War of the Twins

Footsteps in the Sand...

The Army of Fistandantilus surged southward, reaching Caergoth just as the last of the leaves were blowing from the tree limbs and the chill hand of winter was getting a firm grip upon the land.

The banks of New Sea brought the army to a halt. But Caramon, knowing he was going to have to cross it, had long had his preparations underway. Turning over command of the main part of the army to his brother and the most trusted of his subordinates, Caramon led a group of his best-trained men to the shores of New Sea. Also with him were all the blacksmiths, woodwrights, and carpenters who had joined the army.

Caramon made his command post in the city of Caergoth. He had heard of the famous port city all his life—his former life. Three hundred years after the Cataclysm would find it a bustling, thriving harbor town. But now, one hundred years after the fiery mountain had struck Krynn, Caergoth was a town in confusion. Once a small farming community in the middle of Solamnic Plain, Caergoth was still struggling with the sudden appearance of a sea at it’s doorstep.

Looking down from his quarters where the roads in town ended—suddenly—in a precarious drop down steep cliffs to the beaches below, Caramon thought incongruously of Tarsis. The Cataclysm had robbed that town of its sea, leaving its boats stranded upon the sands like dying sea birds, while here, in Caergoth, New Sea lapped on what was once plowed ground.

Caramon thought with longing of those stranded ships in Tarsis. Here, in Caergoth, there were a few boats but not nearly enough for his needs. He sent his men ranging up and down the coast for hundreds of miles, with orders to either purchase or commandeer sea-going vessels of any type, their crews with them, if possible. These they sailed to Caergoth, where the smiths and the craftsmen re-outfitted them to carry as great a load as possible for the short journey across the Straits of Schallsea to Abanasinia.

Daily, Caramon received reports on the build-up of the dwarven armies—how Pax Tharkas was being fortified; how the dwarves had imported slave labor (gully dwarves) to work the mines and the steel forges day and night, turning out weapons and armor; how these were being carted to Thorbardin and taken inside the mountain.

He also received reports from the emissaries of the hill dwarves and the Plainsmen. He heard about the great gathering of the tribes in Abanasinia, putting aside blood feuds to fight together for survival. He heard about the preparations of the hill dwarves, who were also forging weapons, using the same gully-dwarf slave labor as their cousins, the mountain dwarves.

He had even made discreet advances to the elves in Qualinesti. This gave Caramon an eerie feeling, for the man to whom he sent his message was none other than Solostaran, Speaker of the Suns, who had—just weeks ago—died in Caramon’s own time. Raistlin had sneered at hearing of this attempt to draw the elves into the war, knowing full well what their answer would be. The archmage had, however, not been without a secret hope, nurtured in the dark hours of the night, that this time it might prove different...

It didn’t.

Caramon’s men never even had a chance to speak to Solostaran. Before they could dismount from their horses arrows zinged through the air, thudding into the ground, forming a deadly ring around each of them. Looking into the aspen woods, they could see literally hundreds of archers, each with an arrow socked and ready. No words were spoken. The messengers left, carrying an elven arrow to Caramon in answer.

The war itself, in fact, was beginning to give Caramon an eerie feeling. Piecing together what he had heard Raistlin and Crysania discussing, it suddenly occurred to Caramon that everything he was doing had all been done before. The thought was almost as nightmarish to him as to his brother, though for vastly different reasons.

“I feel as though that iron ring I wore round my neck in Istar had been bolted back on,” Caramon muttered to himself one night as he sat in the inn at Caergoth that he had taken over for his command post. “I’m a slave again, same as I was then. Only this time it’s worse, because—even when I was a slave—at least I had freedom to choose whether I was going to draw breath or not that day. I mean, if I’d wanted to die, I could have fallen on my sword and died! But now I’m not even given that choice.” It was a strange and horrifying concept for Caramon, one he dwelt on and mulled over many nights, one he knew he didn’t understand. He would like to have talked it over with his brother, but Raistlin was back at the inland camp with the army and even if they had been together, Caramon was certain his twin would have refused to discuss it.

Raistlin, during this time, had been gaining in strength almost daily. Following the use of his magical spells that consumed the dead village in a blazing funeral pyre, the archmage had laid almost dead to the world for two days. Upon waking from his feverish sleep, he had announced that he was hungry. Within the next few days, he ate more solid food than he had been able to tolerate in months. The cough vanished. He rapidly regained strength and added flesh to his bones.

But he was still tormented by nightmares that not even the strongest of sleeping potions could banish.

Day and night, Raistlin pondered his problem. If only he could learn Fistandantilus’s fatal mistake, he might be able to correct it!

Wild schemes came to mind. The archmage even toyed with the idea of traveling forward to his own time to research, but abandoned the^ idea—almost immediately. If—consuming a village in flame had plunged him into exhaustion for two days, the time-travel spell would prove even more wearing. And, though only a day or two might pass in the present while he recuperated, eons would flit by in the past. Finally, if he did make it back, he wouldn’t have the strength needed to battle the Dark Queen.

And then, just when he had almost given up in despair, the answer came to him...

1

Raistlin lifted the tent flap and walked out. The guard on duty started and shuffled uncomfortably. The appearance of the archmage was always unnerving, even to those of his own personal guard. No one ever heard him coming. He always seemed to materialize out of the air. The first indication of his presence was the touch of burning fingers upon a bare arm, or soft, whispered words, or the rustle of black robes.

The wizard’s tent was regarded with wonder and awe, though no one had ever seen anything strange emanating from it. Many, of course, watched—especially the children, who secretly hoped to see a horrible monster break free of the archmage’s control and go thundering through the camp, devouring everyone in sight until they were able to tame it with a bit of gingerbread.

But nothing of the kind ever happened. The archmage carefully nurtured and conserved his strength. Tonight would be different, Raistlin reflected with a sigh and scowl. But it couldn’t be helped.

“Guard,” he murmured.

“M—my lord?” the guard stammered in some confusion. The archmage rarely spoke to anyone, let alone a mere guard.

“Where is Lady Crysania?”

The guard could not suppress a curl of his lip as he answered that the “witch” was, he believed, in General Caramon’s tent, having retired for the evening.

“Shall I send someone for her, my lord?” he asked Raistlin with such obvious reluctance that the mage could not help but smile, though it was hidden in the shadows of his black hood.

“No,” Raistlin replied, nodding as if pleased at this information. “And my brother, have you word of him? When is his return expected?”

“General Caramon sent word that he arrives tomorrow, my lord,” the guard continued in a mystified tone, certain that the mage knew this already. “We are to await his arrival here and let the supply train catch up with us at the same time. The first wagons rolled in this afternoon, my lord.” A sudden thought struck the guard. “If—if you’re thinking of changing these orders, my lord, I should call the Captain of the Watch—”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Raistlin replied soothingly. “I merely wanted to make certain that I would not be disturbed this night—for anything or by anyone. Is that clear, uh—what is your name?”

“M—michael, lordship,” the guard answered. “Certainly, my lord. If such are your orders, I will carry them out.”

“Good,” Raistlin said. The archmage was silent for a moment, staring out into the night which was cold but bright with the light from Lunitari and the stars. Solinari, waning, was nothing but a silver scratch across the sky. More important, to Raistlin’s eyes, was the moon he alone could see. Nuitari, the Black Moon, was full and round, a hole of darkness amid the stars.

Raistlin took a step nearer the guard. Casting his hood back slightly from his face, he let the light of the red moon strike his eyes. The guard, startled, involuntarily stepped backward, but his strict training as a Knight of Solamnia made him catch himself.

Raistlin felt the man’s body stiffen. He saw the reaction and smiled again. Raising a slender hand, he laid it upon the guard’s armored chest.

“No one is to enter my tent for any reason,” the archmage repeated in the soft, sibilant whisper he knew how to use so effectively. “No matter what happens! No one—Lady Crysania, my brother, you yourself... no one!”

“I—I understand, my lord,” Michael stammered.

“You may hear or see strange things this night,” Raistlin continued, his eyes holding the guard’s in their entrancing gaze. “Ignore them. Any who enters this tent does so at the risk of his own life... and mine!”

“Y—yes, lord!” Michael said, swallowing. A trickle of sweat rolled down his face, though the night air was exceedingly cool for autumn.

“You are—or were—a Knight of Solamnia?” Raistlin asked abruptly.

Michael seemed uncomfortable, his gaze wavered. His mouth opened, but Raistlin shook his head. “Never mind. You do not have to tell me. Though you have shaved your moustaches, I can tell it by your face. I knew a Knight once, you see. Therefore, swear to me, by the Code and the Measure, that you will do as I ask.”

“I swear, by the Code and... the Measure...” Michael whispered.

The mage nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to reenter his tent. Michael, free of those eyes in which he saw only himself reflected, returned to his post, shivering beneath his heavy, woolen cloak. At the last moment, however, Raistlin paused, his robes rustling softly around him.

“Sir Knight,” he whispered. Michael turned.

“If anyone enters this tent,” the mage said in a gentle, pleasant voice, “and disturbs my spellcasting and—if I survive— I will expect to find nothing but your corpse upon the ground. That is the only excuse I will accept for failure.”

“Yes, my lord,” Michael said, more firmly, though he kept his voice low. “Est Sularas oth Mithas. My Honor is My Life.”

“Yes.” Raistlin shrugged. “So it generally ends.”

The archmage entered his tent, leaving Michael to stand in the darkness, waiting for the new-gods-knew-what to happen in the tent behind him. He wished his cousin, Garic, were here to share this strange and forbidding duty. But Garic was with Caramon. Michael hunched his shoulders deeper into his cloak and looked longingly out into the camp. There were bonfires, warm spiced wine, good fellowship, the sounds of laughter. Here, all was wrapped in thick, red-tinged, starlit darkness. The only sound Michael could hear was the sound of his armor jingling as he began to shake uncontrollably.

Crossing the tent floor, Raistlin came to a large, wooden chest that sat upon the floor beside his bed. Carved with magical runes, the chest was the only one of Raistlin’s possessions beside the Staff of Magius—that the mage allowed no one but himself to touch. Not that any sought to try. Not after the report of one of the guards, who had mistakenly attempted to lift it.

Raistlin had not said a word, he simply watched as the guard dropped it with a gasp.

The chest was bitterly cold to the touch, the guard reported in a shaken voice to his friends around the fire that night. Not only that, but he was overcome by a feeling of horror so great it was a wonder he didn’t go mad.

Since that time, only Raistlin himself moved it, though how, no one could say. It was always present in his tent, yet no one could ever recall seeing it on any of the pack horses.

Lifting the lid of the chest, Raistlin calmly studied the contents—the nightblue-bound spellbooks, the jars and bottles and pouches of spell components, his own black-bound spellbooks, an assortment of scrolls, and several black robes folded at the bottom. There were no magical rings or pendants, such as might have been found in the possession of lesser mages. These Raistlin scorned as being fit only for weaklings.

His gaze passed quickly over all the items, including one slim, well-worn book that might have made the casual observer pause and stare, wondering that such a mundane item was kept with objects of arcane value. The title—written in flamboyant letters to attract the attention of the buyer—was Sleight-of-Hand Techniques Designed to Amaze and Delight! Below that was written Astound Your Friends! Trick the Gullible! There might have been more but the rest had been worn away long ago by young, eager, loving hands.

Passing over this book that, even now, brought a thin smile of remembrance to the mage’s lips, Raistlin reached down among his robes, uncovered a small box, and drew it forth. This, too, was guarded by runes carved upon its surface. Muttering magical words to nullify their effects, the mage opened the box reverently. There was only one thing inside—an ornate, silver stand. Carefully, Raistlin removed the stand and rising to his feet, carried it to the table he had placed in the center of the tent.

Settling himself into a chair, the mage put his hand into one of the secret pockets of his robes and pulled forth a small crystal object. Swirling with colors, it resembled at first glance nothing more sinister than a child’s marble. Yet, looking at the object closely, one saw that the colors trapped within were alive. They could be seen constantly moving and shifting, as though seeking escape.

Raistlin placed the marble upon the stand. It looked ludicrous perched there, much too small. And then, suddenly, as always, it was perfectly right. The marble had grown, the stand had shrunk… perhaps Raistlin himself had shrunk, for now the mage felt himself to be the one that appeared ludicrous.

It was a common feeling and he was accustomed to it, knowing that the dragon orb—for such was the shimmering, swirling-colored crystal globe—sought always to put its user at a disadvantage. But, long ago (no—in time to come!), Raistlin had mastered the dragon orb. He had learned to control the essence of dragonkind that inhabited it.

Relaxing his body, Raistlin closed his eyes and gave himself up to his magic. Reaching out, he placed his fingers upon the cold crystal of the dragon orb and spoke the ancient words.

“Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar.”

The chill of the orb began to spread through his fingers, causing his very bones to ache. Gritting his teeth, Raistlin repeated the words.

“Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar.”

The swirling colors within the orb ceased their lazy meandering and began to spin madly. Raistlin stared within the dazzling vortex, fighting the dizziness that assailed him, keeping his hands placed firmly upon the orb.

Slowly, he whispered the words again.

The colors ceased to swirl and a light glowed in the center. Raistlin blinked, then frowned. The light should have been neither black nor white, all colors yet none, symbolizing the mixture of good and evil and neutrality that bound the essence of the dragons within the orb. Such it had always been, ever since the first time he had looked within the orb and fought for its control.

But the light he saw now, though much the same as he had seen before, seemed ringed round by dark shadows. He stared at it closely, coldly, banishing any fanciful flights of imagination. His frown deepened. There were shadows hovering about the edges... shadows of... wings!

Out of the light came two hands. Raistlin caught hold of them—and gasped.

The hands pulled him with such strength that, totally unprepared, Raistlin nearly lost control. It was only when he felt himself being drawn into the orb by the hands within the shadowy light that he exerted his own force of will and yanked the hands back toward him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Raistlin demanded sternly. “Why do you challenge me? Long ago, I became your master.”

She calls... She calls and we must obey!

“Who calls who is more important than I?” Raistlin asked with a sneer, though his blood suddenly ran colder than the touch of the orb.

Our Queen! We hear her voice, moving in our dreams, disturbing our sleep. Come, master, we will take you! Come, quickly!

The Queen! Raistlin shuddered involuntarily, unable to stop himself. The hands, sensing him weakening, began to draw him in once more. Angrily, Raistlin tightened his grip on them and paused to try to sort his thoughts that swirled as madly as the colors within the orb.

The Queen! Of course, he should have foreseen this. She had entered the world—partially—and now she moved among the evil dragons. Banished from Krynn long ago by the sacrifice of the Solamnic Knight, Huma, the dragons, both good and evil, slept in deep and secret places.

Leaving the good dragons to sleep on undisturbed, the Dark Queen, Takhisis, the Five-Headed Dragon, was awaking the evil dragons, rallying them to her cause as she fought to gain control of the world.

The dragon orb, though composed of the essences of all dragons—good, evil, and neutral—would, of course, react strongly to the Queen’s commands, especially as—for the present—its evil side was predominant, enhanced by the nature of its master.

Are those shadows I see the wings of dragons, or shadows of my own soul? Raistlin wondered, staring into the orb.

He did not have leisure for reflection, however. All of these thoughts flitted through his mind so rapidly that between the drawing of one breath and the releasing of it, the archmage saw his grave danger. Let him lose control for an instant, and Takhisis would claim him.

“No, my Queen,” he murmured, keeping a tight grip upon the hands within the orb. “No, it will not be so easy as this.” To the orb he spoke softly but firmly, “I am your master still. I was the one who rescued you from Silvanesti and Lorac, the mad elven king. I was the one who carried you safely from the Blood Sea of Istar. I am Rai—” He hesitated, swallowed the suddenly bitter taste in his mouth, then said through clenched teeth, “I am... Fistandantilus—Master of Past and of Present—and I command you to obey me!”

The orb’s light dimmed. Raistlin felt the hands holding his own tremble and start to slip away. Anger and fear shot through him, but he suppressed these emotions instantly and kept his clasp firmly upon the hands. The trembling ceased, the hands relaxed.

We obey, master.

Raistlin dared not breathe a sigh of relief.

“Very well,” he said, keeping his voice stern, a parent speaking to a chastened child (but what a dangerous child! he thought). Coldly, he continued, “I must contact my apprentice in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. Heed my command. Carry my voice through the ethers of time. Bring my words to Dalamar.”

Speak the words, master. He shall hear them as he hears the beating of his own heart, and so shall you hear his response.

Raistlin nodded...

2

Dalamar shut the spellbook, clenching his fist in frustration. He was certain he was doing everything right, pronouncing the words with the proper inflection, repeating the chant the prescribed number of times. The components were those called for. He had seen Raistlin cast this spell a hundred times. Yet, he could not do it.

Putting his head wearily in his hands, he closed his eyes and brought memories of his Shalafi to mind, hearing Raistlin’s soft voice, trying to remember the exact tone and rhythm, trying to think of anything he might be doing wrong.

It didn’t help. Everything seemed the same! Well, thought Dalamar with a tired sigh, I must simply wait until he returns.

Standing up, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and the continual light spell he had cast upon a crystal globe standing on the desk of Raistlin’s library winked out. No fire burned in the grate. The late spring night in Palanthas was warm and fine. Dalamar had even dared open the window a crack.

Raistlin’s health at the best of times was fragile. He abhorred fresh air, preferring to sit in his study wrapped in warmth and the smells of roses and spice and decay. Ordinarily, Dalamar did not mind. But there were times, particularly in the spring, when his elven soul longed for the woodland home he had left forever.

Standing by the window, smelling the perfume of renewed life that not even the horrors of the Shoikan Grove could keep from reaching the Tower, Dalamar let himself think, just for a moment, of Silvanesti.

A dark elf—one who is cast from the light. Such was Dalamar to his people. When they’d caught him wearing the Black Robes that no elf could even look upon without flinching, practicing arcane arts forbidden to one of his low rank and station, the elven lords had bound Dalamar hand and foot, gagged his mouth, and blindfolded his eyes. Then he had been thrown in a cart and driven to the borders of his land.

Deprived of his sight, Dalamar’s last memories of Silvanesti were the smells of aspen trees, blooming flowers, rich loam. It had been spring then, too, he recalled.

Would he go back if he could? Would he give up this to return? Did he feel any sorrow, regret? Without conscious volition, Dalamar’s hand went to his breast. Beneath the black robes, he could feel the wounds in his chest. Though it had been a week since Raistlin’s hand had touched him, burning five holes into his flesh, the wounds had not healed. Nor would they ever heal, Dalamar knew with bitter certainty.

Always, the rest of his life, he would feel their pain. Whenever he stood naked, he would see them, festering scabs that no skin would cover. Such was the penalty he had paid for his treachery against his Shalafi.

As he had told the great Par-Salian, Head of the Order, master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth—and Dalamar’s master, too, of a sort, since the dark elf mage had, in reality, been a spy for the Order of Mages who feared and distrusted Raistlin as they had feared no mortal in their history—“It was no more than I deserved.”

Would he leave this dangerous place? Go back home, go back to Silvanesti?

Dalamar stared out the window with a grim, twisted smile, reminiscent of Raistlin, the Shalafi. Almost unwillingly, Dalamar’s gaze went from the peaceful, starlit night sky back indoors, to the rows and rows of nightblue-bound spellbooks that lined the walls of the library. In his memory, he saw the wonderful, awful, beautiful, dreadful sights he had been privileged to witness as Raistlin’s apprentice. He felt the stirrings of power within his soul, a pleasure that outweighed the pain.

No, he would never return. Never leave...

Dalamar’s musings were cut short by the sound of a silver bell. It rang only once, with a sweet, low sound. But to those living (and dead) within the Tower, it had the effect of a shattering gong splitting the air. Someone was attempting to enter! Someone had won through the perilous Shoikan Grove and was at the gates of the Tower itself!

His mind having already conjured up memories of Par-Salian, Dalamar had sudden unwelcome visions of the powerful, white-robed wizard standing on his doorstep. He could also hear in his mind what he had told the Council only nights earlier—“If any of you came and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would kill you.”

On the words of a spell, Dalamar disappeared from the library to reappear, within the drawing of a breath, at the Tower entrance.

But it was not a conclave of flashing-eyed wizards he faced. It was a figure dressed in blue dragonscale armor, wearing the hideous, horned mask of a Dragon Highlord. In its gloved hand, the figure held a black jewel—a nightjewel, Dalamar saw—and behind the figure he could sense, though he could not see, the presence of a being of awesome power—a death knight.

The Dragon Highlord was using the jewel to hold at bay several of the Tower’s Guardians; their pale visages could be seen in the dark light of the nightjewel, thirsting for her living blood. Though Dalamar could not see the Highlord’s face beneath the helm, he could feel the heat of her anger.

“Lord Kitiara,” Dalamar said gravely, bowing. “Forgive this rude welcome. If you had but let us know you were coming—”

Yanking off the helm, Kitiara glared at Dalamar with cold, brown eyes that reminded the apprentice forcibly of her kinship to the Shalafi.

“—you would have had an even more interesting reception planned for me, no doubt!” she snarled with an angry toss of her dark, curly hair. “I come and go where I please, especially to pay a visit to my brother!” Her voice literally shook with rage. “I made my way through those god-cursed trees of yours out there,, then I’m attacked at his front door!” Her hand drew her sword. She took a step forward. “By the gods, I should teach you a lesson, elven slime—”

“I repeat my apologies,” Dalamar said calmly, but there was a glint in his slanted eyes that made Kit hesitate in her reckless act.

Like most warriors, Kitiara tended to regard magic-users as weaklings who spent time reading books that could be put to better use wielding cold steel. Oh, they could produce some flashy results, no doubt, but when put to the test, she would much rather rely on her sword and her skill than weird words and bat dung.

Thus she pictured Raistlin, her half-brother, in her mind, and this was how she pictured his apprentice—with the added mark against Dalamar that he was only an elf—a race noted for its weakness.

But Kitiara was, in another respect, different from most warriors—the main reason she had outlived all who opposed her. She was skilled at assessing her opponents. One look at Dalamar’s cool eyes and composed stature—in the face of her anger—and Kitiara wondered if she might not have encountered a foe worthy of her.

She didn’t understand him, not yet—not by any means. But she saw and recognized the danger in this man and, even as she made a note to be wary of it and to use it, if possible, she found herself attracted to it. The fact that it went with such handsome features (he didn’t look at all elvish, now that she thought of it) and such a strong, muscular body (whose frame admirably filled out the black robes), made it suddenly occur to her that she might accomplish more by being friendly than intimidating. Certainly, she thought, her eyes lingering on the elf’s chest, where the black robes had parted slightly and she could see bronze skin beneath, it might be much more entertaining.

Thrusting her sword back in its sheath, Kitiara continued her step forward, only now the light that had flashed on the blade flashed in her eyes.

“Forgive me, Dalamar—that’s your name, isn’t it?” Her scowl melted into the crooked, charming smile that had won so many. “That damned Grove unnerves me. You are right. I should have notified my brother I was coming, but I acted on impulse.” She stood close to Dalamar now, very close. Looking up into his face, hidden as it was by the shadows of his hood, she added, “I… often act on impulse.”

With a gesture, Dalamar dismissed the Guardians. Then the young elf regarded the woman before him with a smile of charm that rivaled her own.

Seeing his smile, Kitiara held out her gloved hand. “Forgiven?”

Dalamar’s smile deepened, but he only said, “Remove your glove, lord.”

Kitiara started and, for an instant, the brown eyes dilated dangerously. But Dalamar continued to smile at her. Shrugging, Kitiara jerked one by one at the fingers of the leather glove, baring her hand.

“There,” she said, her voice tinged with scorn, “you see that I hold no concealed weapon.”

“Oh, I already knew that,” Dalamar replied, now taking the hand in his own. His eyes still on hers, the dark elf drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. “Would you have had me deny myself this pleasure?”

His lips were warm, his hands strong, and Kitiara felt the blood surge through her body at his touch. But she saw in his eyes that he knew her game and she saw, too, that it was one he played himself. Her respect rose, as did her guard. Truly a foe worthy of her attention—her undivided attention.

Slipping her hand from his grasp, Kitiara put it behind her back with a playful female gesture that contrasted oddly with her armor and her manlike, warrior stance. It was a gesture designed to attract and confuse, and she saw from the elf’s slightly flushed features that it had succeeded.

“Perhaps I have concealed weapons beneath my armor you should search for sometime,” she said with a mocking grin.

“On the contrary,” Dalamar returned, folding his hands in his black robes, “your weapons seem to me to be in plain sight. Were I to search you, lord, I would seek out that which the armor guards and which, though many men have penetrated, none has yet touched.” The elven eyes laughed.

Kitiara caught her breath. Tantalized by his words, remembering still the feel of those warm lips upon her skin, she took another step forward, tilting her face to the man’s.

Coolly, without seeming aware of his action, Dalamar made a graceful move to one side, slightly turning away from Kitiara. Expecting to be caught up in the man’s arms, Kit was, instead, thrown off balance. Awkwardly, she stumbled.

Recovering her balance with feline skill, she whirled to face him, her face flushed with embarrassment and fury. Kitiara had killed men for less than mocking her like this. But she was disconcerted to see that he was, apparently, totally unaware of what he had done. Or was he? His face was carefully devoid of all expression. He was talking about her brother. No, he had done that on purpose. He would pay...

Kit knew her opponent now, conceded his skill. Characteristically, she did not waste time berating herself for her mistake. She had left herself open, she had taken a wound. Now, she was prepared.

“—I deeply regret that the Shalafi is not here,” Dalamar was saying. “I am certain that your brother will be sorry to learn he has missed you.”

“Not here?” Kit demanded, her attention caught instantly. “Why, where is he? Where would he go?”

“I am certain he told you,” Dalamar said with feigned surprise. “He has gone back to the past to seek the wisdom of Fistandantilus and from thence to discover the Portal through which he will—”

“You mean—he went anyway! Without the cleric?” Suddenly Kit remembered that no one was supposed to have known that she had sent Lord Soth to kill Crysania in order to stop her brother’s insane notion of challenging the Dark Queen. Biting her lip, she glanced behind her at the death knight.

Dalamar followed her gaze, smiling, seeing every thought beneath that lovely, curling hair. “Oh, you knew about the attack on Lady Crysania?” he asked innocently.

Kit scowled. “You know damn well I knew about the attack! And so does my brother. He’s not an idiot, if he is a fool.”

She spun around on her heel. “You told me the woman was dead!”

“She was,” intoned Lord Soth, the death knight, materializing out of the shadows to stand before her, his orange eyes flaring in their invisible sockets. “No human could survive my assault.” The orange eyes turned their undying gaze to the dark elf. “And your master could not have saved her.”

“No,” Dalamar agreed, “but her master could and did. Paladine cast a counter-spell upon his cleric, drawing her soul to him, though he left the shell of her body behind. The Shalafi’s twin, your half-brother, Caramon, lord”—Dalamar bowed to the infuriated Kitiara—“took the woman to the Tower of High Sorcery where the mages sent her back to the only cleric powerful enough to save her—the Kingpriest of Istar.”

“Imbeciles!” Kitiara snarled, her face going livid. “They sent her back to him! That’s just what Raistlin wanted!”

“They knew that,” Dalamar said softly. “I told them—”

“You told them?” Kitiara gasped.

“There are matters I should explain to you,” Dalamar said. “This may take some time. At least let us be comfortable. Will you come to my chambers?”

He extended his arm. Kitiara hesitated, then laid her hand upon his forearm. Catching hold of her around her waist, he pulled her close to his body. Startled, Kitiara tried to pull away, but she didn’t try very hard. Dalamar held her with a grip both strong and firm.

“In order for the spell to transport us,” he said coolly, “you need to stand as close to me as possible.”

“I’m quite capable of walking,” Kit returned. “I have little use for magic!”

But, even as she spoke, her eyes looked into his, her body pressed against his hard, well-muscled body with sensuous abandon.

“Very well.” Dalamar shrugged and suddenly vanished.

Looking around, startled, Kit heard his voice. “Up the spiral staircase, lord. After the five hundred and thirty-ninth step, turn left.”

“And so you see,” Dalamar said, “I have as great a stake in this as do you. I have been sent, by the Conclave of all three Orders—the Black, the White, and the Red—to stop this appalling thing from happening.”

The two relaxed in the dark elf’s private, sumptuously appointed quarters within the Tower. The remains of an elegant repast had been whisked away by a graceful gesture of the elf’s hand. Now, they sat before a fire that had been lit more for the sake of its light than its warmth on this spring night. The dancing flames seemed more conducive to conversation...

“Then why didn’t you stop him?” Kit demanded angrily, setting her golden goblet down with a sharp clinking sound. “What’s so difficult about that?” Making a gesture with her hand, she added words to suit her action. “A knife in the back. Quick, simple.” Giving Dalamar a look of scorn, she sneered. “Or are you above that, you mages?”

“Not, above it,” Dalamar said, regarding Kitiara intently. “There are subtler means we of the Black Robes generally use to rid ourselves of our enemies. But not against him, lord. Not your brother.”

Dalamar shivered slightly and drank his wine with undue haste.

“Bah!” Kitiara snorted.

“No, listen to me and understand, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly. “You do not know your brother. You do not know him and, what is worse, you do not fear him! That will lead to your doom.”

“Fear him? That skinny, hacking wretch? You’re not serious—” Kitiara began, laughing. But her laughter died. She leaned forward. “You are serious. I can see it in your eyes!”

Dalamar smiled grimly. “I fear him as I fear nothing in this world—including death.” Reaching up, the dark elf grasped the seam of his black robes and ripped it open, revealing the wounds on his chest.

Kitiara, mystified, looked at the wounds, then looked up at the dark elf’s pale face. “What weapon made those? I don’t recog—”

“His hand,” Dalamar said without emotion. “The mark of his five fingers. This was his message to Par-Salian and the Conclave when he commanded me to give them his regards.”

Kit had seen many terrible sights—men disemboweled before her eyes, heads hacked off, torture sessions in the dungeons beneath the mountains known as the Lords of Doom. But, seeing those oozing sores and seeing, in her mind, her brother’s slender fingers burning into the dark elf’s flesh, she could not repress a shudder.

Sinking back in her chair, Kit went over carefully in her mind everything Dalamar had told her, and she began to think that, perhaps, she had underestimated Raistlin. Her face grave, she sipped her wine.

“And so he plans to enter the Portal,” she said to Dalamar slowly, trying to readjust her thinking along these new and startling lines. “He will enter the Portal with the cleric. He will find himself in the Abyss. Then what? Surely he knows he cannot fight the Dark Queen on her own plane!”

“Of course he knows,” Dalamar said. “He is strong, butt here—she is stronger. And so he intends to lure her out, to force her to enter this world. Here, he believes, he can destroy her.”

“Mad!” Kitiara whispered with barely enough breath to say the word. “He is mad!” She hastily set her wine goblet down, seeing the liquid slopping over her shaking hand. “He has seen her in this plane when she was but a shadow, when she was blocked from entering completely. He cannot imagine what she would be like—!”

Rising to her feet, Kit nervously crossed the soft carpet with its muted images of trees and flowers so beloved of the elves. Feeling suddenly chilled, she stood before the fire. Dalamar came to stand beside her, his black robes rustling. Even as Kit spoke, absorbed in her own thoughts and fears, she was conscious of the elf’s warm body near hers.

“What do your mages think will happen?” she asked abruptly. “Who will win, if he succeeds in this insane plan? Does he have a chance?”

Dalamar shrugged and, moving a step nearer, put his hands on Kitiara’s slender neck. His fingers softly caressed her smooth skin. The sensation was delicious. Kitiara closed her eyes, drawing a deep, shivering breath.

“The mages do not know,” Dalamar said softly, bending down to kiss Kitiara just below her ear. Stretching like a cat, she arched her body back against his.

“Here he would be in his element,” Dalamar continued, “the Queen would be weakened. But she certainly would not be easily defeated. Some think the magical battle between the two could well destroy the world.”

Lifting her hand, Kitiara ran it through the elf’s thick, silken hair, drawing his eager lips to her throat. “But... does he have a chance?” she persisted in a husky whisper.

Dalamar paused, then drew back away from her. His hands still on her shoulders, he turned Kitiara around to face him. Looking into her eyes, he saw what she was thinking. “Of course. There’s always a chance.”

“And what is it you will do, if he succeeds in entering the Portal?” Kitiara’s hands rested lightly on Dalamar’s chest, where her half-brother had left his terrible mark. Her eyes, looking into the elf’s, were luminous with passion that almost, but not quite, hid her calculating mind.

“I am to stop him from returning to this world,” Dalamar said. “I am to block the Portal so that he cannot come through.” His hand traced her crooked, curving lips.

“What will be your reward for so dangerous an assignment?” She pressed closer, biting playfully at his fingertips.

“I will be Master of the Tower, then,” he answered. “And the next head of the Order of Black Robes. Why?”

“I could help you,” Kitiara said with a sigh, moving her fingers over Dalamar s chest and up over his shoulders, kneading her hands into his flesh like a cat’s paws. Almost convulsively, Dalamar’s hands tightened around her, drawing her nearer still.

“I could help,” Kitiara repeated in a fierce whisper. “You cannot fight him alone.”

