Test of the Twins: Legends, Volume Three (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  Unwilling to meet the gaze of Soth’s flaming eyes, Kitiara kept her head turned away from the death knight, scowling at the vanishing, fluttering robes of the cleric.

  “What fools! I detest keeping them around. Still, I suppose they come in handy now and then.” Though it seemed perfectly healed, her hand still hurt. All in my mind, she told herself bitterly. “Well, what do you propose I do about … about the dark elf?” Before Soth could answer, however, Kitiara was on her feet, yelling for the servant.

  “Clean that mess up. And bring me another glass.” She struck the cowering man across the face. “One of the golden goblets this time. You know I detest these fragile elf-made things! Get them out of my sight! Throw them away!”

  “Throw them away!” The servant ventured a protest. “But they are valuable, Lord. They came from the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, a gift from—”

  “I said get rid of them!” Grabbing them up, Kitiara flung them, one by one, against the wall of her room. The servant cringed, ducking as the glass flew over his head, smashing against the stone. When the last one left her fingers, she sat down into a chair in a corner and stared straight ahead, neither moving nor speaking.

  The servant hastily swept up the broken glass, emptied the bloody water in the wash bowl, and departed. When he returned with the wine, Kitiara had still not moved. Neither had Lord Soth. The death knight remained standing in the center of the room, his eyes glowing in the gathering gloom of night.

  “Shall I light the candles, Lord?” the servant asked softly, setting down the wine bottle and a golden goblet.

  “Get out,” Kitiara said, through stiff lips.

  The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

  Moving with unheard steps, the death knight walked across the room. Coming to stand next to the still unmoving, seemingly unseeing Kitiara, he laid his hand upon her shoulder. She flinched at the touch of the invisible fingers, their cold piercing her heart. But she did not withdraw.

  “Well,” she said again, staring into the room whose only source of light now came from the flaming eyes of the death knight, “I asked you a question. What do we do to stop Dalamar and my brother in this madness? What do we do before the Dark Queen destroys us all?”

  “You must attack Palanthas,” said Lord Soth.

  “I believe it can be done!” Kitiara murmured, thoughtfully tapping the hilt of her dagger against her thigh.

  “Truly ingenious, my lord,” said the commander of her forces with undisguised and unfeigned admiration in his voice.

  The commander—a human near forty years of age—had scratched and clawed and murdered his way up through the ranks to attain his current position, General of the Dragonarmies. Stooped and ill-favored, disfigured by a scar that slashed across his face, the commander had never tasted the favors enjoyed in the past by so many of Kitiara’s other captains. But he was not without hope. Glancing over at her, he saw her face—unusually cold and stern these past few days—brighten with pleasure at his praise. She even deigned to smile at him—that crooked smile she knew how to use so well. The commander’s heart beat faster.

  “It is good to see you have not lost your touch,” said Lord Soth, his hollow voice echoing through the map room.

  The commander shuddered. He should be used to the death knight by now. The Dark Queen knew, he’d fought enough battles with him and his troop of skeletal warriors. But the chill of the grave surrounded the knight as his black cloak shrouded his charred and blood-stained armor.

  How does she stand him? the commander wondered. They say he even haunts her bedchambers! The thought made the commander’s heartbeat rapidly return to normal. Perhaps, after all, the slave women weren’t so bad. At least when one was alone with them in the dark, one was alone in the dark!

  “Of course, I have not lost my touch!” Kitiara returned with such fierce anger that the commander looked about uneasily, hurriedly manufacturing some excuse to leave. Fortunately, with the entire city of Sanction preparing for war, excuses were not hard to find.

  “If you have no further need of me, my lord,” the commander said, bowing, “I must check on the work of the armory. There is much to be done, and not much time in which to do it.”

  “Yes, go ahead,” Kitiara muttered absently, her eyes on the huge map that was inlaid in tile upon the floor beneath her feet. Turning, the commander started to leave, his broadsword clanking against his armor. At the door, however, his lord’s voice stopped him.

  “Commander?”

  He turned. “My lord?”

  Kitiara started to say something, stopped, bit her lip, then continued, “I—I was wondering if you would join me for dinner this evening.” She shrugged. “But, it is late to be asking. I presume you have made plans.”

