War of the Twins (37 page)

he banquet lasted well into the night. The field rang with laughter and shouts and good-natured oaths sworn in dwarven and tribal tongues as well as Solamnic and Common.

It was easy for Raistlin to slip away. In the excitement, no one missed the silent, cynical archmage.

Walking back to his tent, which Caramon had refurbished for him, Raistlin kept to the shadows. In his black robes, he was nothing more than a glimpse of movement seen from the corner of the eye.

He avoided Crysania’s tent. She was standing in the entry-way, watching the fun with a wistful expression on her face. She dared not join them, knowing that the presence of the “witch” would harm Caramon immensely.

How ironic, thought Raistlin, that a black-robed wizard is tolerated in this time, while a cleric of Paladine is scorned and reviled.

Treading softly in his leather boots across the field where the army camped, barely even leaving footprints in the damp
grass, Raistlin found a grim sort of amusement in this. Glancing up at the constellations in the sky, he regarded both the Platinum Dragon and the Five-Headed Dragon opposite with a slight sneer.

The knowledge that Fistandantilus might have succeeded if it had not been for the unforeseen intervention of some wretched gnome had brought dark joy to Raistlin’s being. By all his calculations, the gnome was the key factor. The gnome had altered time, apparently, though just how he had done that was unclear. Still, Raistlin figured that all he had to do was to get to the mountain fortress of Zhaman, then, from there, it would be simple indeed to make his way into Thorbardin, discover this gnome, and render him harmless.

Time—which had been altered previously—would return to its proper flow. Where Fistandantilus had failed,
he
would succeed.

Therefore, even as Fistandantilus had done before him, Raistlin now gave the war effort his undivided interest and attention to make certain that he would be able to reach Zhaman. He and Caramon spent long hours poring over old maps, studying the fortifications, comparing what they remembered from their journeys in these lands in a time yet to come and trying to guess what changes might have occurred.

The key to winning the battle was the taking of Pax Tharkas.

And that, Caramon had said more than once with a heavy sigh, seemed well-nigh impossible.

“Duncan’s bound to have it heavily manned,” Caramon argued, his finger resting on the spot on the map that marked the great fort. “You remember what it’s like, Raist. You remember how it’s built, between those two sky-high mountain peaks! Those blasted dwarves can hold out there for years! Close the gates, drop the rocks from that mechanism, and we’re stuck. It took silver dragons to lift those rocks, as I recall,” the big man added gloomily.

“Go around it,” Raistlin suggested.

Caramon shook his head. “Where?” His finger moved west. “Qualinesti on one side. The elves’d cut us to meat and
hang us up to dry.” He moved east. “This way’s either sea or mountain. We don’t have boats enough to go by sea and, look”—he moved his finger down—“if we land here, to the south, in that desert, we’re stuck right in the middle—both flanks exposed—Pax Tharkas to the north, Thorbardin to the south.”

The big man paced the room, pausing occasionally to glare at the map in irritation.

Raistlin yawned, then stood up, resting his hand lightly on Caramon’s arm. “Remember this, my brother,” he said softly, “Pax Tharkas
did
fall!”

Caramon’s face darkened. “Yeah,” he muttered, angry at being reminded of the fact that this was all just some vast game he seemed to be playing. “I don’t suppose you remember how?”

“No.” Raistlin shook his head. “But it will fall.…”

He paused, then repeated quietly, “It
will
fall!”

Out of the forest, wary of the lights of lodge and campfire and even moon and stars, crept three dark, squat figures. They hesitated on the outskirts of the camp, as though uncertain of their destination. Finally, one pointed, muttering something. The other two nodded and, now moving rapidly, they hurried through the darkness.

Quickly they moved, but not quietly. No dwarf could ever move quietly, and these seemed noisier than usual. They creaked and rattled and stepped on every brittle twig, muttering curses as they blundered along.

