War of the Twins (41 page)

Most had felt uncomfortable when it was rumored they might be riding off without him. There had been many dark glances cast at the black-robed wizard, but who dared voice disapproval?

The cheers were immensely comforting to Caramon and, for a moment, he could say nothing. Then, finding his voice, he gruffly issued orders as he made ready to ride.

With a gesture, Caramon called one of the young Knights forward.

“Michael, I’m leaving you here in Pax Tharkas, in command,” he said, pulling on a pair of gloves. The young Knight flushed with pleasure at this unexpected honor, even as he glanced behind at the hole his leaving made in the ranks.

“Sir, I’m only a low-ranking—Surely, someone more qualified—”

Smiling at him sadly, Caramon shook his head. “I know your qualifications, Michael. Remember? You were ready to die to fulfill a command, and you found the compassion to disobey. It won’t be easy, but do the best you can. The women and children will stay here, of course. And I’ll send back any wounded. When the supply trains arrive, see that they’re sent on as quickly as possible.” He shook his head. “Not that it is likely to be soon enough,” he muttered. Sighing, he added, “You can probably hold out the winter here, if you have to. No matter what happens to us.…”

Seeing the Knights glance at each other, their faces puzzled and worried, Caramon abruptly bit off his words. No, his bitter foreknowledge must not be allowed to show. Feigning cheerfulness, therefore, he clapped Michael upon the shoulder, added something brave and inane, then mounted his horse amidst wild yelling.

The yells increased as the standard-bearer raised the army’s standard. Caramon’s banner with its nine-pointed star gleamed brightly in the sun. His Knights formed ranks behind him. Crysania came up to ride with them, the Knights parting, with their usual chivalry, to let her take her place. Though the Knights had no more use for the witch than anyone else in camp, she was a woman, after all, and the Code required them to protect and defend her with their lives.

“Open the gates!” Caramon shouted.

Pushed by eager hands, the gates swung open. Casting a final glance around to see that all was in readiness, Caramon’s eyes suddenly encountered those of his twin.

Raistlin sat upon his black horse within the shadows of the great gates. He did not move nor speak. He simply sat, watching, waiting.

For as long as it took to draw a shared, simultaneous breath, the twins regarded each other intently, then Caramon turned his face away.

Reaching over, he grabbed his standard from his bearer. Holding it high over his head, he cried out one word, “Thorbardin!” The morning sun, just rising above the peaks, burned golden on Caramon’s armor. It sparkled golden on the threads of the banner’s star, glittered golden on the spear tips of the long ranks behind him.

“Thorbardin!” he cried once again and, spurring his horse, he galloped out of the gates.

“Thorbardin!” His cry was echoed by thunderous yells and the clashing of sword against shield. The dwarves began their familiar, eerie, deep-throated chant, “Stone and metal, metal and stone, stone and metal, metal and stone,” stomping their iron-shod feet to it in stirring rhythm as they marched out of the fort in rigid lines.

They were followed by the Plainsmen, who moved in less orderly fashion. Wrapped in their fur cloaks against the chill, they walked in leisurely fashion, sharpening weapons, tying feathers in their hair, or painting strange symbols on their faces. Soon, growing tired of the rigid order, they would drift off the road to travel in their accustomed hunting packs. After
the barbarians came Caramon’s troop of farmers and thieves, more than a few of them staggering from the after-effects of last night’s victory party. And finally, bringing up the rear, were their new allies, the Dewar.

Argat tried to catch Raistlin’s eye as he and his men trooped out, but the wizard sat wrapped in black upon his black horse, his face hidden in darkness. The only flesh and blood part of him visible were the slender, white hands, holding the horse’s reins.

Raistlin’s eyes were not on the Dewar, nor on the army marching past him. They were on the gleaming golden figure riding at the army’s head. And it would have taken a sharper eye than the Dewar’s to note that the wizard’s hands gripped the reins with an unnatural tightness or that the black robes shivered, for just a moment, as if with a soft sigh.