“Ah, my dear”—Dalamar regarded her with a wry, sardonic smile—“who would you help—me or him?”

“Now that,” said Kitiara, slipping her hands beneath the tear in the fabric of the dark elf’s black robes, “would depend entirely upon who’s winning!”

Dalamar’s smile broadened, his lips brushed her chin. He whispered into her ear, “Just so we understand each, lord.”

“Oh, we understand each other,” Kitiara said, sighing with pleasure. “And now, enough of my brother. There is something I would ask. Something I have long been curious about. What do magic-users wear beneath their robes, dark elf?”

“Very little,” Dalamar murmured. “And what do warrior women wear beneath their armor?”

“Nothing.”

Kitiara was gone.

Dalamar lay, half-awake and half-asleep, in his bed. Upon his pillow, he could still smell the fragrance of her hair perfume and steel—a strange, intoxicating mixture not unlike Kitiara herself.

The dark elf stretched luxuriously, grinning. She would betray him, he had no doubt about that. And she knew he would destroy her in a second, if necessary, to succeed in his purpose. Neither found the knowledge bitter. Indeed, it added an odd spice to their lovemaking.

Closing his eyes, letting sleep drift over him, Dalamar heard, through his open window, the sound of dragonwings spreading for flight. He imagined her, seated upon her blue dragon, the dragonhelm glinting in the moonlight...

Dalamar!

The dark elf started and sat up. He was wide awake. Fear coursed through his body. Trembling at the sound of that familiar voice, he glanced about the room.

“Shalafi?” He spoke hesitantly. There was no one there. Dalamar put his hand to his head. “A dream,” he muttered.

Dalamar!

The voice again, this time unmistakable. Dalamar looked around helplessly, his fear increasing. It was completely unlike Raistlin to play games. The archmage had cast the time-travel spell. He had journeyed back in time. He had been gone a week and was not expected to return for many more. Yet Dalamar knew that voice as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat!

“Shalafi, I hear you,” Dalamar said, trying to keep his tone firm. “Yet I cannot see you. Where—”

“I am, as you surmise, back in time, apprentice. I speak to you through the dragon orb. I have an assignment for you. Listen to me carefully and follow my instructions exactly. Act at once. No time must be lost. Every second is precious...”

Closing his eyes that he might concentrate, Dalamar heard the voice clearly, yet he also heard sounds of laughter floating in through the open window. A festival of some sort, designed to honor spring, was beginning. Outside the gates of Old City, bonfires burned, young people exchanged flowers in the light and kisses in the dark. The air was sweet with rejoicing and love and the smell of spring blooming roses.

But then Raistlin began speaking and Dalamar heeded none of these. He forgot Kitiara. He forgot love. He forgot springtime. Listening, questioning, understanding, his entire body tingled with the voice of his Shalafi.

3

Bertrem padded softly through the halls of the Great Library of Palanthas. His Aesthetics’ robes whispered about his ankles, their rustle keeping time to the tune Bertrem hummed as he went along. He had been watching the spring festival from the windows of the Great Library and now, as he returned to his work among the thousands and thousands of books and scrolls housed within the Library, the melody of one of the songs lingered in his head.

“Ta-tum, ta-tum,” Bertrem sang in a thin, off-key voice, pitched low so as not to disturb the echoes of the vast, vaulted halls of the Great Library.

The echoes were all that could be disturbed by Bertrem’s singing, the Library itself being closed and locked for the night. Most of the other Aesthetics—members of the order whose lives were spent in study and maintenance of the Great Library’s collection of knowledge gathered from the beginning of Krynn s time—were either sleeping or absorbed in their own works.

“Ta-tum, to-tum. My lover’s eyes are the eyes of the doe. Tatum, to-tum. And I am the hunter, closing in... .” Bertrem even indulged in an impromptu dance step.

“Ta-tum, to-tum. I lift my bow and draw my arrow—” Bertrem skipped around a corner. “I loose the shaft. It flies to my lover’s heart and—Ho, there! Who are you?”

Bertrem’s own heart leaped into his throat, very nearly strangling the Aesthetic as he was suddenly confronted with a tall, black-robed and hooded figure standing in the center of the dimly lit marble hall.

The figure did not answer. It simply stared at him in silence.

Gathering his wits and his courage and his robes about him, Bertrem glared at the intruder.

“What business have you here? The Library’s closed! Yes, even to those of the Black Robes.” The Aesthetic frowned and waved a pudgy hand. “Be gone. Return in the morning, and use the front door, like everyone else.”

“Ah, but I am not everyone else,” said the figure, and Bertrem started, for he detected an elvish accent though the words were Solamnic. “As for doors, they are for those without the power to pass through walls. I have that power, as I have the power to do other things, many not so pleasant.”

Bertrem shuddered. This smooth, cool elven voice did not make idle threats.

“You are a dark elf,” Bertrem said accusingly, his brain scrambling about, trying to think what to do. Should he raise the alarm? Yell for help?

“Yes.” The figure removed his black hood so that the magical light imprisoned in the globes hanging from the ceiling—a gift from the magic-users to Astinus given during the Age of Dreams—fell upon his elven features. “My name is Dalamar. I serve—”

“Raistlin Majere!” Bertrem gasped. He glanced about uneasily, expecting the black-robed archmage to leap out at him any moment.

Dalamar smiled. The elven features were delicate, handsome. But there was a cold, single-minded purposefulness about them that chilled Bertrem. All thoughts of calling for help vanished from the Aesthetic’s mind.

“Wha—what do you want?” he stammered.

“It is what my master wants,” Dalamar corrected. “Do not be frightened. I am here seeking knowledge, nothing more. If you aid me, I will be gone as swiftly and silently as I have come.”

If I don’t aid him... Bertrem shivered from head to toe. “I will do what I can, magus,” the Aesthetic faltered, “but you should really talk to...”

“Me,” came a voice out of the shadows.

Bertrem nearly fainted in relief.

“Astinus!” he babbled, pointing at Dalamar, “this... he... I didn’t let him... appeared... Raistlin Majere...”

“Yes, Bertrem,” Astinus said soothingly. Coming forward, he patted the Aesthetic on the arm. “I know everything that has transpired.” Dalamar had not moved, nor even indicated that he was aware of Astinus’s presence. “Return to your studies, Bertrem,” Astinus continued, his deep baritone echoing through the quiet hallways. “I will handle this matter.”

“Yes, Master!” Bertrem backed thankfully down the hall, his robes fluttering about him, his gaze on the dark elf, who had still neither moved nor spoken. Reaching the corner, Bertrem vanished around it precipitously, and Astinus could hear, by the sounds of his flapping sandals, that he was running down the hallway.

The head of the Great Library of Palanthas smiled, but only inwardly. To the eyes of the dark elf watching him, the man’s calm, ageless face reflected no more emotion than the marble walls about them.

“Come this way, young mage,” Astinus said, turning abruptly and starting off down the hall with a quick, strong stride that belied his middle-aged appearance.

Caught by surprise, Dalamar hesitated, then—seeing he was being left behind—hurried to catch up.

“How do you know what I seek?” the dark elf demanded.

“I am a chronicler of history,” Astinus replied imperturbably. “Even as we speak and walk, events transpire around us and I am aware of them. I hear every word spoken, I see every deed committed, no matter how mundane, how good, how evil. Thus I have watched throughout history. As I was the first, so shall I be the last. Now, this way.”

Astinus made a sharp turn to his left. As he did so, he lifted a glowing globe of light from its stand and carried it with him in his hand. By the light, Dalamar could see long rows of books standing on wooden shelves. He could tell by their smooth leather binding that they were old. But they were in excellent condition. The Aesthetics kept them dusted and, when necessary, rebound those particularly worn.

“Here is what you want”—Astinus gestured—“the Dwarfgate Wars.”

Dalamar stared. “All these?” He gazed down a seemingly endless row of books, a feeling of despair slowly creeping over him.

“Yes,” Astinus replied coldly, “and the next row of books as well.”

“I—I...” Dalamar was completely at a loss. Surely Raistlin had not guessed the enormity of this task. Surely he couldn’t expect him to devour the contents of these hundreds of volumes within the specified time limit. Dalamar had never felt so powerless and helpless before in his life. Flushing angrily, he sensed Astinus’s ice-like gaze upon him.

“Perhaps I can help,” the historian said placidly. Reaching up, without even reading the spine, Astinus removed one volume from the shelf. Opening it, he flipped quickly through the thin, brittle pages, his eyes scanning the row after row of neat, precisely written, black-inked letters.

“Ah, here it is.” Drawing an ivory marker from a pocket of his robes, Astinus laid it across a page in the book, shut it carefully, then handed the book to Dalamar. “Take this with you. Give him the information he seeks. And tell him this—‘The wind blows. The footsteps in the sand will be erased, but only after he has trod them.’”

The historian bowed gravely to the dark elf, then walked past him, down the row of books to reach the corridor again. Once there, he stopped and turned to face Dalamar, who was standing, staring, clutching the book Astinus had thrust into his hands.

“Oh, young mage. You needn’t come back here again. The book will return of its own accord when you are finished. I cannot have you frightening the Aesthetics. Poor Bertrem will have undoubtedly taken to his bed. Give your Shalafi my greetings.”

Astinus bowed again and disappeared into the shadows. Dalamar remained standing, pondering, listening to the historian’s slow, firm step fade down the hallway. Shrugging, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and returned to the Tower of High Sorcery.

“What Astinus gave me is his own commentary on the Dwarfgate Wars, Shalafi. It is drawn from the ancient texts he wrote—”

Astinus would know what I need. Proceed.

“Yes, Shalafi. This begins the marked passage:

“‘And the great archmage, Fistandantilus, used the dragon orb to call forward in time to his apprentice, instructing him to go the Great Library at Palanthas and read in the books of history there to see if the result of his great undertaking would prove successful.” Dalamar’s voice faltered as he read this and eventually died completely as he re-read this amazing statement.

Continue! came his Shalafi’s voice, and though it resounded more in his mind than his ears, Dalamar did not miss the note of bitter anger. Hurriedly tearing his gaze from the paragraph, written hundreds of years previously, yet accurately reflecting the mission he had just undertaken, Dalamar continued.

“It is important here to note this: ‘the Chronicles as they existed at that point in time indicate—’

“That part is underscored, Shalafi,” Dalamar interrupted himself.

What part?

“‘—at that point in time’ is underscored.”

Raistlin did not reply, and Dalamar, momentarily losing his place, found it and hastened on.

“—‘indicated that the undertaking would have been successful. Fistandantilus, along with the cleric, Denubis, should have been able, from all indications that the great archmage saw, to safely enter the Portal. What might have happened in the Abyss, of course, is unknown, since the actual historical events transpired differently.

“‘Thus, believing firmly that his ultimate goal of entering the Portal and challenging the Queen of Darkness was within his reach, Fistandantilus pursued the Dwarfgate Wars with renewed vigor. Pax Tharkas fell to the armies of the hill dwarves and the Plainsmen. (See Chronicles Volume 126, Book 6, pages 589—700.) Led by Fistandantilus’s great general, Pheragas—the former slave from Northern Ergoth whom the wizard had purchased and trained as a gladiator in the Games at Istar—the Army of Fistandantilus drove back the forces of King Duncan, forcing the dwarves to retreat to the mountain fastness of Thorbardin.

“‘Little did Fistandantilus care for this war. It simply served to further his own ends. Finding the Portal beneath the towering mountain fortress known as Zhaman, he established his headquarters there and began the final preparations that would give him the power to enter the forbidden gates, leaving his general to fight the war.

“‘What happened at this point is beyond even me to relate with accuracy, since the magical forces at work here were so powerful it obscured my vision.

“‘General Pheregas was killed fighting the Dewar, the dark dwarves of Thorbardin. At his death, the Army of Fistandantilus crumbled. The mountain dwarves swarmed out of Thorbardin toward the fortress of Zhaman.

“‘During the fighting, aware that the battle was lost and that they had little time, Fistandantilus and Denubis hastened to the Portal. Here the great wizard began to cast his spell.

“‘At the same instant, a gnome, being held prisoner by the dwarves of Thorbardin, activated a time-traveling device he had constructed in an effort to escape his confinement. Contrary to every recorded instance in the history of Krynn, this gnomish device actually worked. It worked quite well, in fact.

“‘I can only speculate from this point on, but it seems probable that the gnome’s device interacted somehow with the delicate and powerful magical spells being woven by Fistandantilus. The result we know all too clearly.

“‘A blast occurred of such magnitude that the Plains of Dergoth were utterly destroyed. Both armies were almost completely wiped out. The towering mountain fortress of Zhaman shattered and fell in upon itself, creating the hill now called Skullcap.

“‘The unfortunate Denubis died in the blast. Fistandantilus should have died as well, but his magic was so great that he was able to cling to some portion of life, though his spirit was forced to exist upon another plane until it found the body of a young magic-user named Raistlin Majere...’”

Enough!

“Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar murmured.

And then Raistlin’s voice was gone.

Dalamar, sitting in the study, knew he was alone. Shivering violently, he was completely overawed and amazed by what he had just read. Seeking to make some meaning of it, the dark elf sat in the chair behind the desk—Raistlin’s desk—lost in thought until night’s shadows withdrew and gray dawn lit the sky.

A tremor of excitement made Raistlin’s thin body quiver. His thoughts were confused, he would need a period of cool study and reflection to make absolutely certain of what he had discovered. One phrase shone with dazzling brilliance in his mind—the undertaking would have been successful!

The undertaking would have been successful!

Raistlin sucked in his breath with a gasp, realizing at that point only that he had ceased breathing. His hands upon the dragon orb’s cold surface shook. Exultation swept over him. He laughed the strange, rare laughter of his, for the footsteps he saw in his dream. led to a scaffold no longer, but to a door of platinum, decorated with the symbols of the Five-Headed Dragon. At his command, it would open. He had simply to find and destroy this gnome.

Raistlin felt a sharp tug on his hands.

“Stop!” he ordered, cursing himself for losing control.

But the orb did not obey his command. Too late, Raistlin realized he was being drawn inside...

The hands had undergone a change, he saw as they pulled him closer and closer. They had been unrecognizable before neither human nor elven, young nor old. But now they were the hands of a female, soft, supple, with smooth white skin and the grip of death.

Sweating, fighting down the hot surge of panic that threatened to destroy him, Raistlin summoned all his strength—both physical and mental—and fought the will behind the hands.

Closer they drew him, nearer and nearer. He could see the face now—a woman’s face, beautiful, dark-eyed; speaking words of seduction that his body reacted to with passion even as his soul recoiled in loathing.

Nearer and nearer...

Desperately, Raistlin struggled to pull away, to break the grip that seemed so gentle yet was stronger than the bonds of his life force. Deep he delved into his soul, searching the hidden parts—but for what, he little knew. Some part of him, somewhere, existed that would save him...

An image of a lovely, white-robed cleric wearing the medallion of Paladine emerged. She shone in the darkness and, for a moment, the hands’ grasp loosened—but only for a moment. Raistlin heard a woman’s sultry laughter. The vision shattered.

“My brother!” Raistlin called through parched lips, and an image of Caramon came forward. Dressed in golden armor, his sword flashing in his hands, he stood in front of his twin, guarding him. But the warrior had not taken a step before he was cut down—from behind.

Nearer and nearer...

Raistlin’s head slumped forward, he was rapidly losing strength and consciousness. And then, unbidden, from the innermost recesses of his soul, came a lone figure. It was not robed in white, it carried no gleaming sword. It was small and grubby and its face was streaked with tears.

In its hand, it held only a dead... very dead... rat.

Caramon arrived back in camp just as the first rays of dawn were spreading through the sky. He had ridden all night and was stiff, tired, and unbelievably hungry.

Fond thoughts of his breakfast and his bed had been comforting him for the last hour, and his face broke into a grin as the camp came into sight. He was about to put the spurs to his weary horse when, looking ahead into the camp itself, the big man reined in his horse and brought his escort to a halt with an upraised hand.

“What’s going on?” he asked in alarm, all thoughts of food vanishing.

Garic, riding up beside him, shook his head, mystified.

Where there should have been lines of smoke rising from morning cooking fires and the disgruntled snorts of men being roused from a night’s sleep, the camp resembled a beehive after a bear’s feast. No cooking fires were lit, people ran about in apparent aimlessness or stood clustered together in groups that buzzed with excitement.

Then someone caught sight of Caramon and let out a yell. The crowd came together and surged forward. Instantly, Garic shouted and, within moments, he and his men had galloped up to form a protective shield of armor-clad bodies around their general.

It was the first time Caramon had seen such a display of loyalty and affection from his men and, for a moment, he was so overcome he could not speak. Then, gruffly clearing his throat, he ordered them aside.

“It’s not a mutiny,” he growled, riding forward as his men reluctantly parted to let him pass. “Look! No one’s armed. Half of ’em are women and children. But—” he grinned at them “thanks for the thought.”

His gaze went particularly to the young knight, Garic, who flushed with pleasure even as he kept his hand on his sword hilt.

By this time, the outer fringes of the crowd had reached Caramon. Hands grasped his bridle, startling his horse, who thinking this was battle—pricked its ears dangerously, ready to lash out with its hooves as it had been trained.

“Stand back!” Caramon roared, barely holding the animal in check. “Stand back! Have you all gone mad? You look like just what you are—a bunch of farmers! Stand back, I say! Did your chickens all get loose? What’s the meaning of this? Where are my officers?”

“Here, sir,” came a voice of one of the captains. Red-faced, embarrassed, and angry, the man shoved his way through the crowd. Chagrined at the reprimand from their commander, the men calmed down and the shouting died to a few mutterings as a group of guards, arriving with the captain, began to try to break up the mob.

“Begging the general’s pardon for all this, sir,” the captain said as Caramon dismounted and patted his horse’s neck soothingly. The animal stood still under Caramon’s touch, though its eyes rolled and its ears still twitched.

The captain was an older man, not a Knight but a mercenary of thirty years’ experience. His face was seamed with scars, he was missing part of his left hand from a slashing sword blow, and he walked with a pronounced limp. This morning, the scarred face was flushed with shame as he faced his young general’s stern gaze.

“The scouts sent word of yer comin’, sir, but afore I could get to you, this pack o’ wild dogs”—he glowered at the retreating men—“lit out for you like you was a bitch in heat. Beggin’ the general’s pardon,” he muttered again, “and meanin no disrespect.”

Caramon kept his face carefully composed. “What’s happened?” he asked, leading his tired horse into camp at a walk. The captain did not answer right away but cast a significant glance at Caramon’s escort.

Caramon understood. “Go on ahead, men,” he said—, waving his hand. “Garic, see to my quarters.”

When he and the captain were alone—or as alone as possible in the crowded camp where everyone was staring at them in eager curiosity—Caramon turned to question the man with a glance.

The old mercenary said just two words: “The wizard.”

Reaching Raistlin’s tent, Caramon saw with a sinking heart the ring of armed guards surrounding it, keeping back onlookers. There were audible sighs of relief at the sight of Caramon, and many remarks of “General’s here now. He’ll take care of things,” much nodding of heads, and some scattered applause.

Encouraged by a few oaths from the captain, the crowd opened up an aisle for Caramon to walk through. The armed guards stepped aside as he passed, then quickly closed ranks again. Pushing and shoving, the crowd peered over the guards, straining to see. The captain having refused to tell him what was going on, Caramon would not have been surprised to find anything from a dragon sitting atop his brother’s tent to the whole thing surrounded by green and purple flame.

Instead, he saw one young man standing guard and Lady Crysania pacing in front of the closed tent flap. Caramon stared at the young man curiously, thinking he recognized him.

“Garic’s cousin,” he said hesitantly, trying to remember the name. “Michael, isn’t it?”

“Yes, general,” the young Knight said. Drawing himself up straight, he attempted a salute. But it was a feeble attempt. The young man’s face was pale and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He was clearly about to drop from exhaustion, but he held his spear before him, grimly barring the way into the tent.

Hearing Caramon’s voice, Crysania looked up.

“Thank Paladine!” she said fervently.

One look at her pale face and sunken gray eyes, and Caramon shivered in the bright morning sunlight.

“Get rid of them!” he ordered the captain, who immediately began to issue orders to his men. Soon, with much swearing and grumbling, the crowd started to break up, most figuring the excitement was over now anyway.

“Caramon, listen to me!” Crysania laid her hand on his arm. “This—”

But Caramon shrugged off Crysania’s hand. Ignoring her attempts to speak, he started to push past Michael. The young knight raised his spear, blocking his path.

“Out of my way!” Caramon ordered, startled.

“I am sorry, sir,” Michael said in firm tones, though his lips trembled, “but Fistandantilus told me no one was to pass.”

“You see,” said Crysania in exasperation as Caramon fell back a pace, staring at Michael in perplexed anger. “I tried to tell you, if you’d only listened! It’s been like this all night, and I know something dreadful’s happened inside! But Raistlin made him take an oath—by the Code and the Rules or some such thing—”

“Measure,” Caramon muttered, shaking his head. “The Code and the Measure.” He frowned, thinking of Sturm. “A code no knight, will break on pain of death.”

“But this is insane!” Crysania cried. Her voice broke. She covered her face with her hand a moment. Caramon put his arm around her hesitantly, fearing a reprimand, but she leaned against him gratefully.

“Oh, Caramon, I’ve been so frightened!” she murmured. “It was awful. I woke out of a sound sleep, hearing Raistlin screaming my name. I ran over here—There were flashes of light inside his tent. He was shrieking incoherent words, then I heard him call your name... and then he began to moan in despair. I tried to get in but...” She made a weak gesture toward Michael, who stood staring straight ahead. “And then his voice began to... to fade. It was awful, as though he were being sucked away somehow!”

“Then what happened?”

Crysania paused. Then, hesitantly, “He... he said something else. I could barely hear it. The lights went out. There was a sharp crack and... everything was still, horribly still!” She closed her eyes, shuddering.

“What did he say? Could you understand?”

“That’s the strange part,” Crysania raised her head, looking at him in confusion. “It sounded like... Bupu.”

“Bupu!” Caramon repeated in astonishment. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“Why would he call out the name of a gully dwarf?” Caramon demanded.

°I haven’t any idea.” Crysania sighed wearily, brushing her hair back out of her eyes. “I’ve wondered the same thing. Except—wasn’t that the gully dwarf who told Par-Salian how kind Raistlin had been to her?”

Caramon shook his head. he would worry about gully dwarves later. Now, his immediate problem was Michael. Vivid memories of Sturm came back to him. How many times had he seen that look on the knight’s face? An oath by the Code and the Measure.

Damn Raistlin!

Michael would stand at his post now until he dropped and then, when he awoke to find he had failed, he’d kill himself. There had to be some way around this—around him! Caramon glanced at Crysania. She could use her clerical powers to spellbind the young man...

Caramon shook his head. That would have the entire camp ready to burn her at the stake! Damn Raistlin! Damn clerics! Damn the Knights of Solamnia and damn their Code and their Measure!

Heaving a sigh, he walked up to Michael. The young man raised his spear threateningly, but Caramon only lifted his hands high, to show they were empty.

He cleared his throat, knowing what he wanted to say, yet uncertain how to begin. And then as he thought about Sturm, suddenly he could see the Knight’s face once again, so clearly that he marveled. But it was not as he had seen it in life—stern, noble, cold. And then Caramon knew—he was seeing Sturm’s face in death! Marks of terrible suffering and pain had smoothed away the harsh lines of pride and inflexibility. There was compassion and understanding in the dark, haunted eyes and—it seemed to Caramon—that the Knight smiled on him sadly.

For a moment, Caramon was so startled by this vision that he could say nothing, only stare. But the image vanished, leaving in its place only the face of a young Knight, grim, frightened, exhausted—determined...

“Michael,” Caramon said, keeping his hands raised, “I had a friend once, a Knight of Solamnia. He—he’s dead now. He died in a war far from here when—But that doesn’t matter. Stur— my friend was like you. He believed in the Code and... and the Measure. He was ready to give his life for them. But, at the end, he found out there was something more important than the Code and the Measure, something that the Code and the Measure had forgotten.”

Michael’s face hardened stubbornly. He gripped his spear tighter.

“Life itself,” Caramon said softly.

He saw a flicker in the Knight’s red-rimmed eyes, a flicker that was drowned by a shimmer of tears. Angrily, Michael blinked them away, the look of firm resolution returning, though—it seemed to Caramon—it was now mingled with a look of desperation.

Caramon caught hold of that desperation, driving his words home as if they were the point of a sword seeking his enemy’s heart. “Life, Michael. That’s all there is. That’s all we have. Not just our lives, but the lives of everyone on this world. It’s what the Code and the Measure were designed to protect, but somewhere along the line that got all twisted around and the Code and the Measure became more important than life.”

Slowly, still keeping his hands raised, he took a step toward the young man.

“I’m not asking you to leave your post for any treacherous reason. And you and I both know you’re not leaving it from cowardice.” Caramon shook his head. “The gods know what you must have seen and heard tonight. I’m asking you to leave it out of compassion. My brother’s inside there, maybe dying, maybe dead. When he made you swear that oath, he couldn’t have foreseen this happening. I must go to him. Let me pass, Michael. There is nothing dishonorable in that.”

Michael stood stiffly, his eyes straight ahead. And then, his face crumpled. His shoulders slumped, and the spear fell from his nerveless hand. Reaching out, Caramon caught the young man in his big arms and held him close. A shuddering sob tore through the young man’s body. Caramon patted his shoulder awkwardly.

“Here, one of you’—he looked around—“find Garic—Ah, there you are,” he said in relief as the young Knight came running over. “Take your cousin back to the fire. Get some hot food inside him, then see that he sleeps. You there—” he motioned to another guard—“take over here.”

As Garic led his cousin away, Crysania started to enter the tent, but Caramon stopped her. “Better let me go first, lady,” he said.

Expecting an argument, he was surprised to see her meekly step aside. Caramon had his hand on the tent flap when he felt her hand upon his arm.

Startled, he turned.

“You are as wise as Elistan, Caramon,” she said, regarding him intently. “I could have said those words to the young man. Why didn’t I?”

Caramon flushed. I—I just understood him, that’s all,” he muttered.

“I didn’t want to understand him.” Crysania, her face pale, bit her lip. “I just wanted him to obey me.”

“Look, lady,” Caramon said grimly, “you can do your soul-searching later. Right now, I need your help!”

“Yes, of course.” The firm, self-confident look returned to Crysania’s face. Without hesitation, she followed Caramon into Raistlin’s tent.

Mindful of the guard outside, and any other curious eyes, Caramon shut the tent flap quickly. It was dark and still inside; so dark that at first neither could make out anything in the shadows.

Standing near the entrance, waiting until their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Crysania clutched at Caramon suddenly.

“I can hear him breathing!” she said in relief.

Caramon nodded and moved forward slowly. The brightening day was driving night from the tent, and he could see more clearly with each step he took.

“There,” he said. He hurriedly kicked aside a camp stool that blocked his way. “Raist!” he called softly as he knelt down.

The archmage was lying on the floor. His face was ashen, his thin lips blue. His breathing was shallow and irregular, but he was breathing. Lifting his twin carefully, Caramon carried him to his bed. In the dim light, he could see a faint smile on Raistlin’s lips, as though he were lost in a pleasant dream.

“I think he’s just sleeping now,” Caramon said in a mystified voice to Crysania, who was covering Raistlin with a blanket. “But something’s happened. That’s obvious.” He looked around the tent in the brightening light. “I wonder—Name of the gods!”

Crysania looked up, glancing over her shoulder.

The poles of the tent were scorched and blackened, the material itself was charred and, in some places, appeared to have melted. It looked as though it had been swept by fire, yet incongruously, it remained standing and did not appear to have been seriously damaged. It was the object on the table, however, that had brought the exclamation from Caramon.

“The dragon orb!” he whispered in awe.

Made by the mages of all three Robes long ago, filled with the essence of good, evil, and neutral dragons, powerful enough to span the banks of time, the crystal orb still stood upon the table, resting on the silver stand Raistlin had made for it.

Once it had been an object of magical, enchanting light.

Now it was a thing of darkness, lifeless, a crack running down its center.

Now...

“It’s broken,” Caramon said in a quiet voice.

4

The Army of Fistandantilus sailed across the Straits of Schallsea in a ramshackle fleet made up of many fishing boats, row boats, crude rafts, and gaudily decorated pleasure boats. Though the distance was not great, it took over a week to get the people, the animals, and the supplies transported.

By the time Caramon was ready to make the crossing, the army had grown to such an extent that there were not enough boats to ferry everyone across at once. Many craft had to make several trips back and forth. The largest boats were used to carry livestock. Converted into floating barns, they had stalls for the horses and the scrawny cattle and pens for the pigs.

Things went smoothly, for the most part, though Caramon got only about three hours of sleep each night, so busy was he with the problems that everyone was sure only he could solve everything from seasick cattle to a chest-load of swords that was accidentally dropped overboard and had to be retrieved. Then, just when the end was in sight and nearly everyone was across, a storm came up. Whipping the seas to froth, it wrecked two boats that slipped from their moorings and prevented anyone from crossing for two days. But, eventually, everyone made it in relatively good shape, with only a few cases of seasickness, one child tumbling overboard (rescued), and a horse that broke its leg kicking down its stall in a panic (killed and butchered).

Upon landing on the shores of Abanasinia, the army was met by the chief of the Plainsmen—the tribes of barbarians inhabiting the northern plains of Abanasinia who were eager to gain the fabled gold of Thorbardin—and also by representatives from the hill dwarves. When he met with the representative of the hill dwarves, Caramon experienced a profound shock that unnerved him for days.

“Reghar Fireforge and party,” announced Garic from the entrance to the tent. Standing aside, the knight allowed a group of three dwarves to enter.

That name ringing in his ears, Caramon stared at the first dwarf in disbelief. Raistlin’s thin fingers closed painfully over his arm.

“Not a word!” breathed the archmage.

“But he—he looks... and the name!” Caramon stammered in a low voice.

“Of course,” Raistlin said matter-of-factly, “this is Flint’s grandfather.”

Flint’s grandfather! Flint Fireforge—his old friend. The old dwarf who had died in Tanis’s arms at Godshome, the old dwarf—so gruff and irascible, yet so tender-hearted, the dwarf who had seemed ancient to Caramon. He had not even been born yet! This was his grandfather.

Suddenly the full scope of where he was and what he was doing struck Caramon a physical blow.

Before this, he might have been adventuring in his own time. He knew then that he hadn’t really been taking any of this seriously. Even Raistlin “sending” him home had seemed as simple as the archmage putting him on a boat and bidding him farewell. Talk of “altering” time he’d put out of his mind. It confused him, seeming to go round in a closed, endless circle.

Caramon felt hot, then cold. Flint hadn’t been born yet. Tanis didn’t exist, Tika didn’t exist. He, himself, didn’t exist! No! It was too implausible! It couldn’t be!

The tent tilted before Caramon’s eyes. He was more than half afraid he might be sick.

Fortunately, Raistlin saw the pallor of his brother’s face. Knowing intuitively what his twin’s brain was trying to assimilate, the mage rose to his feet and, moving gracefully in front of his momentarily befuddled brother, spoke suitable words of welcome to the dwarves. But, as Raistlin did so, he shot a dark, penetrating glance at Caramon, reminding him sternly of his duty.

Pulling himself together, Caramon was able to thrust the disturbing and confusing thoughts from his mind, telling himself he would deal with them later in peace and quiet. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Unfortunately, the peace and quiet time never seemed to come about...

Getting to his feet, Caramon was even able to shake hands calmly with the sturdy, gray-bearded dwarf.

“Little did I ever think,” Reghar said bluntly, sitting down in the chair offered him and accepting a mug of ale, which he quaffed at one gulp, “that I’d be making deals with humans and wizards, especially against my own flesh and blood.” He scowled into the empty mug. Caramon, with a gesture, had the lad who attended him refill it.

Reghar, still with the same scowl, waited for the foam to settle. Then, sighing, he raised it to Caramon, who had returned to his chair. “Durth Zamish och Durth Tabor. Strange times makes strange brothers.”

“You can say that again,” Caramon muttered with a glance at Raistlin. The general lifted his glass of water and drank it. Raistlin—out of politeness—moistened his lips from a glass of wine, then set it down.

“We will meet in the morning to discuss our plans,” Caramon said. “The chief of the Plainsmen will be here then, too.” Reghar’s scowl deepened, and Caramon sighed inwardly, foreseeing trouble. But he continued in a hearty, cheerful tone. “Let’s dine together tonight, to seal our alliance.”

At this, Reghar rose to his feet. “I may have to fight with the barbarians,” he growled. “But, by Reorx’s beard, I don’t have to eat with them—or you either!”

Caramon stood up again. Dressed in his best ceremonial armor (more gifts from the knights), he was an imposing sight. The dwarf squinted up at the warrior.

“You’re a big one, ain’t you?” he said. Snorting, he shook his head dubiously. “I mistrust there’s more muscle in your head than brain.”

Caramon could not help smiling, though his heart ached. It sounded so much like Flint talking!

But Raistlin did not smile.

“My brother has an excellent mind for military matters,” the mage said coldly and unexpectedly.