Raistlin, awaiting them in the darkness of his tent, heard them coming from far off and shook his head. But he had reckoned on this in his plans, thus he had arranged this meeting when the noise and hilarity of the banquet would provide suitable cover.

“Enter,” he said wryly as the clumping and stomping of ironshod feet halted just outside the tent flap.

There was a pause, accompanied by heavy breathing and a muttered exclamation, no one wanting to be the first to touch the tent. This was answered by a snarling oath. The tent flap
was yanked open with a violence that nearly tore the strong fabric and a dwarf entered, apparently the leader, for he advanced with a bold swagger while the other two, who came after him, were nervous and cringing.

The lead dwarf advanced toward the table in the center of the tent, moving swiftly though it was pitch dark. After years of living underground, the Dewar had developed excellent night vision. Some, it was rumored, even had the gift of elven-sight that allowed them to see the glow of living beings in the darkness.

But, good though the dwarf’s eyes were, he could make out nothing at all about the black-robed figure that sat facing him across the desk. It was as though, looking into deepest night, he saw something darker—like a vast chasm suddenly yawning at his feet. This Dewar was strong and fearless, reckless even; his father had died a raving lunatic. But the dark dwarf found he could not repress a slight shiver that started at the back of his neck and tingled down the length of his spine.

He sat down. “You two,” he said in dwarven to those with him, “watch the entrance.”

They nodded and retreated quickly, only too glad to leave the vicinity of the black-robed figure and crouch beside the opening, peering out into the shadows. A sudden flare of light made them start up in alarm, however. Their leader raised his arm with a vicious oath, shielding his eyes.

“No light … no light!” he cried in crude Common. Then his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and for a moment all he could make were garbled noises. For the light came, not from torch or candle, but from a flame that burned in the palm of the mage’s cupped hand.

All dwarves are, by nature, suspicious and distrustful of magic. Uneducated, given to superstition, the Dewar were terrified of it and thus even this simple trick that nearly any street illusionist could perform caused the dwarf to suck in his breath in fear.

“I see those I deal with,” Raistlin said in a soft, whispering voice. “Do not fear, this light will not be detected from outside or, if it is, anyone passing will assume I am studying.”

Slowly, the Dewar lowered his arm, blinking his eyes painfully in the brightness of the light. His two associates seated themselves again, even nearer the entrance this time. This Dewar leader was the same one who had attended Duncan’s council meeting. Though his face was stamped with the half-mad, half-calculating cruelty that marked most of his race, there was a glimmer of rational intelligence in his dark eyes that made him particularly dangerous.

These eyes were now assessing the mage across from him, even as the mage assessed him. The Dewar was impressed. He had about as much use for humans as most dwarves. A human magic-user was doubly suspect. But the Dewar was a shrewd judge of character, and he saw in the mage’s thin lips, gaunt face, and cold eyes a ruthless desire for power that he could both trust and understand.

“You … Fistandantilus?” the Dewar growled roughly.

“I am.” The mage closed his hand and the flame vanished, leaving them once more in the darkness—for which the dwarf, at least, was relieved. “And I speak dwarven, so we may converse in your language. I would prefer that, in fact, so that there can be no chance of misunderstanding.”

“Well and good.” The Dewar leaned forward. “I am Argat, thane of my clan. I receive your message. We are interested. But we must know more.”

“Meaning ‘what’s in it for us?’ ” Raistlin said in a mocking voice. Extending his slender hand, he pointed to a corner of his tent.

Looking in the direction indicated, Argat saw nothing. Then an object in one corner of the tent began to glow, softly at first, then with increasing brilliance. Argat once again sucked in his breath, but this time in wonder and disbelief rather than fear.

Suddenly, he cast Raistlin a sharp, suspicious glance.

“By all means, go examine it for yourself,” Raistlin said with a shrug. “You may take it with you tonight, in fact … if we come to terms.”

