War of the Twins

The Army of Fistandantilus

As the band of men under Caramon’s command traveled south toward the great dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin, their fame grew—and so did their numbers. The fabled “wealth beneath the mountain” had long been legend among the wretched, half-starved people of Solamnia. That summer, they had seen most of their crops wither and die in the fields. Dread diseases stalked the land,—more feared and deadly than even the savage bands of goblins and ogres who had been driven from their ancient lands by hunger.

Though it was autumn still, the chill of coming winter was in the night air. Faced with nothing but the bleak prospect of watching their children perish through starvation or cold or the illnesses that the clerics of these new gods could not cure, the men and women of Solamnia believed they had nothing to lose. Abandoning their homes, they packed up their families and their meagre possessions to join the army and travel south.

From having to worry about feeding thirty men, Caramon suddenly found himself responsible for several hundred, plus women and children as well. And more came to the camp daily. Some were knights, trained with sword and spear; their nobility apparent even through their rags. Others were farmers, who held the swords Caramon put in their hands as they might have held their hoes. But there was a kind of grim nobility about them, too. After years of helplessly facing Famine and Want, it was an exhilarating thought to be preparing to face an enemy that could be killed and conquered.

Without quite realizing how it happened, Caramon found himself general of what was now being called the “Army of Fistandantilus.”

At first, he had all he could manage to do in acquiring food for the vast numbers of men and their families. But memories of the lean days of mercenary life returned to him. Discovering those who were skilled hunters, he sent them ranging far afield in search of game. The women smoked the meat or dried it, so that what was not immediately used could be stored.

Many of those who came brought what grain and fruit they had managed to harvest. This Caramon pooled, ordering the grain pounded into flour or maize, baking it into the rock-hard but life-sustaining trail bread a traveling army could live on for months. Even the children had their tasks—snaring or shooting small game, fishing, hauling water, chopping wood.

Then he had to undertake the training of his raw recruits drilling them in the use of spear and bow, of sword and shield.

Finally, he had to find those spears and bows, swords and shields.

And, as the army moved relentlessly south, word of their coming spread...

1

Pax Tharkas—a monument to peace. Now it had become a symbol of war.

The history of the great stone fortress of Pax Tharkas has its roots in an unlikely legend—the story of a lost race of dwarves known as the Kal-thax.

As humans cherish steel—the forging of bright weapons, the glitter of bright coin; as elves cherish their woodlands—the bringing forth and nurturing of life; so the dwarves cherish stone—the shaping of the bones of the world.

Before the Age of Dreams was the Age of Twilight when the history of the world is shrouded in the mists of its dawning. There dwelt in the great halls of Thorbardin a race of dwarves whose stonework was so perfect and so remarkable that the god Reorx, Forger of the World, looked upon it and marveled. Knowing in his wisdom that once such perfection had been attained by mortals there was nothing left in life to strive for, Reorx took up the entire Kal-thax race and brought them to live with him near heaven’s forge.

Few examples remain of the ancient craftwork of the Kal-thax. These are kept within the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin and are valued above all other things. After the time of the Kal-thax, it was the lifelong ambition of each dwarf to gain such perfection in his stonework that he, too, might be taken up to live with Reorx.

As time went by, however, this worthy goal became perverted and twisted into an obsession.

Thinking and dreaming of nothing but stone, the lives of the dwarves became as inflexible and unchanging as the medium of their craft. They burrowed deep into their ancient halls beneath the mountain, shunning the outside world. And the outside world shunned them.

Time passed and brought the tragic wars between elves and men. This ended with the signing of the Swordsheath Scroll and the voluntary exile of Kith-Kanan and his followers from the ancient elven homeland of Silvanesti. By the terms of the Swordsheath Scroll, the Qualinesti elves (meaning “freed nation”) were given the lands west of Thorbardin for the establishment of their new homeland.

This was agreeable to both humans and elves. Unfortunately, no one bothered to consult the dwarves. Seeing this influx of elves as a threat to their way of life beneath the mountain, the dwarves attacked. Kith-Kanan found, to his sorrow, that he had walked away from one war only to find himself embroiled in another.

After many long years, the wise elven king managed to convince the stubborn dwarves that the elves had no interest in their stone. They wanted only the living beauty of their wilderness.

Though this love for something changeable and wild was totally incomprehensible to the dwarves, they at last came to accept the idea. The elves were no longer seen as a threat. The races could, at last, become friends.

To honor this agreement, Pax Tharkas was built. Guarding the mountain pass between Qualinesti and Thorbardin, the fortress was dedicated as a monument to differences—a symbol of unity and diversity.

In those times, before the Cataclysm, elves and dwarves had together manned the battlements of this mighty fortress. But now, dwarves alone kept watch from its two tall towers. For the evil time brought division once again to the races.

Retreating into their forested homeland of Qualinesti, nursing the, wounds that drove them to seek solitude, the elves left Pax Tharkas. Safe inside their woodlands, they closed their borders to all. Trespassers—whether human or goblin, dwarf or ogre—were killed instantly and without question.

Duncan, King of Thorbardin, thought of this as he watched the sun drop down behind the mountains, falling from the sky into Qualinesti. He had a sudden, playful vision of the elves attacking the sun itself for daring to enter their land, and he snorted derisively. Well, they have good reason to be paranoid, he said to himself. They have good reason to shut out the world. What did the world do for them?