  The commander hesitated, confused. His palms began to sweat. “As a matter of fact, lord, I do have a prior commitment, but that could easily be changed—”

  “No,” Kitiara said, a look of relief crossing her face. “No, that won’t be necessary. Some other night. You are dismissed.”

  The commander, still puzzled, turned slowly and started once again to leave the room. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the orange, burning eyes of the death knight, staring straight through him.

  Now he would have to come up with a dinner engagement, he thought as he hurried down the hall. Easy enough. And he would send for one of the slave girls tonight—his favorite.…

  “You should relax. Treat yourself to an evening of pleasure,” Lord Soth said as the commander’s footsteps faded away down the corridor of Kitiara’s military headquarters.

  “There is much to be done, and little time to do it,” Kitiara replied, pretending to be totally absorbed in the map beneath her feet. She stood upon the place marked “Sanction,” looking into the far northwestern corner of the room where Palanthas nestled in the cleft of its protective mountains.

  Following her gaze, Soth slowly paced the distance, coming to a halt at the only pass through the rugged mountains, a place marked “High Clerist’s Tower.”

  “The Knights will try to stop you here, of course,” Soth said. “Where they stopped you during the last war.”

  Kitiara grinned, shook out her curly hair, and walked toward Soth. The lithe swagger was back in her step. “Now, won’t that be a sight? All the pretty Knights, lined up in a row.” Suddenly, feeling better than she had in months, Kitiara began to laugh. “You know, the looks on their faces when they see what we have in store for them will be almost worth waging the entire campaign.”

  Standing on the High Clerist’s Tower, she ground it beneath her heel, then took a few quick steps to stand next to Palanthas.

  “At last,” she murmured, “the fine, fancy lady will feel the sword of war slit open her soft, ripe flesh.” Smiling, she turned back to face Lord Soth. “I think I will have the commander to dinner tonight after all. Send for him.” Soth bowed his acquiescence, the orange eyes flaming with amusement. “We have many military matters to discuss,” Kitiara laughed again, starting to unbuckle the straps of her armor. “Matters of unguarded flanks, breaching walls, thrust, and penetration.…”

  “Now, calm down, Tanis,” said Lord Gunthar good-naturedly. “You are overwrought.”

  Tanis Half-Elven muttered something.

  “What was that?” Gunthar turned around, holding in his hand a mug of his finest ale (drawn from the barrel in the dark corner by the cellar stairs). He handed the ale to Tanis.

  “I said you’re damn right I’m overwrought!” the half-elf snapped, which wasn’t what he had said at all, but was certainly more appropriate when talking to the head of the Knights of Solamnia than what he had actually spoken.

  Lord Gunthar uth Wistan stroked his long mustaches—the ages-old symbol of the Knights and one that was currently much in fashion—hiding his smile. He had heard, of course, what Tanis originally said. Gunthar shook his head. Why hadn’t this matter been brought straight to the military? Now, as well as prepari
ng for this minor flare-up of undoubtedly frustrated enemy forces, he had also to deal with black-robed wizards’ apprentices, white-robed clerics, nervous heroes, and a librarian! Gunthar sighed and tugged at his mustaches gloomily. All he needed now was a kender.…

  “Tanis, my friend, sit down. Warm yourself by the fire. You’ve had a long journey, and it’s cold for late spring. The sailors say something about prevailing winds or some such nonsense. I trust your trip was a good one? I don’t mind telling you, I prefer griffons to dragons—”

  “Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said tensely, remaining standing, “I did not fly all the way to Sancrist to discuss the prevailing winds nor the merits of griffons over dragons! We are in danger! Not only Palanthas, but the world! If Raistlin succeeds—” Tanis’s fist clenched. Words failed him.

  Filling his own mug from the pitcher that Wills, his old retainer, had brought up from the cellar, Gunthar walked over to stand beside the half-elf. Putting his hand on Tanis’s shoulder, he turned the man to face him.

  “Sturm Brightblade spoke highly of you, Tanis. You and Laurana were the closest friends he had.”

  Tanis bowed his head at these words. Even now, more than two years since Sturm’s death, he could not think of the loss of his friend without sorrow.

