War of the Twins (45 page)

Caramon felt bile rise in his mouth. He could picture the talk, the excitement, the questions, the speculations, the dark looks and shaking heads, and his soul shrank from it. He wanted only to go to bed and sleep and forget everything.

But Crysania was talking. “This is your answer, too, Caramon,” she said fervently. “This is the sign from the gods we have both sought.” Stopping, she turned to face him, looking up at him earnestly. “Are you still as blind as you were in the Tower? Don’t you yet believe? We placed the matter in Paladine’s hands and the god has spoken. Raistlin was meant to live. He was meant to do this great deed. Together, he and I and you, if you will join us, will fight and overcome evil as I have fought and overcome death this night!”

Caramon stared at her. Then his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. I don’t want to fight evil, he thought wearily. I just want to go home. Is that too much to ask?

Lifting his hand, he began to rub his throbbing temple. And then he stopped, seeing in the slowly brightening light of dawn the marks of his brother’s bloody fingers still upon his arm. “I’m posting a guard inside your tent,” he said harshly. “Get some sleep.…”

He turned away.

“Caramon,” Crysania called.

“What?” He stopped with a sigh.

“You will feel better in the morning. I will pray for you tonight. Good night, my friend. Remember to thank Paladine for his grace in granting your brother his life.”

“Yeah, sure,” Caramon mumbled. Feeling uncomfortable, his headache growing worse, and knowing that he was soon going to be violently sick, he left Crysania and stumbled back to his tent.

Here, by himself, in the darkness, he was sick, retching in a corner until he no longer had anything left to bring up. Then, falling down upon his bed, he gave himself up at last to pain and to exhaustion.

But as the darkness closed mercifully over him, he remembered Crysania’s words—“thank Paladine for your brother’s life.”

The memory of Raistlin’s stricken face floated before Caramon, and the prayer stuck in his throat.

apping lightly on the guest stone that stood outside Duncan’s dwelling, Kharas waited nervously for the answer. It came soon. The door opened, and there stood his king.

“Enter and welcome, Kharas,” Duncan said, reaching out and pulling the dwarf.

Flushing in embarrassment, Kharas stepped inside his king’s dwelling place. Smiling at him kindly, to put him at ease, Duncan led the way through his house to his private study.

Built far underground, in the heart of the mountain kingdom, Duncan’s home was a complex maze of rooms and tunnels filled with the heavy, dark, solid wood furniture that dwarves admire. Though larger and roomier than most homes in Thorbardin, in all other respects Duncan’s dwelling was almost exactly like the dwelling of every other dwarf. It would have been considered the height of bad taste had it been otherwise. Just because Duncan was king didn’t give him the right to put on airs. So, though he kept a staff of
servants, he answered his own door and served his guests with his own hands. A widower, he lived in the house with his two sons, who were still unmarried, both being young (only eighty or so).

The study Kharas entered was obviously Duncan’s favorite room. Battle-axes and shields decorated the walls, along with a fine assortment of captured hobgoblin swords with their curved blades, a minotaur trident won by some distant ancestor, and, of course, hammers and chisels and stone-working tools.

Duncan made his guest comfortable with true dwarvish hospitality, offering him the best chair, pouring out the ale, and stirring up the fire. Kharas had been here before, of course; many times, in fact. But now he felt uncomfortable and ill at ease, as though he had entered the house of a stranger. Perhaps it was because Duncan, though he treated his friend with his usual courtesy, occasionally regarded the beardless dwarf with an odd, penetrating gaze.

Noticing this unusual look in Duncan’s eyes, Kharas found it impossible to relax and sat fidgeting in his chair, nervously wiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand while waiting for the formalities to end.

They did, quickly. Pouring himself a mug of ale, Duncan drained it at a sitting. Then, placing the mug on the table by his arm, he stroked his beard, staring at Kharas with a dark, somber expression.

“Kharas,” he said finally, “you told us the wizard was dead.”

“Yes, Thane,” Kharas replied, startled. “It was a mortal blow I struck him. No man could have survived—”

“He did,” Duncan replied shortly.

