Brother's Majere

Chapter 22

Caramon made excellent time, running at a steady pace up Southgate Street. The road was, for the most part, empty. Lord Cal and his guards were busy dispersing the people, attempting to restore order. Still, the warrior thought it best to keep to the shadows of twilight. He didn’t have time to beat off an enraged mob.

When he reached Barnstoke Hall, the place appeared deserted. He put his hand on the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. The door was locked. He started to bang on it, demanding entrance, then realized the proprietor might not be exactly delighted to see him.

Well, I opened it once, he thought. I can do it again.

Taking a deep breath, Caramon stepped back, then threw his weight into the door. It gave a little. Gathering himself together, rubbing his shoulder, he started to try again when a voice shrilled behind him.

“Hey, Caramon. Can I help you?”

“Earwig!” the warrior exclaimed, whirling around. “Where have you been? We’ve looked all over! Are you sick or something?”

The kender seemed unusually pale, his face drawn and pinched. He stood with a slight stoop, leaning as heavily on his hoopak as Raistlin did on the Staff of Magius.

“I haven’t eaten in a few days, I think,” he said vaguely. “I was captured by … by that man.”

“Yeah, we went looking for you. In the cave … the cave of the dead wizard?”

Earwig appeared thoughtful, then shrugged. “I don’t remember. I’ve been through quite a lot recently, you know.”

“Where have you been? How did you escape? Wait till I bust this door down, and we’ll have a bite to eat and then talk.”

“No!” cried Earwig, clinging to Caramon. “There’s something I need to show you. We have to go now.”

“But what about you? You don’t look like you’re in any condition to-”

“Do not worry about me, Caramon. We have more pressing matters to attend to!”

The warrior’s eyes opened in surprise. “You’re sure talking funny. You sound kind of like Raist.”

“Don’t be a fool, Caramon!” the kender said sharply. “Come on!”

Caramon didn’t like this, and he wished his brother were around to advise him. Thinking of Raistlin made him recall the mage’s warning. Caramon looked at the kender’s ring finger. The flesh around the ring was swollen and fiery red. Blood trickled from beneath it.

Seeing the warrior’s stare, Earwig shoved his hand into his pocket. “Are you coming? Or do I have to go by myself?”

“All right, Earwig,” said Caramon, not wanting the kender to run around loose. “Lead the way.”

The kender headed at a run back toward the center of the city. Caramon had to work to catch up with him.

“Where are we going?” the warrior asked, searching the streets for signs of the mob.

“Uh, back to where I was, when I was captured, that is,” Earwig replied, apparently distracted by having to walk and think at the same time. “I mean, to the tunnels underneath the city.”

“Tunnels? What tunnels?”

“The tunnels where my jail cell was, dolt!” Earwig muttered beneath his breath.

“Did the tunnels have paintings all over them, like somebody was trying to tell a story or something?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. It’s kind of hard to remember. I have this terrible headache,” the kender mumbled, rubbing his head with his right hand.

“Here, stop. Wait a minute. Let me see. Maybe you were-” The warrior reached out.

“Hey! What are you doing?!” the kender yelled. Spinning around, he clobbered the fighter on the hand with his hoopak.

“Ouch! Hey, yourself!” Caramon said in dismay, clutching his hand, staring at his friend. “I was only trying to help.”

Earwig glared at him, then a look of confusion crossed his face. “I–I’m sorry. I’m … nervous, that’s all.” The kender turned, moving back up the street.

“A nervous kender!” Caramon marveled. “Maybe I should have him stuffed for posterity.” Shrugging, massaging his bruise, the fighter followed.

After a few blocks, the street began to curve inward toward the center of the city, running parallel to several other boulevards going in the same direction. At the corner of a small park, empty of all life except for the grass and brush, Earwig went to the left, cutting across an open market till he reached a mansion, belonging to one of Mereklar’s ten councillors.

“Whose house is this?” Caramon asked, peering up to the second floor, then back down at the grounds.