The Dewar marched out, and the courtyard was empty except for the camp followers. The women wiped away their tears and, chatting among themselves, returned to their tasks. The children clambered up onto the walls to cheer the army as long as it was in sight. The gates to Pax Tharkas swung shut at last, sliding smoothly and silently upon their oiled hinges.

Standing on the battlements alone, Michael watched the great army surge southward, their spear tips shining in the morning sun, their warm breath sending up puffs of mist, the chanting of the dwarves echoing through the mountains.

Behind them rode a single, solitary figure, cloaked in black. Looking at the figure, Michael felt cheered. It seemed a good omen. Death now rode behind the army, instead of in front.

The sun shone upon the opening of the gates of Pax Tharkas; it set upon the closing of the gates of the great mountain fastness of Thorbardin. As the water-controlled mechanism that operated the gates groaned and wheezed, part of the mountain itself appeared to slide into place upon command. When shut and sealed, in fact, the gates were impossible to tell from the face of the rock of the mountain itself, so cunning was the craftsmanship of the dwarves who had spent years constructing them.

The shutting of the gates meant war. News of the marching
of the Army of Fistandantilus had been reported, carried by spies upon the swift wings of griffons. Now the mountain fastness was alive with activity. Sparks flew in the weapons makers’ shops. Armorers fell asleep, hammers in their hands. The taverns doubled their business overnight as everyone came to boast of the great deeds they would accomplish on the field of battle.

Only one part of the huge kingdom beneath the ground was quiet, and it was to this place that the hero of the dwarves turned his heavy footsteps two days after Caramon’s army had left Pax Tharkas.

Entering the great Hall of Audience of the King of the Mountain Dwarves, Kharas heard his boots ring hollowly in the bowl-shaped chamber that was carved of the stone of the mountain itself. The chamber was empty now, save for several dwarves seated at the front on a stone dais.

Kharas passed the long rows of stone benches where, last night, thousands of dwarves had roared approval as their king declared war upon their kinsmen.

Today was a War Meeting of the Council of Thanes. As such, it did not require the presence of the citizenry, so Kharas was somewhat startled to find himself invited. The hero was in disgrace—everyone knew it. There was speculation, even, that Duncan might have Kharas exiled.

Kharas noted, as he drew near, that Duncan was regarding him with an unfriendly eye, but this may have had something to do with the fact that the king’s eye and left cheekbone above his beard were undeniably black and swollen—a result of the blow Kharas had inflicted.

“Oh, get up, Kharas,” Duncan snapped as the tall, beardless dwarf bowed low before him.

“Not until you have forgiven me, Thane,” Kharas said, retaining his position.

“Forgiven you for what—knocking some sense into a foolish old dwarf?” Duncan smiled wryly. “No, you’re not forgiven for that. You are thanked.” The king rubbed his jaw. “ ‘Duty is painful,’ goes the proverb. Now I understand. But enough of that.”

Seeing Kharas straighten, Duncan held out a scroll of parchment. “I asked you here for another reason. Read this.”

Puzzled, Kharas examined the scroll. It was tied with black ribbon but was not sealed. Glancing at the other thanes, who were all assembled, each in his own stone chair sitting somewhat lower than the king’s, Kharas’s gaze went to one chair in particular—a vacant chair, the chair of Argat, Thane of the Dewar. Frowning, Kharas unrolled the scroll and read aloud, stumbling over the crude language of the Dewar.

Kharas read the scroll through twice, and his frown did not ease. If anything, it grew darker.

“Well?” demanded Duncan.

“I have nothing to do with traitors,” Kharas said, rolling up the scroll and handing it back in disgust.

“But if they are sincere,” Duncan pursued, “this could give us a great victory!”

Kharas raised his eyes to meet those of his king, who sat on the dais above him. “If, at this moment, Thane, I could talk to
our enemy’s general, this Caramon Majere, who—by all accounts—is a fair and honorable man, I would tell him exactly what peril threatens him, even if it meant that we ourselves would go down in defeat.”