  “I would have esteemed you on that recommendation alone, for I loved and respected Sturm like one of my own sons,” Lord Gunthar continued earnestly. “But I have come to admire and like you myself, Tanis. Your bravery in battle was unquestioned, your honor, your nobility worthy of a Knight.” Tanis shook his head irritably at this talk of honor and nobility, but Gunthar did not notice. “Those honors accorded you at the end of the war you more than merited. Your work since the war’s end has been outstanding. You and Laurana have brought together nations that have been separated for centuries. Porthios has signed the treaty and, once the dwarves of Thorbardin have chosen a new king, they will sign as well.”

  “Thank you, Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said, holding his mug of untouched ale in his hand and staring fixedly into the fire. “Thank you for your praise. I wish I felt I had earned it. Now, if you’ll tell me where this trail of sugar is leading—”

  “I see you are far more human than you are elven,” Gunthar said, with a slight smile. “Very well, Tanis. I will skip the elven amenities and get right to the point. I think your past experiences have made you jumpy—you and Elistan both. Let’s be honest, my friend. You are not a warrior. You were never trained as such. You stumbled into this last war by accident. Now, come with me. I want to show you something. Come, come …”

  Tanis set his full mug down upon the mantelpiece and allowed himself to be led by Gunthar’s strong hand. They walked across the room that was filled with the solid, plain, but comfortable furniture preferred by the Knights. This was Gunthar’s war room, shields and swords were mounted on the walls, along with the banners of the three Orders of Knights—the Rose, the Sword, and the Crown. Trophies of battles fought through the years gleamed from the cases where they were carefully preserved. In an honored place, spanning the entire length of the wall, was a dragonlance—the first one Theros Ironfeld had forged. Ranged around it were various goblin swords, a wicked saw-toothed blade of a draconian, a huge, double-bladed ogre sword, and a broken sword that had belonged to the ill-fated Knight, Derek Crownguard.

  It was an impressive array, testifying to a lifetime of honored service in the Knights. Gunthar walked past it without a glance, however, heading for a corner of the room where a large table stood. Rolled-up maps were stuffed neatly into small compartments beneath the table, each compartment carefully labeled. After studying them for a moment, Gunthar reached down, pulled out a map, and spread it out upon the table’s surface. He motioned Tanis nearer. The half-elf came closer, scratching his beard, and trying to look interested.

  Gunthar rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was in his element now. “It’s a matter of logistics, Tanis. Pure and simple. Look, here are the Dragon Highlord’s armies, bottled up in Sanction. Now I admit the Highlord is strong, she has a vast number of draconians, goblins, and humans who would like nothing better than to see the war start up again. And I also admit that our spies have reported increased activity in Sanction. The Highlord is up to something. But attacking Palanthas! Name of the Abyss, Tanis, look at the amount of territory she’d have to cover! And most of it controlled by the Knights! And even if she had the manpower to fight her way through, look how long she’d have to extend her supply lines! It would take her entire army just to guard her lines. We could cut them easily, any number of places.”

  Gunthar pulled on his mustaches again. “Tanis, if there was one Highlord in that army I came to respect, it was Kitiara. She is ruthless and ambitious, but she is also intelligent, and she is certainly not given to taking unnecessary risks. She has waited two years, building up her armies, fortifying herself in a place she knows we dare not attack. She has gained too much to throw it away on a wild scheme like this.”

  “Suppose this isn’t her plan,” Tanis muttered.

  “What other plan could she possibly have?” Gunthar asked patiently.

  “I don’t know,” Tanis snapped. “You say you respect her, but do you respect her enough? Do you fear her enough? I know her, and I have a feeling that she has something in mind.…” His voice trailed off, he scowled down at the map.

  Gunthar kept quiet. He’d heard strange rumors about Tanis Half-Elven and this Kitiara. He didn’t believe them, of course, but felt it better not to pursue the subject of the depth of the half-elf’s knowledge of this woman further.

  “You don’t believe this, do you?” Tanis asked abruptly. “Any of it?”

  Shifting uncomfortably, Gunthar smoothed both his long, gray mustaches and, bending down, began to roll up the map, using extreme care. “Tanis, my son, you know I respect you—”

  “We’ve been through that.”