“When we left Palanthas, there were but three of us. It is due to General Caramon’s skill and quick thinking that we are able to bring this mighty army to your shores. I think you would find it well to accept his leadership.”

Reghar snorted again, peering at Raistlin keenly from beneath his bushy gray, overhanging eyebrows. His heavy armor clanging and rattling about him, the dwarf turned and started to stump out of the tent, then he paused.

“Three of you, from Palanthas? And now—this?” His piercing, dark-eyed gaze went to Caramon, his hand made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the tent, the knights in the shining armor who stood guard outdoors, the hundreds of men he had seen working together to unload supplies from the ships, other men practicing their fighting techniques, the row after row of cooking fires...

Overwhelmed and astounded by his brothers unaccustomed praise, Caramon couldn’t answer.

But he managed to nod.

The dwarf snorted again, but there was a glint of grudging admiration in his eyes as he clanked and rattled his way out of the tent.

Reghar suddenly poked his head back inside. “I’ll be at yer dinner,” he snarled ungraciously, then stomped off.

“I, too, must be leaving, my brother,” Raistlin said absently as he rose to his feet and walked toward the tent entrance. His hands folded in his black robes, he was lost in thought when he felt a touch on his arm. Irritated at the disturbance, he glanced at his brother.

“Well?”

“I—I just want to say... thank you.” Caramon swallowed, then continued huskily. “For what you said. You—you never said... anything like that about me... before.”

Raistlin smiled. There was no light in his eyes from that thin-lipped smile, but Caramon was too flushed and pleased to notice.

“It is only the simple truth, my brother,” Raistlin replied, shrugging. “And it helped accomplish our objective, since we need these dwarves as our allies. I have often told you that you have hidden resources if you would only take the time and trouble to develop them. We are twins after all,” the mage added sardonically. “I did not think we could be so unlike as you had convinced yourself.”

The mage started to leave again but once more felt his brother’s hand on his arm. Checking an impatient sigh, Raistlin turned.

“I wanted to kill you back in Istar, Raistlin—” Caramon paused, licking his lips—“and... and I think I had cause. At least, from what I knew then. Now, I’m not so certain.” He sighed, looking down at his feet, then raising his flushed face. “I—I’d like to think that you did this—that you put the mages in a position where they had to send me back in time—to help me learn this lesson. That may not be the reason,” Caramon hastened to add, seeing his brother’s lips compress and the cold eyes grow colder, “and I’m sure it isn’t—at least all of it. You are doing this for yourself, I know that. But—I think, somewhere, some part of you cares, just a little. Some part of you saw I was in trouble and you wanted to help.”

Raistlin regarded his brother with amusement. Then he shrugged again. “Very well, Caramon: If this romantic notion of yours will help you fight better, if it will help you plan your strategies better, if it will aid your thinking, and—above all—if it will let me get out of this tent and back to my work, then—by all means—cradle it to your breast! It matters little to me.”

Withdrawing his arm from his brothers grasp, the mage stalked to the entrance to the tent. Here he hesitated. Half-turning his hooded head, he spoke in a low voice, his words exasperated, yet tinged with a certain sadness.

“You never did understand me, Caramon.”

Then he left, his black robes rustling around his ankles as he walked.

The banquet that evening was held outdoors. Its beginnings were less than propitious.

The food was set on long tables of wood, hastily constructed from the rafts that had been used to cross the straits. Reghar arrived with a large escort, about forty dwarves. Darknight, Chief of the Plainsmen, who—with his grim face and tall, proud stance, reminded Caramon forcibly of Riverwind brought with him forty warriors. In turn, Caramon chose forty of his men whom he knew (or at least hoped) could be trusted and could hold their liquor.

Caramon had figured that, when the groups filed in, the dwarves would sit by themselves, the Plainsmen by themselves, and so forth. No amount of talking would get them to mingle. Sure enough, after each group had arrived, all stood staring at each other in grim silence, the dwarves gathered around their leader, the Plainsmen around theirs, while Caramon’s men looked on uncertainly.

Caramon came to stand before them. He had dressed with care, wearing his golden armor and helmet from the gladiatorial games, plus some new armor he’d had made to match. With his bronze skin, his matchless physique, his strong, handsome face, he was a commanding presence and even the dour dwarves exchanged looks of reluctant approval.

Caramon raised his hands.

“Greetings to my guests!” he called in his loud, booming baritone. “Welcome. This is a dinner of fellowship, to mark alliance and new-found friendship among our races—”

At this there were muttered, scoffing words and snorts of derision. One of the dwarves even spat upon the ground, causing several Plainsmen to grip their bows and take a step forward—this being considered a dreadful insult among Plainspeople. Their chief stopped them, and, coolly ignoring the interruption, Caramon continued.

“We are going to be fighting together, perhaps dying together. Therefore, let us start our meeting this first night by sitting together and sharing bread and drink like brothers. I know that you are reluctant to be parted from your kinsmen and friends, but I want you to make new friends. And so, to help us get acquainted, I have decided we should play a little game.”

At this, the dwarves’ eyes opened wide, beards wagged, and low mutterings rumbled through the air like thunder. No grown dwarf ever played games! (Certain recreational activities such as “Stone Strike” and “Hammer Throw” were considered sports.) Darknight and his men brightened, however; the Plainsmen lived for games and contests, these being considered almost as much fun as making war on neighboring tribes.

Waving his arm, Caramon gestured to a new, huge, cone shaped tent that stood behind the tables and had been the object of many curious, suspicious stares from dwarves and Plainsmen alike. Standing over twenty feet tall, it was topped by Caramon’s banner. The silken flag with the nine-pointed star fluttered in the evening wind, illuminated by the great bonfire burning nearby.

As all stared at the tent, Caramon reached out and, with a yank of his strong hand, pulled on a rope. Instantly, the canvas sides of the tent fell to the ground and, at a signal from Caramon, were dragged away by several grinning young boys.

“What nonsense is this?” Reghar growled, fingering his axe. A single heavy post stood in a sea of black, oozing mud. The post’s shaft had been planed smooth and gleamed in the firelight. Near the top of the post was a round platform made of solid wood, except for several irregularly shaped holes that had been cut into it.

But it was not the sight of the pole or the platform or the mud that brought forth sudden exclamations of wonder and excitement from dwarves and humans alike. It was the sight of what was embedded in the wood at the very top of the post. Shining in the firelight, their crossed handles flashing, were a sword and a battle-axe. But these were not the crude iron weapons many carried. These were of the finest wrought steel, their exquis ite workmanship apparent to those who stood twenty feet below, staring up at them.

“Reorx’s beard!” Reghar drew a deep, quivering breath. “Yon axe is worth the price of our village! I’d trade fifty years of my life for a weapon such as that!”

Darknight, staring at the sword, blinked his eyes rapidly as swift tears of longing caused the weapon to blur in his vision.

Caramon smiled. “These weapons are yours!” he announced.

Darknight and Reghar both stared at him, their faces registering blank astonishment.

“If—” Caramon continued, “you can get them down!”

A vast hubbub of voices broke out among both dwarves and men. Immediately, everyone broke into a run for the pit, forcing Caramon to shout over the turmoil.

“Reghar and Darknight—each of you may choose nine warriors to help you! The first to gain the prizes wins them for his own!”

Darknight needed no urging. Without bothering to get help, he leaped into the mud and began to wade toward the post. But with each step, he sank farther and farther, the mud growing deeper and deeper as he neared his objective. By the time he reached the post, he had sunk past his knees in the sticky substance.

Reghar—more cautious—took time to observe his opponent. Calling on nine of his stoutest men to help, the dwarven leader and his men stepped into the mud. The entire contingent promptly vanished, their heavy armor causing them to sink almost immediately. Their fellows helped drag them out. Last to emerge was Reghar.

Swearing an oath to every god he could think of, the dwarf wrung mud out of his beard, then, scowling, proceeded to strip off his armor. Holding his axe high over his head, he waded back into the mud, not even waiting for his escort.

Darknight had reached the pole. Right at the base, the mud wasn’t so deep—there was firm ground below it. Grasping the pole with his arms, the chieftain dragged himself up out of the mud and wrapped his legs around it. He moved up about three feet, grinning broadly at his tribesmen who cheered him on. Then, suddenly, he began to slide back down. Gritting his teeth, he strove desperately to hang on, but it was useless. At last, the great chieftain slid slowly down to the base, amid howls of dwarven derision. Sitting in the mud, he glared grimly at the pole. It had been greased with animal fat.

More swimming that walking, Reghar at last reached the base of the pole. He was waist-deep in mud by that time, but the dwarf’s great strength kept him going.

“Stand aside,” he growled to the frustrated Plainsman. “Use your brains! If we can’t go up, we’ll bring the prize down to us!” A grin of triumph on his mud-splattered, bearded face, Reghar drew back his axe and aimed a mighty blow at the pole.

Grinning to himself, Caramon winced in anticipation.

There was a tremendous ringing sound. The dwarf’s axe rebounded off the pole as if it had struck the side of a mountain the pole had been hewn from the thick trunk of an ironwood tree. As the reverberating axe flew from the dwarf’s stinging hands, the force of the blow sent Reghar sprawling on his back in the mud. Now it was the Plainsmen’s turn to laugh—none louder than their mud-covered chief.

Glaring at each other, dwarf and human tensed. The laughter died, replaced by angry mutterings.

Caramon held his breath. Then Reghar’s eyes went to the notched axe that was slowly sinking into the ooze. He glanced up at the beautiful axe, its steel flashing in the firelight, and—with a growl, turned to face his men.

Reghar’s escort, now stripped of their armor, had waded out to him by now. Shouting and gesturing, Reghar motioned them to line up at the base of the slick pole. Then the dwarves began to form a pyramid. Three stood at the bottom, two climbed upon their backs, then another. The bottom row sank into mud past their waists but, eventually finding the firm ground at the bottom, stood fast.

Darknight watched for a moment in grim silence, then he called to nine of his warriors. Within moments, the humans were forming their own pyramid. Being shorter, the dwarves were forced to make their pyramid smaller at the base and extend it up by single dwarves to reach the top.

Reghar himself made the final ascent. Teetering on the pinnacle as the dwarves swayed and groaned beneath him, his arms strained to reach the platform—but he wasn’t tall enough.

Darknight, climbing over the backs of his own men, easily reached the underside of the platform.

Then, laughing at the scowl on Reghar’s mud-covered face, the chieftain tried to pull himself through one of the odd-shaped openings.

He couldn’t fit.

Squeezing, swearing, holding his breath was no help. The human could not force even his wiry-framed body through the small hole. At that moment, Reghar made a leap for the platform...

And missed.

The dwarf sailed through the air, landing with a splat in the mud below, while the force of his jump caused the entire dwarven pyramid to topple, sending dwarves everywhere.

This time, though, the humans didn’t laugh. Staring down at Reghar, Darknight suddenly jumped down into the mud himself. Landing next to the dwarf, he grabbed hold of him and dragged him to the surface of the ooze.

Both were, by this time, almost indistinguishable, covered head to foot with the black goop. They stood, staring at each other.

“You know,” said Reghar, wiping mud from his eyes, “that I’m the only one who can fit through that hole.”

“And you know,” said Darknight through clenched teeth, “that I’m the only who can get you up there.”

The dwarf grabbed the Plainsman’s hand. The two moved quickly over to the human pyramid.

Darknight climbed first, providing the last link to the top. Everyone cheered as Reghar climbed up onto the human’s shoulders and easily squirmed through the hole.

Scrambling up onto the platform, the dwarf grasped the hilt of the sword and the handle of the axe and raised them triumphantly over his head. The crowd fell silent. Once again, human and dwarf eyed each other suspiciously.

This is it! Caramon thought. How much of Flint did I see in you, Reghar? How much of Riverwind in you, Darknight? So much depends on this!

Reghar looked down through the hole at the stern face of the Plainsman. “This axe, which must have been forged by Reorx himself, I owe to you, Plainsman. I will be honored to fight by your side. And, if you’re going to fight with me, you need a decent weapon!”

Amid cheers from the entire camp, he handed the great, gleaming sword down through the hole to Darknight.

5

The 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 entryway, 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 elvensight 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 win 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.

The dwarf shivered, then scowled. No, he would stick to this demand. Duncan would be forced to proclaim him a hero, like that bastard Kharas.

“Agreed.” Raistlin’s voice was level, without tone or emotion. But, as he spoke, he leaned over the table. Sensing the archmage gliding closer, Argat pulled back. He could see the glittering eyes now, and their deep, black chilling depths pierced him to the very core of his being.

“Agreed,” the mage repeated. “See that you keep your part of the bargain.”

Gulping, Argat gave a sickly smile. “You not called the Dark One without reason, are you, my friend?” he said, attempting a laugh as he rose to his feet, thrusting the scroll in his belt.

Raistlin did not answer, indicating he had heard only by a rustle of his hood. Shrugging, Argat turned and motioned to his companions, making a commanding gesture at the chest in the corner. Hurrying over, the two shut it and locked it with a key Raistlin drew out of the folds of his robes and silently handed to them. Though dwarves are accustomed to carrying heavy burdens with ease, the two grunted slightly as they lifted the chest. Argat’s eyes shone with pleasure.

The two dwarves preceded their leader from the tent. Bearing their burden between them, they hurried off to the safe shadows of the forest. Argat watched them, then turned back to face the mage, who was, once more, a pool of blackness within blackness.

“Do not worry, friend. We not fail you.”

“No, friend,” said Raistlin softly. “You won’t.”

Argat started, not liking the mage’s tone.

“You see, Argat, that money has been cursed. If you doublecross me, you and anyone else who has touched that money will see the skin of your hands turn black and begin to rot away. And when your hands are a bleeding mass of stinking flesh, the skin of your arms and your legs will blacken. And, slowly, as you watch helplessly, the curse will spread over your entire body. When you can no longer stand on your decaying feet, you will drop over dead.”

Argat made a strangled, inarticulate sound. “You—you’re lying!” he managed to snarl.

Raistlin said nothing. He might very well have disappeared from the tent for all Argat knew. The dwarf couldn’t see the mage or even sense his presence. What he did hear were shouts of laughter from the lodge as the door burst open. Light streamed out, dwarves and men staggered out into the night air.

Cursing under his breath, Argat hurried off.

But, as he ran, he wiped his hands frantically upon his trousers.

6

Dawn. Krynn’s sun crept up from behind the mountains slowly, almost as if it knew what ghastly sights it would shed its light upon this day. But time could not be stopped. Finally appearing over the mountains peaks, the sun was greeted with cheers and the clashing of sword against shield by those who were, perhaps, looking upon dawn for the last time in their lives.

Among those who cheered was Duncan, King of the Mountain Dwarves. Standing atop the battlements of the great fortress of Pax Tharkas, surrounded by his generals, Duncan heard the deep, hoarse voices of his men swelling up around him and he smiled with satisfaction. This would be a glorious day.

Only one dwarf was not cheering. Duncan didn’t even have to look at him to be aware of the silence that thundered in his heart as loudly as the cheers thundered in his ears.

Standing apart from the others was Kharas, hero of the dwarves. Tall, splendid in his shining armor, his great hammer clasped in his large hands, he stood staring at the sunrise and, if anyone had looked, they would have seen tears trickling down his face.

But no one looked. Everyone’s gaze carefully avoided Kharas. Not because he wept, though tears are considered a childish weakness by dwarves. No, it was not because Kharas wept that everyone keep their eyes averted from him. It was because, when his tears fell, they trickled unimpeded, down a bare face.

Kharas had shaved his beard.

Even as Duncan’s eyes swept the plains before Pax Tharkas, even as his mind took in the disposition of the enemy, spreading out upon the barren plains, their spear tips glittering in the light of the sun, the Thane could still feel the boundless shock that had overwhelmed his soul that morning when he had seen Kharas take his place upon the battlements, bare-faced. In his hands, the dwarf held the long, curling tresses of his luxurious beard and, as they watched in horror, Kharas hurled them out over the battlements.

A beard is a dwarf’s birthright, his pride, his family’s pride. In deep grief, a dwarf will go through the mourning time without combing his beard, but there is only one thing that will cause a dwarf to shave his beard. And that is shame. It is the mark of disgrace—the punishment for murder, the punishment for stealing, the punishment for cowardice, the punishment for desertion.

“Why?” was all that the stunned Duncan could think of to ask.

Staring out over the mountains, Kharas answered in a voice that split and cracked like rock. “I fight this battle because you order me to fight, Thane. I pledged you my loyalty and I am honor-bound to obey that pledge. But, as I fight, I want all to know that I find no honor in killing my kinsmen, nor even humans who have, more than once, fought at my side. Let all know, Kharas goes forward this day in shame.”

“A fine figure you will look to those you lead!” Duncan responded bitterly. But Kharas shut his mouth and would say no more.

“Thane!” Several men called at once, diverting Duncan’s attention back to the plains. But he, too, had seen the four figures, tiny as toys from this distance, detach themselves from the army and ride toward Pax Tharkas. Three of the figures carried fluttering flags. The fourth carried only a staff from which beamed a clear, bright light that could be seen in the growing daylight, even at this distance.

Two of the standards Duncan recognized, of course. The banner of the hill dwarves, with its all-too-familiar symbol of anvil and hammer, was repeated in different colors on Duncan’s own banner. The banner of the Plainsmen he had never seen before, but he knew it at once. It suited them—the symbol of the wind sweeping over prairie grass. The third banner, he presumed, must belong to this upstart general who had ridden out of nowhere.

“Humpf!” Duncan snorted, eyeing the banner with its symbol of the nine-pointed star with scorn.

“From all we’ve heard, he should be carrying a banner with the sign of the Thieves’ Guild upon it, coupled with a mooing cow!”

The generals laughed.

“Or dead roses,” suggested one. “I hear many renegade Knights of Solamnia ride among his thieves and farmers.” The four figures galloped across the plain, their standards fluttering behind, their horses’ hooves puffing up clouds of dust.

“The fourth one, in black robes, would be the wizard, Fistandantilus?” Duncan asked gruffly, his heavy brows nearly obliterating his eyes in a frown. Dwarves have no talent for magic and therefore despise and distrust it above all things.

“Yes, Thane,” responded a general.

“Of all of them, I fear him the most,” Duncan muttered in dark tones.

“Bah!” An old general stroked his long beard complacently. “You need not fear this wizard. Our spies tell us his health is poor. He uses his magic rarely, if at all, spending most of his time skulking in his tent. Besides, it would take an army of wizards as powerful as he to take this fortress by magic.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Duncan said, reaching up to stroke his own beard. Catching a glimpse of Kharas out of the corner of his eye, he halted his hand, suddenly uncomfortable, and abruptly clasped his hands behind his back. “Still, keep your eyes on him.” He raised his voice. “You sharpshooters—a bag of gold to the one whose arrow lodges in the wizard’s ribs!”

There was a resounding cheer that hushed immediately as the four came to a halt before the fortress. The leader, the general, raised his hand palm outward in the ancient gesture of parley.

Striding across the battlements and clambering up onto a block of stone that had been placed there for this very purpose, Duncan placed his hands on his hips, spread his legs, and stared down grimly.

“We would talk!” General Caramon shouted from below. His voice boomed and echoed among the walls of the steep mountains that flanked the fortress.

“All has been said!” Duncan returned, the dwarf’s voice sounding nearly as powerful, though he was about one-fourth the size of the big human.

“We give you one last chance! Restore to your kinsmen what you know to be rightfully theirs! Return to these humans what you have taken from them. Share your vast wealth. After all, the dead cannot spend it!”

“No, but you living would find a way, wouldn’t you?” Duncan boomed back, sneering. “What we have, we earned by honest toil, working in our homes beneath the mountains, not roaming the land in the company of savage barbarians. Here is our answer!”

Duncan raised his hand. Sharpshooters, ready and waiting, drew back the strings of their bows.

Duncan’s hand fell, and a hundred arrows whizzed through the air. The dwarves on the battlements began to laugh, hoping to see the four turn their horses and ride madly for their lives.

But the laughter died on their lips. The figures did not move as the arrows arced toward them.

The black-robed wizard raised his hand. Simultaneously, the tip of each arrow burst into flame, the shaft became smoke and, within moments, all dwindled away to nothing in the bright morning air.

“And there is our answer!” The general’s stern, cold voice drifted upwards. Turning his horse, he galloped back to his armies, flanked by the black-robed wizard, the hill dwarf, and the Plainsman.

Hearing his men muttering among themselves and seeing them cast dour, dubious looks at each other, Duncan firmly squelched his own momentary doubt and turned to face them, his beard quivering with rage.

“What is this?” he demanded angrily. “Are you frightened by the tricks of some street illusionist? What am I leading, an army of men—or of children?”

Seeing heads lower and faces flush in embarrassment, Duncan climbed down from his vantage point. Striding across to the other side of the battlements, he looked down into the vast courtyard of the mighty fortress that was formed, not by manmade walls, but by the natural walls of the mountains them of metal being mined and forged into steel would have poured forth from their gaping mouths. But the mines were shut down today, as were the forges.

This morning, the courtyard teemed with dwarves. Dressed in their heavy armor, they bore shields and axes and hammers, favored weapons of the infantry. All heads raised when Duncan appeared and the cheering that had momentarily died began again.

“It is war!” Duncan shouted above the noise, raising his hands.

The cheering increased, then stopped. After a moment’s silence, the deep dwarven voices raised in song.

Under the hills the heart of the axe Arises from cinders the still core of the fire, Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought, For the hills are forging the first breath of war.

The soldier’s heart sires and brothers The battlefield.

Come back in glory Or on your shield.

Out of the mountains in the midst of the air, The axes are dreaming; dreaming of rock, Of metal alive through the ages of ore, Stone on metal; metal on stone.

The soldier’s heart contains and dreams The battlefield.

Come back in glory Or on your shield.

Red of iron imagined from the vein, Green of brass green of copper Sparked in the fire the forge of the world, Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.

The soldier’s heart lies down, completes The battlefield.

Come back in glory Or on your shield.

His blood stirred by the song, Duncan felt his doubts vanish as the arrows had vanished in the still air. His generals were already descending from the battlements, hurrying to take up their positions. Only one remained, Argat, general of the Dewar. Kharas remained, too. Duncan looked over at Kharas now, and opened his mouth to speak.

But the hero of the dwarves simply regarded his king with a dark, haunted gaze, then, bowing toward his thane, turned and followed after the others to take his place as one of the leaders of the infantry.

Duncan glared at him angrily. “May Reorx send his beard up in flames!” he muttered as he started to follow. He would be present when the great gates swung open and his army marched out into the plains. “Who does he think he is? My own sons would not act so to me! This must not go on. After the battle, he will be put in his place.”

Grumbling to himself, Duncan was nearly to the stairs leading downward when he felt a hand upon his arm. Looking up, he saw Argat.

“I ask you, King,” said the dwarf in his crude language, “to think again. Our plan is good one. Abandon worthless hunk of rock. Let them have it.” He gestured toward the armies out in the plains. “They not fortify it. When we retreat back to Thorbardin, they chase after us into the plains. Then we retake Pax Tharkas and—Gam”—the dark dwarf clapped his hands shut “we have them! Caught between Pax Tharkas on north and Thorbardin on south.”

Duncan stared coldly at the Dewar. Argat had presented this strategy at the W ar Council, and Duncan had wondered at the time how he had come up with it. The Dewar generally took little interest in military matters, caring about only one thing their share of the spoils. Was it Kharas, trying once again to get out of fighting?

Duncan angrily shook off the Dewar’s arm. “Pax Tharkas will never fall!” he said. “Your strategy is the strategy of the coward. I will give up nothing to these rabble, not one copper piece, not one pebble of ground! I’d sooner die here!”

Stomping away, Duncan clattered down the stairs, his beard bristling in his wrath.

Watching him go, Argat’s lip twisted in a sneer. “Perhaps you would die upon this wretched rock, Duncan King. But not Argat.” Turning to two Dewar who had been standing in the shadows of a recessed corner, the dark dwarf nodded his head twice. The dwarves nodded in return, then quickly hurried away.

Standing upon the battlements, Argat watched as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Preoccupied, he began to absentmindedly rub his hands upon his leather armor as though trying to clean them.

The Highgug was not certain, but he had the feeling something was wrong.

Though not terribly perceptive, and understanding little of the complex tactics and strategies of warfare, it occurred to the Highgug nevertheless that dwarves returning victorious from the field of battle did not come staggering into the fortress covered with blood and fall down dead at his feet.

One or two, he might have considered the fortunes of war, but the number of dwarves doing this sort of thing seemed to be increasing at a truly alarming rate. The Highgug decided to see if he could find out what was going on.

He took two steps forward, then, hearing the most dreadful commotion behind him, came to a sudden halt. Heaving a heavy sigh, the Highgug turned around. He had forgotten his company.

“No, no, no!” the Highgug shouted angrily, waving his arms in the air. “How many time I tell you?—Stay Here! Stay Here! King tell Highgug—‘You gugs Stay Here.’ That mean Stay Here! You got that?”

The Highgug fixed his company with a stern eye, causing those still on their feet and able to meet the gaze of that eye (the other was missing) to tremble in shame. Those gully dwarves in the company who had stumbled over their pikes, those who had dropped their pikes, those who had, in the confusion, accidentally stabbed a neighbor with a pike, those who were lying prone on the ground, and those who had gotten turned around completely and were now stalwartly facing the rear, heard their commander’s voice and quailed.

“Look, gulphfunger slimers,” snarled the Highgug, breathing noisily, “I go find out what go on. It not seem right, everyone coming back into fort like this. No singing—only bleeding. This not the way king tell Highgug things work out. So I Go. You Stay Here. Got that? Repeat.”

“I Go,” echoed his troops obediently. “You Stay Here.”

The Highgug tore at his beard. “No! I Go! You—Oh, never mind!” Stalking off in a rage, he heard behind him—once again—the clattering of falling pikes hitting the ground.

Perhaps fortunately, the Highgug did not have far to go. Otherwise, when he returned, he would have found about half of his command dead, skewered on the ends of their own pikes. As it was, he was able to discover what he needed to know and return to his troops before they had inadvertently killed more than half a dozen or so.

The Highgug had taken only about twenty steps when he rounded a corner and very nearly ran into Duncan, his king. Duncan did not notice him, his back being turned. The king was engrossed in a conversation with Kharas and several commanding officers. Taking a hasty step backwards, the Highgug looked and listened anxiously.

Unlike many of the dwarves who had returned from the field of battle, whose heavy plate mail was so dented it looked like they had tumbled down a rocky mountainside, Kharas’s armor was dented only here and there. The hero’s hands and arms were bloodied to the elbows, but it was the enemy’s blood, not his own that he wore. Few there were who could withstand the mighty swings of the hammer he carried. Countless were the dead that fell by Kharas’s hand, though many wondered, in their last moments, why the tall dwarf sobbed bitterly as he dealt the killing blow.

Kharas was not crying now, however. His tears were gone, completely dry. He was arguing with his king.

“We are beaten on the field, Thane,” he said sternly. “General Ironhand was right to order the retreat. If you would hold Pax Tharkas, we must fall back and shut the gates as we had planned. Remember, this was not a moment that was unforeseen, Thane.”

“But a moment of shame, nonetheless,” Duncan growled with a bitter oath. “Beaten by a pack of thieves and farmers!”

“That pack of thieves and farmers has been well-trained, Thane,” Kharas said solemnly, the generals nodding grudging agreement to his words. “The Plainsmen glory in battle and our own kinsmen fight with the courage with which they are born. And then comes sweeping down from the hills the Knights of Solamnia on their horses.”

“You must give the command, Thane!” one of the generals said. “Or prepare to die where we stand.”

“Close the god-cursed gates, then!” Duncan shouted in a rage. “But do not drop the mechanism. Not until the last possible moment. There may be no need. It will cost them dearly to try to breach the gates, and I want to be able to get out again without having to clear away tons of rock.”

“Close the gates, close the gates!” rang out many voices.

Everyone in the courtyard, the living, the wounded, even the dying, turned their heads to see the massive gates swing shut. The Highgug was among these, staring in awe. He had heard of these great gates—how they moved silently on gigantic, oiled hinges that worked so smoothly only two dwarves on each side were needed to pull them shut. The Highgug was somewhat disappointed to hear that the mechanism was not going to be operated. The sight of tons of rock tumbling down to block the gates was one he was sorry to miss.

Still, this should be quite entertaining...

The Highgug caught his breath at the next sight, very nearly strangling himself. Looking at the gate, he could see beyond it, and what he saw was paralyzing.

A vast army was racing toward him. And it was not his army!

Which meant it must be the enemy, he decided after a moment’s deep thought, there being—as far as he knew—only two sides to this conflict—his and theirs.

The noonday sun shone brightly upon the armor of the Knights of Solamnia, it flashed upon their shields and glittered upon their drawn swords. Farther behind them came the infantry at a run.

The Army of Fistandantilus was dashing for the fortress, hoping to reach it before the gates could be closed and blocked. Those few mountain dwarves brave enough to stand in their way were cut down by flashing steel and trampling hoof.

The enemy was getting closer and closer. The Highgug swallowed nervously. He didn’t know much about military maneuvers, but it did seem to him that this would be an excellent time for the gates to shut. It seemed that the generals thought so too, for they were now all running in that direction, yelling and screaming.

“In the name of Reorx, what’s taking them—” Duncan began.

Suddenly, Kharas’s face grew pale.

“Duncan,” he said quietly, “we have been betrayed. You must leave at once.”

“Wh—what?” Duncan stammered in bewilderment. Standing on his toes, he tried in vain to see over the crowd milling about in the courtyard. “Betrayed! How—”

“The Dewar, my Thane,” Kharas said, able, with his unusual height, to see what was transpiring. “They have murdered the gate wardens, apparently, and are now fighting to keep the gates open.”

“Slay them!” Duncan’s mouth frothed in his anger, saliva dribbled down his beard. “Slay every one of them!” The dwarven king drew his own sword and leaped forward. “I’ll personally—”

“No, Thane!” Kharas caught hold of him, dragging him back. “It is too late! Come, we must get to the griffons! You must go back to Thorbardin, my king!”

But Duncan was beyond all reason. He fought Kharas viciously. Finally, the younger dwarf, with a grim face, doubled his great fist and punched his king squarely on the jaw. Duncan stumbled backward, reeling from the blow but not down.

“I’ll have your head for this!” the king swore, grasping feebly for his sword hilt. One more blow from Kharas finished the job, however. Duncan sprawled onto the ground and lay there quietly.

With a grieving face, Kharas bent down, lifted his king, plate-mail armor and all, and—with a grunt—heaved the stout dwarf over his shoulder. Calling for some of those still able to stand and fight to cover him, Kharas hurried off toward where the griffons waited, the comatose king hanging, arms dangling, over his shoulder.

The Highgug stared at the approaching army in horrified fascination. Over and over echoed in his mind Duncan’s last command to him—“You Stay Here.”

Turning around, running back to his troop, that was exactly what the Highgug intended to do.

Although gully dwarves have a well-deserved reputation for being the most cowardly race living upon Krynn, they can when driven into a corner—fight with a ferocity that generally ,amazes an enemy.

Most armies, however, use gully dwarves only in support positions, keeping them as far to the rear as possible since it is almost even odds that a regiment of gully dwarves will, inflict as much damage to its own side as it will ever succeed in doing to an enemy.

Thus Duncan had posted the only detachment of gully dwarves currently residing in Pax Tharkas—they were former mine workers—in the center of the courtyard and told them to stay there, figuring this would be the best way to keep them out of mischief. He had given them pikes, in the unlikely event that the enemy would crash through the gates with a cavalry charge.

But that was what was happening. Seeing the Army of Fistandantilus closing in upon them, knowing that they were trapped and defeated, all the dwarves in Pax Tharkas were thrown into confusion.

A few kept their heads. The sharpshooters on the battlements were raining arrows into the advancing foe, slowing them somewhat. Several commanders were gathering their regiments, preparing to fight as they retreated to the mountains. But most were just fleeing, running for their lives to the safety of the surrounding hills.

And soon only one group stood in the path of the approaching army—the gully dwarves.

“This is it,” the Highgug called hastily to his men as he came huffing and puffing back. His face was white beneath the dirt, but he was calm and composed. He had been told to Stay Here and, by Reorx’s beard, he was going to Stay Here.

However, seeing that most of his men were starting to edge away, their eyes wide at the sight of the thundering horses which could now be seen approaching the open gates, the Highgug decided this called for a little morale boost.

Having drilled them for just such an occasion, the Highgug had also taught his troops a war chant and was quite proud of it. Unfortunately, they’d never yet got it right.

“Now,” he shouted, “what you give me?”

“Death!” his men all shouted cheerfully with one voice.

The Highgug cringed. “No, no, no!” he yelled in exasperation, stomping on the ground. His men looked at each other, chagrined.

“I tell you, gulphbludders—it’s—”

“Undying loyalty!” cried one suddenly in triumph.

The others scowled at him, muttering “brown nose.” One jealous neighbor even poked him in the back with a pike. Fortunately, it was the butt end (he was holding it upside down) or serious damage might have been incurred.

“That’s it,” said the Highgug, trying not to notice that the sound of hoofbeats was getting louder and louder behind him. “Now, we try again. What you give me?”