Kharas scowled. “Are you accusing me—”

Now it was Duncan who flushed. “No, my friend! Far be it. I am certain that, whatever may have happened, you truly believed you killed him.” Duncan sighed heavily. “But our scouts report seeing him in camp. He was wounded, apparently. At least, he could no longer ride. The army moved on to Zhaman, however, carrying the wizard with them in a cart.”

“Thane!” Kharas protested, his face flushing in anger. “I swear to you! His blood washed over my hands! I yanked the sword from his body. By Reorx!” The dwarf shuddered. “I saw the death look in his eyes!”

“I don’t doubt you, son!” Duncan said earnestly, reaching out to pat the young hero’s shoulder. “I never heard of anyone surviving a wound such as you described—except in the old days, of course, when clerics still walked the land.”

Like all other true clerics, dwarven clerics had also vanished right before the Cataclysm. Unlike other races on Krynn, the dwarves, however, never abandoned their belief in their ancient god, Reorx, the Forger of the World. Although the dwarves were upset with Reorx for causing the Cataclysm, their belief in their god was too deeply ingrained and too much a part of their culture simply to toss out after one minor infraction on the god’s part. Still, they were angered enough to no longer worship him openly.

“Have you any idea how this might have happened?” Duncan asked, frowning.

“No, Thane,” Kharas said heavily. “But I did wonder why we hadn’t received a reply from General Caramon.” He pondered. “Has anyone questioned those two prisoners we brought back? They might know something.”

“A kender and a gnome?” Duncan snorted. “Bah! What could either of those two possibly know? Besides, there is no need to question them. I am not particularly interested in the wizard anyway. In fact, the reason I called you here to tell you this news, Kharas, was to insist that now you forget this talk of peace and concentrate on the war.”

“There is more to those two than beards, Thane,” Kharas muttered, quoting an old expression. It was obvious he hadn’t heard a word. “I think you should—”

“I know what you think,” Duncan said grimly. “Apparitions, conjured up by the wizard. And I tell you that’s ridiculous! What self-respecting wizard would ever conjure up a kender? No, they’re servants or something, most likely. It was dark and confused in there. You said so yourself.”

“I’m not sure,” Kharas replied, his voice soft. “If you had
seen the mage’s face when he looked at them! It was the face of one who walks the plains and suddenly sees a coffer of gold and jewels lying in the sand at his feet. Give me leave, Thane,” Kharas said eagerly. “Let me bring them before you. Talk to them, that’s all I ask!”

Duncan heaved a vast sigh, glaring at Kharas gloomily.

“Very well,” he snapped. “I don’t suppose it can hurt. But”—Duncan studied Kharas shrewdly—“if this proves to be nothing, will you promise me to give up this wild notion and concentrate on the business of war? It will be a hard fight, son,” Duncan added more gently, seeing the look of true grief on his young hero’s beardless face. “We need you, Kharas.”

“Aye, Thane,” Kharas said steadily. “I’ll agree. If this proves to be nothing.”

With a gruff nod, Duncan yelled for his guards and stumped out of the house, followed more slowly by a thoughtful Kharas.

Traversing the vast underground dwarven kingdom, winding down streets here and up streets there, crossing the Urkhan Sea by boat, they eventually came to the first level of the dungeons. Here were held prisoners who had committed minor crimes and infractions—debtors, a young dwarf who had spoken disrespectfully to an elder, poachers, and several drunks, sleeping off overnight revels. Here, too, were held the kender and the gnome.

At least, they had been—last night.

“It all comes,” said Tasslehoff Burrfoot as the dwarven guard prodded him along, “of not having a map.”

“I thought you said you’d been here before,” Gnimsh grumbled peevishly.

“Not
before,”
Tas corrected.
“After
. Or maybe
later
would be a better word. About two hundred years later, as near as I can figure. It’s quite a fascinating story, actually. I came here with some friends of mine. Let’s see … that was right after Goldmoon and Riverwind were married and before we went to Tarsis. Or was it after we went to Tarsis?” Tas pondered. “No,
it couldn’t have been, because Tarsis was where the building fell on me and—”

“I’veheardthatstory!” Gnimsh snapped.

“What?” Tas blinked.

“I’ve … heard … it!” Gnimsh shouted loudly. His thin, gnomish voice echoed in the underground chamber, causing several passersby to glare at him sternly. Their faces grim, the dwarven guards hurried their recaptured prisoners along.