The other thanes snorted or grumbled.

“You should have been a Knight of Solamnia!” one muttered, a statement not intended as a compliment.

Duncan cast them all a stern glance, and they fell into a sulking silence.

“Kharas,” Duncan said patiently, “we know how you feel about honor, and we applaud you for that. But honor will not feed the children of those who may die in this battle, nor will it keep our kinsmen from picking clean our bones if we ourselves fall. No,” Duncan continued, his voice growing stern and deep, “there is a time for honor and a time when one must do what he must.” Once again, he rubbed his jaw. “You yourself showed me that.”

Kharas’s face grew grim. Absent-mindedly raising a hand to stroke the flowing beard that was no longer there, he dropped his hand uncomfortably and, flushing, stared down at his feet.

“Our scouts have verified this report,” Duncan continued. “The army has marched.”

Kharas looked up, scowling. “I don’t believe it!” he said. “I didn’t believe it when I heard it! They have left Pax Tharkas? Before their supply wagons got through? It must be true then, the wizard must be in charge. No general would make that mistake—”

“They will be on the Plains within the next two days. Their objective is, according to our spies, the fortress of Zhaman, where they plan to set up headquarters. We have a small garrison there that will make a token defense and then retreat, hopefully drawing them out into the open.”

“Zhaman,” Kharas muttered, scratching his jaw since he could no longer tug at his beard. Abruptly, he took a step forward, his face now eager. “Thane, if I can present a plan that will end this war with a minimum of bloodshed, will you listen to it and allow me to try?”

“I’ll listen,” said Duncan dubiously, his face setting into rigid lines.

“Give me a hand-picked squadron of men, Thane, and I will undertake to kill this wizard, this Fistandantilus. When he is dead, I will show this scroll to his general and to our kinsmen. They will see that they have been betrayed. They will see the might of our army lined up against them. They must surely surrender!”

“And what are we to do with them if they
do
surrender?” Duncan snapped irritably, though he was going over the plan in his mind even as he spoke. The other thanes had ceased muttering into their beards and were looking at each other, heavy brows knotting over their eyes.

“Give them Pax Tharkas, Thane,” Kharas said, his eagerness growing. “Those who want to live there, of course. Our kinsmen will, undoubtedly, return to their homes. We could make a few concessions to them—very few,” he added hastily, seeing Duncan’s face darken. “That would be arranged with the surrender terms. But there would be shelter and protection for the humans and our kinsmen during the winter—they could work in the mines.…”

“The plan has possibilities,” Duncan muttered thoughtfully. “Once you’re in the desert, you could hide in the Mounds—”

He fell silent, pondering. Then he slowly shook his head. “But it is a dangerous course, Kharas. And all may be for nought. Even if you succeed in killing the Dark One—and I remind you that he is said to be a wizard of great power—there is every possibility you will be killed before you can talk to this General Majere. Rumor has it he is the wizard’s twin brother!”

Kharas smiled wearily, his hand still on his smooth-shaven jaw. “That is a risk I will take gladly, Thane, if means that no more of my kinsmen will die at my hands.”

Duncan glared at him, then, rubbing his swollen jaw, he heaved a sigh. “Very well,” he said. “You have our leave. Choose your men with care. When will you go?”

“Tonight, Thane, with your permission.”

“The gates of the mountain will open to you, then they will close. Whether they open again to admit you victorious or to disgorge the armed might of the mountain dwarves will be dependent upon you, Kharas. May Reorx’s flame shine on your hammer.”

Bowing, Kharas turned and walked from the hall, his step swifter and more vigorous than it had been when he arrived.

“There goes one we can ill afford to lose,” said one of the thanes, his eyes on the retreating figure of the tall, beardless dwarf.

“He was lost to us from the beginning,” Duncan snapped harshly. But his face was haggard and lined with grief as he muttered, “Now, we must plan for war.”