War of the Twins (21 page)

“What would it have hurt to negotiate, Thane?” Kharas asked, his voice heavy with sorrow.

Duncan, his sudden anger apparently vanished, looked at the taller dwarf and shook his head, his graying beard brushing against his robes of state. He was well within his rights to refuse to answer such an impertinent question. Indeed, no one but Kharas would have had the courage to question Duncan’s decision at all.

“Kharas,” Duncan said, putting his hand on his friend’s arm affectionately, “tell me—is there treasure beneath the mountain? Have we robbed our kinsmen? Do we raid their lands, or the lands of the humans, for that matter? Are their accusations just?”

“No,” Kharas answered, his eyes meeting those of his sovereign steadily.

Duncan sighed. “You have seen the harvest. You know that what little money remains in the treasury we will spend to lay in what we can for this winter.”

“Tell them this!” Kharas said earnestly. “Tell them the truth! They are not monsters! They are our kinsmen, they will understand—”

Duncan smiled sadly, wearily. “No, they are not monsters. But, what is worse, they have become like children.” He shrugged. “Oh, we could tell them the truth—show them even. But they would not believe us. They would not believe their own eyes. Why? Because they
want
to believe otherwise!”

Kharas frowned, but Duncan continued patiently. “They want to believe, my friend. More than that, they
have
to believe. It is their only hope for survival. They have nothing, nothing except that hope. And so they are willing to fight for it. I understand them.” The old king’s eyes dimmed for a moment, and Kharas—staring at him in amazement—realized then that his anger had been all feigned, all show.

“Now they can return to their wives and their hungry children and they can say, ‘We will fight the usurpers! When we
win, you will have full bellies again.’ And that will help them forget their hunger, for a while.”

Kharas’s face twisted in anguish. “But to go this far! Surely, we can share what little—”

“My friend,” Duncan said softly, “by Reorx’s Hammer, I swear this—if I agree to their terms, we would all perish. Our race would cease to exist.”

Kharas stared at him. “As bad as that?” he asked.

Duncan nodded. “Aye, as bad as that. Few only know this—the leaders of the clans, and now you. And I swear you to secrecy. The harvest was disastrous. Our coffers are nearly empty, and now we must hoard what we can to pay for this war. Even for our own people, we will be forced to ration food this winter. With what we have, we calculate that we can make it—barely. Add hundreds of more mouths—” He shook his head.

Kharas stood pondering, then he lifted his head, his dark eyes flashing. “If that is true, then so be it!” he said sternly. “Better we all starve to death, than die fighting each other!”

“Noble words, my friend,” Duncan answered. The beating of drums thrummed through the room and deep voices raised in stirring war chants, older than the rocks of Pax Tharkas, older—perhaps—than the bones of the world itself. “You can’t eat noble words, though, Kharas. You can’t drink them or wrap them around your feet or burn them in your firepit or give them to children crying in hunger.”

“What about the children who will cry when their father leaves, never to return?” Kharas asked sternly.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “They will cry for a month,” he said simply, “then they will eat his share of the food. And wouldn’t he want it that way?”

With that, he turned and left the Hall of Thanes, heading for the battlements once more.

As Duncan counseled Kharas in the Hall of Thanes, Reghar Fireforge and his party were guiding their short-statured, shaggy hill ponies out of the fortress of Pax Tharkas, the hoots and laughter of their kinsmen ringing in their ears.

Reghar did not speak a word for long hours, until they were well out of sight of the huge double towers of the fortress. Then, when they came to a crossing in the road, the old dwarf reined in his horse.

Turning to the youngest member of the party, he said in a grim, emotionless voice, “Continue north, Darren Ironfist.” The old dwarf drew forth a battered, leather pouch. Reaching inside, he pulled out his last gold piece. For a long moment he stood staring at it, then he pressed it into the hands of the dwarf. “Here. Buy passage across the New Sea. Find this Fistandantilus and tell him … tell him—”

Reghar paused, realizing the enormity of his action. But, he had no choice. This had been decided before he left. Scowling, he snarled, “Tell him that, when he gets here, he’ll have an army waiting to fight for him.”

he night was cold and dark over the lands of Solamnia. The stars above gleamed with a sparkling, brittle light. The constellations of the Platinum Dragon, Paladine, and Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, circled each other endlessly around Gilean’s Scales of Balance. It would be two hundred years or more before these same constellations vanished from the skies, as the gods and men waged war over Krynn.

For now, each was content with watching the other.

If either god had happened to glance down, he or she would, perhaps, have been amused to see what appeared to be mankind’s feeble attempts to imitate their celestial glory. On the plains of Solamnia, outside the mountain fortress city of Garnet, campfires dotted the flat grasslands, lighting the night below as the stars lit the night above.

The Army of Fistandantilus.

The flames of the campfires were reflected in shield and breastplate, danced off sword blades and flashed on spear tip. The fires shone on faces bright with hope and new-found
pride, they burned in the dark eyes of the camp followers and leaped up to light the merry play of the children.

Around the campfires stood or sat groups of men, talking and laughing, eating and drinking, working over their equipment. The night air was filled with jests and oaths and tall tales. Here and there were groans of pain, as men rubbed shoulders and arms that ached from unaccustomed exercise. Hands calloused from swinging hoes were blistered from wielding spears. But these were accepted with good-natured shrugs. They could watch their children play around the campfires and know that they had eaten, if not well, at least adequately that night. They could face their wives with pride. For the first time in years, these men had a goal, a purpose in their lives.

There were some who knew this goal might well be death, but those who knew this recognized and understood it and made the choice to remain anyway.