“Un—undy... dying loy... loy... alty.” This was rather straggled-sounding, many stumbling over the difficult words. It certainly seemed to lack the ring (or the enthusiasm) of the first.

A hand shot up in the back.

“Well, what is it, Gug Snug?” snarled the Highgug.

“Us got to give... undying... loyal... ty when dead?”

The Highgug glared at him with his one good eye.

“No, you phungerwhoop,” he snapped, gritting his teeth. “Death or undying loyalty. Whichever come first.”

The gully dwarves grinned, immensely cheered by this.

The Highgug, shaking his head and muttering, turned around to face the enemy. “Set pikes!” he shouted.

That was a mistake and he knew it as soon as he said it, hearing the vast turmoil and confusion and swearing (and a few groans of pain) behind him.

But, by that time, it didn’t matter...

The sun set in a blood-red haze, sinking down into the silent forests of Qualinesti.

All was quiet in Pax Tharkas, the mighty, impregnable fortress having fallen shortly after midday.

The afternoon had been spent in skirmishes with pockets of dwarves, who were retreating, fighting, back into the mountains. Many had escaped, the charge of the knights having been effectively held up by a small group of pikesmen, who had stood their ground when the gates were breached, stubbornly refusing to budge.

Kharas, carrying the unconscious king in his arms, flew by griffon back to Thorbardin, accompanied by those of Duncan’s officers still alive.

The remainder of the army of the mountain dwarves, at home in the caves and rocks of the snow-covered passes, were making their way back to Thorbardin. The Dewar who had betrayed their kinsmen were drinking Duncan’s captured ale and boasting of their deeds, while most of Caramon’s army regarded them with disgust.

Tonight, as the sun set, the courtyard was filled with dwarves and humans celebrating their victory, and by officers trying in vain to stem the tide of drunkenness that was threatening to wash everyone under. Shouting, bullying, and smashing a few heads together, they managed to drag off enough to post the watch and form burial squads.

Crysania had passed her trial by blood. Though she had been kept well away from the battle by a watchful Caramon, she had—once they entered the fort—managed to elude him. Now, cloaked and hooded, she moved among the wounded, surreptitiously healing those she could without drawing unwanted attention to herself. And, in later years, those who survived would tell stories to their grandchildren, claiming that they had seen a white-robed figure bearing a shining light around her neck, who laid her gentle hands upon them and took away their pain.

Caramon was, meanwhile, meeting with officers in a room in Pax Tharkas, planning their strategy, though the big man was so exhausted he could barely think straight.

Thus, few saw the single, black-robed figure entering the open gates of Pax Tharkas. It rode upon a restive black horse that shied at the smell of blood. Pausing, the figure spoke a few words to his mount, seeming to soothe the animal. Those that did see the figure paused for a moment in terror, many having the fevered (or drunken) impression that it was Death in person, come to collect the unburied.

Then someone muttered, “the wizard,” and they turned away, laughing shakily or breathing a sigh of relief.

His eyes obscured by the depths of his black hood, yet intently observing all around him, Raistlin rode forward until he came to the most remarkable sight on the entire field of battle—the bodies of a hundred or more gully dwarves, lying (for the most part) in even rows, rank upon rank. Most still held their pikes (many upside down) clutched tightly in their dead hands. There were also lying among them, though, a few horses that had been injured (generally accidentally) by the wild stabs and slashings of the desperate gully dwarves. More than one animal, when hauled off, was noted to have teeth marks sunk into its forelegs. At the end, the gully dwarves had dropped the useless pikes to fight as they knew best—with tooth and nail.

“This wasn’t in the histories,” Raistlin murmured to himself, staring down at the wretched little bodies, his brow furrowed. His eyes flashed. “Perhaps,” he breathed, “this means time has already been altered?”

For long moments he sat there, pondering. Then suddenly he understood.

None saw Raistlin’s face, hidden as it was by his hood, or they would have noted a swift, sudden spasm of sorrow and anger pass across it.

“No,” he said to himself bitterly, “the pitiful sacrifice of these poor creatures was left out of the histories not because it did not happen. It was left out simply because—”

He paused, staring grimly down at the small broken bodies. “No one cared...”

7

“I must see the general!”

The voice pierced through the soft, warm cloud of sleep that wrapped Caramon like the down-filled comforter on the bed the first real bed he’d slept in for months.

“Go ’way,” mumbled Caramon and heard Garic say the same thing, or close enough...

“Impossible. The general is sleeping. He’s not to be disturbed.”

“I must see him. It’s urgent!”

“He hasn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours—”

“I know! But—”

The voices dropped. Good, Caramon thought, now I can go back to sleep. But he found, unfortunately, that the lowered voices only made him more wakeful. Something was wrong, he knew it. With a groan, he rolled over, dragging the pillow on top his head. Every muscle in his body ached; he had been on horseback almost eighteen hours without rest. Surely Garic could handle it...

The door to his room opened softly.

Caramon squeezed his eyes shut, burrowing farther down into the feather bed. It occurred to him as he did so that, a couple of hundred years from now, Verminaard, the evil Dragon Highlord, would sleep in this very same bed. Had someone wakened him like this, that morning the Heroes had freed the slaves of Pax Tharkas?...

“General,” said Garic’s soft voice. “Caramon”

There was a muttered oath from the pillow.

Perhaps, when I leave, I’ll put a frog in the bed, Caramon thought viciously. It would be nice and stiff in two hundred years...

“General,” Garic persisted, “I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but you’re needed in the courtyard at once.”

“What for?” growled Caramon, throwing off the blankets and sitting up, wincing at the soreness in his thighs and back. Rubbing his eyes, he glared at Garic.

“The army, sir. It’s leaving.”

Caramon stared at him. “What? You’re crazy.”

“No, s-sir,” said a young soldier, who had crept in after Garic and now stood behind him, his eyes wide with awe at being in the presence of his commanding officer—despite the fact that the officer was naked and only half-awake. “They—they’re gathering in the courtyard, n-now, sir... The dwarves and the Plainsmen and... and some of ours.”

“Not the Knights,” Garic added quickly.

“Well... well...” Caramon stammered, then waved his hand. “Tell them to disperse, damn it! This is nonsense.” He swore. “Name of the gods, three-fourths of them were dead drunk last night!”

“They’re sober enough this morning, sir. And I think you should come,” Garic said softly. “Your brother is leading them.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Caramon demanded, his breath puffing white in the chill air. It was the coldest morning of the fall. A thin coat of frost covered the stones of Pax Tharkas, mercifully obliterating the red stains of battle. Wrapped in a thick cloak, dressed only in leather breeches and boots that he had hastily thrown on, Caramon glanced about the courtyard. It was crowded with dwarves and men, all standing quietly, grimly, in ranks, waiting for the order to march.

Caramon’s stern gaze fixed itself on Reghar Fireforge, then shifted to Darknight, chief of the Plainsmen.

“We went over this yesterday,” Caramon said. His voice taut with barely contained anger, he came to stand in front of Reghar. “It’ll take another two days for our supply wagons to catch up. There’s not enough food left here for the march, you told me that yourself last night. And you won’t find so much as a rabbit on the Plains of Dergoth—”

“We don’t mind missing a few meals,” grunted Reghar, the emphasis on the “we” leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Caramon’s love of his dinner was well-known.

This did nothing to improve the general’s humor. Caramon’s face flushed. “What about weapons, you long-bearded fool?” he snapped. “What about fresh water, shelter, food for the horses?”

“We won’t be in the Plains that long,” Reghar returned, his eyes flashing. “The mountain dwarves, Reorx curse their stone hearts, are in confusion. We must strike now, before they can get their forces back together.”

“We went over this last night!” Caramon shouted in exasperation. “This was just a part of their force we faced here. Duncan’s got another whole damn army waiting for you beneath the mountain!”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Reghar snarled surlily, staring southward and folding his arms in front of him. “At any rate, we’ve changed our minds. We’re marching today—with or without you.”

Caramon glanced at Darknight, who had remained silent throughout this conversation. The chief of the Plainsmen only nodded, once: His men, standing behind him, were stern and quiet, though—here and there—Caramon saw a few green tinged faces and knew that many had not fully recovered from last night’s celebration.

Finally, Caramon’s gaze shifted to a black-robed figure seated on a black horse. Though the figure’s eyes were shadowed by his black hood, Caramon had felt their intense, amused gaze ever since he walked out of the door of the gigantic fortress.

Turning abruptly away from the dwarf, Caramon stalked over to Raistlin. He was not surprised to find Lady Crysania on her horse, muffled in a thick cloak. As he drew nearer, he noticed that the bottom of the cleric’s cloak was stained dark with blood. Her face, barely visible above a scarf she had wound around her neck and chin, was pale but composed. He wondered briefly where she had been and what she had been doing during the long night. His thoughts were centered, however, on his twin.

“This is your doing,” he said in a low voice, approaching Raistlin and laying his hand upon the horse’s neck.

Raistlin nodded complacently, leaning forward over the pommel of the saddle to talk to his brother. Caramon could see his face, cold and white as the frost on the pavement beneath their feet.

“What’s the idea?” Caramon demanded, still in the same low voice. “What’s this all about? You know we can’t march without supplies!”

“You’re playing this much too safely, my brother,” said Raistlin. He shrugged and added, “The supply trains will catch up with us. As for weapons, the men have picked up extra ones here after the battle. Reghar is right—we must strike quickly, before Duncan can get organized.”

“You should have discussed this with me!” Caramon growled, clenching his fist. “I am in command!”

Raistlin looked away, shifting slightly in his saddle. Caramon, standing near him, felt his brother’s body shiver beneath the black robes. “There wasn’t time,” the archmage said after a moment. “I had a dream last night, my brother. She came to me—my Queen... Takhisis... . It is imperative that I reach Zhaman as soon as possible.”

Caramon gazed at his brother in silent, sudden understanding. “They mean nothing to you!” he said softly, gesturing to the men and dwarves standing, waiting behind him. “You’re interested in one thing only, reaching your precious Portal!” His bitter gaze shifted to Crysania, who regarded him calmly, though her gray eyes were dark and shadowed from a sleepless, horror-filled night spent among the wounded and dying. “You, too? You support him in this?”

“The trial of blood, Caramon,” she said softly. “It must be stopped—forever. I have seen the ultimate evil mankind can inflict upon itself.”

“I wonder!” Caramon muttered, glancing at his twin.

Reaching up with his slender hands, Raistlin slowly drew back the folds of his hood, leaving his eyes visible. Caramon recoiled, seeing himself reflected in the flat surface, seeing his face—haggard, unshaven, his hair uncombed, fluttering raggedly in the wind. And then, as Raistlin stared at him, holding him in an intense gaze as a snake charms a bird, words came into Caramon’s mind.

You know me well, my brother. The blood that flows in our veins speaks louder than words sometimes. Yes, you are right. I care nothing for this war. I have fought it for one purpose only, and that is to reach the Portal. These fools will carry me that far. Beyond that, what does it matter to me whether we win or lose?

I have allowed you to play general, Caramon, since you seemed to enjoy your little game. You are, in fact, surprisingly good at it. You have served my purpose adequately. You will serve me still. You will lead the army to Zhaman. When Lady Crysania and I are safely there, I will send you home. Remember this, my brother—the battle on the Plains of Dergoth was lost! You cannot change that!

“I don’t believe you!” Caramon said thickly, staring at Raistlin with wild eyes. “You wouldn’t ride to your own death! You must know something! You—”

Caramon choked, half-strangled. Raistlin drew nearer to him, seeming to suck the words out of his throat.

My counsel is my own to keep! What I know or do not know does not concern you, so do not tax your brain with fruitless speculation.

“I’ll tell them!” Caramon said forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “I’ll tell them the truth!”

Tell them what? That you have seen the future? That they are doomed? Seeing the struggle in Caramon’s anguish-filled face, Raistlin smiled. I think not, my brother. And now, if you ever want to return to your home again, I suggest you go upstairs, put on your armor, and lead your army.

The archmage lifted his hands and pulled his hood down low over his eyes again. Caramon drew in his breath with a gasp, as though someone had dashed cold water in his face. For a moment, he could only stand staring at his twin, shivering with a rage that nearly overpowered him.

All he could think of, at that moment, was Raistlin . . laughing with him by the tree... Raistlin holding the rabbit... That camaraderie between them had been real. He would swear it! And yet, this, too, was real. Real and cold and sharp as the blade of a knife shining in the clear light of morning.

And, slowly, the light from that knife blade began to penetrate the clouds of confusion in Caramon’s mind, severing another of the ties that bound him to his brother.

The knife moved slowly. There were many ties to cut.

The first gave in the blood-soaked arena at Istar, Caramon realized. And he felt another part as he stared at his brother in the frost-rimed courtyard of Pax Tharkas.

“It seems I have no choice,” he said, tears of anger and pain blurring the image of his brother in his sight.

“None,” Raistlin replied. Grasping the reins, he made ready to ride off. “There are things I must attend to. Lady Crysania will ride with you, of course, in the vanguard. Do not wait for me. I will ride behind for a time.”

And so I’m dismissed, Caramon said to himself. Watching his brother ride away, he felt no anger anymore, just a dull, gnawing ache. An amputated limb left behind such phantom pain, so he had heard once...

Turning on his heel, feeling more than hearing the heavy silence that had settled over the courtyard, the general walked alone to his quarters and slowly began to put on his armor.

When Caramon returned, dressed in his familiar golden armor, his cape fluttering in the wind, the dwarves and Plainsmen and the men of his own army raised their voices in a resounding cheer.

Not only did they truly admire and respect the big man, but all credited him with the brilliant strategy that had brought them victory the day before. General Caramon was lucky, it was said, blessed by some god. After all, wasn’t it luck that had kept the dwarves from closing the gates?

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.”

8

“No water again,” Caramon said quietly.

Reghar scowled. Though the general’s voice was carefully expressionless, the dwarf knew that he was being held accountable. Realizing that he was, in large part, to blame, didn’t help matters.

The only feeling more wretched and unbearable than guilt is the feeling of well-deserved guilt.

“There’ll be another water hole within half a day’s march,” Reghar growled, his face setting into granite. “They were all over the place in the old days, like pock marks.”

The dwarf waved an arm. Caramon glanced around. As far as the eye could see there was nothing—not tree, not bird, not even scrubby bushes. Nothing but endless miles o£ sand, dotted here and there with strange, domed mounds. Far off in the distance, the dark shadows of the mountains of Thorbardin hovered before his eyes like the lingering remembrance of a bad dream.

The Army of Fistandantilus was losing before the battle even started.

After days of forced marching, they had finally come out of the mountain pass from Pax Tharkas and were now upon the Plains of Dergoth. Their supplies had not caught up with them and, because of the rapid pace at which they were moving, it looked as if it might be more than a week before the lumbering wagons found them.

Raistlin pressed the need for haste upon the commanders of the armies and, though Caramon opposed his brother openly, Reghar supported the archmage and managed to sway the Plainsmen to their side as well. Once again, Caramon had little choice but to go along. And so the army rose before dawn, marched with only a brief rest at midday, and continued until twilight when they stopped to make camp while there was still light enough to see.

It did not seem like an army of victors. Gone were the comradeship, the jokes, the laughter, the games of evening. Gone was the singing by day; even the dwarves ceased their stirring chant, preferring to keep their breath for breathing as they marched mile after weary mile. At night, the men slumped down practically where they stood, ate their meagre rations, and then fell immediately into exhausted sleep until kicked and prodded by the sergeants to begin another day.

Spirits were low. There were grumblings and complaints, especially as the food dwindled. This had not been a problem in the mountains. Game had been plentiful. But once on the Plains, as Caramon had foretold, the only living things they saw were each other. They lived on hard-baked, unleavened bread and strips of dried meat rationed out twice per day morning and night. And Caramon knew that if the supply wagons didn’t catch up with them soon, even this small amount would be cut in half.

But the general had other concerns besides food, both of which were more critical. One was a lack of fresh water. Though Reghar had told him confidently that there were water holes in the Plains, the first two they discovered were dry. Then—and only then—had the old dwarf dourly admitted that the last time he’d set eyes on these Plains was in the days before the Cataclysm.

Caramon’s other problem was the rapidly deteriorating relationships between the allies.

Always threadbare at best, the alliance was now splitting apart at the seams. The humans from the north blamed their current problems on the dwarves and the Plainsmen since they had supported the wizard.

The Plainsmen, for their part, had never been in the mountains before. They discovered that fighting and living in mountainous terrain was cold and snowy and, as the chief put it crudely to Caramon, “it is either too up or too down!”

Now, seeing the gigantic mountains of Thorbardin looming on the southern horizon, the Plainsmen were beginning to think that all the gold and steel in the world wasn’t as beautiful as the golden, flat grasslands of their home. More than once Caramon saw their dark eyes turn northward, and he knew that one morning he would awaken and find they had gone.

The dwarves, for their part, viewed the humans as cowardly weaklings who ran crying home to mama the minute things got a little tough. Thus they treated the lack of food and water as a petty annoyance. The dwarf who even dared hint he was thirsty was immediately set upon by his fellows.

Caramon thought of this and he thought of his numerous other problems as he stood in the middle of the desert that evening, kicking at the sand with the toe of his boot.

Then, raising his eyes, Caramon’s gaze rested on Reghar. Thinking Caramon was not watching him, the old dwarf lost his rocky sternness—his shoulders slumped, and he sighed wearily. His resemblance to Flint was painful in its intensity. Ashamed of his anger, knowing it was directed more at himself than anyone else, Caramon did what he could to make amends.

“Don’t worry. We’ve enough water to last the night. Surely we’ll come on a water hole tomorrow, don’t you think?” he said, patting Reghar clumsily on the back. The old dwarf glanced up at Caramon, startled and instantly suspicious, fearing he might be the butt of some joke.

But, seeing Caramon’s tired face smiling at him cheerfully, Reghar relaxed. “Aye,” the dwarf said with a grudging smile in return. “Tomorrow for sure.”

Turning from the dry water hole, the two made their way back to camp.

Night came early to the Plains of Dergoth. The sun dropped behind the mountains rapidly, as though sick of the sight of the vast, barren desert wasteland. Few campfires glowed; most of the men were too tired to bother lighting them, and there wasn’t any food to cook anyway. Huddling together in their separate groups, the hill dwarves, the northerners, and the Plainsmen regarded each other suspiciously. Everyone, of course, shunned the Dewar.

Caramon, glancing up, saw his own tent, sitting apart from them all, as though he had simply written them off.

An old Krynnish legend told of a man who had once committed a deed so heinous that the gods themselves gathered to inflict his punishment. When they announced that, henceforth, the man was to have the ability to see into the future, the man laughed, thinking he had outwitted the gods. The man had, however, died a tortured death—something Caramon had never been able to understand.

But now he understood, and his soul ached. Truly, no greater punishment could be inflicted upon any mortal. For, by seeing into the future and knowing what the outcome will be, man’s greatest gift—hope—is taken away.

Up until now, Caramon had hoped. He had believed Raistlin would come up with a plan. He had believed his brother wouldn’t let this happen. Raistlin couldn’t let this happen. But now, knowing that Raistlin truly didn’t care what became of these men and dwarves and the families they had left behind, Caramon’s hope died. They were doomed. There was nothing he could do to prevent what had happened before from happening again.

Knowing this and knowing the pain that this must inevitably cost him, Caramon began to unconsciously distance himself from those he had come to care about. He began to think about home.

Home! Almost forgotten, even purposefully shoved to the back of his mind, memories of his home now flooded over him with such vivid clarity—once he let them—that sometimes, in the long, lonely evenings, he stared into a fire he could not see for his tears.

It was the one thought that kept Caramon going. As he led his army closer and closer to their defeat, each step led him closer to Tika, closer to home...

“Look out there!” Reghar grabbed hold of him, shaking him from his reverie. Caramon blinked and looked up just before he stumbled into one of the strange mounds that dotted the Plains.

“What are these confounded contrivances anyway?” Caramon grumbled, glaring at it. “Some type of animal dwelling? I’ve heard tell of squirrels without tails who live in homes like these upon the great flatlands of Estwilde.” He eyed the structure that was nearly three feet tall and just as wide, and shook his head. “But I’d hate to meet up with the squirrel who built this!”

“Bah! Squirrel indeed!” Reghar scoffed. “Dwarves built these! Can’t you tell? Look at the workmanship.” He ran his hand lovingly over the smooth-sided dome. “Since when did Nature do such a perfect job?”

Caramon snorted. “Dwarves! But—why? What for? Not even dwarves love work so much that they do it for their health! Why waste time building mounds in a desert?”

“Observation posts,” Reghar said succinctly.

“Observation?” Caramon grinned. “What do they observe? Snakes?”

“The land, the sky, armies—like ours.” Reghar stamped his foot, raising a cloud of dust. “Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That.” Reghar stamped again. “Hollow.”

Caramon’s brow cleared. “Tunnels!” His eyes opened wide. Looking around the desert at mound after mound rising up out of the flatlands, he whistled softly.

“Miles of ’em!” Reghar said, nodding his head. “Built so long ago that they were old to my great-grandfather. Of course” the dwarf sighed—“most of them haven’t been used in that long either. Legend had it that there were once fortresses between here and Pax Tharkas, connecting up with the Kharolis Mountains. A dwarf could walk from Pax Tharkas to Thorbardin without ever once seeing the sun, if the old tales be true.

“The fortresses are gone now. And many of the tunnels, in all likelihood. The Cataclysm wrecked most of ’em. Still,” Reghar continued cheerfully, as he and Caramon resumed walking, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Duncan hadn’t a few spies down there, skulking about like rats.”

“Above or below, they’ll see us coming from a long way off,” Caramon muttered, his gaze scanning the flat, empty land.

“Aye,” Reghar said stoutly, “and much good it will do them.”

Caramon did not answer, and the two kept going, the big man returning alone to his tent and the dwarf returning to the encampment of his people.

In one of the mounds, not far from Caramon’s tent, eyes were watching the army, watching its every move. But those eyes weren’t interested in the army itself. They were interested in three people, three people only...

“Not long now,” Kharas said. He was peering out through slits so cunningly carved into the rock that they allowed those in the mound to look out but prevented anyone looking at the outside of the mound from seeing in. “How far do you make the distance?”

This to a dwarf of ancient, scruffy appearance, who glanced out the slits once in a bored fashion, then glanced down the length of the tunnel. “Two hundred, fifty-three steps. Bring you smack up in the center,” he said without hesitation.

Kharas looked back out onto the Plains to where the general’s large tent sat apart from the campfires of his men. It seemed marvelous to Kharas that the old dwarf could judge the distance so accurately. The hero might have expressed doubts, had it been anyone but Smasher. But the elderly thief who had been brought out of retirement expressly for this mission had too great a reputation for performing remarkable feats—a reputation that almost equaled Kharas’s own.

“The sun is setting,” Kharas reported, rather unnecessarily since the lengthening shadows could be seen slanting against the rock walls of the tunnel behind him. “The general returns. He is entering his tent.” Kharas frowned. “By Reorx’s beard, I hope he doesn’t decide to change his habits tonight.”

“He won’t,” Smasher said. Crouched comfortably in a corner, he spoke with the calm certainty of one who had (in former days) earned a living by watching the comings and—more particularly—the goings of his fellows. “First two things you learn when yer breakin’ house—everyone has a routine and no one likes change. Weather’s fine, there’ve been no startlements, nothin out there ’cept sand an’ more sand. No, he won’t change.”

Kharas frowned, not liking this reminder of the dwarf’s lawless past. Well aware of his own limitations, Kharas had chosen Smasher for this mission because they needed someone skilled in stealth, skilled in moving swiftly and silently, skilled in attacking by night, and escaping into the darkness.

But Kharas, who had been admired by the Knights of Solamnia for his honor, suffered pangs of conscience nonetheless. He soothed his soul by reminding himself that Smasher had, long ago, paid for his misdeeds and had even performed several services for his king that made him, if not a completely reputable character, at least a minor hero.

Besides, Kharas said to himself, think of the lives we will save.

Even as he thought this, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You are right, Smasher. Here comes the wizard from his tent and here comes the witch from hers.”

Grasping the handle of his hammer strapped securely to his belt with one hand, Kharas used the other hand to shift a short sword he had tucked into his belt into a slightly more comfortable position. Finally, he reached into a pouch, drew out a piece of rolled parchment, and with a thoughtful, solemn expression on his beardless face, tucked it into a safe pocket in his leather armor.

Turning to the four dwarves who stood behind him, he said, “Remember, do not harm the woman or the general any more than is necessary to subdue them. But—the wizard must die, and he must die quickly, for he is the most dangerous.”

Smasher grinned and settled back more comfortably. He would not be going along. Too old. That would have insulted him once, but he was of an age now where it came as a compliment.

Besides, his knees creaked alarmingly.

“Let them settle in,” the old thief advised. “Let them start their evening meal, relax. Then”—drawing his hand across his throat, he chortled—“two hundred and fifty-three steps...”

Standing guard duty outside the general’s tent, Garic listened to the silence within. It was more disturbing and seemed to echo louder than the most violent quarrel.

Glancing inside through the tent flap opening, he saw the three sitting together as they did every night, quiet, muttering only occasionally, each one apparently wrapped in his or her own concerns.

The wizard was deeply involved in his studies. Rumor had it that he was planning some great, powerful spells that would blow the gates of Thorbardin wide open. As for the witch, who knew what she was thinking? Garic was thankful, at least, that Caramon was keeping an eye on her.

There had been some weird rumors about the witch among the men. Rumors of miracles performed at Pax Tharkas, of the dead returning to life at her touch, of limbs growing back onto bloody stumps. Garic discounted these, of course. Still, t here was something about her these days that made the young man wonder if his first impressions had been correct.

Garic shifted restlessly in the cold wind that swept over the desert. Of the three in the tent, he worried most about his general. Over the past months, the young knight had come to revere and idolize Caramon. Observing him closely, trying to be as much like him as possible, Garic noticed Caramon’s obvious depression and unhappiness which the big man thought he was doing quite well at hiding. For Garic, Caramon had taken the place of the family he had lost, and now the young Knight brooded over Caramon’s sorrow as he would have brooded about an older brother.

“It’s those blasted dark dwarves,” Garic muttered out loud, stomping his feet to keep them from going numb. “I don’t trust ’em, that’s for certain. I’d send them packing, and I’ll bet the general would, too, if it weren’t for his bro—”

Garic stopped, holding his breath, listening.

Nothing. But he could have sworn...

Hand on the hilt of his sword, the young Knight stared out into the desert. Though hot by day, it was a cold and forbidding place at night. Off in the distance, he saw the campfires. Here and there, he could see the shadows of men passing by.

Then he heard it again. A sound behind him. Directly behind him. The sound of heavy, iron-shod boots...

“What was that?” Caramon asked, lifting his head.

“The wind,” Crysania muttered, glancing at the tent and shivering, watching as the fabric rippled and breathed like a living thing. “It blows incessantly in this horrid place.”

Caramon half-rose, hand on his sword hilt. “It wasn’t the wind.”

Raistlin glanced up at his brother. “Oh, sit down!” he snarled softly in irritation, “and finish your dinner so that we can end this. I must return to my studies.”

The archmage was going over a particularly difficult spell chant in his mind. He had been wrestling with it for days, trying to discover the correct voice inflection and pronunciation needed to unlock the secrets of the words. So far, they had eluded his grasp and made little sense.

Shoving his still-full plate aside, Raistlin started to stand—when the world literally gave way beneath his feet.

As though he were on the deck of a ship sliding down a steep wave, the sandy ground canted away from under foot. Staring down in amazement, the archmage saw a vast hole opening up before him. One of the poles that held up the tent slipped and toppled into it, causing the tent to sag. A lantern hanging from the supports swung wildly, shadows pitching and leaping around like demons.

Instinctively, Raistlin caught hold of the table and managed to save himself from falling into the rapidly widening hole. But, even as he did so, he saw figures crawling up through the hole squat, bearded figures. For an instant, the wildly dancing light flashed off steel blades, shone in dark, grim eyes. Then the figures were plunged in shadows.

“Caramon!” Raistlin shouted, but he could tell by the sounds behind him—a vicious oath and the rattle of a steel sword sliding from its scabbard—that Caramon was well aware of the danger.

Raistlin heard, too, a strong, feminine voice calling on the name of Paladine, and saw the glimmering outline of pure, white light, but he had no time to worry about Crysania. A huge dwarven warhammer, seemingly wielded by the darkness itself, flashed in the lantern light, aiming right at the mage’s head.

Speaking the first spell that came to his mind, Raistlin saw with satisfaction an invisible force pluck the hammer from the dwarf’s hand. By his command, the magical force carried the hammer through the darkness to drop it with a thud in the corner of the tent.

At first numbed by the unexpectedness of the attack, Raistlin’s mind was now active and working.

Once the initial shock had passed, the mage saw this as simply another irritating interruption to his studies. Planning to end it quickly, the archmage turned his attention to his enemy, who stood before him, regarding him with eyes that were unafraid.

Feeling no fear himself, calm in the knowledge that nothing could kill him since he was protected by time, Raistlin called upon his magic in cool, unhurried fashion.

He felt it coiling and gathering within his body, felt the ecstasy course through him with a sensual pleasure. This would be a pleasant diversion from his studies, he decided. An interesting exercise... Stretching out his hands, he began to pronounce the words that would send bolts of blue lightning sizzling through his enemy’s writhing body. Then he was interrupted.

With the suddenness of a thunder clap, two figures appeared before him, leaping out of the darkness at him as though they had dropped from a star.

Tumbling at the mage’s feet, one of the figures stared up at him in wild excitement.

“Oh, look! It’s Raistlin! We made it, Gnimsh! We made it! Hey, Raistlin! Bet you’re surprised to see me, huh? And, oh, have I got the most wonderful story to tell you! You see, I was dead. Well, I wasn’t actually, but—”

“Tasslehoff!” Raistlin gasped.

Thoughts sizzled in Raistlin’s mind as the lightning might have sizzled from his fingertips.

The first—a kender! Time could be altered!

The second—Time can be altered...

The third—I can die!

The shock of these thoughts jolted through Raistlin’s body, burning away the coolness and calmness so necessary to the magic-user for casting his complex spells.

As both the unlooked-for solution to his problem and the frightful realization of what it might cost him penetrated his brain, Raistlin lost control. The words of the spell slipped from his mind. But his enemy still advanced.

Reacting instinctively, his hand shaking, Raistlin jerked his wrist, bringing into his palm the small silver dagger he carried with him.

But it was too late... and too little.

9

Kharas’s concentration was completely centered on the man he had vowed to kill. Reacting with the trained single-mindedness of the military mindset, he paid no attention to the startling appearance of the two apparitions, thinking them, perhaps, nothing more than beings conjured up by the archmage.

Kharas saw, at the same time, the wizard’s glittering eyes go blank. He saw Raistlin’s mouth—opened to recite deadly words—hang flaccid. and loose, and the dwarf knew that for a few seconds at least, his enemy was at his mercy.

Lunging forward, Kharas drove his short sword through the black, flowing robes and had the satisfaction of feeling it hit home.

Closing with the stricken mage, he drove the blade deeper and deeper into the human’s slender body. The mans strange, burning heat enveloped him like a blazing inferno. A hatred and an anger so intense struck Kharas a physical blow, knocking him backward and slamming him into the ground.

But the wizard was wounded—mortally. That much Kharas knew: Staring up from where he lay, looking into those searing, baleful eyes, Kharas saw them burn with fury, but he saw them fill with pain as well. And he saw—by the leaping, swaying light of the lantern—the hilt of his short sword sticking out of the mage’s gut. He saw the wizard’s slender hands curl around it, he heard him scream in terrible agony. He knew he had no reason to fear. The wizard could harm him no longer.

Stumbling to his feet, Kharas reached out his hand and jerked the sword free. Crying out in bitter anguish, his hands deluged in his own blood, the wizard pitched forward onto the ground and lay still.

Kharas had time to look around then. His men were fighting a pitched battle with the general who, hearing his brother scream, was livid with fear and anger. The witch was nowhere to be seen, the eerie white light that had shone from her was gone, lost in the darkness.

Hearing a strangled sound from his left, Kharas turned to see the two apparitions the archmage had summoned staring down in stunned horror at the wizard’s body. Getting a good look at them, Kharas was startled to see that these demons conjured from the nether planes were nothing more sinister than a kender in bright blue leggings and a balding gnome in a leather apron.

Kharas didn’t have time to ponder this phenomenon. He had accomplished what he came for, at least he had almost. He knew he could never talk to the general, not now. His main concern was getting his men out safely. Running across the tent, Kharas picked up his warhammer and, yelling to his men in dwarven to get out of his way, flung it straight at Caramon.

The hammer struck the man a glancing blow on the head, knocking him out but not killing him.

Caramon dropped like a felled ox and, suddenly, the tent was deathly silent.

It had all taken just a few short minutes.

Glancing through the tent flap, Kharas saw the young Knight who stood guard lying senseless upon the ground. There was no sign that anyone sitting around those far-off fires had heard or seen anything unusual.

Reaching up, the dwarf stopped the lantern from swinging and looked around. The wizard lay in a pool of his own blood. The general lay near him, his hand reaching out for his brother as though that had been his last thought before he lost consciousness. In a corner lay the witch, on her back, her eyes closed.

