “Well, if that’s what I have to do …” He took hold of the ring, now wet with blood, and gave it one last try. He thought he felt it wiggle slightly.

  Wet with blood. Wet. Rub soap around a ring and it will slip off. No soap, but if I could get it slick enough … “That’s it!”

  Caramon turned the dagger on himself, slashing a large cut in his thumb. He dripped his blood over the ring, pouring more and more of his life’s essence onto the gold until the kender’s hand was stained crimson.

  “It’s not soap, but let’s see if this works!”

  Caramon pinched the band between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. The ring slipped off easily-too easily. It almost seemed as if was growing and expanding, pulsing in his grip. Caramon stared at it in fascination.

  Put me on! Put me on!

  It is a beautiful ring and it will fit me now, Caramon thought.

  Earwig screamed in pain, a sound that echoed in the chamber for many minutes. He writhed in throes of incredible agony, moaning like a child.

  “She was in my head-she was in my head-she was in my head!”

  Caramon threw the ring aside. Catching his friend up in his huge arms, the warrior held Earwig close to his chest, rocking the sobbing kender gently.

  Chapter 23

  Mereklar remained silent and foreboding, awaiting the forming of the Great Eye. The three moons, Solinari, Lunitari, and dark Nuitari, forging the same arcs they had crossed for thousands of years, would once more meet again. White over red over black-an eye to gaze upon the world, a focus to release the power of wizards dead since the Age of Might.

  Who would use it?

  Walking, his head bent into a wind only he could feel, Raistlin searched the paths and portents of his life, from his childhood to his indoctrination into the ranks of the adept, to where he stood now on the flawless street. He sought to discover the key to the mystery of the festival that had remained locked since the Cataclysm.

  His right hand gripped the Staff of Magius, using it both as support and reference. Its black wood, golden claw, and pale blue orb were the pinnacles of magical knowledge-an artifact containing runes and glyphs to spells he could not yet comprehend. It held the wisdom of the one who had created it, potent rituals and sacrifices lost to the past, available to those who could hear its silent tales. It was to these venerable voices that the mage listened, ignoring all else around him.

  Pictures and images floated across his consciousness, sensation more than substance. He let his spirit flow into the lines of the staff. Paths of power took him, scattered parts of his mind to other roads. But the mage did not have the experience to clutch through the veil of time and penetrate to the past. His will was forced from the rune-paths again and again, until he finally admitted defeat.

  “The Eye forms tonight, and I still don’t know what is happening! Who will use its power? How can I use its power!”

  He gripped the black staff harder than before, feeling strength in his hand, arm, and limbs. The sickness had drained from his body since his first encounter with the growing force of the Great Eye, his frame infused by magics. The idea of having his shattered health restored permanently stirred him to action, bringing hope he once thought impossible to have. Could I truly break free of him?

  Yes, whispered Shavas’s rich and sensuous voice in his mind. Ally yourself with me, and together we will fight him. Powerful forces will soon be mine to command. After this nights work, I will be richly rewarded and you shall share!

  Raistlin heard an answering echo in his mind, the echo of a dream.

  Where is my reward?

  Forthcoming.

  With that word Raistlin understood where to find the knowledge he sought. But only at great cost. Snap the golden thread, and magic would be lost to him forever. But he would have Shavas. He would have wealth, power. Would it matter so much that he didn’t have the magic? Raistlin pressed his hand against his head. The blood throbbed in his brain.

  The Staff of Magius rapped in frustration against the ground, the metal tip ringing, its vibrations bringing the mage back to the present. The moons were rising higher, the two he could see casting imperfect shadows onto the streets as mystic lights began to collect in their eternal parade-stars of illumination that leaped to their positions above the sidewalk and atop the highest buildings. Raistlin stopped and watched their creation, staring as a pool of white collected at his feet then shot away, speeding to a nearby park. It was as if Mereklar itself were coming alive.

  The scream of a wounded animal cut through the quiet, causing Raistlin to start from his meditative observations. The noise had come from a few blocks away, forward and to the left, from an area where he was already headed.

  It appears I will have to make my decision much sooner than I expected, he thought, and felt a pang of fear.

