Brother's Majere

Chapter 20

“Raist!” Caramon glancing askance at the tabby cat, bent over his brother. “Raist, are you all right?” he asked helplessly. If his twin was suffering from some sort of magical affliction, Caramon had no idea what he would do.

Raistlin’s eyelids fluttered. He opened them and gazed around as if trying to recall where he was. Suddenly remembering, he sat bolt upright.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Not long. Only a few moments.”

The mage looked sharply around. “Where’s Bast?”

“Gone, I guess,” said Caramon uneasily, remembering the dimly heard conversation, wondering if he’d dreamed it.

Raistlin gripped his brother’s arm. “Help me up.”

“Should you? What happened? That wizard-”

“No time for questions! Help me up! We must return to the city!”

“The city? How? They won’t let us in the gate!”

“It may be easier than you suppose, my brother,” said Raistlin grimly. “It may be far too easy.”

Raistlin was right. The gate was deserted. The guards had fled their posts.

“Listen, do you hear it?” Raistlin asked, tilting his head.

Caramon shook his head. “No, I don’t hear a thing.”

“Exactly. There is no sound in the city.”

Caramon drew the bastard sword from his back with a single motion, feeling ‘warrior’s fear’ creep into his limbs. He listened more closely now, and did hear something, something that was moving closer to their present location with great speed.

“Raist, come on!” he yelled, grabbing his brother and pulling him through the gate, into an alley, ducking behind old barrels and boxes. He recognized the sound now, the sound of terror and hatred, the need to destroy the misunderstood.

“We’ll find ’em! First Lord Manion. Now Lord Brunswick!”

“The wizard wears long red robes!”

“The big one’s got more muscles than a horse!”

The mob surged past them. Raistlin frowned in irritation. “I don’t have time for this. I must see Councillor Shavas.”

Caramon stared at him. “But- You think she tried to kill you!”

“No, my brother. Not kill me. You see, Caramon,” Raistlin said, with a soft sigh, “I think that I am at last beginning to understand.”

“I’m glad you are. I don’t understand a damn thing! Well, we better get started, before they come back.”

“No, my brother. Not we. I must go alone.”

“But-”

“Return to Barnstoke Hall. There may be news of the kender. If what you say you overheard is true, he has probably escaped. Caramon”-Raistlin looked at him intently-“beware the ring he wears!”

And then, before Caramon could say a word, the mage was gone, slipping into the shadows of late afternoon, gliding down the street like a wraith.

Lady Masak closed the record book, shuddering slightly at what she’d read. With an unsteady hand, she placed the text back on the shelf among the others of its kind, the rows and rows of gold-inlaid dates shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight. She sat down in her white chair, sipping at a cup of steaming tea.

The room was very long, colored gray by stains and paints, and dominated by a single table that stretched its expanse. The only chair was the one the Director of Records occupied. Over a thousand books filled the hall-the legacy of the citizens and council members of Mereklar since the city was discovered.

The woman cocked her head suddenly and turned her gaze out the window to the city below. She’d heard something, or thought she had. It sounded like a scream.

Lady Masak placed the cup of tea onto its saucer and reached under the table, pulling out a triangular roll of cloth, black and worn with age. Unfolding the wrap, she lifted a wand from its coverings, balancing the object with a finger. One end of it bent down from the line of its construction and was covered with sigla burned into the dark wood. The other end was surrounded by a band of metal, seamless and perfect-a ring that left the tip exposed, revealing a deep, circular gouge. The lady looked down the object’s length and smiled.

A loud noise came from downstairs. She pushed the chair back from the table, then crossed in silence to the door. Lady Masak put her ear to the wood.

A hand smashed through, reaching for her throat. The woman brought the end of the wand down onto the clutching black fingers, cracking bone and ripping tendons. The hand withdrew, seemingly injured from the blow, pulling out of the hole it had created.

Lady Masak backed up, behind the chair. No sound came from the other side of the door. The woman raised the wand, pointed the metal-shod tip toward the portal, and concentrated. A bright red beam flashed out from the gouge, struck the door, and disintegrated the wood, sending smoke and dust through the air in a choking cloud.

Lady Masak remained standing where she was, listening intently for the intruder. Glass shattered behind her. Too late, she tried to turn. A blow sent her sprawling against the table, her back rent open by tearing claws. She twisted around, bringing the wand up. Another bolt of crimson arced out from the gouge, but the panther had leaped lightly to one side. The red flame hit the city’s records, setting them ablaze.

The lady concentrated, sweeping the beam across the library, the wand transforming her lust to kill into reality.

Another strike to her back sent her sprawling across the floor. The wand flew from her grasp. She reached out blindly for the weapon, hidden by a cloak of smoke and fire that filled the room. A booted foot smashed down on her arm, snapping it at the elbow.

Lady Masak grasped her assailant by the ankle and dragged his leg out from beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor. She groped frantically for the wand.

An open palm came up and under her chin, snapped her head back, causing her to smash up against the bookshelves. She tried to stand. A black-skinned hand, its fingers bleeding, reached down and lifted the woman by the neck. Claws slashed out and tore open the woman’s throat.

Lady Masak rose on shaking legs and staggered to the window, feebly clutching her neck, around which hung a necklace bearing a silver cat’s skull, ruby eyes gleaming in the flames. Blood ran between her grasping fingers. She shook her head once and smiled-a hideous smile that remained on her face as she sank to the floor.

The fire consumed the room. A hand reached from the roiling clouds of smoke to pick up the wand from the floor. Clawed fingers snapped the rod in two, discarding the splintered wooden halves, leaving it to be destroyed by the blaze.