Seeing blood on her robes, Kharas glared sternly at his men. One of them shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Kharas,” the dwarf said, looking down at her and shivering. “But—the light from her was so bright! It split my head open. All I could think of was to stop it. I-I wouldn’t have been able to, but then the wizard screamed and she cried out, and her light wavered. I hit her, then, but not very hard. She’s not hurt badly.”

“All right.” Kharas nodded. “Let’s go.” Retrieving his hammer, the dwarf looked down at the general lying at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, fishing out the little bit of parchment and tucking it into the man’s outstretched hand. “Maybe, sometime, I can explain it to you.” Rising, he looked around. “Everyone all right? Then let’s get out of here.”

His men hurried to the tunnel entrance.

“What about these two?” one asked, stopping by the kender and the gnome.

“Take them,” Kharas said sharply. “We cant leave them here, they’ll raise the alarm.”

For the first time, the kender seemed to come to life.

“Not” he cried, looking at Kharas with pleading, horrified eyes. “You can’t take us! We just got here! We’ve found Caramon and now we can go home! No, please!”

“Take them!” Kharas ordered sternly.

“No!” the kender wailed, struggling in his captor’s arms. “No, please, you don’t understand. We were in the Abyss and we escaped—”

“Gag him,” Kharas growled, peering down into the tunnel beneath the tent to see that all was well.

Motioning for them to hurry, he knelt beside the hole in the ground.

His men descended into the tunnel, dragging the gagged kender, who was still putting up such a fight—kicking with his legs and clawing at them—that they were finally forced to stop and truss him up like a chicken before they could haul him away. They had nothing to worry about with their other captive, however. The poor gnome was so horrified that he had lapsed into a state of shock.

Staring around helplessly, his mouth gaping wide open, he quietly did whatever he was told.

Kharas was the last to leave. Before jumping down into the tunnel, he took a final glance about the tent.

The lantern hung quite still now, shedding its soft, glowing light upon a scene from a nightmare.

Tables were smashed, chairs were overturned, food was scattered everywhere. A thin trail of blood ran from beneath the body of the black-robed magic-user. Forming a pool at the lip of the hole, the blood began to drip, slowly, down into the tunnel.

Leaping into the hole, Kharas ran a safe distance down the tunnel, then stopped. Grabbing up the end of a length of rope lying on the tunnel floor, he gave the rope a sharp yank. The opposite end of the rope was tied to one of the support beams right beneath the general’s tent. The jerk on the rope brought the beam tumbling down. There was a low rumble. Then, in the distance, he could see stone falling, and his vision was obscured by a thick cloud of dust.

The tunnel now safely blocked behind him, Kharas turned and hurried after his men.

“General—”

Caramon was on his feet, his big hands reaching out for the throat of his enemy, a snarl contorting his face.

Startled, Garic stumbled backward.

“General!” he cried. “Caramon! It’s met”

Sudden, stabbing pain and the sound of Garic’s familiar voice penetrated Caramon s brain. With a moan, he clasped his head in his hands and staggered. Garic caught him as he fell, lowering him safely into a chair.

“My brother?” Caramon said thickly.

“Caramon—I—” Garic swallowed.

“My brother!” Caramon rasped, clenching his fist.

“We took him to his tent,” Garic replied softly. “The wound is—”

“What? The wound is what?” Caramon snarled impatiently, raising his head and staring at Garic with blood-shot, pain filled eyes.

Garic opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. “M-my father told me about wounds like it,” he mumbled. “Men lingering for days in dreadful agony...”

“You mean it’s a belly wound,” Caramon said.

Garic nodded and then covered his face with his hand. Caramon, looking at him closely, saw that the young man was deathly white. Sighing, closing his eyes, Caramon braced himself for the dizziness and nausea he knew would assail him when he stood up again. Then, grimly, he rose to his feet. The darkness whirled and heaved around him. He made himself stand steadily and, when it had settled, opened his eyes.

“How are you?” he asked Garic, looking intently at the young Knight.

“I’m all right,” Garic answered, and his face flushed with shame. “Th-they took me... from behind.”

“Yeah.” Caramon saw the matted blood in the young man’s hair. “It happens. Don’t worry about it.” The big warrior smiled without mirth. “They took me from the front.”

Garic nodded again, but it was obvious from the expression on his face that this defeat preyed on his mind.

He’ll get over it, Caramon thought wearily. We all have to face it sooner or later.

“I’ll see my brother now,” he said, starting out of the tent with uneven steps. Then he stopped.

“Lady Crysania?”

“Asleep. Knife wound glanced off her... uh... ribs. I—We dressed it... as well as we could. We had to... rip open her robes.” Garic’s flush deepened. “And we gave her some brandy to drink...”

“Does she know about Raist—Fistandantilus?”

“The wizard forbade it.”

Caramon raised his eyebrows, then frowned. Glancing around at the wrecked tent, he saw the trail of blood on the trampled dirt floor. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the tent flap and walked unsteadily outside, Garic following.

“The army?”

“They know. The word spread.” Garic spread his hands helplessly. “There was so much to do. We tried to go after the dwarves—”

“Bah!” Caramon snorted, wincing as pain shot through his head. “They would have collapsed the tunnel.”

“Yes. We tried digging, but you might as well dig up the whole damn desert,” Garic said bitterly.

“What about the army?” Caramon persisted, pausing outside Raistlin’s tent. Inside, he could hear a low moaning sound.

“The men are upset,” Garic said with a sigh. “Talking, confused. I don’t know.”

Caramon understood. He glanced into the darkness of his brother’s tent. “I’ll go in alone. Thank you for all you’ve done, Garic,” he added gently. “Now, go get some rest before you pass out. I’m going to need you later on, and you’ll be no help to me sick.”

“Yes, sir;” Garic said. He started to stagger off, then stopped, turning back. Reaching beneath the breastplate of his armor, he withdrew a blood-soaked bit of parchment. “We—we found this... in your hand, sir. The handwriting’s dwarven... .”

Caramon looked at it, opened it, read it, then rolled it back up without comment, tucking it into his belt.

Guards surrounded the tents now. Gesturing to one, Caramon waited until he saw Garic being helped to his bed. Then, bracing himself, he stepped into Raistlin’s tent.

A candle burned on a table, near a spellbook that had been left open—the archmage had obviously been expecting to return to his studies soon after dinner. A middle-aged, battle scarred dwarf—Caramon recognized him as one of Reghar’s staff—crouched in the shadows near the bed. A guard beside the entrance saluted when Caramon entered.

“Wait outside,” Caramon ordered, and the guard left.

“He won’t let us touch ’im,” the dwarf said laconically, nodding toward Raistlin. “Wound’s gotta be dressed. Wont help much, of course. But it might hold some of ’im inside for a bit.”

“I’ll tend to him,” Caramon said harshly.

Hands on his knees, the dwarf shoved himself up. Hesitating, he cleared his throat as if wondering whether or not to speak. Decision made, he squinted up at Caramon with shrewd, bright eyes.

“Reghar said I was to tell you. If you want me to do it... you know—end it quick, I’ve done it afore. Sort of a knack I’ve got. I’m a butcher by trade, you see—”

“Get out.”

The dwarf shrugged. “As you say. Up to you. If it was my brother, though—”

“Get out!” Caramon repeated softly. He did not look at the dwarf as he left, nor even hear the sounds of his heavy boots. All his senses were concentrated on his twin.

Raistlin lay on his bed, still dressed, his hands clenched over the horrible wound. Stained black with blood, the mage’s robes and flesh were gummed together in a ghastly mass. And he was in agony. Rolling involuntarily back and forth upon the bed, every breath the mage exhaled was a low, incoherent moan of pain. Every breath he drew in was bubbling torture.

But to Caramon, the most awful sight of all was his brother’s glittering eyes, staring at him, aware of him, as he moved nearer the bed. Raistlin was conscious.

Kneeling down beside his brother’s bed, Caramon laid a hand upon his twin’s feverish head. “Why didn’t you let them send for Crysania?” he asked softly.

Raistlin grimaced. Gritting his teeth, he forced the words out through blood-stained lips. “Paladine... will... not... heal... me!” The last was a gasp, ending in a strangled scream.

Caramon stared at him, confused. “But—you’re dying! You can’t die! You said—”

Raistlin’s eyes rolled, his head tossed. Blood trickled from his mouth. “Time... altered... All… changed!”

“But—”

“Leave me! Let me die!” Raistlin shrieked in anger and pain, his body writhing.

Caramon shuddered. He tried to look upon his brother with pity, but the face, gaunt and twisted in suffering, was not a face he knew.

The mask of wisdom and intelligence had been stripped away, revealing the splintered lines of pride, ambition, avarice, and unfeeling cruelty beneath. It was as if Caramon, seeing a face he had known always, were seeing his twin for the first time.

Perhaps, Caramon thought, Dalamar saw this face in the Tower of High Sorcery as Raistlin burned holes in his flesh with his bare hands. Perhaps Fistandantilus, too, saw the face as he died...

Repulsed, his very soul shaken with horror, Caramon tore his gaze from that hideous, skull-like visage and, hardening his own expression, reached out his hand. “At least let me dress the wound.”

Raistlin shook his head vehemently. A blood-covered hand wrenched itself free from holding his very life inside him to clutch at Caramon’s arm. “No l End it! I have failed. The gods are laughing. I can’t... bear...”

Caramon stared at him. Suddenly, irrationally, anger took hold of the big man—anger that rose from years of sarcastic gibes and thankless servitude. Anger that had seen friends die because of this man. Anger that had seen himself nearly destroyed. Anger that had seen love devoured, love denied. Reaching out his hand, Caramon grasped hold of the black robes and jerked his brothers head up off the pillow.

“No, by the gods,” Caramon shouted with a voice that literally shook with rage. “No, you will not diet Do you hear me?” His eyes narrowed. “You will not die, m y brother! All your life, you have lived only for yourself. Now, even in your death, you seek the easy way out—for you! You’d leave me trapped here without a second’s thought. You’d leave Crysania! No, brother! You will live, damn you! You’ll live to send me back home. What you do with yourself after that is your concern.”

Raistlin looked at .Caramon and, despite his pain, a gruesome parody of a smile touched his lips. It almost seemed he might have laughed, but a bubble of blood burst in his mouth instead. Caramon loosened his hold of his brother’s robes, almost but not quite, hurling him backward. Raistlin collapsed back upon the pillow. His burning eyes devoured Caramon. At that moment the only life in them was bitter hatred and rage.

“I’m going to tell Crysania,” Caramon said grimly, rising to his feet, ignoring Raistlin’s glare of fury. “At least she must have the chance to try to heal you. Yes, if looks could kill, I know I’d be dead right now. But, listen to me, Raistlin or Fistandantilus or whoever you are—if it is Paladine’s will that you die before you can commit greater harm in this world, then so be it. I’ll accept that fate and so will Crysania. But if it is his will that you live, we’ll accept that, too—and so will you!”

Raistlin, his strength nearly spent, kept hold of his bloody clasp around Caramon’s arm, clutching at him with fingers already seeming to stiffen in death.

Firmly, his lips pressed together, Caramon detached his brothers hand. Rising to his feet, he left his brothers bedside, hearing, behind him, a ragged moan of agonized torment. Caramon hesitated, that moan going straight to his heart. Then he thought of Tika, he thought of home...

Caramon kept walking. Stepping outside into the night, heading quickly for Crysania’s tent, the big warrior glanced to one side and saw the dwarf, standing nonchalantly in the shadows, whittling a piece of wood with a sharp knife.

Reaching into his armor, Caramon withdrew the piece of parchment. He had no need to reread it. The words were few and simple.

The wizard has betrayed you and the army. Send a messenger to Thorbardin to learn the truth.

Caramon tossed the parchment upon the ground. What a cruel joke!

What a cruel joke!

What a cruel and twisted joke!

Through the hideous torment of his pain, Raistlin could hear the laughter of the gods. To offer him salvation with one hand and snatch it away with the other! How they must revel in his defeat!

Raistlin’s tortured body twisted in spasms and so did his soul, writhing in impotent rage, burning with the knowledge that he had failed.

Weak and puny human! he heard the voices of the gods shout. Thus do we remind you of your mortality!

He would not face Paladine’s triumph. To see the god sneering at him, glorying in his downfall—no! Better to die swiftly, let his soul seek what dark refuge it could find. But that bastard brother of his, that other half of him, the half he envied and despised, the half he should have been—by rights. To deny him this... this last blessed solace...

Pain convulsed his body. “Caramon!” Raistlin cried alone into the darkness. “Caramon, I need you! Caramon, don’t leave me!” He sobbed, clutching his stomach, curling up in a tight ball. “Don’t leave me... to face this... alone!”

And then his mind lost the thread of its consciousness. Visions came to the mage as his life spilled out from between his fingers. Dark dragon wings, a broken dragon orb... Tasslehoff . . a gnome...

My salvation...

My death...

Bright, white light, pure and cold and sharp as a sword, pierced the mage’s mind. Cringing, he tried to escape, tried to submerge himself in warm and soothing darkness. He could hear himself begging with Caramon to kill him and end the pain, end the bright and stabbing light.

Raistlin heard himself say those words, but he had no knowledge of himself speaking. He knew he spoke only because, in the reflection of the bright, pure light, he saw his brother turn away from him.

The light shone more brightly and it became a face of light, a beautiful, calm, pure face with dark, cool, gray eyes. Cold hands touched his burning skin.

“Let me heal you.”

The light hurt, worse than the pain of steel. Screaming, twisting, Raistlin tried to escape, but the hands held him firmly.

“Let me heal you.”

“Get... away!...”

“Let me heal you!”

Weariness, a vast weariness, came over Raistlin. He was tired of fighting—fighting the pain, fighting the ridicule, fighting the torment he’d lived with all his life.

Very well. Let the god laugh. He’s earned it, after all, Raistlin thought bitterly. Let him refuse to heal me. And then I’ll rest in the darkness... the soothing darkness...

Shutting his eyes, shutting them tightly against the light, Raistlin waited for the laughter—

—and saw, suddenly, the face of the god.

Caramon stood outside in the shadows of his brother’s tent, his aching head in his hands. Raistlin’s tortured pleas for death cut through him. Finally, he could stand it no longer. The cleric had obviously failed. Grasping the hilt of his sword, Caramon entered the tent and walked toward the bed.

At that moment, Raistlin’s cries ceased.

Lady Crysania slumped forward over his body, her head falling onto the mage’s chest.

He’s dead! Caramon thought. Raistlin’s dead.

Staring at his brothers face, he did not feel grief. Instead, he felt a kind of horror stealing over him at the sight, thinking, What a grotesque mask for death to wear!

Raistlin’s face was rigid as a corpse’s, his mouth gaped open, no sound came from it. The skin was livid. The sightless eyes, fixed in the sunken cheeks, stared straight before him.

Taking a step nearer, so numb he was unable to feel grief or sorrow or relief, Caramon looked closer at that strange expression on the dead man’s face and then realized, with a riveting shock, that Raistlin was not dead! The wide, fixed eyes stared at this world sightlessly, but that was only because they were seeing another.

A whimpering cry shook the mage’s body, more dreadful to hear than his screams of agony. His head moved slightly, his lips parted, his throat worked but made no sound.

And then Raistlin’s eyes closed. His head lolled to one side, the writhing muscles relaxed. The look of pain faded, leaving his face drawn, pallid. He drew a deep breath, let it out with a sigh, drew another...

Jolted by what he had seen, uncertain whether he should feel thankful or only more deeply grieved to know his brother lived, Caramon watched life return to his twin’s torn and bleeding body.

Slowly shaking off the paralyzed feeling that comes sometimes to one awakened suddenly from a deep sleep, Caramon knelt beside Crysania and, grasping her gently, helped her stand. She stared at him, blinking, without recognition. Then her gaze shifted immediately to Raistlin. A smile crossed her face. Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer of thankfulness. Then, pressing her hand to her side, she sagged against Caramon. There was fresh blood visible on her white robes.

“You should heal yourself,” Caramon said, helping her from the tent, his strong arm supporting her faltering footsteps.

She looked up at him and, though weak, her face was beautiful in its calm triumph.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she answered softly. “This night, a greater victory is mine. Don’t you see? This is the answer to my prayers.”

Looking at her peaceful, serene beauty, Caramon felt tears come to his eyes.

“So this is your answer?” he asked gruffly, glancing out over the camp. The fires had burned down to heaps of ash and coal. Out of the corner of his eye, Caramon saw someone go running off, and he knew that the news would be quickly spread that the wizard and the witch, between them, had somehow managed to restore the dead to life.

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 brothers 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.

10

Tapping 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’ve​heard​that​story!” 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, bu t 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.”

“So—you are from the Abyss!” Kharas said sternly. “You admit it! Apparitions from the Realms of Darkness! The blackrobed wizard conjured you, and you came at his bidding.”

This startling accusation actually rendered the kender speechless.

“Wh—wh”—Tas sputtered for a moment incoherently, then found his voice—“I’ve never been so insulted! Except perhaps when the guard in Istar referred to me as a—a cut—cutpur—well, never mind. To say nothing of the fact that if Raistlin was going to conjure up anything, I certainly don’t think it would be us. Which reminds me!” Tas glared back sternly at Kharas. “Why did you go and kill him like that? I mean, maybe he wasn’t what you might call a really nice person. And maybe he did try to kill me by making me break the magical device and then leaving me behind in Istar for the gods to drop a fiery mountain on. But”—Tas sighed wistfully—“he was certainly one of the most interesting people I’ve ever known.”

“Your wizard isn’t dead, as you well know, apparition!” Duncan growled.

“Look, I’m not an appari—Not dead?” Tas’s face lit up. “Truly? Even after you stabbed him like that and all the blood and everything and—Oh! I know how! Crysania! Of courses Lady Crysania!”

“Ah, the witch!” Kharas said softly, almost to himself as the thanes began to mutter among themselves.

“Well, she is kind of cold and impersonal sometimes,” Tas said, shocked, “but I certainly don’t think that gives you any right to call her names! She’s a cleric of Paladine, after all.”

“Cleric!” The thanes began to laugh.

“There’s your answer,” Duncan said to Kharas, ignoring the kender. “Witchcraft.”

“You are right, of course, Thane,” Kharas said, frowning, “but—”

“Look,” Tas begged, “if you’d just let me go! I keep trying to tell you dwarves. This is all a dreadful mistake! I’ve got to get to Caramon!”

That caused a reaction. The thanes immediately hushed.

“You know General Caramon?” Kharas asked dubiously. “General?” Tas repeated. “Wow! Won’t Tanis be surprised to hear that? General Caramon! Tika would laugh... . Uh, of course I know Cara—General Caramon,” Tas continued hurriedly, seeing Duncan’s eyebrows coming together again. “He’s my best friend. And if you’ll only listen to what I’m trying to tell you, Gnimsh and I came here with the magical device to find Caramon and take him home. He doesn’t want to be here, I’m sure. You see, Gnimsh fixed the device so that it will take more than one person—”

“Take him home where?” Duncan growled. “The Abyss? Perhaps the wizard conjured him up, too!”

“No!” Tas snapped, beginning to lose patience. “Take him home to Solace, of course. And Raistlin, too, if he wants to go. I can’t imagine what they’re doing here, in fact. Raistlin couldn’t stand Thorbardin the last time we were here, which will be in about two hundred years. He spent the whole time coughing and complaining about the damp. Flint said—Flint Fireforge, that is, an old friend of mine—”

“Fireforge!” Duncan actually jumped up from his throne, glaring at the kender. “You’re a friend of Fireforge?”

“Well, you needn’t get so worked up,” Tas said, somewhat startled. “Flint had his faults, of course—always grumbling and accusing people of stealing things when I was truly intending to put that bracelet right back where I found it, but that doesn’t mean you—”

“Fireforge,” Duncan said grimly, “is the leader of our enemies. Or didn’t you know that?”

“No,” said Tas with interest, “I didn’t. Oh, but I’m sure it couldn’t be the same Fireforge,” he added after some thought. “Flint wont be born for at least another fifty years. Maybe it’s his father. Raistlin says—”

“Raistlin? Who is this Raistlin?” Duncan demanded.

Tasslehoff fixed the dwarf with a stern eye. “You’re not paying attention. Raistlin is the wizard. The one you killed—Er, the one you didn’t kill. The one you thought you killed but didn’t.”

“His name isn’t Raistlin. It’s Fistandantilus!” Duncan snorted. Then, his face grim, the dwarven king resumed his seat. “So,” he said, looking at the kender from beneath his bushy eyebrows, “you’re planning to take this wizard who was healed by a cleric when there are no clerics in this world and a general you claim is your best friend back to a place that doesn’t exist to meet our enemy who hasn’t been born yet using a device, built by a gnome, which actually works?”

“Right!” cried Tas triumphantly. “You see there! Look what you can learn when you just listen!”

Gnimsh nodded emphatically.

“Guards! Take them away!” Duncan snarled. Spinning around on his heel, he looked at Kharas coldly. “You gave me your word. I’ll expect to see you in the War Council room in ten minutes.”

“But, Thane! If he truly knows General Caramon—”

“Enough!” Duncan was in a rage. “War is coming, Kharas. All your honor and all your noble yammering about slaying kinsmen can’t stop it l And you will be out there on the field of battle or you can take your face that shames us all and hide it in the dungeons along with the rest of the traitors to our people the Dewar! Which will it be?”

“I serve you, of course, Thane,” Kharas said, his face rigid. “I have pledged my life.”

“See you remember that!” Duncan snapped. “And to keep your thoughts from wandering, I am ordering that you be confined to your quarters except to attend the War Council meetings and that, further, these two”—he waved at Tas and Gnimsh—“are to be imprisoned and their whereabouts kept secret until after the war has ended. Death come upon the head of any who defy this command.”

The thanes glanced at each other, nodding approvingly, though one muttered that it was too late. The guards grabbed hold of Gnimsh and Tas, the kender still protesting volubly as they led him away.

“I was telling the truth,” he wailed. “You’ve got to believe me! I know it sounds funny, but, you see, I—I’m not quite used to—uh—telling the truth! But give me a while. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it someday... .”

Tasslehoff wouldn’t have believed it was possible to go down so far beneath the surface of the world as the guards were taking them if his own feet hadn’t walked it. He remembered once Flint telling him once that Reorx lived down here, forging the world with his great hammer.

“A nice, cheerful sort of person he must be,” Tas grumbled, shivering in the cold until his teeth chattered. “At least if Reorx was forging the world, you’d think it’d be warmer.”

“Trust​dwarves,” muttered Gnimsh.

“What?” It seemed to the kender that he’d spent the last half of his life beginning every sentence he spoke to the gnome with “what?”

“I said trust dwarves!” Gnimsh returned loudly. “Instead of building their homes in active volcanoes, which, though slightly unstable, provide an excellent source of heat, they build theirs in old dead mountains.” He shook his wispy-haired head. “Hard to believe we’re cousins.”

Tas didn’t answer, being preoccupied with other matters like how do we get out of this one, where do we go if we do get out, and when are they likely to serve dinner? There seeming to be no immediate answers to any of these (including dinner), the kender lapsed into a gloomy silence.

Oh, there was one rather exciting moment—when they were lowered down a narrow rocky tunnel that had been bored straight down into the mountain. The device they used to lower people down this tunnel was called a “lift” by the gnomes, according to Gnimsh. (“Isn’t ‘lift’ an inappropriate name for it when it’s going down?” Tas pointed out, but the gnome ignored him.)

Since no immediate solution to his problems appeared forthcoming, Tas decided not to waste his time in this interesting place moping about. He therefore enjoyed the journey in the lift thoroughly, though it was rather uncomfortable in spots when the rickety, wooden device—operated by muscular dwarves pulling on huge lengths of rope—bumped against the side of the rocky tunnel as it was being lowered, jouncing the occupants about and inflicting numerous cuts and bruises on those inside.

This proved highly entertaining, especially as the dwarven guards accompanying Tas and Gnimsh shook their fists, swearing roundly in dwarven at the operators up above them.

As for the gnome, Gnimsh was plunged into a state of excitement impossible to believe. Whipping out a stub of charcoal and borrowing one of Tas’s handkerchiefs, he plopped himself down on the floor of the lift and immediately began to draw plans for a New Improved Lift.

“Pulleys​cables​steam,” he yammered to himself happily, busily sketching what looked to Tas like a giant lobster trap on wheels. “Up​down​up​down. What​floor? Step​to​the​rear. Capacity:thirty​two. Stuck? Alarms! Bells​whistles​horns.”

When they eventually reached ground level, Tas tried to watch carefully to see where they were going (so that they could leave, even if he didn’t have a map), but Gnimsh was hanging onto him, pointing to his sketch and explaining it to him in detail.

“Yes, Gnimsh. Isn’t that interesting?” Tas said, only half listening to the gnome as his heart sank even lower than where they were standing. “Soothing music by a piper in the corner? Yes, Gnimsh, that’s a great idea.”

Gazing around as their guards prodded them forward, Tas sighed. Not only did this place look as boring as the Abyss, it had the added disadvantage of smelling even worse. Row after row of large, crude prison cells lined the rocky walls. Lit by torches that smoked in the foul, thin air, the cells were filled to capacity with dwarves.

Tas gazed at them in growing confusion as they walked down the narrow aisle between cellblocks. These dwarves didn’t look like criminals. There were males, females, even children crammed inside the cells. Crouched on filthy blankets, huddled on battered stools, they stared glumly out from behind the bars.

“Hey!” Tas said, tugging at the sleeve of a guard. The kender spoke some dwarven, having picked it up from Flint. “What is all this?” he asked, waving his hand. “Why are all these people in here?” (At least that’s what he hoped he said. There was every possibility he might have inadvertently asked the way to the nearest alehouse.)

But the guard, glowering at him, only said, “Dewar.”

11

“Dewar?” Tas repeated blankly.

The guard, however, refused to elaborate but prodded Tas on ahead with a vicious shove. Tas stumbled, then kept walking, glancing about, trying to figure out what was going on. Gnimsh, meanwhile, apparently seized by another fit of inspiration, was going on about “hydraulics.”

Tas pondered. Dewar, he thought, trying to remember where he’d heard that word. Suddenly, he came up with the answer. “The dark dwarves!” he said. “Of course! I remember! They fought for the Dragon Highlord. But, they didn’t live down here the last time—or I suppose it will be the next time—we were here. Or will come here. Drat, what a muddle. Surely they don’t live in prison cells, though. Hey”—Tas tapped the dwarf again—“what did they do? I mean, to get thrown in jail?”

“Traitors!” the dwarf snapped. Reaching a cell at the far end of the aisle, he drew out a key, inserted it into the lock, and swung the door open.

Peering inside, Tas saw about twenty or thirty Dewar crowded into the cell. Some lay lethargically on the floor, others sat against the wall, sleeping. One group, crouched together off in a corner, were talking in low voices when the guard arrived. They quit immediately as soon as the cell door opened. There were no women or children in this cell, only males; and they regarded Tas, the gnome, and the guard with dark, hate-filled eyes.

Tas grabbed Gnimsh just as the gnome—still yammering about people getting stuck between floors—was just about to walk absent-mindedly into the cell.

“Well, well;” Tas said to the dwarven guard as he dragged Gnimsh back to stand beside him, “this tour was quite—er entertaining. Now, if you’ll just take us back to our cells, which were, I must say, very nice cells—so light and airy and roomy—I think I can safely promise that my partner and I won’t be taking any more unauthorized excursions into your city, though it is an extremely interesting place and I’d like to see more of it. I—”

But the dwarf, with a rough shove of his hand, pushed the kender into the cell, sending him sprawling.

“I wish you’d make up your mind;” Gnimsh snapped irritably, stumbling inside after Tas. “Are we going in or out?”

“I guess we’re in,” Tas said ruefully, sitting up and looking doubtfully at the Dewar, who were staring back in silence. The guards’ heavy boots could be heard, stumping back up the corridor, accompanied by shouted obscenities and threats from the surrounding cells.

“Hello,” Tas said, smiling in friendly fashion, but not offering to shake hands. “I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot and this is my friend, Gnimsh, and it looks like we’re going to be cellmates, doesn’t it now? So, what’s your names? Er, now, I say, that isn’t very nice... :”

Tas drew himself up, glaring sternly at one of the Dewar, who had risen to his feet and was approaching them.

A tall dwarf, his face was nearly invisible beneath a thick matting of tangled hair and beard. He grinned suddenly. There was a flash of steel and a large knife appeared in his hand. Shuffling forward, he advanced upon the kender, who retreated as far as possible into a corner, dragging Gnimsh with him.

“Who​are​these​people?” Gnimsh squeaked in alarm, having finally taken note of their dismal surroundings.

Before Tas could answer, the Dewar had the kender by the neck and was holding the knife to his throat.

This is it! Tas thought with regret. I’m dead this time for sure. Flint will get a chuckle out of this one!

But the dark dwarf’s knife inched right past Tas’s face. Reaching his shoulder, the dark dwarf expertly cut through the straps of Tas’s pouches, sending them and their contents tumbling to the floor.

Instantly, chaos broke out in the cell as the Dewar leaped for them. The dwarf with the knife grabbed as many as he could, slashing and hacking at his fellows, trying to drive them back. Everything vanished within seconds.

Clutching the kender’s belongings, the Dewar immediately sat down and began rummaging through them. The dark dwarf with the knife had managed to make the richest haul. Clutching his booty to his chest, he returned to a place against the back of the cell, where he and his friends immediately began to shake the contents of the pouches onto the floor.

Gasping in relief, Tas sank down to the cold, stone floor. But it was a worried sigh of relief, nonetheless, for Tas figured that when the pouches had lost their appeal, the Dewar would get the bright idea of searching them next.

“And we’ll certainly be a lot easier to search if we’re corpses,” he muttered to himself. That led, however, to a sudden thought.

“Gnimsh!” he whispered urgently. “The magical device! Where is it?”

Gnimsh, blinking, patted one pocket in his leather apron and shook his head. Patting another, he pulled out a T-square and a bit of charcoal. He examined these carefully for a moment then, seeing that neither was the magical device, stuffed them back into his pockets. Tas was seriously considering throttling him when, with a triumphant smile, the gnome reached into his boot and pulled out the magical device.

During their last incarceration, Gnimsh had managed to make the device collapse again. Now it had resumed the size and shape of a rather ordinary, nondescript pendant instead of the intricate and beautiful sceptre that it resembled when fully extended.

“Keep it hidden!” Tas warned. Glancing at the Dewar, he saw that they were absorbed in fighting over what they’d found in his pouches. “Gnimsh,” he whispered, “this thing worked to get us out of the Abyss and you said it was cali-calo-caliwhatever’d to go straight to Caramon, since he was the one Par-Salian gave it to. Now, I really don’t want it to take us anywhere in time again, but do you think it would work for, say, just a short hop? If Caramon is general of that army, he can’t be far from here.”

“That’s a great idea!” Gnimsh’s eyes began to shine. “Just a minute, let me think...”

But they were too late. Tas felt a touch on his shoulder. His heart leaping into his throat, the kender whirled around with what he hoped was the Grim Expression of a Hardened Killer on his face. Apparently it was, for the Dewar who had touched him stumbled back in terror, hurriedly flinging his hands up for protection.

Noting that this was a youngish-appearing dwarf with a halfway sane look in his eye, Tasslehoff sighed and relaxed, while the Dewar, seeing that the kender wasn’t going to eat him alive, quit shaking and looked at him hopefully.

“What is it?” Tas asked in dwarven. “What do you want?”

“Come. You come.” The Dewar made a beckoning gesture. Then, seeing Tas frown, he pointed, then beckoned again, hedging back farther into the cell.

Tas rose cautiously to his feet. “Stay here, Gnimsh,” he said. But the gnome wasn’t listening. Muttering happily to himself, Gnimsh was occupied with twisting and turning little something’s on the device.

Curious, Tas crept after the Dewar. Maybe this fellow had discovered the way out. Maybe he’d been digging a tunnel...

The Dewar, still motioning, led the kender to the center of the cell. Here, he stopped and pointed. “Help?” he said hopefully.

Tas, looking down, didn’t see a tunnel. What he saw was a Dewar lying on a blanket. The dwarf’s face was covered with sweat, his hair and beard were soaking wet. His eyes were closed and his body jerked and twitched spasmodically. At the sight, Tas began to shiver. He glanced around the cell. Then, his gaze coming back to the young Dewar, he regretfully shook his head.

“No,” Tas said gently, “I’m sorry. There’s... nothing I can do. I-I’m sorry.” He shrugged helplessly.

The Dewar seemed to understand, for he sank back down beside the sick dwarf, his head bowed disconsolately.

Tas crept back to where Gnimsh was sitting, feeling all numb inside. Slumping down into the corner, he stared into the dark cell, seeing and hearing what he should have seen and heard right away—the wild, incoherent ramblings, cries of pain, cries for water and, here and there, the awful silence of those who lay very, very still.

“Gnimsh,” Tas said quietly, “these dwarves are sick. Really sick. I’ve seen it before in days to come. These dwarves have the plague.”

Gnimsh’s eyes widened. He almost dropped the magical device.