But Argat was already out of his chair, stumbling over to the corner of the tent. Falling to his knees, he plunged his
hands into the coffer of steel coins that shone with a bright, magical gleam. For long moments, he could do nothing but stare at the wealth with glittering eyes, letting the coins run through his fingers. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he stood up and came back to his seat.

“You have plan?”

Raistlin nodded. The magical glow of the coins faded, but there was still a faint glimmer that continually drew the dwarf’s gaze.

“Spies tell us,” said Raistlin, “that Duncan plans to meet our army on the plains in front of Pax Tharkas, intending to defeat us there or, if unable to do so, at least inflict heavy casualties. If we are winning, he will withdraw his forces back into the fortress, close the gates and operate the mechanism that drops thousands of tons of rocks down to block those gates.

“With the stores of food and weapons he has cached there, he can wait until we either give up and retreat or until his own reinforcements arrive from Thorbardin to pen us up in the valley. Am I correct?”

Argat ran his fingers through his black beard. Drawing out his knife, he flipped it into the air and caught it deftly. Glancing at the mage, he stopped suddenly, spreading his hands wide.

“I sorry. A nervous habit,” he said, grinning wickedly. “I hope I not alarm you. If it make you uneasy, I can—”

“If it makes me uneasy, I can deal with it,” Raistlin observed mildly. “Go ahead.” He gestured. “Try it.”

Shrugging, but feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of those strange eyes that he could sense but could not see within the shadows of the black hood, Argat tossed the knife into the air—

A slender, white hand snaked out of the darkness, snatched the knife by the hilt, and deftly plunged the sharp blade into the table between them.

Argat’s eyes glinted. “Magic,” he growled.

“Skill,” said Raistlin coldly. “Now, are we going to continue this discussion or play games that I excelled at in my childhood?”

“Your information accurate,” muttered Argat, sheathing his knife. “That Duncan’s plan.”

“Good.
My
plan is quite simple. Duncan will be inside the fortress itself. He will not take the field. He will give the command to shut the gates.”

Raistlin sank back into his chair, the tips of his long fingers came together. “When that command comes, the gates will not shut.”

“That easy?” Argat sneered.

“That easy.” Raistlin spread his hands. “Those who would shut them die. All you must do is hold the gates open for minutes only, until we have time to storm them. Pax Tharkas will fall. Your people lay down their arms and offer to join up with us.

“Easy, but for one flaw,” Argat said, eyeing Raistlin shrewdly. “Our homes, families, in Thorbardin. What become of them if we turn traitor?”

“Nothing,” Raistlin said. Reaching into a pouch at his side, the mage pulled forth a rolled scroll tied with black ribbon. “You will have this delivered to Duncan.” Handing it to Argat, he motioned. “Read it.”

Frowning, still regarding Raistlin with suspicion, the dwarf took the roll, untied it, and—carrying it over near the chest of coins—read it by their faint, magical glow.

He looked up at Raistlin, astonished. “This … this in language of my people!”

Raistlin nodded, somewhat impatiently. “Of course, what did you expect? Duncan would not believe it otherwise.”

“But”—Argat gaped—“that language is secret, known only to the Dewar and a few others, such as Duncan, king—”

“Read!” Raistlin gestured irritably. “I haven’t got all night.”

Muttering an oath to Reorx, the dwarf read the scroll. It took him long moments, though the words were few. Stroking his thick, tangled beard, he pondered. Then, rising, he rolled the scroll back up and held it in his hand, tapping it slowly in his palm.

“You’re right. This solve everything.” He sat back down, his dark eyes, fixed on the mage, narrowing. “But I want
something else give to Duncan. Not just scroll. Something … impressive.”

“What does your kind consider ‘impressive’?” Raistlin asked his lip curling. “A few dozen hacked-up bodies—”

Argat grinned. “The head of your general.”

There was a long silence. Not a rustle, not a whisper of cloth betrayed Raistlin’s thoughts. He even seemed to stop breathing. The silence lasted until it seemed to Argat to become a living entity itself, so powerful was it.