“Oh,” Tas said, crestfallen. Then the kender cheered up. “But the king hasn’t and we’re being taken to see him. He’ll probably be quite interested.…”

“You said we weren’t supposed to say anything about coming from the future,” Gnimsh said in a loud whisper, his long leather apron flapping about his feet. “We’re supposed to act like we belong here, remember?”

“That was when I thought everything would go right,” Tas said with a sigh. “And everything was going right. The device worked, we escaped from the Abyss—”

“They let us escape—” Gnimsh pointed out.

“Well, whatever,” Tas said, irritated at the reminder. “Anyway, we
got out
, which is all that counts. And the magical device worked, just like you said”—Gnimsh smiled happily and nodded—“and we found Caramon. Just like you said—the device was cali-cala-whatever to return to him—”

“Calibrated,” Gnimsh interrupted.

“—but then”—Tas chewed nervously on the end of his topknot of hair—“everything went all wrong, somehow. Raistlin stabbed, maybe dead. The dwarves hauling us off without ever giving me a chance to tell them they were making a serious mistake.”

The kender trudged along, pondering deeply. Finally, he shook his head. “I’ve thought it over, Gnimsh. I know it’s a desperate act and one I wouldn’t ordinarily resort to, but I don’t think we have any choice. The situation has gotten completely out of hand.” Tas heaved a solemn sigh. “I think we should tell the truth.”

Gnimsh appeared extremely alarmed at this drastic action, so alarmed, in fact, that he tripped over his apron and fell flat
on the ground. The guards, neither of whom spoke Common, hauled him to his feet and dragged the gnome the rest of way, coming at last to a halt before a great, wooden door. Here other guards, eyeing the kender and the gnome with disgust, shoved on the doors, slowly pushing them open.

“Oh, I’ve been here!” Tas said suddenly. “Now I know where we are.”

“That’s
a big help,” Gnimsh muttered.

“The Hall of Audience,” Tas continued. “The last time we were here, Tanis got sick. He’s an elf, you know. Well, half an elf, anyway, and he hated living underground.” The kender sighed again. “I wish Tanis was here now. He’d know what to do. I wish
someone
wise was here now.”

The guards shoved them inside the great hall. “At least,” Tas said to Gnimsh softly, “we’re not alone. At least we’ve got each other.”

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, bowing before the king of the dwarves, then bowing again to each of the thanes seated in the stone seats behind and on a lower level than Duncan’s throne. “And this is—”

The gnome pushed forward eagerly. “Gnimshmari—”

“Gnimsh!” Tas said loudly, stepping on the gnome’s foot as Gnimsh paused for breath. “Let me do the talking!” the kender scolded in an audible whisper.

Scowling, Gnimsh lapsed into hurt silence as Tas looked around the hall brightly.

“Gee, you’re not planning a lot in the way of renovation the next two hundred years, are you? It’s going to look just about the same. Except I seem to remember that crack there—no, over there. Yes, that one. It’s going to get quite a bit bigger in the future. You might want to—”

“Where do you come from, kender?” Duncan growled.

“Solace,” said Tas, remembering he was telling the truth. “Oh, don’t worry if you’ve never heard of it. It doesn’t exist yet. They hadn’t heard of it in Istar, either, but that didn’t matter so much because no one cared about anything in Istar that wasn’t there. In Istar, I mean. Solace is north of Haven,
which isn’t there either but will be sooner than Solace, if you take my meaning.”

Duncan, leaning forward, glowered at Tas alarmingly from beneath his thick eyebrows. “You’re lying.”

“I am not!” Tas said indignantly. “We came here using a magical device that I had borrowed—sort of—from a friend. It worked fine when I had it, but then I accidentally broke it. Well, actually that wasn’t my fault. But that’s another story. At any rate, I survived the Cataclysm and ended up in the Abyss.
Not
a nice place. Anyway, I met Gnimsh in the Abyss and he fixed it. The device, I mean, not the Abyss. He’s really a wonderful fellow,” Tas continued confidentially, patting Gnimsh on the shoulder. “He’s a gnome, all right, but his inventions work.”