“After all,” said Garic to himself as his replacement came to relieve him of his guard duty, “death comes to all. Better a man meet it in the blazing sunlight, his sword flashing in his hand, than to have it come creeping up on him in the night unawares, or clutch at him with foul, diseased hands.”

The young man, now that he was off duty, returned to his campfire and retrieved a thick cloak from his bedroll. Hastily gulping down a bowl of rabbit stew, he then walked among the campfires.

Headed for the outskirts of the camp, he walked with purpose, ignoring many invitations to join friends around their fires. These he waved off genially and continued on his way. Few thought anything of this. A great many fled the lights of the fires at night. The shadows were warm with soft sighs and murmurs and sweet laughter.

Garic
did
have an appointment in the shadows, but it was not with a lover, though several young women in camp would have been more than happy to share the night with the handsome young nobleman. Coming to a large boulder, far from camp and far from other company, Garic wrapped his cloak about him, sat down, and waited.

He did not wait long.

“Garic?” said a hesitant voice.

“Michael!” Garic cried warmly, rising to his feet. The two men clasped hands and then, overcome, embraced each other warmly.

“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you ride into camp today, cousin,” Garic continued, gripping the other young man’s hand as though afraid to let him go, afraid he might disappear into the darkness.

“Nor I you,” said Michael, holding fast to his kinsmen and trying to rid his throat of a huskiness it seemed to have developed. Coughing, he sat down on the boulder and Garic joined him. Both remained silent for a few moments as they cleared their throats and pretended to be stern and soldierly.

“I thought it was a ghost,” Michael said with a hollow attempt at a laugh. “We heard you were dead.…” His voice died and he coughed again. “Confounded damp weather,” he muttered, “gets in a man’s windpipes.”

“I escaped,” Garic said quietly. “But my father, my mother, and my sister were not so lucky.”

“Anne?” Michael murmured, pain in his voice.

“She died quickly,” Garic said quietly, “as did my mother. My father saw to that, before the mob butchered him. It made them mad. They mutilated his body—”

Garic choked. Michael gripped his arm in sympathy. “A noble man, your father. He died as a true Knight, defending his home. A better death than some face,” he added grimly, causing Garic to look at him with a sharp, penetrating glance. “But, what is your story? How did you get away from the mob? Where have you been this last year?”

“I did not get away from them,” Garic said bitterly. “I arrived when it was all over. Where I had been did not matter”—the young man flushed—“but I should have been with them, to die with them!”

“No, your father would not have wanted that.” Michael shook his head. “You live. You will carry on the name.”

Garic frowned, his eyes glinted darkly. “Perhaps. Though I have not lain with a woman since—” He shook his head. “At
any rate, I could only do for them what I could. I set fire to the castle—”

Michael gasped, but Garic continued, unhearing.

“—so that the mobs should not take it over. My family’s ashes remain there, among the blackened stones of the hall my great-great-grandfather built. Then I rode aimlessly, for a time, not much caring what happened to me. Finally, I met up with a group of other men, many like myself—driven from their homes for various reasons.

“They asked no questions. They cared nothing about me except that I could wield a sword with skill. I joined them and we lived off our wits.”

“Bandits?” Michael asked, trying to keep a startled tone from his voice and failing, apparently, for Garic cast him a dark glance.

“Yes, bandits,” the young man answered coldly. “Does that shock you? That a Knight of Solamnia should so forget the Code and the Measure that he joins with bandits? I’ll ask you this, Michael—where were the Code and the Measure when they murdered my father, your uncle? Where are they anywhere in this wretched land?”

“Nowhere, perhaps,” Michael returned steadily, “except in our hearts.”

Garic was silent. Then he began to weep, harsh sobs that tore at his body. His cousin put his arms around him, holding him close. Garic gave a shuddering sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I have not cried once since I found them,” he said in a muffled voice. “And you are right, cousin. Living with robbers, I had sunk into a pit from which I might not have escaped, but for the general—”

“This Caramon?”

Garic nodded. “We ambushed him and his party one night. And that opened my eyes. Before, I had always robbed people without much thought or, sometimes, I even enjoyed it—telling myself it was dogs like these who had murdered my father. But in this party there was a woman and the magic-user. The wizard was ill. I hit him, and he crumpled at my
touch like a broken doll. And the woman—I knew what they would do to her and the thought sickened me. But, I was afraid of the leader—Steeltoe, they called him. He was a beast! Half-ogre.

“But the general challenged him. I saw true nobility that night—a man willing to give his life to protect those weaker than himself. And he won.” Garic grew calmer. As he talked, his eyes shone with admiration. “I saw, then, what my life had become. When Caramon asked if we would come with him, I agreed, as did most of the others. But it wouldn’t have mattered about them—I would have gone with him anywhere.”

“And now you’re part of his personal guard?” Michael said, smiling.

Garic nodded, flushing with pleasure. “I—I told him I was no better than the others—a bandit, a thief. But he just looked at me, as though he could see inside my soul, and smiled and said every man had to walk through a dark, starless night and, when he faced the morning, he’d be better for it.”

“Strange,” Michael said. “I wonder what he meant?”

“I think I understand,” Garic said. His glance went to the far edge of the camp where Caramon’s huge tent stood, smoke from the fires curling around the fluttering, silken flag that was a black streak against the stars. “Sometimes, I wonder if he isn’t walking through his own ‘dark night.’ I’ve seen a look on his face, sometimes—” Garic shook his head. “You know,” he said abruptly, “he and the wizard are twin brothers.”

Michael’s eyes opened wide. Garic confirmed it with a nod. “It is a strange relationship. There’s no love lost between them.”

“One of the Black Robes?” Michael said, snorting. “I should think not! I wonder the mage even travels with us. From what I have heard, these wizards can ride the night winds and summon forces from the graves to do their battles.”