  Gunthar ignored the interruption. “And you know that there is no one in this world I hold in deeper reverence than Elistan. But when you two bring me a tale told to you by one of the Black Robes—and a dark elf at that—a tale about this wizard, Raistlin, entering the Abyss and challenging the Queen of Darkness! Well, I’m sorry, Tanis. I am not a young man anymore by any means. I’ve seen many strange things in my life. But this sounds like a child’s bedtime story!”

  “So they said of dragons,” Tanis murmured, his face flushing beneath his beard. He stood, head bowed, for a moment, then, scratching his beard, he looked at Gunthar intently. “My lord, I watched Raistlin grow up. I have traveled with him, seen him, fought both with him and against him. I know what this man is capable of!” Tanis grasped Gunthar’s arm with his hand. “If you will not accept my counsel, then accept Elistan’s! We need you, Lord Gunthar! We need you, we need the Knights. You must reinforce the High Clerist’s Tower. We have little time. Dalamar tells us that time has no meaning on the planes of the Dark Queen’s existence. Raistlin might fight her for months or even years there, but that would seem only days to us. Dalamar believes his master’s return is imminent. I believe him, and so does Elistan. Why do we believe him, Lord Gunthar? Because Dalamar is frightened. He is afraid—and so are we.

  “Your spies say there is unusual activity in Sanction. Surely, that is evidence enough! Believe me, Lord Gunthar, Kitiara will come to her brother’s aid. She knows he will set her up as ruler of the world if he succeeds. And she is gambler enough to risk everything for that chance! Please, Lord Gunthar, if you won’t listen to me, at least come to Palanthas! Talk to Elistan!”

  Lord Gunthar studied the man before him carefully. The leader of the Knights had risen to his position because he was, basically, a just and honest man. He was also a keen judge of character. He had liked and admired the half-elf since meeting him after the end of the war. But he had never been able to get close to him. There was something about Tanis, a reserved, withdrawn air that permitted few to cross the invisible barriers he set up.

  Looking at him now, Gun
thar felt suddenly closer than he had ever come before. He saw wisdom in the slightly slanted eyes, wisdom that had not come easily, wisdom that came through inner pain and suffering. He saw fear, the fear of one whose courage is so much a part of him that he readily admits he is afraid. He saw in him a leader of men. Not one who merely waves a sword and leads a charge in battle, but a leader who leads quietly, by drawing the best out of people, by helping them achieve things they never knew were in them.

  And, at last, Gunthar understood something he had never been able to fathom. He knew now why Sturm Brightblade, whose lineage went back unsullied through generations, had chosen to follow this bastard half-elf, who—if rumors were true—was the product of a brutal rape. He knew now why Laurana, an elven princess and one of the strongest, most beautiful women he had ever known, had risked everything—even her life—for love of this man.

  “Very well, Tanis.” Lord Gunthar’s stern face relaxed, the cool, polite tones of his voice grew warmer. “I will return to Palanthas with you. I will mobilize the Knights and set up our defenses at the High Clerist’s Tower. As I said, our spies did inform us that there is unusual activity going on in Sanction. It won’t hurt the Knights to turn out. Been a long time since we’ve had field drill.”

  Decision made, Lord Gunthar immediately proceeded to turn the household upside down, shouting for Wills, his retainer, shouting for his armor to be brought, his sword sharpened, his griffon readied. Soon servants were flying here and there, his lady-wife came in, looking resigned, and insisted that he pack his heavy, fur-lined cloak even though it was near Spring Dawning celebration.

  Forgotten in the confusion, Tanis walked back to the fireplace, picked up his mug of ale, and sat down to enjoy it. But, after all, he did not taste it. Staring into the flames, he saw, once again, a charming, crooked smile, dark curly hair.…

  CHAPTER

  6

  ow long she and Raistlin journeyed through the red-tinged, distorted land of the Abyss, Crysania had no idea. Time ceased to have any meaning or relevance. Sometimes it seemed they had been here only a few seconds, sometimes she knew she had been walking the strange, shifting terrain for weary years. She had healed herself of the poison, but she felt weak, drained. The scratches on her arms would not close. She wrapped fresh bandages about them each day. By night, they were soaked through with blood.