“Lord Manion’s. But he’s dead now,” Earwig said sullenly. “Come on, will you! Don’t worry. Nobody’s home.”

“How do you know that?”

“Simple. Nobody lived in the house except for the lord, and he’s dead.” Earwig disappeared, starting to whistle in a weird, unnatural tone.

The warrior brought his parrying dagger up to his face, tapping himself lightly in the forehead with the pommel. “I can’t believe I’m actually listening to a kender,” he muttered. “Much less following one.”

A large pond surrounded by short hedgerows and dotted with flowerbeds reflected the light of the two visible moons, just beginning to rise.

Caramon, glancing at them, saw that they were very close together. “The Great Eye!” he recalled aloud. The deepest part of the night, his brother had said. That is when all three will converge … and great magical power will be unleashed!

Earwig was searching around in the bushes when Caramon found him. “What are you looking for?” the warrior asked, bending down to help.

“A door.”

“A door? In a bush? Boy, your head must have really gotten cracked hard!”

“There it is!” the kender exclaimed, pulling up on a clump of grass that was growing over a wooden cover. The kender scooted down. Caramon peered inside. The door led to a staircase carved into the stone walls.

“Well, aren’t you coming?” Earwig asked, staring up at Caramon from out of the hole.

Heaving a great sigh, Caramon followed, sheathing his main-gauche but leaving his broadsword out, ready for action.

Earwig lit a small torch, throwing flickering yellow light against the walls. The passage was similar to those in the sewer, except these contained different pictures, and strange lines of gold, white, and black ran as far as his eye could see. Caramon reached out and touched a white line. He snatched his hand back in astonishment, shaking it vigorously.

“Hey! That burned me!”

“Cut it out, Caramon! We don’t have time for your nonsense!”

The kender tugged at the leather harness the fighter wore, attempting to drag his huge friend down the tunnel.

“All right, I’m coming! What’s the big hurry?”

“We have to get somewhere quickly. We … uh … we have to save the city! That’s it!”

“What do you mean, ‘save the city’? What’s going on?” the fighter demanded.

“Help me look for my amber meltings. On the floor,” Earwig said, dropping to his hands and knees, patting the ground with his palms. “Here they are! We go this way!” The kender ran down a corridor.

Caramon dashed after him, his concern over Earwig’s strange behavior now laced with fear. The kender’s little torch brought unnatural shadows to life, but the only sounds were the rapping of boot and shoe against the stone. Earwig outpaced his larger friend, running with ease through the maze of tunnels. The fighter, stumbling every once in a while when he caught his foot in a crack in the floor, was hard pressed to keep up. Suddenly, the kender’s light vanished altogether, and the warrior stopped, perplexed.

“Earwig! Where are you?”

“Over here, Caramon!” came the kender’s voice, strangely muffled, as if he were talking into his hand.

“Where?” The fighter turned in the darkness, trying to locate the other’s yell. “Is this one of your stupid games? Because-”

“Here I am!”

Using his sword’s hilt as a prod, Caramon walked with careful steps toward the direction of his companion’s voice. He bumped into walls several times, the metal of the blade clashing with loud, insensitive vibrations that made the warrior shudder nervously. He was completely blind. The darkness was impenetrable. Then, ahead, he saw a dim light. Torn between relief and the sincere desire to throttle the kender, Caramon stumbled forward and entered a room.

“Earwig. Are you in here?” the fighter called, staring with wonder at the dimly flickering torches.

He heard a puff of breath, then a metal dart struck him in the finger. Caramon fell forward, losing his grip on his sword.

He could see Earwig now, and he stared up at his friend, who was standing on a large stone dais, hoopak in hand. The top had been removed, turning it into a blowgun.

“That’s one of those poisoned darts, Caramon,” said the kender. “I found it on the floor the night the assassin came. You’ll be dead pretty soon.”

“Why?” Caramon managed weakly, feeling himself begin to grow lightheaded. Heat rushed up from his arm to engulf his face and neck.

“You must die, Majere!” the kender hissed, his face twisted into an expression of cruel triumph. “Our plans cannot be stopped!”