  The mage increased his pace, searching the alleys and sidestreets. Another block farther and Raistlin was forced to duck into a doorway. An organized unit of men came around a corner, marching in regular lines, holding short spears or swords. Another group followed, carrying the same equipment, moving with a listless gait. Raistlin wondered where they were going. The town seemed deserted.

  The sound came again-another scream of pain and rage. The mage removed the leather bag from his belt and opened the flap to reveal the wand Shavas had given him, the wand covered in strange, angled runes. Slowly, he drew it out and bolted from the alley, running as swiftly as he dared up Southgate Street, heading for Leman Square.

  There he knew he would find him-Bast, the Lord of Cats.

  Raistlin turned left down a dark sidestreet, going to the right when he reached the end of the block. He noticed that the lights hovering above the sidewalk appeared to be growing dim, as if their fuel were slowly running out. He went left again, down the main street. Reaching the open area leading to the square, he rounded the final corner and came to a sudden halt.

  Wounded and panting, the man in black stood at bay beneath a tree, surrounded by the remaining ministers of Mereklar. Lord Cal advanced on him, a red-glowing wand in his hand.

  “Hear me, Lord of the Cats. Our Lady does not want you for her enemy. She bids you and those you rule to join us and find power in the darkness you know so well.”

  “Your ‘lady’ cares nothing for us!” Bast spat the words. “She wants only to use us as she uses all who come under her sway.” The Lord of the Cats lifted his head proudly. “We are free. We serve ourselves. So it has been, and so shall it be.”

  “Die free, then!” snarled Lord Cal, and raised the wand.

  We are free. We serve ourselves.

  “Shirak,” called Raistlin, his voice clear and strong.

  The Staff of Magius burst into light, shining more brightly than the two converging moons. Bast’s eyes, staring at the mage, shone with red flame. The ministers half-turned, blinking against the brilliance.

  “Who-”

  “The mage,” said Lord Cal, his lip curling.

  “I’ll handle this,” said Lord Alvin in an undertone. “Raistlin Majere, we accused you falsely and we apologize. As you can see, we have the murderous beast cornered. Serve us in our fight, and you will be richly rewarded! Lady Shavas will see to that!”

  Raistlin thought of the sickness, the pain, the terrifying moments when he feared he would never be able to draw the next breath. He thought of being always dependent on his brother. He thought of women, gazing at him with expressions of horror or pity. Never expressions of love.

  Raistlin thought of the magic, burning in his blood.

  “The choice is made,” he murmured.

  Yes, said the other. Long ago. Here, then, is your reward.

  Raistlin stood before great falls of light, the bands of magic traveling inside the Staff of Magius in the infinite spaces between the runes of the
cantrips, a place where ancient knowledge waited for the touch of his summoning gold fingers. He embraced a silver strand with his will, a pass to the past that showed him surmounting a mountain with three other wizards-pictures of another time that he felt with all his senses.

  White robe, red robe, and black walked slowly, braving storm and gale and lightning, moving up a path cut into the rock by natural forces to a high plateau. They looked over the whole of the world standing at the edge.

  “It is time,” the white robe said.

  “To lose our lives for a greater cause,” the red robe said.

  “To give our gods greater power than any one of us could command,” the black robe said.

  They cast their spell and died, wrenched apart by the powers they summoned, trapped in the three heavenly spheres.

  Raistlin watched their actions, the motions they made with their hands, the words uttered above the winds that whipped their clothes with violence, and knew that the might of the Great Eye could be his to command.

  He lifted the wand. It began to glow red in his hand.

  “He’s ours!” said Lord Cal, laughing, and turned back to face the Lord of the Cats.

  A bolt of red shot from Raistlin’s wand and struck Lord Cal in the back. The man screamed in rage and pain, the searing beam melting clothes and flesh. He whirled to face his enemy, but his strength gave out. Writhing in agony, he crumpled to the ground.

  Bast lashed out with his right hand, stabbing his fingers into Lord Alvin’s throat, tearing a great wound that severed the man’s head. Alvin fell, dead.

  The other minsters, yelling in rage, attacked the Lord of Cats. Raistlin dared not help, fearing that any spell he would cast would harm the man in black.

  Bast needed no help, it seemed. He took one of his enemies by the chest with a sweeping kick and killed the other with an open-palmed strike to the forehead, snapping the head back, skull crushed and neck broken.

  The night was silent once again.

  Raistlin came forward, leaning on the staff.