“Gnimsh,” said Tas, trying to speak calmly, “we’ve got to get out of here fast! The way I see it, the only choices we have down here are dying by knifepoint—which, while undoubtedly interesting, does have its drawbacks, or dying rather slowly and boringly of the plague.”

“I think it will work,” Gnimsh said, dubiously eyeing the magical device. “Of course, it might take us right back to the Abyss—”

“Not really a bad place,” Tas said, slowly rising to his feet and helping Gnimsh to his. “Takes a bit getting used to, and I don’t suppose they’d be wildly happy to see us again, but I think it’s definitely worth a try.”

“Very well, just let me make an adjustment—”

“Do not touch it!”

The familiar voice came from the shadows and was so stern and commanding that Gnimsh froze in his tracks, his hand clutching the device.

“Raistlin!” cried Tas, staring about wildly. “Raistlin! We’re here! We’re here!”

“I know where you are,” the archmage said coldly, materializing out of the smoky air to stand before them in the cell.

His sudden appearance brought gasps and screams and cries from the Dewar. The one in the corner with the knife snaked to his feet and lunged forward.

“Raistlin, look ou—” Tas shrieked.

Raistlin turned. He did not speak. He did not raise his hand. He simply stared at the dark dwarf. The Dewar s face went ashen. Dropping the knife from nerveless fingers, he shrank back and attempted to hide himself in the shadows. Before turning back to the kender, Raistlin cast a glance around the cell. Silence fell instantly. Even those who were delirious hushed.

Satisfied, Raistlin turned back to Tas.

“—out,” Tas finished lamely. Then the kender’s face brightened. He clapped his hands. “Oh, Raistlin! It’s so good to see you! You’re looking really well, too. Especially for having a er—sword stuck in your—uh—Well, never mind that. And you came to rescue us, didn’t you? That’s splendid! I—”

“Enough driveling!” Raistlin said coolly. Reaching out a hand, he grabbed Tas and jerked him close. “Now, tell me where did you come from?”

Tas faltered, staring up into Raistlin s eyes. “I—I’m not sure you’re going to believe this. No one else does. But it’s the truth, I swear it!”

“Just tell met” Raistlin snarled, his hand deftly twisting Tasslehoff’s collar.

“Right!” Tas gulped and squirmed. “Uh, remember—it helps if you let me breathe occasionally. Now, let’s see. I tried to stop the Cataclysm and the device broke. I—I’m sure you didn’t mean to,” Tas stammered, “but you—uh—seem to have given me the wrong instructions... .”

“I did. Mean to, that is,” Raistlin said grimly. “Go on.”

“I’d like to, but it’s... hard to talk without air...”

Raistlin loosened his hold on the kender slightly. Tas drew a deep breath. “Good! Where was I? Oh, yes. I followed Lady Crysania down, down, down into the very bottom part of the Temple in Istar, when it was falling apart, you know? And I saw her go into this room and I knew she must be going to see you, because she said your name, and I was hoping you’d fix the device—”

“Be quick!”

“R-right.” Speeding up as much as possible, Tas became nearly incomprehensible. “And then there was a thud behind me and it was Caramon, only he didn’t see me, and everything went dark, and when I woke up, you were gone, and I looked up in time to see the gods throw the fiery mountain—” Tas drew a breath. “Now that was something. Would you like to hear about—No? Well, some other time.

“I-I guess I must have gone back to sleep again, because I woke up and everything was quiet. I thought I must be dead, only I wasn’t. I was in the Abyss, where the Temple went after the Cataclysm.”

“The Abyss!” Raistlin breathed. His hand trembled.

“Not a nice place,” Tas said solemnly. “Despite what I said earlier. I met the Queen—” The kender shivered. “I—I don’t think I want to talk about that now, if you don’t mind.” He held out a trembling hand. “But there’s her mark, those five little white spots... anyway, she said I had to stay down there forever, be—because now she could change history and win the war. And I didn’t mean to”—Tas stared pleadingly at Raistlin—“I just wanted to help Caramon. But then, while I was down in the Abyss, I found Gnimsh—”

“The gnome,” Raistlin said softly, his eyes on Gnimsh, who was staring at the magic-user in amazement, not daring to move.

“Yes.” Tas twisted his head to smile at his friend. “He’d built a time-traveling device that worked—actually worked, think of that! And, whoosh! Here we are!”

“You escaped the Abyss?” Raistlin turned his mirror-like gaze on the kender.

Tas squirmed uncomfortably. Those last few moments haunted his dreams at night, and kender rarely dreamed. “Uh, sure,” he said, smiling up at the archmage in what he hoped was a disarming manner.

It was apparently wasted, however. Raistlin, preoccupied, was regarding the gnome with an expression that suddenly made Tas go cold all over.

“You said the device broke?” Raistlin said softly.

“Yes.” Tas swallowed. Feeling Raistlin’s hold on him slacken, seeing the mage lost in thought, Tas wriggled slightly, endeavoring to free himself from the mage’s grasp. To his surprise, Raistlin let him go, releasing his grip so suddenly that Tas nearly tumbled over backward.

“The device was broken,” Raistlin murmured. Suddenly, he stared at Tas intently. “Then—who fixed it?” The archmage’s voice was little more than a whisper.

Edging away from Raistlin, Tas hedged. “I-I hope the mages won’t be angry. Gnimsh didn’t actually fix it. You’ll tell Par-Salian, wont you, Raistlin? I wouldn’t want to get into trouble—well, any more trouble with him than I’m in already. We didn’t do anything to the device, not really. Gnimsh just uh—sort of put it back together—the way it was, so that it worked.”

“He reassembled it?” Raistlin persisted, that same, strange expression in his eyes.

“Y-yes .” With a weak grin, Tas scrambled back to poke Gnimsh in the ribs just as the gnome was about to speak. “Re... assembled. That’s the word, all right. Reassembled.”

“But, Tas—” Gnimsh began loudly. “Don’t you remember what happened? I—”

“Just shut up!” Tas whispered. “And let me do the talking. We’re in a lot of trouble here! Mages don’t like having their devices messed with, even if you did make it better! I’m sure I can make Par-Salian understand that, when I see him. He’ll undoubtedly be pleased that you fixed it. After all, it must have been rather bothersome for them, what with the device only transporting one person at a time and all that. I’m sure Par-Salian will see it that way, but I’d rather be the one to tell him if you take my meaning. Raistlin’s kind of... well, jumpy about things like that. I don’t think he’d understand and, believe me”—with a glance at the mage and a gulp—“this isn’t the time to try to explain.”

Gnimsh, glancing dubiously at Raistlin, shivered and crowded closer to Tas.

“He’s looking at me like he’s going to turn me inside out!” the gnome muttered nervously.

“That’s how he looks at everyone,” Tas whispered back. “You’ll get used to it :”

No one spoke. In the crowded cell, one of the sick dwarves moaned and cried out in delirium. Tas glanced over at them uneasily, then looked at Raistlin. The magic-user was once again staring at the gnome, that strange, grim, preoccupied look on his pale face.

“Uh, that’s really all I can tell you now, Raistlin” Tas said loudly, with another nervous glance at the sick dwarves. “Could we go now? Will you swoosh us out of here the way you used to in Istar? That was great fun and—”

“Give me the device,” Raistlin said, holding out his hand.

For some reason—perhaps it was that look in the mage’s eye, or perhaps it was the cold dampness of the underground dungeons—Tas began to shiver. Gnimsh, holding the device in his hand, looked at Tas questioningly.

“Uh, would you mind if we just sort of kept it awhile?” Tas began. “I wont lose it—”

“Give me the device.” Raistlin’s voice was soft.

Tas swallowed again. There was a funny taste in his mouth. “You—you better give it to him, Gnimsh.”

The gnome, blinking in a befuddled manner and obviously trying to figure out what was going on, only stared at Tas questioningly.

“It—it’ll be all right,” Tas said, trying to smile, though his face had suddenly gone all stiff. “Raist—Raistlin’s a friend of mine, you see. He’ll keep it safe... .”

Shrugging, Gnimsh turned and, taking a few shuffling steps forward, held out the device in his palm. The pendant looked plain and uninteresting in the dim torchlight. Stretching forth his hand, Raistlin slowly and carefully took hold of the device. He studied it closely, then slipped it into one of the secret pockets in his black robes.

“Come to me, Tas,” Raistlin said in a gentle voice, beckoning to him.

Gnimsh was still standing in front of Raistlin, staring disconsolately at the pocket into which the device had disappeared. Catching hold of the gnome by the strings of his leather apron, Tas dragged Gnimsh back away from the mage. Then, clasping Gnimsh by the hand, Tas looked up.

“We’re ready, Raistlin,” he said brightly. “Whoosh away! Gee, won’t Caramon be surprised—”

“I said—come here, Tas,” Raistlin repeated in that soft, expressionless voice. His eyes were on the gnome.

“Oh, Raistlin, you’re not going to leave him here, are you?” Tas wailed. Dropping Gnimsh’s hand, he took a step forward. “Because, if you are, I’d just as soon stay. I mean, he’ll never get out of this by himself. And he’s got this wonderful idea for a mechanical lift—”

Raistlin’s hand snaked out, caught hold of Tas by the arm, and yanked him over to stand beside him. “No, I’m not going to leave him here, Tas.”

“You see? He’s going to whoosh us back to Caramon. The magic’s great fun,” Tas began, twisting around to face Gnimsh and trying to grin, though the mage’s strong fingers were hurting him most dreadfully. But at the sight of Gnimsh’s face, Tas’s grin vanished. He started to go back to his friend, but Raistlin held him fast.

The gnome was standing all by himself, looking thoroughly confused and pathetic, still clutching Tas’s handkerchief in his hand.

Tas squirmed. “Oh, Gnimsh, please. It’ll be all right. I told you, Raistlin’s my fri—”

Raising one hand, holding Tas by the collar with the other, the archmage pointed a finger at the gnome. Raistlin’s soft voice began to chant, “Ast kiranann kair—”

Horror broke over Tas. He had heard those words of magic before... .

“No!” he shrieked in anguish. Whirling, he looked up into Raistlin’s eyes. “No!” he screamed again, hurling himself bodily at the mage, beating at him with his small hands.

“—Gardurm Sotharn/Suh kali Jalaran!” Raistlin finished calmly.

Tas, his hands still grasping Raistlin’s black robes, heard the air begin to crackle and sizzle. Turning with an incoherent cry, the kender watched bolts of flame shoot from the mage’s fingers straight into the gnome. The magical lightning struck Gnimsh in the chest. The terrible energy lifted the gnome’s small body and flung it backward, slamming it into the stone wall behind.

Gnimsh crumpled to the floor without so much as a cry. Smoke rose from his leather apron. There was the sweet, sickening smell of burning flesh. The hand holding the kender’s handkerchief twitched, and then was still.

Tas couldn’t move. His hands still entangled in Raistlin’s robes, he stood, staring.

“Come along, Tas,” Raistlin said.

Turning, Tas looked up at Raistlin. “No,” he whispered, trembling, trying to free himself from Raistlin’s strong grip. Then he cried out in agony. “You murdered him! Why? He was my friend!”

“My reasons are my own,” Raistlin said, holding onto the writhing kender firmly. “Now you are coming with me.”

“No, I’m not!” Tas cried, struggling frantically. “You’re not interesting or exciting—you’re evil—like the Abyss! You’re horrible and ugly, and I won’t go anywhere with you! Ever! Let me go! Let me go!”

Blinded by tears, kicking and screaming and flailing out with his clenched fists, Tas struck at Raistlin in a frenzy.

Coming out of their terror, the Dewar in the cell began shouting in panic, arousing the attention of dwarves in the other cells. Shrieking and yelling, other Dewar crowded close against the bars, trying to see what was going on.

Pandemonium broke out. Above the cries and shouts could be heard the deep voices of the guards, yelling something in dwarven.

His face cold and grim, Raistlin laid a hand on Tasslehoff’s forehead and spoke swift, soft words. The kender’s body relaxed instantly. Catching him before he fell to the floor, Raistlin spoke again, and the two of them disappeared, leaving the stunned Dewar to stand, gaping, staring at the vacant space on the floor and the body of the dead gnome, lying huddled in the corner.

An hour later Kharas, having escaped his own confinement with ease, made his way to the cellblock where the Dewar clans were being held captive.

Grimly, Kharas stalked down the aisles.

“What’s going on?” he asked a guard. “It seems awfully quiet.”

“Ah, some sort of riot a while back,” the guard muttered. “We never could figure out what the matter was.”

Kharas glanced around sharply. The Dewar stared back at him not with hatred but with suspicion, even fear.

Growing more worried as he went along, sensing that something frightful had occurred, the dwarf quickened his pace. Reaching the last cell, he looked inside.

At the sight of Kharas, those Dewar who could move leaped to their feet and backed into the farthest corner possible. There they huddled together, muttering and pointing at the front corner of the cell.

Looking over, Kharas frowned. The body of the gnome lay limply on the floor.

Casting a furious glance at the stunned guard, Kharas turned his gaze upon the Dewar.

“Who did this?” he demanded. “And where’s the kender?”

To Kharas’s amazement, the Dewar—instead of sullenly denying the crime—immediately surged forward, all of them babbling at once. With an angry, slashing hand motion, Kharas silenced them. “You, there”—he pointed at one of the Dewar, who was still holding onto Tas’s pouches—“where did you get that pouch? What happened? Who did this? Where is the kender?”

As the Dewar shambled forward, Kharas looked into the dark dwarf’s eyes. And he saw, to his horror, that any sanity the dark dwarf might once have possessed was now completely gone.

“I saw ’im,” the Dewar said, grinning. “I saw ’im. In ’is black robes and all. He come for the gnome. An’ ’e come for the kender. An’ e’s comin’ fer us nex’!”

The dark dwarf laughed horribly. “Us nex’!” he repeated.

“Who?” Kharas asked sternly. “Saw who? Who came for the kender?”

“Why, hisself!” whispered the Dewar, turning to gaze upon the gnome with wild, staring eyes. “Death...”

12

No one had set foot inside the magical fortress of Zhaman for centuries. The dwarves viewed it with suspicion and distrust for several reasons. One, it had belonged to wizards. Two, its stonework was not dwarven, nor was it even natural. The fortress had been raised—so legend told—up out of the ground by magic, and it was magic that still held it together.

“Has to be magic,” Reghar grumbled to Caramon, giving the tall thin spires of the fortress a scathing glance. “Otherwise, it would have toppled over long ago.”

The hill dwarves, refusing to a dwarf to stick so much as the tip of their beards inside the fortress, set up camp outside, on the plains. The Plainsmen did likewise. Not so much from fear of the magical building—though they looked at it askance and whispered about it in their own language—but from the fact that they felt uneasy in any building.

The humans, scoffing at these superstitions, entered the ancient fortress, laughing loudly about spooks and haunts. They stayed one night. The next morning found them setting up camp in the open, muttering about fresh air and sleeping better beneath the stars.

“What went on here?” Caramon asked his brother uneasily as they walked through the fortress on their arrival. “You said it wasn’t a Tower of High Sorcery, yet it’s obviously magical. Wizards built it. And”—the big man shivered—“there’s a strange feeling about it—not eerie, like the Towers. But a feeling of... of—” He floundered.

“Of violence,” Raistlin murmured, his darting, penetrating gaze encompassing all the objects around him, “of violence and of death, my brother. For this was a place of experimentation. The mages built this fortress far away from civilized lands for one reason—and that was that they knew the magic conjured here might well escape their control. And so it did—often. But here, too, emerged great things—magic’s that helped the world.”

“Why was it abandoned?” Lady Crysania asked, drawing her fur cloak around her shoulders more tightly. The air that flowed through the narrow stone hallways was chill and smelled of dust and stone.

Raistlin was silent for long moments, frowning. Slowly, quietly, they made their way through the twisting halls. Lady Crysania’s soft leather boots made no sound as she walked, Caramon’s heavy booted footsteps echoed through the empty chambers, Raistlin’s rustling robes whispered through the corridors, the Staff of Magius upon which he leaned thumping softly on the floor. As quiet as they were, they could almost have been the ghosts of themselves, moving through the hallways. When Raistlin spoke, his voice made both Caramon and Crysania start.

“Though there have always been the three Robes—good, neutral, and evil—among the magic-users, we have, unfortunately, not always maintained the balance,” Raistlin said. “As people turned against us, the White Robes withdrew into their Towers, advocating peace. The Black Robes, however, sought—at first—to strike back. They took over this fortress and used it in experiments to create armies.” He paused. “Experiments that were not successful at that time, but which led to the creation of draconians in our own age.

“With this failure, the mages realized the hopelessness of their situation. They abandoned Zhaman, joining with their fellows in what became known as the Lost Battles.”

“You seem to know your way around here,” Caramon observed.

Raistlin glanced sharply at his brother, but Caramon’s face was smooth, guileless—though there was, perhaps, a strange, shadowed look in his brown eyes.

“Do you not yet understand, my brother?” Raistlin said harshly, coming to a stop in a drafty, dark corridor. “I have never been here, yet I have walked these halls. The room I sleep in I have slept in many nights before, though I have yet to spend a night in this fortress. I am a stranger here, yet I know the location of every room, from those rooms of meditation and study at the top to the banquet halls on the first level.”

Caramon stopped, too. Slowly he looked around him, staring up at the dusty ceiling, gazing down the empty hallways where sunlight filtered through carved windows to lie in square tiles upon the stone floors. His gaze finally came back to meet that of his twin.

“Then, Fistandantilus,” he said, his voice heavy, “you know that this is also going to be your tomb.”

For an instant, Caramon saw a tiny crack in the glass of Raistlin’s eyes, he saw—not anger—but amusement, triumph. Then the bright mirrors returned. Caramon saw only himself reflected there, standing in a patch of weak, winter sunlight.

Crysania moved next to Raistlin. She put her hands over his arm as he leaned upon his staff and regarded Caramon with cold, gray eyes. “The gods are with us,” she said. “They were not with Fistandantilus. Your brother is strong in his art, I am strong in my faith. We will not fail!”

Still looking at Caramon, still keeping his twin’s reflection in the glistening orbs of his eyes, Raistlin smiled. “Yes,” he whispered, and there was a slight hiss to his words, “truly, the gods are with us!”

Upon the first level of the great, magical fortress of Zhaman were huge, stone-carved halls that had—in past days—been places of meeting and celebration. There were also, on the first level, rooms that had once been filled with books, designed for quiet study and meditation. At the back end were kitchens and storage rooms, long unused and covered by the dust of years.

On the upper levels were large bedrooms filled with quaint, old-fashioned furniture, the beds covered with linens preserved through the years by the dryness of the desert air. Caramon, Lady Crysania, and the officers of Caramon’s staff slept in these rooms. If they did not sleep soundly, if they woke up sometimes during the night thinking they had heard voices chanting strange words or glimpsing wisps of ghostly figures fluttering through the moonlit darkness, no one mentioned these in the daylight.

But after a few nights, these things were forgotten, swallowed up in larger worries about supplies, fights breaking out between humans and dwarves, reports from spies that the dwarves of Thorbardin were massing a huge, well-armed force.

There was also in Zhaman, on the first level, a corridor that appeared to be a mistake. Anyone venturing into it discovered that it wandered off from a short hallway and ended abruptly in a blank wall. It looked for all the world as if the builder had thrown down his tools in disgust, calling it quits.

But the corridor was not a mistake. When the proper hands were laid upon that blank wall, when the proper words were spoken, when the proper runes were traced in the dust of the wall itself, then a door appeared, leading to a great staircase cut from the granite foundation of Zhaman.

Down, down the staircase, down into darkness, down—it seemed—into the very core of the world, the proper person could descend. Down into the dungeons of Zhaman... .

“One more time.” The voice was soft, patient, and it dove and twisted at Tasslehoff like a snake. Writhing around him, it sank its curved teeth into his flesh, sucking out his life.

“We will go over it again. Tell me about the Abyss,” said the voice. “Everything you remember. How you entered. What the landscape is like. Who and what you saw. The Queen herself, how she looked, her words...”

“I’m trying, Raistlin, truly!” Tasslehoff whimpered. “But... we’ve gone over it and over it these last couple of days. I cant think of anything else! And, my head’s hot and my feet and my hands are cold and... the room’s spinning ’round and ’round. If—if you’d make it stop spinning, Raistlin, I think I might be able to recall...”

Feeling Raistlin s hand on his chest, Tas shrank down into the bed. “No!” he moaned, trying desperately to wriggle away. “I’ll be good, Raistlin! I’ll remember. Don’t hurt me, not like poor Gnimsh!”

But the archmage’s hand only rested lightly on the kender’s chest for an instant, then went to his forehead. Tas’s skin burned, but the touch of that hand burned worse.

“Lie still,” Raistlin commanded. Then, lifting Tas up by the arms, Raistlin stared intently into the kender’s sunken eyes.

Finally, Raistlin dropped Tas back down into the bed and, muttering a bitter curse, rose to his feet.

Lying upon a sweat-soaked pillow, Tas saw the black-robed figure hover over him an instant, then, with a flutter and swirl of robes, it turned and stalked out of the room. Tas tried to lift his head to see where Raistlin was going, but the effort was too much. He fell back limply.

Why am I so weak? he wondered. What’s wrong? I want to sleep. Maybe I’ll quit hurting then. Tas closed his eyes. But they flew open again as if he had wires attached to his hair. No, I cant sleep! he thought fearfully. There are things out there in the darkness, horrible things, just waiting for me to sleep! I’ve seen them, they’re out there! They’re going to leap out and As if from a great distance, he heard Raistlin’s voice, talking to someone. Peering around, trying desperately to keep sleep away from him, Tas decided to concentrate on Raistlin. Maybe I’ll find out something, he thought drearily. Maybe I’ll find out what’s the matter with me.

Looking over, he saw the black-robed figure talking to a squat, dark figure. Sure enough, they were discussing him. Tas tried to listen, but his mind kept doing strange things—going off to play somewhere without inviting his body along. So Tas couldn’t be certain if he was hearing what he was hearing or dreaming it.

“Give him some more of the potion. That should keep him quiet,” a voice that sounded like Raistlin’s said to the short, dark figure. “There’s little chance anyone will hear him down here, but I can’t risk it.”

The short, dark figure said something. Tas closed his eyes and let the cool waters of a blue, blue lake—Crystalmir Lake lap over his burning skin. Maybe his mind had decided to take his body along after all.

“When I am gone,” Raistlin’s voice came up out of the water, “lock the door after me and extinguish the light. My brother has grown suspicious of late. Should he discover the magical door, he will undoubtedly come down here. He must find nothing. All these cells should appear empty.”

The figure muttered, and the door squeaked on its hinges.

The water of Crystalmir suddenly began to boil around Tas. Tentacles snaked up out of it, grasping for him. His eyes flew open. “Raistlin!” he begged. “Don’t leave me. Help me!”

But the door banged shut. The short, dark figure shuffled over to Tas’s bedside. Staring at it with a kind of dreamlike horror, Tas saw that it was a dwarf. He smiled.

“Flint?” he murmured through parched, cracked lips. “No! Arack!” He tried to run, but the tentacles in the water were reaching out for his feet.

“Raistlin!” he screamed, frantically trying to scramble backward. But his feet wouldn’t move. Something grabbed hold of him! The tentacles! Tas fought, shrieking in panic.

“Shut up, you bastard. Drink this.” The tentacles gripped him by the topknot and shoved a cup to his lips. “Drink, or I’ll pull your hair out by the roots!”

Choking, staring at the figure wildly, Tas took a sip. The liquid was bitter but cool and soothing. He was thirsty, so thirsty! Sobbing, Tas grabbed the cup away from the dwarf and gulped it down. Then he lay back on his pillow. Within moments, the tentacles slipped away, the pain in his limbs left him, and the clear, sweet waters of Crystalmir closed over his head.

Crysania came out of a dream with the distinct impression that someone had called her name. Though she could not remember hearing a sound, the feeling was so strong and intense that she was immediately wide awake, sitting up in bed, before she was truly aware of what it was that had awakened her. Had it been a part of the dream? No. The impression remained and grew stronger.

Someone was in the room with her! She glanced about swiftly. Solinari’s light, coming through a small corner at the far end of the room, did little to illuminate it. She could see nothing, but she heard movement. Crysania opened her mouth to call the guard...

And felt a hand upon her lips. Then Raistlin materialized out of night’s darkness, sitting on her bed.

“Forgive me for frightening you, Revered Daughter,” he said in a soft whisper, barely above a breath. “I need your help and I do not wish to attract the attention of the guards.” Slowly, he removed his hand.

“I wasn’t frightened,” Crysania protested. He smiled, and she flushed. He was so near her that he could feel her trembling. “You just... startled me, that’s all. I was dreaming. You seemed a part of the dream.”

“To be sure,” Raistlin replied quietly. “The Portal is here, and thus we are very near the gods.”

It isn’t the nearness of the gods that is making me tremble, Crysania thought with a quivering sigh, feeling the burning warmth of the body beside hers, smelling his mysterious, intoxicating fragrance. Angrily, she moved away from him, firmly suppressing her desires and longings. He is above such things. Would she show herself weaker?

She returned to the subject abruptly. “You said you needed my help. Why?” Sudden fear gripped her. Reaching out impulsively, she grasped his hand. “You are well, aren’t you? Your wound—?”

A swift spasm of pain crossed Raistlin’s face, then his expression grew bitter and hard. “No, I am well,” he said curtly.

“Thanks be to Paladine,” Crysania said, smiling, letting her hand linger in his.

Raistlin’s eyes grew narrow. “The god has no thanks of mine!” he muttered. The hand holding hers clenched, hurting her.

Crysania shivered. It seemed for an instant as if the burning heat of the mage’s body so near hers was drawing out her own, leaving her chilled. She tried to remove her hand from his, but Raistlin, brought out of his bitter reverie by her movement, turned to look at her.

“Forgive me, Revered Daughter,” he said, releasing her. “The pain was unendurable. I prayed for death. It was denied me.”

“You know the reason,” Crysania said, her fear lost in her compassion. Her hand hesitated a moment, then dropped to the coverlet near his trembling hand, yet not touching him.

“Yes, and I accept it. Still, I cannot forgive him. But that is between your god and myself,” Raistlin said reprovingly.

Crysania bit her lip. “I accept my rebuke. It was deserved.” She was silent a moment. Raistlin, too, was not inclined to speak, the lines in his face deepening.

“You told Caramon that the gods were with us. So, then, you have communed with my god… with Paladine?” Crysania ventured to ask hesitantly.

“Of course,” Raistlin smiled his twisted smile. “Does that surprise you?”

Crysania sighed. Her head drooped, the dark hair falling around her shoulders.—The faint moonlight in the room made her black hair glimmer with a soft, blue radiance, made her skin gleam purest white. Her perfume filled the room, filled the night. She felt a touch upon her hair. Lifting her head, she saw Raistlin s eyes burn with a passion that came from a source deep within, a source that had nothing to do with magic. Crysania caught her breath, but at that moment Raistlin stood up and walked away.

Crysania sighed. “So, you have communed with both the gods, then?” she asked wistfully.

Raistlin half-turned. “I have communed with all three,” he replied offhandedly.

“Three?” She was startled. “Gilean?”

“Who is Astinus but Gilean’s mouthpiece?” Raistlin said scornfully. “If, indeed, he is not Gilean himself, as some have speculated. But, this must be nothing new to you—”

“I have never talked to the Dark Queen,” Crysania said.

“Haven’t you?” Raistlin asked with a penetrating look that shook the cleric to the core of her soul. “Does she not know of your heart’s desire? Hasn’t she offered it to you?”

Looking into his eyes, aware of his nearness, feeling desire sweep over her, Crysania could not reply. Then, as he continued to watch her, she swallowed and shook her head. “If she has,” she answered in almost inaudible tones, “she has given it with one hand and denied it to me with the other.”

Crysania heard the black robes rustle as if the mage had started. His face, visible in the moonlight, was, for an instant, worried and thoughtful. Then it smoothed.

“I did not come here to discuss theology,” Raistlin said with a slight sneer. “I have another, more immediate worry.”

“Of course.” Crysania flushed, nervously brushing her tangled hair out of her face. “Once again, I apologize. You needed me, you said—”

“Tasslehoff is here.”

“Tasslehoff?” Crysania repeated in blank amazement.

“Yes, and he is very ill. Near death, in fact. I need your healing skills.”

“But, I don’t understand. Why—How did he come to be here?” Crysania stammered, bewildered. “You said he had returned to our own time.”

“So I believed,” Raistlin replied gravely. “But, apparently, I was mistaken. The magical device brought him here, to this time. He has been wandering the world in the manner of kender, enjoying himself thoroughly. Eventually, hearing of the war, he arrived here to share in the adventure. Unfortunately, he has, in his wanderings, contracted the plague:”

“This is terrible! Of course I’ll come.” Catching up her fur cloak from the end of her bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders, noticing, as she did so, that Raistlin turned away from her. Staring out the window, into the silver moonlight, she saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, as if with some inner struggle.

“I am ready,” Crysania said in smooth, businesslike tones, fastening her cloak. Raistlin turned back and extended his hand to her. Crysania looked at him, puzzled.

“We must travel the pathways of the night,” he said quietly. “As I told you, I do not want to alert the guards.”

“But why not?” she said. “What difference—”

“What will I tell my brother?”

Crysania paused. “I see...”

“You understand my dilemma?” Raistlin asked, regarding her intently. “If I tell him, it will be a worry to him, at a time he can ill afford to add burdens to those he already carries. Tas has broken the magical device. That will upset Caramon, too, even though he is aware I plan to send him home. But—I should tell him the kender is here.”

“Caramon has looked worried and unhappy these past few days,” Crysania said thoughtfully, concern in her voice.

“The war is not going well,” Raistlin informed her bluntly. “The army is crumbling around him. The Plainsmen talk every day of leaving. They may be gone now, for all we know. The dwarves under Fireforge are an untrustworthy lot, pressuring Caramon into striking before he is ready. The supply wagons have vanished, no one knows what has become of them. His own army is restless, upset. On top of all this, to have a kender roaming about, chattering aimlessly, distracting him...”

Raistlin sighed. “Still, I cannot—in honor—keep this from him.”

Crysania’s lips tightened. “No, Raistlin. I do not think it would be wise to tell him.” Seeing Raistlin look dubious, she continued earnestly. “There is nothing Caramon can do. If the kender is truly ill, as you suspect, I can heal him, but he will be weak for several days. It would only be an added worry to your brother. Caramon plans to march in a few days’ time. We will tend the kender, then have him completely recovered, ready to meet his friend on the field if such is his desire.”

The archmage sighed again, in reluctance and doubt. Then, he shrugged. “Very well, Revered Daughter,” he said. “I will be guided by you in this. Your words are wise. We will not tell Caramon that the kender has returned.”

He moved close to her, and Crysania, looking up at him, caught a strange smile upon his face, a smile that—for just this once—was reflected in his glittering eyes. Startled, upset without quite knowing why, she drew back, but he put his arm around her, enveloping her in the soft folds of his black sleeves, holding her close.

Closing her eyes, she forgot that smile. Nestling close, wrapped in his warmth, she listened to his rapid heartbeat...

Murmuring the words of magic, he transformed them both into nothingness. Their shadows seemed to hover for an instant in the moonlight, then these, too, vanished with a whisper.

“You are keeping him here? In the dungeons?” Crysania asked, shivering in the chill, dank air.

“Shirak. “Raistlin caused the crystal atop the Staff of Magius to fill the room with soft light. “He lies over there,” the mage said, pointing.

A crude bed stood up against one wall. Giving Raistlin a reproachful glance, Crysania hurried to the bedside. As the cleric knelt beside the kender and laid her hand on his feverish forehead, Tas cried out. His eyes flared open, but he stared at her unseeing. Raistlin, following more slowly, gestured to a dark dwarf who was crouched in a corner. “Leave us,” the mage motioned, then came to stand by the bedside. Behind him, he heard the door to the cell close.

“How can you keep him locked up in the darkness like this?” Crysania demanded.

“Have you ever treated plague victims before, Lady Crysania?” Raistlin asked in an odd tone.

Startled, she looked up at him, then flushed and averted her eyes.

Smiling bitterly, Raistlin answered his own question. “No, of course not. The plague never came to Palanthas. It never struck the beautiful, the wealthy... He made no effort to hide his contempt, and Crysania felt her skin burn as though she were the one with the fever.

“Well, it came to us,” Raistlin continued. “It swept through the poorer sections of Haven. Of course, there were no healers. Nor were there even many who would stay to care for those who were afflicted. Even their own family members fled them. Poor, pathetic souls. I did what I could, tending them with the herb skill I had acquired. If I could not cure them, at least I could ease their pain. My Master disapproved.” Raistlin spoke in an undertone, and Crysania realized that he had forgotten her presence. “So did Caramon—fearing for my health, he said. Bah!” Raistlin laughed without mirth. “He feared for himself. The thought of the plague frightens him more than an army of goblins. But how could I turn my back on them? They had no one... no one. Wretched, dying... dying alone.”