Caramon fell to his knees, leaning back against the smooth, unmarked wall. His head bent to one side, black and silver stars flickered before his eyes. His mouth was dry, and his lips could barely shape the words.

“Whose plans?”

“Whose plans?” Earwig mocked.

He raised his arm above his head, pulling down the sleeve on his brown tunic to reveal his hand. The gold band flashed in the torchlight.

Beware the ring! Raistlin’s voice echoed in Caramon’s mind.

The ceiling had darkened. Motes of light appeared, forming pictures and patterns the warrior found vaguely familiar. The poison dulled his mind like a stone against the edge of a sword.

Earwig laughed. “Yes! Look! Look up into your doom! Worship our Queen! Our Queen of Darkness! Takhisis! Takhisis! We celebrate your return to the world!”

Caramon didn’t understand. “Earwig,” he whispered, shivering. “Help me!”

The kender stared down at his friend, and his features softened. Suddenly, he cried, “Help me, Caramon! I can’t stop!”

Pulling a dagger from his belt, Earwig leaped off the stone and ran at the warrior.

The Lord of the Cats slid through the streets of the city, a blur of dark shadow in the moonlit night. He bypassed most of the town’s guard, avoiding Lord Cal’s command troops by traveling up side streets and over buildings, climbing with incredible agility, using nothing more than his hands and long, perfect nails.

At the edge of the city limits, he ascended to the rooftops to get a better view. He could see that most of the people were safely locked behind their doors, windows shut and barred. There were still a few roaming about the town, set on spilling the mage’s blood. But most of the mobs had dispersed, their members hurrying home to their wives and family before the coming of the Festival of the Eye. No children in Mereklar would be going out this night to beg for cookies.

Reaching the last building on Southgate Street, Bast leaped the great distance between the dwelling and the wall, jumping gracefully through the air to land without sound. He came to his feet instantly, prepared for danger. He paused, listening intently, then turned to face the lands outside the white barriers of Mereklar. Standing straight, he raised his arms above his head and called to his dominion, summoning them to the world’s end.

Waving the knife wildly, Earwig ran straight at Caramon. The big warrior managed to catch the kender and ward off the knife, both of them falling to the floor. Earwig struggled to free himself, the small body flailing on top of the fighter’s huge frame. Caramon, weakened by the poison, rolled over and pinioned the kender with a wrestling hold, his arm jammed under the small, pointed chin.

“What in the name of the Abyss are you doing?” Caramon grunted.

“You’re not dead yet!” Earwig shrieked.

“No thanks to you! Oof-”

The kender had slipped his leg underneath the fighter and kicked upward, landing his attack just below the abdomen.

Caramon fell back with a groan. Earwig slashed with the knife, ripping open the warrior’s shoulder before the blade came up against the leather harness and flipped out of the kender’s hands.

Finding himself defenseless, Earwig fell back, taking refuge behind the stone dais.

Caramon leaned against the wall. The wound in his shoulder wasn’t deep, and he managed to stop the bleeding by pressing part of his shirt against it. He reached under his belt and pulled out his cestus, slipping it over his fingers, driving the metal into his flesh to help retain his failing consciousness. He, too, wondered why he wasn’t dead.

As awful as I feel, I sort of wish I were, he thought briefly, pain twisting his insides.

Earwig was staring at him hopefully, perhaps waiting for him to keel over. Using the smooth stone as a prop, Caramon slid back up the wall, pushing with his powerful legs. Three throwing spikes clattered beside his head, bouncing off the smooth stone and falling to his feet. The fighter was late to duck, then realized that the weapons had already missed. Three more projectiles flew out from behind the dais, and two struck him in the arm and chest, bouncing off his armor.

If I don’t stop the kender soon, Caramon thought, it’ll be a race to see if I die from the poison or loss of blood! Taking a deep breath, he dropped to his knees and began to crawl around the giant disk, hoping to take the kender by surprise. The chamber was very quiet, and he knew he sounded as loud as a dwarf on a drinking binge, but he couldn’t help it.

Caramon saw movement and sprang, attempting to grab his friend. But the kender dodged backward and threw an egg at the ground, breaking it open, creating billowing clouds of foul-smelling smoke.

Beware the ring!

If I can get hold of him, maybe I can get the cursed thing off his finger, Caramon thought desperately. The warrior peered through the smoke, blinking back tears that streamed down his cheeks.

“Earwig, are you here?”

“Of course, I’m here. I’m waiting to kill you!” The voice came from the opposite side of the chamber.

“No, I don’t want to talk to you!” Caramon shouted, having the strangest impression that there were two different kender in the room. “I want to talk to Earwig! I’m his friend.”

“Caramon, help-” came a muffled voice, but it was cut off.

Good, if I can just keep him off-balance.… Caramon began to babble, talking about the first thing that came into his head. “Hey, Earwig, the cats really miss you, especially that black one that kept following you around. Remember him?”

“All the cats will die! I’ll kill them, too!”

“Why do you want to kill the cats, Earwig?”

“I don’t, Caramon,” came the kender’s voice. “You’ve got to believe-” he faltered, then shouted, “The prophecy speaks. Hear its words. ‘The cats alive are the turning stone, they decide the fate, darkness or light.’ Darkness will triumph!”

The kender had moved, and Caramon was no longer sure where, though the smoke was beginning to dissipate. He sat still, gathering his strength, hoping soon to be able to see.

“Oh, by the way, Earwig. Catherine says to tell you she’s sorry. She feels real bad about what she did.”

“Catherine? Catherine who?” It was Earwig who answered, sounding lost and frightened.

“Catherine. The girl at the tavern. The one who kissed you.”

“I remember! I … I … I need your help, Caramon. She’s trying to control me, and I can’t stop her!” Earwig cried.

“I’ll help you, Earwig, just tell me where you are,” the fighter called.

“I’m right here!”

The kender leaped on Caramon’s shoulders. Grabbing Caramon by the hair, the kender pulled the warrior’s head back and tried to slash his neck with a knife.

Caramon, roaring like a wounded bull, reached back over his head, caught Earwig, and jerked him forward. The kender slammed against the wall and lay motionless.

The warrior eyed him warily a moment to see if he was shamming. The kender was obviously out cold.

Caramon lifted the kender’s left arm and held it up to the dim light in the chamber. Grasping the gold ring, he tugged. As Raistlin had discovered, the band would not come off.

“This is gonna hurt real bad, Earwig,” Caramon whispered.

He saw blood seeping from under the gold, as if the finger were being bitten. Shuddering, he tried again, but the flow of blood increased and the ring stayed where it was. Earwig moaned and thrashed about in pain.

“What am I going to do?” Caramon wracked his brain for an answer. The realm of magic was far beyond his comprehension. “What would you do, Raist?” he muttered. He could almost hear his brother’s voice: “Cut off the finger.”

Caramon slowly drew out his knife. “Well, if that’s what I have to do …” He took hold of the ring, now wet with blood, and gave it one last try. He thought he felt it wiggle slightly.

Wet with blood. Wet. Rub soap around a ring and it will slip off. No soap, but if I could get it slick enough … “That’s it!”

Caramon turned the dagger on himself, slashing a large cut in his thumb. He dripped his blood over the ring, pouring more and more of his life’s essence onto the gold until the kender’s hand was stained crimson.

“It’s not soap, but let’s see if this works!”

Caramon pinched the band between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. The ring slipped off easily-too easily. It almost seemed as if was growing and expanding, pulsing in his grip. Caramon stared at it in fascination.

Put me on! Put me on!

It is a beautiful ring and it will fit me now, Caramon thought.

Earwig screamed in pain, a sound that echoed in the chamber for many minutes. He writhed in throes of incredible agony, moaning like a child.

“She was in my head-she was in my head-she was in my head!”

Caramon threw the ring aside. Catching his friend up in his huge arms, the warrior held Earwig close to his chest, rocking the sobbing kender gently.