Staring at him dumbly, Crysania felt tears sting her eyes. Raistlin did not see her. In his mind, he was back in those stinking little hovels that huddled on the outskirts of town as though they had run there to hide. He saw himself moving among the sick in his red robes, forcing the bitter medicine down their throats, holding the dying in his arms, easing their last moments. He worked among the sick grimly, asking for no thanks, expecting none. His face—the last human face many would see—expressed neither compassion nor caring. Yet the dying found comfort. Here was one who understood, here was one who lived with pain daily, here was one who had looked upon death and was not afraid...

Raistlin tended the plague victims. He did what he felt he had to do at the risk of his own life, but why? For a reason he had yet to understand. A reason, perhaps, forgotten...

“At any rate”—Raistlin returned to the present—“I discovered that light hurt their eyes. Those who recovered were occasionally stricken blind by—”

A terrified shriek from the kender interrupted him.

Tasslehoff was staring at him wildly. “Please, Raistlin! I’m trying to remember! Don’t take me back to the Dark Queen—”

“Hush, Tas,” Crysania said softly, gripping the kender with both hands as Tas seemed to be trying, literally, to climb into the wall behind him. “Calm down, Tas. It is Lady Crysania. Do you know me? I’m going to help you.”

Tas transferred his wide-eyed, feverish gaze to the cleric, regarding her blankly for a moment. Then, with a sob, he clutched at her. “Don’t let him take me back to the Abyss, Crysania! Don’t let him take you! It’s horrible, horrible. We’ll all die, die like poor Gnimsh. The Dark Queen told me!”

“He’s raving,” Crysania murmured, trying to disengage Tas’s clinging hands and force him to lie back down. “What strange delusions. Is this common with plague victims?”

“Yes,” Raistlin replied. Regarding Tas intently, the mage knelt by the bedside. “Sometimes it’s best to humor them. It may calm him. Tasslehoff—”

Raistlin laid his hand upon the kender’s chest. Instantly, Tas collapsed back onto the bed, shrinking away from the mage, shivering and staring at him in horror. “I’ll be good, Raistlin.” He whimpered. “Don’t hurt me, not like poor Gnimsh. Lightning, lightning!”

“Tas,” said Raistlin firmly, with a hint of anger and exasperation in his voice that caused Crysania to glance over at him reprovingly.

But, seeing only a look of cool concern on his face, she supposed she must have mistaken his tone. Closing her eyes, she touched the medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck and began to murmur a healing prayer.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Tas. Shhh, lie still.” Seeing Crysania lost in her communion with her god, Raistlin hissed, “Tell me, Tas. Tell me what the Dark Queen said.”

The kender’s face lost its bright, feverish flush as Crysania’s soft words flowed over him, sweeter and cooler than the waters of his delirious imaginings. The diminishing fever left Tas’s face a ghastly, ashen color. A faint glimmering of sense returned to his eye—. But he never took his gaze from Raistlin.

“She told me... before we left...” Tas choked.

“Left?” Raistlin leaned forward. “I thought you said you escaped!”

Tas blanched, licking his dry, cracked lips. He tried to tear his gaze away from the mage, but Raistlin’s eyes, glittering in the light of the staff, held the kender fast, draining the truth from him. Tas swallowed. His throat hurt.

“Water,” he pleaded.

“When you’ve told me!” Raistlin snarled with a glance at Crysania, who was still kneeling, her head in her hands, praying to Paladine.

Tas gulped painfully. “I... I thought we were... escaping. We used th—the device and began... to rise. I saw... the Abyss, the plane, flat, empty, fall away beneath m-my feet. And”—Tas shuddered—“it wasn’t empty anymore! There... there were shadows and—” He tossed his head, moaning. “Oh, Raistlin, don’t make me remember! Don’t make me go back there!”

“Hush!” Raistlin whispered, covering Tas’s mouth with his hand. Crysania glanced up in concern, only to see Raistlin tenderly stroking the kender’s cheek. Seeing Tas’s terrified expression and pale face, Crysania frowned and shook her head.

“He is better,” she said. “He will not die. But dark shadows hover around him, preventing Paladine’s healing light from restoring him fully. They are the shadows of these feverish ramblings. Can you make anything from them?” Her feathery brows came together. “Whatever it is seems very real to him. It must have been something dreadful to have unnerved a kender like this.”

“Perhaps, lady, if you left, he would feel more comfortable talking to me,” Raistlin suggested mildly. “We are such old friends.”

“True,” Crysania smiled, starting to rise to her feet. To her amazement, Tas grabbed her hands.

“Don’t leave me with him, lady!” He gasped. “He killed Gnimsh! Poor Gnimsh. I saw him di—die!” Tas began to weep. “Burning lightning...”

“There, there, Tas,” Crysania said soothingly, gently but firmly forcing the kender to lie back down. “No one’s going to hurt you. Whoever killed this—uh—Gnimsh can’t harm you now. You’re with your friends. Isn’t he, Raistlin?”

“My magic is powerful,” Raistlin said softly. “Remember that, Tasslehoff. Remember the power of my magic.”

“Yes, Raistlin,” Tas replied, lying quite still, pinned by the mage’s fixed and staring gaze.

“I think it would be wise if you remained behind to talk to him,” Crysania said in an undertone. “These dark fears will prey on him and hinder the healing process. I will return to my room on my own, with Paladine’s help.”

“So we agree not to tell Caramon?” Raistlin glanced at Crysania out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes,” Crysania said firmly. “This would only worry him unnecessarily.” She looked back at her patient. “I will return in the morning, Tasslehoff. Talk to Raistlin. Unburden your soul. Then sleep.” Laying her cool hand upon Tas’s sweat-covered forehead, she added, “May Paladine be with you.”

“Caramon?” Tas said hopefully. “Did you say Caramon? Is he here?”

“Yes, and when you’ve slept and eaten and rested, I’ll take you to him.”

“Couldn’t I see him now!” Tas cried eagerly, then he cast a fearful sideways glance at Raistlin. “If—if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that is... .”

“He’s very busy.” Raistlin said coldly. “He is a general now, Tasslehoff. He has armies to command, a war to fight. He has no time for kenders.”

“No, I-I suppose not,” Tas said with a small sigh, lying back on his pillow, his eyes still on Raistlin.

With a final, soft pat on his head, Crysania stood up. Holding the medallion of Paladine in her hand, she whispered a prayer and was gone, vanishing into the night.

“And now, Tasslehoff,” Raistlin said in a soft voice that made Tas tremble, “we are alone.” With his strong hands, the mage pulled the blankets up over the kender’s body and straightened the pillow beneath his head. “There, are you comfortable?”

Tas couldn’t speak. He could only stare at the archmage in growing horror.

Raistlin sat down on the bed beside him. Putting one slender hand upon Tas’s forehead, he idly caressed the kender’s skin and smoothed back his damp hair.

“Do you remember Dalamar, my apprentice, Tas?” Raistlin asked conversationally. “You saw him, I believe at the Tower of High Sorcery, am I correct?” Raistlin’s fingers were light as the feet of spiders upon Tas’s face. “Do you recall, at one point, Dalamar tore open his black robes, exhibiting five wounds upon his chest? Yes, I see you recall that. It was his punishment, Tas. Punishment for hiding things from me.” Raistlin’s fingers stopped crawling about the kender’s skin and remained in one place, exerting a slight pressure on Tas’s forehead.

Tas shivered, biting his tongue to keep from crying out. “I-I remember, Raistlin.”

“An interesting experience, don’t you think?” Raistlin said offhandedly. “I can burn through your flesh with a touch, as I might burn through, say”—he shrugged—“butter with a hot knife. Kender are fond of interesting experiences, I believe.”

“Not—not quite that interesting,” Tas whispered miserably. “I’ll tell you, Raistlin! I’ll tell you everything that—that happened.,” He closed his eyes a moment, then began to talk, his entire body quivering with the remembered terror. “We—we seemed not to rise up out of t he Abyss so much as... as the Abyss dropped away beneath us! And then, like I said, I saw it wasn’t empty. I could see shadows and I thought... I thought they were valleys and mountains... .”

Tas’s eyes flared open. He stared at the mage in awe. “It wasn’t! Those shadows were her eyes, Raistlin! And the hills and valleys were her nose and mouth. We were rising up out of her face! She looked at me with eyes that were bright and gleamed with fire, and she opened her mouth and I-I thought she was going to swallow us! But we only rose higher and higher and she fell away beneath us, swirling, and then she looked at me and she said... she said... .”

“What did she say?” Raistlin demanded. “The message was to me! It must have been! That was why she sent you! What did the Queen say?”

Tas’s voice grew hushed. “She said, ‘Come home...’”

13

The effect of his words upon Raistlin startled Tasslehoff just about as much as anything had ever startled him in his entire life. Tas had seen Raistlin angry before. He had seen him pleased, he had seen him commit murder, he had seen the mage’s face when Kharas, the dwarven hero, drove his sword blade into the mage’s flesh.

But he had never seen an expression on it like this.

Raistlin’s face went ashen, so white Tas thought for a wild moment that the mage had died, perhaps been struck dead on the spot. The mirrorlike eyes seemed to shatter; Tas saw himself reflected in tiny, splintered shards of the mage’s vision. Then he saw the eyes lose all recognition, go completely blank, staring ahead sightlessly.

The hand that rested upon Tas’s head began to tremble violently. And, as the kender watched in astonishment, he saw Raistlin seem to shrivel up before him. His face aged perceptively. When he rose to his feet, still staring unseeing around him, the mage’s entire body shook.

“Raistlin?” Tas asked nervously, glad to have the mage’s attention off him but bewildered by his strange appearance. The kender sat up weakly. The terrible dizziness had gone, along with the weird, unfamiliar feeling of fear. He felt almost like himself again.

“Raistlin... I didn’t mean anything. Are you going to be sick now? You look awfully queer—”

But the archmage didn’t answer. Staggering backward, Raistlin fell against the stone wall and just stood there, his breathing rapid and shallow. Covering his face with his hand, he fought desperately to regain control of himself, a fight with some unseen opponent that was yet as visible to Tas as if the mage had been fighting a spectre.

Then, with a low, hollow cry of rage and anguish, Raistlin lurched forward. Gripping the Staff of Magius, his black robes whipping around him, he fled through the open door.

Staring after Raistlin in astonishment, Tas saw him hurtle past the dark dwarf standing guard in the doorway. The dwarf took one look at the mage’s cadaverous face as Raistlin ran blindly past him, and, with a wild shriek, whirled around and dashed off in the opposite direction.

So amazing was all this that it took Tas a few moments to realize he wasn’t a prisoner anymore.

“You know,” the kender said to himself, putting his hand on his forehead, “Crysania was right. I do feel better now that I’ve gotten that off my mind. It didn’t do much for Raistlin, unfortunately, but then I don’t care about that. Well, much.” Tas sighed. “I’ll never understand why he killed poor Gnimsh. Maybe I’ll have a chance to ask him someday.

“But, now”—the kender glanced around—“the first thing to do is find Caramon and tell him I’ve got the magical device and we can go home. I never thought I’d say this,” Tas said wistfully, swinging his feet to the floor, “but home sounds awfully nice right now!”

He was going to stand up, but his legs apparently preferred to be back in bed because Tas suddenly found himself sitting down again.

“This won’t do!” Tas said, glaring at the offending parts of his body. “You’re nowhere without me! Just remember that! I’m boss and when I say move—you’ll move! Now, I’m going to stand up again,” Tas warned his legs sternly. “And I expect some cooperation.”

This speech had some effect. His legs behaved a bit better this time and the kender, though still somewhat wobbly, managed to make his way across the dark room toward the torch lit corridor he could see beyond the door.

Reaching it, he peeped cautiously up and down the hall, but no one was in sight. Creeping out into corridor, he saw nothing but dark, closed-up cells—like the one he’d been in—and a staircase at one end, leading up. Looking down the other end, he saw nothing but dark shadows.

“I wonder where I am?” Tas made his way down the corridor toward the staircase—that being, as far as he could tell, the only way up. “Oh, well”—the kender reflected philosophically—“I don’t suppose it matters. One good thing about having been in the Abyss is that every place else, no matter how dismal, looks congenial by comparison.”

He had to stop a moment for a brief argument with his legs they still seemed much inclined to return to bed—but this momentary weakness passed, and the kender reached the bottom of the staircase. Listening, he could hear voices.

“Drat,” he muttered, coming to a halt and ducking back into the shadows. “Someone’s up there. Guards, I suppose. Sounds like dwarves. Those whatcha’ma call-ems—Dewar.” Tas stood, quietly, trying to make out what the deep voices were saying. “You’d think they could speak a civilized language,” he snapped irritably. “One a fellow could understand. They sound excited, though.”

Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Tas crept up the first flight of stone steps and peered around the corner. He ducked back quickly with a sigh. “Two of ’em. Both blocking the stair. And there’s no way around them.”

His pouches with his tools and weapons were gone, left behind in the mountain dungeon of Thorbardin. But he still had his knife. “Not that it will do much good against those!” Tas reflected, envisioning once again the huge battle-axes he’d seen the dwarves holding.

He waited a few more moments, hoping the dwarves would leave. They certainly seemed worked up, but they also appeared rooted to the spot.

“I can’t stay here all night or day, whichever it is,” the kender grumbled. “Well, as dad said, ‘always try talk before the lock pick.’ The very worst they could do to me, I suppose—not counting killing me, of course—would be to lock me back up. And, if I’m any judge of locks, I could probably be out again in about half-an-hour.” He began to climb the stairs. “Was it dad who said that,” he pondered as he climbed, “or Uncle Trapspringer?”

Rounding the corner, he confronted two Dewar, who appeared considerably startled to see him. “Hello!” the kender said cheerfully. “My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot.” He extended a hand. “And your names are? Oh, you’re not going to tell me. Well, that’s all right. I probably couldn’t pronounce them anyway. Say, I’m a prisoner and I’m looking for the fellow who was keeping me locked up in that cell back there. You probably know him—a black-robed magic-user. He was interrogating me, when something I said took him by surprise, I think, because he had a sort of a fit and ran out of the room. And he forgot to lock the door behind him. Did either of you see which way he—Well!” Tas blinked. “How rude.”

This in response to the actions of the Dewar who, after regarding the kender with growing looks of alarm on their faces, shouted one word, turned, and bolted.

“Antarax, “Tas repeated, looking after them, puzzled. “Let’s see. That sounds like dwarven for... for... Oh, of course! Burning death. Ah—they think I’ve still got the plague! Mmmmm, that’s handy. Or is it?”

The kender found himself alone in another long corridor, every bit as bleak and dismal as the one he’d just left. “I still don’t know where I am, and no one seems inclined to tell me. The only way out is that staircase down there and those two are heading for it so I guess the best thing to do is just tag along. Caramon’s bound to be around here somewhere.”

But Tas’s legs, which had already registered a protest against walking, informed the kender in no uncertain terms that running was out of the question. He stumbled along as fast as possible after the dwarves, but they had dashed up the stairs and were out of sight by the time he had made it half-way down the corridor. Puffing along, feeling a bit dizzy but determined to find Caramon, Tas climbed the stairs after them. As he rounded a corner, he came to a sudden halt.

“Oops,” he said, and hurriedly ducked into the shadows. Clapping a hand over mouth, he severely reprimanded himself. “Shut up, Burrfoot! It’s the whole Dewar army!”

It certainly seemed like it. The two he had been following had met up with about twenty other dwarves. Crouching in the shadows, Tas could hear them yelping excitedly, and he expected them to come tromping down after him any moment... . But nothing happened.

He waited, listening to the conversation, then, risking a peep, he saw that some of the dwarves present didn’t look like Dewar. They were clean, their beards were brushed, and they were dressed in bright armor. And they didn’t appear pleased. They glared grimly at one of the Dewar, as though they’d just as soon skin him as not.

“Mountain dwarves!” Tas muttered to himself in astonishment, recognizing the armor. “And, from what Raistlin said, they’re the enemy. Which means they’re supposed to be in their mountain, not in ours. Provided we’re in a mountain, of course, which I’m beginning to think likely from the looks of it. But, I wonder—”

As one of the mountain dwarves began speaking, Tas brightened. “Finally, someone who knows how to talk!” The kender sighed in relief. Because of the mixture of races, the dwarf was speaking a crude version of Common and dwarven.

The gist of the conversation, as near as Tas could follow, was that the mountain dwarf didn’t give a cracked stone about a crazed wizard or a wandering, plague-ridden kender.

“We came here to get the head of this General Caramon,” the mountain dwarf growled. “You said that the wizard promised it would be arranged. If it is, we can dispense with the wizard. I’d just as soon not deal with a Black Robe anyway. And now answer me this, Argat. Are your people ready to attack the army from within? Are you prepared to kill this general? Or was this just a trick? If so, you will find it will go hard with your people back in Thorbardin!”

“It no trick!” Argat growled, his fist clenching. “We ready to move. The general is in the War Room. The wizard said he make sure him alone with just bodyguard. Our people get the hill dwarves to attack. When you keep your part bargain, when scouts give signal that great gates to Thorbardin are open—”

“The signal is sounding, even as we speak,” the mountain dwarf snapped. “If we were above ground level, you could hear the trumpets. The army rides forth!”

“Then we go!” Argat said. Bowing, he added with a sneer, “If your lordship dares, come with us—we take General Caramon’s head right now!”

“I will join you,” the mountain dwarf said coldly, “if only to make certain you plot no further treachery!”

What else the two said was lost on Tas, who leaned back against the wall. His legs had gone all prickly-feeling, and there was a buzzing noise in his ears.

“Caramon!” he whispered, clutching at his head, trying to think. “They’re going to kill him! And Raistlin’s done this!” Tas shuddered. “Poor Caramon. His own twin. If he knew that, it would probably just kill him dead on the spot. The dwarves wouldn’t need axes.”

Suddenly, the kender’s head snapped up. “Tasslehoff Burrfoot!” he said angrily. “What are you doing—standing around like a gully dwarf with one foot in the mud! You’ve got to save him! You promised Tika you’d take care of him, after all.”

“Save him? How, you doorknob?” boomed a voice inside of him that sounded suspiciously like Flint’s. “There must be twenty dwarves! And you armed with that rabbit-killer!”

“I’ll think of something,” Tas retorted. “So just keep sitting under your tree!”

There was a snorting sound. Resolutely ignoring it, the kender stood up tall and straight, pulled out his little knife, and crept quietly—as only kender can—down the corridor.

14

She had the dark, curly hair and the crooked smile that men would later find so charming in her daughter. She had the simple, guileless honesty that would characterize one of her sons and she had a gift—a rare and wonderful power—that she would pass on to the other.

She had magic in her blood, as did her son. But she was weak—weak-willed, weak-spirited. Thus she let the magic control her, and thus, finally, she died.

Neither the strong-souled Kitiara nor the physically strong Caramon was much affected by their mother’s death. Kitiara hated her mother with bitter jealousy, while Caramon, though he cared about his mother, was far closer to his frail twin. Besides, his mother’s weird ramblings and mystical trances made her a complete enigma to the young warrior.

But her death devastated Raistlin. The only one of her children who truly understood her, he pitied her for her weakness, even as he despised her for it. And he was furious at her for dying, furious at her for leaving him alone in this world, alone with the gift. He was angry and, deep within, he was filled with fear, for Raistlin saw in her his own doom.

Following the death of her father, his mother had gone into a grief-stricken trance from which she never emerged. Raistlin had been helpless. He could do nothing but watch her dwindle away. Refusing food she drifted, lost, onto magical planes only she could see. And the mage—her son—was shaken to his very core.

He sat up with her on that last night. Holding her wasted hand in his, he watched as her sunken, feverish eyes stared at wonders conjured up by magic gone berserk.

That night, Raistlin vowed deep within his soul that no one and nothing would ever have the power to manipulate him like this—not his twin brother, not his sister, not the magic, not the gods. He and he alone would be the guiding force of his life.

He vowed this, swearing it with a bitter, binding oath. But he was a boy still—a boy left alone in darkness as he sat there with his mother the night she died. He watched her draw her last, shuddering breath. Holding her thin hand with its delicate fingers (so like his own!), he pleaded softly through his tears, “Mother, come home... Come home!”

Now at Zhaman he heard these words again, challenging him, mocking him, daring him. They rang in his ears, reverberated in his brain with wild, discordant clangings. His head bursting with pain, he stumbled into a wall.

Raistlin had once seen Lord Ariakas torture a captured knight by locking the man inside a bell tower. The dark clerics rang the bells of praise to their Queen that night—all night. The next morning, the man had been found dead—a look of horror upon his face so profound and awful that even those steeped in cruelty were quick to dispose of the corpse.

Raistlin felt as if he were imprisoned within his own bell tower, his own words ringing his doom in his skull. Reeling, clutching his head, he tried desperately to blot out the sound.

“Come home... come home...”

Dizzy and blinded by the pain, the mage sought to outrun it. He staggered about with no clear idea of where he was, searching only for escape. His numb feet lost their footing. Tripping over the hem of his black robe, he fell to his knees.

An object leaped from a pocket in his robes and rolled out onto the stone floor. Seeing it, Raistlin gasped in fear and anger. It was another mark of his failure—the dragon orb, cracked, darkened, useless. Frantically he grabbed for it, but it skittered like a marble across the flagstone, eluding his clawing grasp. Desperate, he crawled after it and, finally, it rolled to a stop. With a snarl, Raistlin started to take hold of it, then halted. Lifting his head, his eyes opened wide. He saw where he was, and he shrank back, trembling.

Before him loomed the Great Portal.

It was exactly like the one in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. A huge oval door standing upon a raised dais, it was ornamented and guarded by the heads of five dragons. Their sinuous necks snaking up from the floor, the five heads faced inward, five mouths open, screaming silent tribute to their Queen.

In the Tower at Palanthas, the door to the Portal was closed. None could open it except from within the Abyss itself, coming the opposite direction—an egress from a place none ever left. This door, too, was closed, but there were two who could enter—a White-Robed Cleric of Infinite Goodness and a Black Robed Archmage of Infinite Evil. It was an unlikely combination. Thus the great wizards hoped to seal forever this terrible entrance onto an immortal plane.

An ordinary mortal, looking into that Portal, could see nothing but stark, chill darkness.

But Raistlin was no longer ordinary. Drawing nearer and nearer his goddess, bending his energies and his studies toward this one object, the archmage was now in a state suspended between both worlds. Looking into the closed door, he could almost penetrate that darkness! It wavered in his vision. Wrenching his gaze from it, he turned his attention back to retrieving the dragon orb.

How did it escape me? he wondered angrily. He kept the orb in a bag hidden deep within a secret pocket of his robes. But then he sneered at himself, for he knew the answer. Each dragon orb was endowed with a strong sense of self-preservation. The one at Istar had escaped the Cataclysm by tricking the elven king, Lorac, into stealing it and taking it into Silvanesti. When the orb could no longer use the insane Lorac, it had attached itself to Raistlin. It had sustained Raistlin’s life when he was dying in Astinus’s library. It had conspired with Fistandantilus to take the young man to the Queen of Darkness. Now, sensing the greatest danger of its existence, it was trying to flee him.

He would not allow it! Reaching out, his hand closed firmly over the dragon orb.

There was a shriek...

The Portal opened.

Raistlin looked up. It had not opened to admit him. No, it had opened to warn him—to show him the penalty of failure.

Prostrate upon his knees, clutching the orb to his chest, Raistlin felt the presence and the majesty of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness rise up before hire. Awe-stricken, he cowered, trembling, at the Dark Queen’s feet.

This is your doom! Her words hissed in his mind. Your mother’s fate will be your own. Swallowed by your magic, you will be held forever spellbound without even the sweet consolation of death to end your suffering!

Raistlin collapsed. He felt his body shrivel. Thus he had seen the withered body of Fistandantilus shrivel at the touch of the bloodstone.

His head resting on the stone floor as it rested upon the executioner’s block of his nightmare, the mage was about to admit defeat...

But there was a core of strength within Raistlin. Long ago, Par-Salian, head of the Order of White Robes, had been given a task by the gods. They needed a magic-user strong enough to help defeat the growing evil of the Queen of Darkness. Par-Salian had searched long and had at last chosen Raistlin. For he had seen within the young mage this inner core of strength. It had been a cold, shapeless mass of iron when Raistlin was young. But Par-Salian hoped that the white-hot fire of suffering, pain, war, and ambition would forge that mass into finest tempered steel.

Raistlin lifted his head from the cold stone.

The heat of the Queen’s fury beat around him. Sweat poured from his body. He could not breathe as fire seared his lungs. She tormented him, mocked him with his own words, his own visions. She laughed at him, as so many had laughed at him before. And yet, even as his body shivered with a fear unlike any he had ever known, Raistlin’s soul began to exult.

Puzzled, he tried to analyze it. He sought to regain control and, after an exertion that left him weak and shaking, he banished the ringing sounds of his mother’s voice from his ears. He closed his eyes to his Queen’s mocking smile.

Darkness enveloped him and he saw, in the cool, sweet darkness, his Queen’s fear.

She was afraid... afraid of him!

Slowly, Raistlin rose to his feet. Hot winds blew from the Portal, billowing the black robes around him until he seemed enveloped in thunderclouds. He could look directly into the Portal now. His eyes narrowed. He regarded the dread door with a grim, twisted smile. Then, lifting his hand, Raistlin hurled the dragon orb into the Portal.

Hitting that invisible wall, the orb shattered. There was an almost imperceptible scream. Dark, shadowy wings fluttered around the mage’s head, then, with a wail, the wings dissolved into smoke and were blown away.

Strength coursed through Raistlin’s body, strength such as he had never known. The knowledge of his enemy’s weakness affected him like an intoxicating liquor. He felt the magic flow from his mind into his heart and from there to his veins. The accumulated, combined power of centuries of learning was his—his and Fistandantilus’s!

And then he heard it, the clear, clarion call of a trumpet, its music cold as the air from the snow-covered mountains of the dwarven homelands in the distance. Pure and crisp, the trumpet call echoed in his mind, driving out the distracting voices, calling him into darkness, giving him a power over death itself.

Raistlin paused. He hadn’t intended to enter the Portal this soon. He would have like to have waited just a little longer. But now would do, if necessary. The kender’s arrival meant time could be altered. The death of the gnome insured there would be no interference from the magical device—the interference that had proved the death of Fistandantilus.

The time had come.

Raistlin gave the Portal a last, lingering glance. Then, with a bow to his Queen, he turned and strode purposefully away up the corridor.

Crysania knelt in prayer in her room.

She had started to go back to bed after her return from the kender, but a strange feeling of foreboding filled her. There was a breathlessness in the air. A sense of waiting made her pause. Sleep would not come. She was alert, awake, more awake than she had ever been in her entire life.

The sky was filled with light—the cold fire of the stars burning in the darkness; the silver moon, Solinari, shining like a dagger. She could see every object in her room with an uncanny clarity. Each seemed alive, watching, waiting with her.

Transfixed, she stared at the stars, tracing the lines of the constellations—Gilean, the Book, the Scales of Balance; Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness, the Dragon of Many Colors and of None; Paladine, the Valiant Warrior, the Platinum Dragon. The moons—Solinari, God’s Eye; Lunitari, Night Candle. Beyond them, ranged about the skies, the lesser gods, and among them, the planets.

And, somewhere, the Black Moon—the moon only his eyes could see.

Standing, staring into the night, Crysania’s fingers grew cold as she rested them upon the chill stone. She realized she was shivering and she turned around, telling herself it was time to sleep...

But there was still that tremulous intake of breath about the night. “Wait,” it whispered. “Wait...”

And then she heard the trumpet. Pure and crisp, its music pierced her heart, crying a paean of victory that thrilled her blood.

At that moment, the door to her room opened.

She was not surprised to see him. It was as if she had been expecting his arrival, and she turned, calmly, to face him.

Raistlin stood silhouetted in the doorway, outlined against the light of torches blazing in the corridor and outlined as well by his own light which welled darkly from beneath his robes, an unholy light that came from within.

Drawn by some strange force, Crysania looked back into the heavens and saw, gleaming with that same dark light, Nuitari—the Black Moon.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the dizzying rush of blood, the beating of her heart. Then, feeling herself grow strong, she opened them again to find Raistlin standing before her.

She caught her breath. She had seen him in the ecstasy of his magic, she had seen him battling defeat and death. Now she saw him in the fullness of his strength, in the majesty of his dark power. Ancient wisdom and intelligence were etched into his face, a face that she barely recognized as his own.

“It is time, Crysania,” he said, extending his hands.

She took hold of his hands. Her fingers were chilled, his touch burned them. “I am afraid,” she whispered.

He drew her near.

“You have no need to be afraid,” he said. “Your god is with you. I see that clearly. It is my goddess who is afraid, Crysania. I sense her fear! Together, you and I will cross the borders of time and enter the realm of death. Together, we will battle the Darkness. Together, we will bring Takhisis to her knees!”

His hands caught her close to his breast, his arms embraced her. His lips closed over hers, stealing her breath with his kiss.

Crysania closed her eyes and let the magical fire, the fire that consumed the bodies of the dead, consume her body, consume the cold, frightened, white-robed shell she had been hiding in all these years.

He drew back, tracing her mouth with his hand, raising her chin so that she could look into his eyes. And there, reflected in the mirror of his soul, she saw herself, glowing with a flaming aura of radiant, pure, white light. She saw herself beautiful, beloved, worshipped. She saw herself bringing truth and justice to the world, banishing forever sorrow and fear and despair.

“Blessed be to Paladine,” Crysania whispered.

“Blessed be,” Raistlin replied. “Once again, I give you a charm. As I protected you through Shoikan Grove, so you shall be guarded when we pass through the Portal.”

She trembled. Drawing her near, holding her close one last time, he pressed his lips upon her forehead. Pain shot through her body and seared her heart. She flinched but did not cry out. He smiled at her.

“Come.”

On the whispered words of a winged spell, they left the room to the night, just as the red rays of Lunitari spilled into the darkness—blood drawn from Solinari’s glittering knife.

15

“The supply wagons?” Caramon asked in even, measured tones—the tones of one who already knows the answer.

“No word, sir,” replied Garic, avoiding Caramon’s steady gaze. “But... but we expect them—”

“They won’t be coming. They’ve been ambushed. You know that.” Caramon smiled wearily.

“At least we’ve found water,” Garic said lamely, making a valiant effort to sound cheerful, which failed miserably. Keeping his gaze fixed on the map spread on the table before him, he nervously drew a small circle around a tiny green dot on the parchment.

Caramon snorted. “A hole that is emptied by midday. Oh, sure, it fills again at night, but my own sweat tastes better. Blasted stuff must be tainted by sea water.”

“Still, it’s drinkable. We’re rationing, of course, and I’ve set guards around it. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to run dry.”

“Oh, well. There won’t be men enough left to drink it to worry about it after a while,” Caramon said, running his hand through his curly hair with a sigh. It was hot in the room, hot and stuffy. Some overzealous servant had tossed wood onto the fire before Caramon, accustomed to living outdoors, could stop him. The big man had thrown open a window to let the fresh, crisp air inside, but the blaze roaring at his back was toasting him nicely nonetheless. “What’s the desertion count today?”

Garic cleared his throat. “About—about one hundred, sir;” he said reluctantly.

“Where’d they go? Pax Tharkas?”

“Yes, sir. So we believe.”

“What else?” Caramon asked grimly, his eyes studying Garic’s face. “You’re keeping something back.”

The young knight flushed. Garic had a passing wish, at this moment, that lying was not against every code of honor he held dear. As he would have given his life to spare this man pain, so he would almost have lied. He hesitated, then looking at Caramon—he saw it wasn’t necessary. The general knew already.

Caramon nodded slowly. “The Plainsmen?”

Garic looked down at the maps.

“All of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Caramon’s eyes closed. Sighing softly, he picked up one of the small wooden figures that had been spread out on the map to represent the placement and disposition of his troops. Rolling it around in his fingers, he grew thoughtful. Then, suddenly, with a bitter curse, he turned and heaved the figurine into the fire. After a moment, he let his aching head sink into his hands.

“I don’t suppose I blame Darknight. It won’t be easy for him and his men, even now. The mountain dwarves undoubtedly hold the mountain passes behind us—that’s what happened to the supply wagons. He’ll have to fight his way home. May the gods go with him”

Caramon was silent a moment, then his fists clenched. “Damn my brother!” he cursed. “Damn him!”

Garic shifted nervously. His gaze darted about the room, fearful that the black-robed figure might materialize from the shadows.

“Well,” Caramon said, straightening and studying the maps once again, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. Now, our only hope—as I see it—is to keep what’s left of our army here in the plains. We’ve got to draw the dwarves out, force them to fight in the open so we can utilize our cavalry. We’ll never win our way into the mountain,” he added, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice, “but at least we can retreat with a hope of winning back to Pax Tharkas with our forces still intact. Once there, we can fortify it and—”

“General.” One of the guards at the door entered the room, flushing at having to interrupt. “Begging your pardon, sir, but a messenger’s arrived.”

“Send him in.”

A young man entered the room. Covered with dust, his cheeks red from the cold, he cast the blazing fire a longing glance but stepped forward first to deliver his message.

“No, go on, warm yourself,” Caramon said, waving the man over to the fireplace. “I’m glad someone can appreciate it. I have a feeling your news is going to be foul to the taste anyway.”

“Thank you, sir;” the man said gratefully. Standing near the blaze, he spread his hands out to the warmth. “My news is this—the hill dwarves have gone.”

“Gone?” Caramon repeated in blank astonishment, rising to his feet. “Gone where? Surely not back—”

“They march on Thorbardin.” The messenger hesitated. “And, sir, the Knights went with them.”

“That’s insane!” Caramon’s fist crashed down upon the table, sending the wooden markers flying through the air, the maps rolling off the edges. His face grew grim. “My brother,”

“No, sir. It was apparently the Dewar. I was instructed to give you this.” Drawing a scroll from his pouch, he handed it to Caramon, who quickly opened it.

General Caramon,

I have just learned from Dewar spies that the gates to the mountain will open when the trumpet sounds. We plan to steal a march on them. Rising at dawn, we will reach there by nightfall. I am sorry there wasn’t time to inform you of this. Rest assured, you will receive what share of the spoils you are due, even if you arrive late. Reorx’s light shine on your axes.

Reghar Fireforge.

Caramon’s mind went back to the piece of blood-stained parchment he’d held in his hand not long ago. The wizard has betrayed you...

“Dewar!” Caramon scowled. “Dewar spies. Spies all right, but not for us! Traitors all right, but not to their own people!”

“A trap!” Garic said, rising to his feet as well.

“And we fell into it like a bunch of damn rabbits,” Caramon muttered, thinking of another rabbit in a trap; seeing, in his mind’s eyes, his brother setting it free. “Pax Tharkas falls. No great loss. It can always be retaken—especially if the defenders are dead. Our people deserting in droves, the Plainsmen leaving. And now the hill dwarves marching to Thorbardin, the Dewar marching with them. And, when the trumpet sounds—”

The clear, clarion call of a trumpet rang out. Caramon started. Was he hearing it or was it a dream, borne on the wings of a terrible vision? He could almost see it being played out before his eyes—the Dewar, slowly, imperceptibly spreading out among the hill dwarves, infiltrating their ranks. Hand creeping to axe, hammer...

Most of Reghar’s people would never know what hit them, would never have a chance to strike.

Caramon could hear the shouts, the thudding of iron-shod boots, the clash of weapons, and the harsh, discordant cries of deep voices. It was real, so very real...

Lost in his vision, Caramon only dimly became aware of the sudden pallor of Garic’s face. Drawing his sword, the young Knight sprang toward the door with a shout that jolted Caramon back to reality. Whirling, he saw a black tide of dark dwarves surging outside the door. There was a flash of steel.

“Ambush!” Garic yelled.

“Fall back!” Caramon thundered. “Don’t go out there! The Knights are gone—we’re the only ones here! Stay inside the room. Bolt the door!” Leaping after Garic, he grabbed the Knight and hurled him back. “You guards, retreat!” he yelled to the two who were still standing outside the door and who were now battling for their lives.

Caramon gripped the arm of one of the guards to drag him into the room, bringing his sword down upon the head of an attacking Dewar at the same time. The dwarf’s helm shattered. Blood spattered over Caramon, but he paid no attention. Shoving the guard behind him, Caramon hurled himself bodily at the horde of dark dwarves packed into the corridor, his sword slashing a bloody swath through them.

“Fall back, you fool!” he shouted over his shoulder at the sec and guard, who hesitated only a moment, then did as ordered. Caramon’s ferocious charge had the intended effect of catching the Dewar off-balance—they stumbled backward in momentary panic at the sight of his battle-rage. But, that was all the panic was—momentary. Already Caramon could see them starting to recover their wits and their courage.

“General! Look out!” shouted Garic, standing in the doorway, his sword still in hand. Turning, Caramon headed back for the safety of the map room. But his foot slipped on the blood-covered stones and the big man fell, wrenching his knee painfully.

With a wild howl, the Dewar leaped on him.

“Get inside! Bolt the door, you—” The rest of Caramon’s words were lost as he disappeared beneath a seething mass of dwarves.

“Caramon!”

Sick at heart, cursing himself for hanging back, Garic jumped into the fray. A hammer blow crashed into his arm, and he heard the bone crunch. His left hand went oddly limp. Well, he thought, oblivious to the pain, at least it wasn’t my sword arm. His blade swung, a dark dwarf fell headless. An axe blade whined, but its wielder missed his mark. The dwarf was cut down from behind by one of the guards at the door.

Though unable to stand, Caramon still fought. A kick from his uninjured leg sent two dwarves reeling backward to crash into their fellows. Twisting onto his side, the big man smashed the hilt of his sword through the face of another dwarf, splashing blood up to his elbows. Then, in the return stroke, he thrust the blade through the guts of another. Garic’s charge spared his life for an instant, but it seemed it was an instant only.

“Caramon! Above you!” shrieked Garic, battling viciously.

Rolling onto his back, Caramon looked up to see Argat standing over him, his axe raised. Caramon lifted his sword, but at that moment four dark dwarves leaped on him, pinning him to the floor.

Almost weeping in rage, heedless of the weapons flashing around him, Garic tried desperately to save Caramon. But there were too many dwarves between him and his general. Already, the Dewar’s axe blade was falling...

The axe fell—but it fell from nerveless hands. Garic saw Argat’s eyes open wide in profound astonishment. The dwarf’s axe fell to the blood-slick stones with a ringing clatter as the dark dwarf himself toppled over on top of Caramon. Staring at Argat’s corpse, Garic saw a small knife sticking out of the back of the dwarf’s neck.

He looked up to see the dark dwarf’s killer and gasped in astonishment.

Standing over the body of the dead traitor was, of all things, a kender.

Garic blinked, thinking perhaps the fear and pain had done something strange to his mind, causing him to see phantoms. But there wasn’t time to try to figure out this astounding occurrence. The young Knight had finally managed to reach his general’s side. Behind him, he could hear the guards shouting and driving back the Dewar who, seeing their leader fall, had suddenly lost a great deal of their enthusiasm for a fight that was supposed to have been an easy slaughter.

The four dwarves who were holding Caramon stumbled back hastily as the big man struggled out from beneath Argat’s body. Reaching down, Garic jerked the dead dwarf up by the back of his armor and tossed the body to one side, then hauled Caramon to his feet. The big man staggered, groaning, as his crippled knee gave way under his weight.

“Help us!” Garic cried unnecessarily to the guards, who were already by his side. Half-dragging and half-carrying Caramon, they assisted the limping man into the map room.

Turning to follow, Garic cast a quick glance around the corridor. The dark dwarves were eyeing him uncertainly. He caught a glimpse of other dwarves behind them—mountain dwarves, his mind registered.

And there, seemingly rooted to the spot, was the strange kender who had come out of nowhere, apparently, to save Caramon’s life. The kender’s face ashen, there was a green look about his lips. Not knowing what else to do, Garic wrapped his good arm around the kender’s waist and, lifting him off his feet, hauled him back into the map room. As soon as he was inside, the guards slammed and bolted the door.

Caramon’s face was covered with blood and sweat, but he grinned at Garic. Then he assumed a stern look.

“You damn fool knight,” he growled. “I gave you a direct order and you disobeyed! I ought to—”

But his voice broke off as the kender, wriggling in Garic’s grasp, raised his head.

“Tas!” whispered Caramon, stunned.

“Hello, Caramon,” Tas said weakly. “I-I’m awfully glad to see you again. I’ve got lots to tell you and it’s very important and I really should tell you now but I... I think... I’m going... to faint.”

“And so that’s it,” Tas said softly, his eyes dim with tears as he looked into Caramon’s pale, expressionless face. “He lied to me about how to work the magical device. When I tried, it came apart in my hands. I did get to see the fiery mountain fall,” he added, “and that was almost worth all the trouble. It might have even been worth dying to see. I’m not sure, since I haven’t died yet, although I thought for a while I had. It certainly wouldn’t be worth it, though, if I had to spend the Afterlife in wants to go there:”

Tas sighed. “But, anyway, I could forgive him for that”—the kender’s voice hardened and his small jaw set firmly—“but not for what he did to poor Gnimsh and what he tried to do to you—”

Tasslehoff bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to say that.

Caramon looked at him. “Go on, Tas,” he said. “Tried to do to me?”

“N-nothing,” Tas stammered, giving Caramon a sickly smile. “Just my rambling. You know me.”

“What did he try to do?” Caramon smiled bitterly. “I didn’t suppose there was anything left he could do to me.”

“Have you killed,” Tas muttered.

“Ah, yes.” Caramon’s expression did not change. “Of course. So that’s what the dwarfs message meant.”

“He gave you to—to the Dewar;” Tas said miserably. “They were going to take your head back to King Duncan. Raistlin sent away all the Knights in the castle, telling them you’d ordered them off to Thorbardin.” Tas waved his hand at Garic and the two guards. “He told the Dewar you’d have only your bodyguards.”

Caramon said nothing. He felt nothing—neither pain, nor anger, nor surprise. He was empty. Then a great surge of longing for his home, for Tika, for his friends, for Tanis, Laurana, for Riverwind and Goldmoon, rushed in to fill up that vast emptiness.

As if reading his thoughts, Tas rested his small head on Caramon’s shoulder. “Can we go back to our own time now?” he said, looking up at Caramon wistfully. “I’m awfully tired. Say, do you think I could stay with you and Tika for a while? Just until I’m better. I wouldn’t be a bother—I promise... .”

His eyes dim with tears, Caramon put his arm around the kender and held him close. “As long as you want, Tas,” he said. Smiling sadly, he stared into the flames. “I’ll finish the house. It won’t take more than a couple of months. Then we’ll go visit Tanis and Laurana. I promised Tika we’d do that. I promised her a long time ago, but I never seemed to get there. Tika always wanted to see Palanthas, you know. And maybe all of us could go to Sturm’s tomb. I never did get a chance to tell him good-bye.”

“And we can visit Elistan, and—Oh!” Tas’s face grew alarmed. “Crysania! Lady Crysania! I tried to tell her about Raistlin, but she doesn’t believe me! We can’t leave her!” He leaped to his feet, wringing his hands. “We can’t let him take her to that horrible place!”

Caramon shook his head. “We’ll try to talk to her again, Tas. I don’t think she’ll listen, but at least we can try.” He heaved himself up painfully. “They’ll be at the Portal now. Raistlin cant wait much longer. The fortress will fall to the mountain dwarves soon.

“Garic,” he said, limping over to where the Knight sat. “How’s it going?”

One of the other Knights had just finished setting Garic’s broken arm. They were tying it up in a rude sling, binding it to his side so that it was immobile. The young man looked up at Caramon, gritting his teeth with the pain but managing a smile nonetheless.

“I’ll be fine, sir;” he said weakly. “Don’t worry.”

Smiling, Caramon drew up a chair next to him. “Feel like traveling?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. Actually, I guess you don’t have much choice. This place will be overrun soon. You’ve got to try to get out now.” Caramon rubbed his chin. “Reghar told me there were tunnels running beneath the plains, tunnels that lead from Pax Tharkas to Thorbardin. My advice is to find these. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Those mounds out there lead down to them. You should be able to use the tunnels to at least get out of here safely.”

Garic did not answer. Glancing at the other two guards, he said quietly, “You say ‘your advice,’ sir. What about you? Aren’t you coming with us?”

Caramon cleared his throat and started to answer, but he couldn’t talk. He stared down at his feet. This was a moment he had been dreading and, now that it was here, the speech he had carefully prepared blew out of his head like a leaf in the wind.

“No, Garic,” he said finally, “I’m not.” Seeing the Knight’s eyes flash and guessing what he was thinking, the big man raised his hand. “No, I’m not going to do anything so foolish as to throw my life away on some noble, stupid cause—like rescuing my commanding officer!”

Garic flushed in embarrassment as Caramon grinned at him.

“No,” the big man continued more somberly, “I’m not a Knight, thank the gods. I have enough sense to run when I’m beaten. And right now”—he couldn’t help but sigh—“I’m beaten.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t explain this so that you’ll understand it. I’m not sure I understand, not fully. But—let’s just say that the kender and I have a magical way home.”

Garic glanced from one to the other. “Not your brother!” he said, frowning darkly.

“No,” Caramon answered, “not my brother. Here, he and I part company. He has his own life to live and—I finally see—I have mine.” He put his hand on Garic’s shoulder. “Go to Pax Tharkas. You and Michael do what you can to help those who make it there safely survive the winter.”

“But—”

“That’s an order, Sir Knight,” Caramon said harshly.

“Yes, sir.” Garic averted his face, his hand brushing quickly across his eyes.

Caramon, his own face growing gentle, put his arm around the young man. “Paladine be with you, Garic,” he said, clasping him close. He looked at the others. “May he be with all of you.”

Garic looked up at him in astonishment, tears glistening on his cheeks. “Paladine?” he said bitterly. “The god who deserted us?”

“Don’t lose your faith, Garic,” Caramon admonished, rising to his feet with a pain-filled grimace. “Even if you cant believe in the god, put your trust in your heart. Listen to its voice above the Code and the Measure. And, someday, you’ll understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Garic murmured. “And... may whatever gods you believe in be with you, too, sir.”

“I guess they have been,” Caramon said, smiling ruefully, “all my life. I’ve just been too damn thick-headed to listen. Now, you better be off.”

One by one, he bade the other young Knights farewell, feigning to ignore their manful attempts to hide their tears. He was truly touched by their sorrow at parting—a sorrow he shared to such an extent that he could have broken down and wept like a child himself.

Cautiously, the Knights opened the door and peered out into the corridor. It was empty, except for the corpses. The Dewar were gone. But Caramon had no doubt this lull would last only long enough for them to regroup. Perhaps they were waiting until reinforcements arrived. Then they would attack the map room and finish off these humans.

Sword in hand, Garic led his Knights out into the blood spattered corridor, planning to follow Tas’s somewhat confused directions on how to reach the lower levels of the magical fortress. (Tas had offered to draw them a map, but Caramon said there wasn’t time.)

When the Knights were gone, and the last echoes of their footfalls had died away, Tas and Caramon set off in the opposite direction. Before they went, Tas retrieved his knife from Argat’s body.

“And you said once that a knife like this would be good only for killing vicious rabbits,” Tas said proudly, wiping the blood from the blade before thrusting it into his belt.

“Don’t mention rabbits;” Caramon said in such an odd, tight voice that Tas looked at him and was startled to see his face go deathly pale.

16

This was his moment. The moment he had been born to face. The moment for which he had endured the pain, the humiliation, the anguish of his life. The moment for which he had studied, fought, sacrificed... killed.

He savored it, letting the power flow over him and through him, letting it surround him, lift him. No other sounds, no other objects, nothing in this world existed for him this moment now save the Portal and the magic.

But even as he exulted in the moment, his mind was intent upon his work. His eyes studied the Portal, studied every detail intently—although it was not really necessary. He had seen it myriad times in dreams both sleeping and waking. The spells to open it were simple, nothing elaborate or complex. Each of the five dragon heads surrounding and guarding the Portal must be propitiated with the correct phrase. Each must be spoken to in the proper order. But, once that was done and the White-Robed Cleric had exhorted Paladine to intercede and hold the Portal open, they would enter. It would close behind them.

And he would face his greatest challenge.

The thought excited him. His rapidly beating heart sent blood surging through his veins, throbbing in his temples, pulsing in his throat. Looking at Crysania, he nodded. It was time.

The cleric, her own face flushed with heightened excitement, her eyes already shimmering with the luster of the ecstasy of her prayers, took her place directly inside the Portal, facing Raistlin. This move required that she place utter, complete, unwavering confidence in him. For one wrong syllable spoken, the wrong breath drawn at the wrong moment, the slightest slip of the tongue or hand gesture would be fatal to her, to himself.

Thus had the ancients—devising ways to guard this dread gate that they, because of their folly, could not shut—sought to protect it. For a wizard of the Black Robes—who had committed the heinous deeds they knew must be committed to arrive at this point, and a Cleric of Paladine—pure of faith and soul—to put implicit trust in each other was a ludicrous supposition.

Yet, it had happened once: bound by the false charm of the one and the loss of faith of the other, Fistandantilus and Denubis had reached this point. And it would happen again, it seemed, with two bound by something that the ancients, for all their wisdom, had not foreseen—a strange, unhallowed love.

Stepping into the Portal, looking at Raistlin for the last time upon this world, Crysania smiled at him. He smiled back, even as the words for the first spell were forming in his mind.

Crysania raised her arms. Her eyes stared beyond Raistlin now, stared into the brilliant, beautiful realms where dwelt her god. She had heard the last words of the Kingpriest, she knew the mistake he had made—a mistake of pride, demanding of the god in his arrogance what he should have requested in humility.

At that moment Crysania had come to understand why the gods had—in their righteous anger—inflicted destruction upon the world. And she had known in her heart that Paladine would answer her prayers, as he had not answered those of the Kingpriest. This was Raistlin’s moment of greatness. It was also her own.

Like the holy Knight, Huma, she had been through her trials. Trials of fire, darkness, death, and blood. She was ready. She was prepared.

“Paladine, Platinum Dragon, your faithful servant comes before you and begs that you shed your blessing upon her. Her eyes are open to your light. At last, she understands what you have, in your wisdom, been trying to teach her. Hear her prayer, Radiant One. Be with her. Open this Portal so that she may cater and go forward bearing your torch. Walk with her as she strives to banish the darkness forever!”

Raistlin held his breath. All depended on this! Had he been right about her? Did she possess the strength, the wisdom, the faith? Was she truly Paladine’s chosen?...

A pure and holy light began to glimmer from Crysania. Her dark hair shimmered; her white robes shone like sunlit clouds, her eyes gleamed like the silver moon. Her beauty at this moment was sublime.

“Thank you for granting my prayer, God of Light,” Crysania murmured, bowing her head. Tears sparkled like stars upon her pale face. “I will be worthy of you!”

Watching her, enchanted by her beauty, Raistlin forgot his great goal. He could only stare at her, entranced. Even the thoughts of his magic—for a heartbeat—fled.

Then he exulted. Nothing! Nothing could stop him now...

“Oh, Caramon!” whispered Tasslehoff in awe.

“We’re too late,” Caramon said.

The two, having made their way through the dungeons to the very bottom level of the magical fortress, came to a sudden halt—their eyes on Crysania. Enveloped in a halo of silver light, she stood in the center of the Portal, her arms outstretched, her face lifted to the heavens. Her unearthly beauty pierced Caramon’s heart.

“Too late? No!” Tas cried in anguish. “We can’t be!”

“Look, Tas,” Caramon said sadly. “Look at her eyes. She’s blind. Blind! Just as blind as I was in the Tower of High Sorcery. She cannot see through the light... .”

“We’ve got to try to talk to her, Caramon!” Tas clutched at him frantically. “We can’t let her go. It—it’s my fault! I’m the one who told her about Bupu! She might not have come if it hadn’t been for me! I’ll talk to her!”

The kender leaped forward, waving his arms. But he was jerked back suddenly by Caramon, who caught hold of him by his tassel of hair. Tas yelped in pain and protest, and—at the sound—Raistlin turned.

The archmage stared over at his twin and the kender for an instant without seeming to recognize them. Then recognition dawned in his eyes. It was not pleasant.

“Hush, Tas,” Caramon whispered. “It’s not your fault. Now, stay put!” Caramon thrust the kender behind a thick, granite pillar. “Stay there,” the big man ordered. “Keep the pendant safe—and yourself, too.”

Tas’s mouth opened to argue. Then he saw Caramon’s face and, looking down the corridor, he saw Raistlin. Something came over the kender. He felt as he had in the Abyss—wretched and frightened. “Yes, Caramon,” he said softly. “I’ll stay here. I-I promise... .”

Leaning against the pillar, shivering, Tas could see in his mind poor Gnimsh lying crumpled on the cell floor.

Giving the kender a final, warning glance, Caramon turned and limped down the corridor toward where his brother stood.

Gripping the Staff of Magius in his hand, Raistlin watched him warily. “So you survived,” he commented.

“Thanks to the gods, not you,” Caramon replied.

“Thanks to one god, my dear brother,” Raistlin said with a slight, twisted smile. “The Queen of Darkness. She sent the kender back here, and it was he, I presume, who altered time, allowing your life to be spared. Does it gall you, Caramon, to know you owe your life to the Dark Queen?”

“Does it gall you to know you owe her your soul?”

Raistlin’s eyes flashed, their mirrorlike surface cracking for just an instant. Then, with a sardonic smile, he turned away. Facing the Portal, he lifted his right hand and held it palm out, his gaze upon the dragon’s head at the lower right of the oval shaped entrance.

“Black Dragon.” His voice was soft, caressing. “From darkness to darkness/My voice echoes in the emptiness.”

As Raistlin spoke these words, an aura of darkness began to form around Crysania, an aura of light as black as the nightjewel, as black as the light of the dark moon...

Raistlin felt Caramon’s hand close over his arm. Angrily, he tried to shake off his brother’s grasp, but Caramon’s grip was strong.

“Take us home, Raistlin...”

Raistlin turned and stared, his anger forgotten in his astonishment. “What?” His voice cracked.

“Take us home,” Caramon repeated steadily.

Raistlin laughed contemptuously.

“You are such a weak, sniveling fool, Caramon!” he snarled. Irritably he tried to shake off his twin’s grip. He might as well have tried to shake off death. “Surely you must know by now what I have done! The kender must have told you about the gnome. You know I betrayed you. I would have left you for dead in this wretched place. And still you cling to me!”

“I’m clinging to you because the waters are closing over your head, Raistlin,” Caramon said.

His gaze went down to his own, strong, sun-burned hand holding his brother’s thin wrist, its bones as fragile as the bones of a bird, its skin white, almost transparent. Caramon fancied he could see the blood pulse in the blue veins.

“My hand upon your arm. That’s all we have.” Caramon paused and drew a deep breath. Then, his voice deep with sorrow, he continued, “Nothing can erase what you have done, Raist. It can never be the same between us. My eyes have been opened. I now see you for what you are.”

“And yet you beg me to come with you!” Raistlin sneered.

“I could learn to live with the knowledge of what you are and what you have done.” Looking intently into his brother’s eyes, Caramon said softly, “But you have to live with yourself, Raistlin. And there are times in the night when that must be damn near unbearable.”

Raistlin did not respond. His face was a mask, impenetrable, unreadable.

Caramon swallowed a huskiness in his throat. His grip on his twin’s arm tightened. “Think of this, though. You have done good in your life, Raistlin—maybe better than most of us. Oh, I’ve helped people. It’s easy to help someone when that help is appreciated: But you helped those who only threw it back in your face. You helped those who didn’t deserve it. You helped even when you knew it was hopeless, thankless.” Caramon’s hand trembled. “There’s still good you could do… to make up for the evil. Leave this. Come home.”

Come home...come home...

Raistlin closed his eyes, the ache in his heart almost unendurable. His left hand stirred, lifted. Its delicate fingers hovered near his brother’s hand, touching it for an instant with a touch as soft as the feet of a spider. On the edges of reality, he could hear Crysania’s soft voice, praying to Paladine. The lovely white light flickered upon his eyelids.

Come home...

When Raistlin spoke next, his voice was soft as his touch. “The dark crimes that stain my soul, brother, you cannot begin to imagine. If you knew, you would turn from me in horror and in loathing.” He sighed, shivering slightly. “And, you are right. Sometimes, in the night, even I turn from myself.”

Opening his eyes, Raistlin stared fixedly into his brother’s. “But, know this, Caramon—I committed those crimes intentionally, willingly. Know this, too—there are darker crimes before me, and I will commit them, intentionally, willingly...” His gaze went to Crysania, standing unseeing in the Portal, lost in her prayers, shimmering with beauty and power.

Caramon looked at her and his face grew grim.

Raistlin, watching, smiled. “Yes, my brother. She will enter the Abyss with me. She will go before me and fight my battles. She will face dark clerics, dark magic-users, spirits of the dead doomed to wander in that cursed land, plus the unbelievable torments that my Queen can devise. All these will wound her in body, devour her mind, and shred her soul. Finally, when she can endure no more, she will slump to the ground to lie at my feet... bleeding, wretched, dying.

“She will, with her last strength, hold out her hand to me for comfort. She will not ask me to save her. She is too strong for that. She will give her life for me willingly, gladly. All she will ask is that I stay with her as she dies.”

Raistlin drew a deep breath, then shrugged. “But I will walk past her, Caramon. I will walk past her without a look, without a word. Why? Because I will need her no longer. I will continue forward toward my goal, and my strength will grow even as the blood flows from her pierced heart.”

Half-turning, once again he raised his left hand, palm outward. Looking at the head of the dragon upon the top of the Portal, he softly said the second chant. “White Dragon. From this world to the next / My voice cries with life.”

Caramon’s gaze was on the Portal, on Crysania, his mind swamped by horror and revulsion. Still he held onto his brother. Still he thought to make one last plea. Then he felt the thin arm beneath his hand make a sharp, twisting motion. There was a flash, a swift movement, and the gleaming blade of a silver dagger pressed against the flesh of his throat, right where his life’s blood pulsed in his neck.

“Let go of me, my brother,” Raistlin said.

And though he did not strike with the dagger, it drew blood anyway; drew blood not from flesh but from soul. Quickly and cleanly, it sliced through the last spiritual tie between the twins. Caramon winced slightly at the swift, sharp pain in his heart. But the pain did not endure. The tie was severed. Free at last, Caramon released his twin’s arm without a word.

Turning, he started to limp back to where Tas waited, still hidden behind the pillar.

“One final hint of caution, my brother,” Raistlin said coldly, returning the dagger to the thong he wore on his wrist.

Caramon did not respond, he neither stopped walking nor turned around.

“Be wary of that magical time device,” Raistlin continued with a sneer. “Her Dark Majesty repaired it. It was she who sent the kender back. If you use it, you could find yourselves in a most unpleasant place!”

“Oh, but she didn’t fix it!” Tas cried, popping out from behind the pillar. “Gnimsh did. Gnimsh fixed it! Gnimsh, my friend. The gnome that you murdered! I—”

“Use it then,” Raistlin said coldly. “Take him and yourself out of here, Caramon. But remember I warned you.”

Caramon caught hold of the angry kender. “Easy, Tas. That’s enough. It doesn’t matter now.”

Turning around, Caramon faced his twin. Though the warrior’s face was drawn with pain and weariness, his expression was one of peace and calm, one who knows himself at last. Stroking Tas’s topknot of hair soothingly with his hand, he said, “Come on, Tas. Let’s go home. Farewell, my brother.”

Raistlin didn’t hear. Facing the Portal, he was once again lost in his magic. But, out of the corner of his eye, even as he began the third chant, Raistlin saw his twin take the pendant from Tas and began the manipulations that would transfer its shape from pendant to the magical time-travel device.

Let them go. Good riddance! Raistlin thought. Finally, I am free of that great hulking idiot!

Looking back at the Portal, Raistlin smiled. A circle of cold light, like the harsh glare of the sun upon snow, surrounded Crysania. The archmage’s behest to the White Dragon had been heard.

Raising his hand, facing the third dragon’s head in the lower left part of the Portal, Raistlin recited its chant.

“Red Dragon. From darkness to darkness I shout / Beneath my feet, all is made firm.”

Red lines shot from Crysania’s body through the white light, through the black aura. Red and burning as blood, they spanned the gap from Raistlin to the Portal—a bridge to beyond.

Raistlin raised his voice. Turning to the right, he called to the fourth dragon. “Blue Dragon. Time that flows/Hold in your course.”

Blue streams of light flowed over Crysania, then began to swirl. As though floating in water, she leaned her head back, her arms extended, her robes drifting about her in the whirling flashes of light, her hair drifting black upon the currents of time.

Raistlin felt the Portal shiver. The magical field was starting to activate and respond to his commands! His soul quivered in a joy that Crysania shared. Her eyes glistened with rapturous tears, her lips parted in a sweet sigh. Her hands spread and, at her touch, the Portal opened!

Raistlin’s breath caught in his throat. The surge of power and ecstasy that coursed through his body nearly choked him. He could see through the Portal now. He could see glimpses of the plane beyond, the plane forbidden to mortal men.

From somewhere, dimly heard, came his brother’s voice activating the magical device—“Thy time is thy own, though across it you travel... Grasp firmly the beginning and the end... destiny be over your head...”

Home. Come home... .

Raistlin began the fifth chant. “Green Dragon. Because by fate even the gods are cast down / Weep ye all with me.”

Raistlin’s voice cracked, faltered. Something was wrong! The magic pulsing through his body slowed, turned sluggish. He stammered out the last few words, but each breath was an effort. His heart ceased to beat for an instant, then started again with a great leap that shook his frail frame.

Shocked and confused, Raistlin stared frantically at the Portal. Had the final spell worked? No! The light around Crysania was beginning to waver. The field was shifting!

Desperately, Raistlin cried the words of the last chant again. But his voice cracked, snapping back on him like a whip, stinging him. What was happening? He could feel the magic slither from his grasp. He was losing control...

Come home...

His Queen’s voice laughing, mocking. His brothers voice, pleading, sorrowful... And then, another voice—a shrill, kender voice—only half-heard, lost in his greater affairs. Now it flashed through his brain with a blinding light.

Gnimsh fixed it... The gnome, my friend...—

As the dwarf’s blade had penetrated Raistlin’s shrinking flesh, so now the remembered words of Astinus’s Chronicles stabbed his soul:

At the same instant a gnome, being held prisoner by the dwarves of Thorbardin, activated a time-traveling device... The gnome’s device interacted somehow with the delicate and powerful magical spells being woven by Fistandantilus... . A blast occurred of such magnitude that the Plains of Dergoth were utterly destroyed...

Raistlin clenched his fists in anger. Killing the gnome had been useless! The wretched creature had tampered with the device before his death. History would repeat itself! Footsteps in the sand...

Looking into the Portal, Raistlin saw the executioner step out from it. He saw his own hand lift his own black hood, he saw the flash of the axe blade descending, his own hands bringing it down upon his own neck!

The magical field began to shift violently. The dragon heads surrounding the Portal shrieked in triumph. A spasm of pain and terror twisted Crysania’s face. Looking into her eyes, Raistlin saw the same look he had seen in his mothers eyes as they stared unseeing into a far-distant plane.

Come home...

Within the Portal itself, the swirling lights began to whirl madly. Spinning out of control, they rose up around the limp body of the cleric as the magical flames had risen around her in the plague town. Crysania cried out in pain. Her flesh began to wither in the beautiful, deadly fire of uncontrolled magic.

Half-blinded by the brilliance, tears ran from Raistlin’s eyes as he stared into the swirling vortex. And then he saw—the Portal was closing.

Hurling his magical staff to the floor, Raistlin unleashed his rage in a bitter, incoherent scream of fury.

Out of the Portal, in answer, came lilting, mocking laughter.

Come home...

A feeling of calmness stole over Raistlin—the cold calm of despair. He had failed. But She would never see him grovel. If he must die, he would die within his magic...

He lifted his head. He rose to his feet. Using all of his great powers—powers of the ancients, powers of his own, powers he had no idea he possessed, powers that rose from somewhere dark and hidden even from himself—Raistlin raised his arms and his voice screamed out once again. But this time it was not an incoherent shriek of frustrated helplessness. This time, his words were clear. This time he shouted words of command that had never been uttered upon this world before.

This time his words were heard and understood.

The field held. He held it! He could feel himself holding onto it. At his command, the Portal shivered and ceased to close.

Raistlin drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then, out of the corner of his eye, somewhere to his right, he saw a flash. The magical time-travel device had been activated!

The field jumped and surged wildly. As the device’s magic grew and spread, its powerful vibrations caused the very rocks of the fortress to begin to sing. In a devastating wave their songs surged around Raistlin. The dragons’ shrieking answered in anger. The ageless voices of the rocks and their timeless voices of the dragons fought, flowed together, and finally combined in a discordant, mind-shattering cacophony.

The sound was deafening, ear splitting. The force of the two powerful spells sundered the ground. The earth beneath Raistlin’s feet shuddered. The singing rocks split wide open. The metallic dragons’ heads cracked...

The Portal itself began to crumble.

Raistlin fell to his knees. The magical field was tearing loose, splitting apart like the bones of the world itself. It was breaking, splintering and, because Raistlin still held onto it, it began to tear him apart as well.

Pain shot through his head. His body convulsed. He writhed in agony.

It was a terrible choice he faced. Let go, and he would fall, fall to his doom, fall into a nothingness to which the most abject darkness was preferable. And yet, if he held it, he knew he would be ripped apart, his body dismembered by the forces of magic he could no longer control.

His muscles ripped from his bones, sinews shredding, tendons snapping.

“Caramon!” Raistlin moaned, but Caramon and Tas had vanished. The magical device, repaired by the one gnome whose inventions worked, had, indeed, worked. They were gone. There was no help.

Raistlin had seconds to live, moments to act. Yet the pain was so excruciating that he could not think.

His joints were being wrested from their sockets, his eyes plucked from his face, his heart torn from his body, his brain sucked from his skull.

He could hear himself screaming and he knew it was his death cry. Still he fought on, as he had fought all his life.

I... will... control...

The words came from his mouth, stained with his blood...

I will control...

Reaching out, his hand closed over the Staff of Magius.

I will!

And then he was hurtling forward into a blinding, swirling, crashing wave of many-colored lights Come home... come home... .