Entered their lands, raped their women, murdered their children, burned their homes, stole their food. And was it goblins or ogres, spawn of evil? No! Duncan growled savagely into his beard. It was those they had trusted, those they had welcomed as friends—humans.

And now it’s our turn, Duncan thought, pacing the battlements, an eye on the sunset that had bathed the sky in blood. It’s our turn to shut our doors and tell the world good riddance! Go to the Abyss in your own way and let us go to it in ours!

Lost in his thoughts, Duncan only gradually became aware that another person had joined him in his pacing; iron-shod steps keeping time with his. The new dwarf was head and shoulders taller than his king and, with his long legs, could have taken two steps for his king’s one. But he had, out of respect, slowed his pace to match his monarch’s.

Duncan frowned uncomfortably. At any other time, he would have welcomed this person’s company. Now it came to him as a sign of ill omen. It threw a shadow over his thoughts, as the sinking sun caused the chill shadow of the mountain peaks to lengthen and stretch out their fingers toward Pax Tharkas.

“They’ll guard our western border well,” Duncan said by way of opening the conversation, his gaze on the borders of Qualinesti.

“Aye, Thane,” the other dwarf answered, and Duncan cast a sharp glance at him from beneath his thick, gray eyebrows Though the taller dwarf had spoken in agreement with his king, there was a reserve, a coolness in the dwarf’s voice indicative of his disapproval.

Snorting in irritation, Duncan whirled abruptly in his pacing, heading the other direction, and had the amused satisfaction of having caught his fellow dwarf off guard. But the taller dwarf, instead of stumbling to turn around and catch up with his king, simply stopped and stood staring sadly out over the battlements of Pax Tharkas into the now shadowy elven lands beyond.

Irritably, Duncan first considered simply continuing on without his companion, then he came to a halt, giving the tall dwarf time to catch up. The tall dwarf made no move, however, so finally with an exasperated expression, Duncan turned and stomped back.

“By Reorx’s beard, Kharas,” he growled, “what is it?”

“I think you should meet with Fireforge,” Kharas said slowly, his eyes on the sky that was now deepening to purple. Far above, a single, bright star sparkled in the darkness.

“I have nothing to say to him,” Duncan said shortly.

“The Thane is wise,” Kharas spoke the ritual words with a bow, but he accompanied it with a heavy sigh, clasping his hands behind his back.

Duncan exploded. “What you mean to say is ‘The Thane’s a stupid ass!’ ” The king poked Kharas in the arm. “Isn’t that nearer the mark?”

Kharas turned his head, smiling, stroking the silken tresses of his long, curling beard that shone in the light of the torches being lit upon the walls. He started to reply, but the air was suddenly filled with noise—the ringing of boots, the stamping of feet and calling of voices, the clash of axes against steel: the changing of the watch. Captains shouted commands, men left their positions, others took them over. Kharas, observing this in silence, used it as a meaningful backing for his statement when he finally did speak.

“I think you should listen to what he has to say to you, Thane Duncan,” Kharas said simply.

“There is talk that you are goading our cousins into war—”

“Me!” Duncan roared in a rage. “Me goading them into war! They’re the ones who’re on the march, swarming down out of their hills like rats! It was they who left the mountain. We never asked them to abandon their ancestral home! But no, in their stiff-necked pride they—” He sputtered on, relating a long history of wrongs, both justified and imagined. Kharas allowed him to talk, waiting patiently until Duncan had blown off most of his anger.

Then the tall dwarf said patiently, “It will cost you nothing to listen, Thane, and might buy us great gains in the long run. Other eyes than those of our cousins are watching, you may be certain.”

Duncan growled, but he kept silent, thinking. Contrary to what he had accused Kharas of thinking, King Duncan was not a stupid dwarf. Nor did Kharas consider him such. Quite the contrary. One of seven thanes ruling the seven clans of the dwarven kingdom, Duncan had managed to ally the other thanedoms under his leadership giving the dwarves of Thorbardin a king for the first time in centuries. Even the Dewar acknowledged Duncan their leader, albeit reluctantly.

The Dewar, or so-called dark dwarves, dwelt far beneath the ground, in dimly lit, foul-smelling caves that even the mountain dwarves of Thorbardin, who lived most of their lives below ground, hesitated to enter. Long ago, a trace of insanity had shown up in this particular clan, causing them to be shunned by the others. Now, after centuries of inbreeding forced upon them by isolation, the insanity was more pronounced, while those judged sane were an embittered, dour lot.

But they had their uses as well. Quick to anger, ferocious killers who took pleasure in killing, they were a valued part of the Thane’s army. Duncan treated them well for that reason and because, at heart, he was a kind and just dwarf. But he was smart enough not to turn his back on them.

Likewise, Duncan was smart enough to consider the wisdom of Kharas’s words. “Other eyes will be watching.” That was true enough. He cast a glance back to the west, this time a wary one. The elves wanted no trouble, of that he felt certain. Nevertheless, if they thought the dwarves likely to provoke war, they would act swiftly to protect their homeland. Turning, he looked to the north.

Rumor had it that the warlike Plainsmen of Abanasinia were considering an alliance with the hill dwarves, whom they had allowed to camp upon their lands. In fact, for all Duncan knew, this alliance could have already been made. At least if he talked to this hill dwarf, Fireforge, he might find out.

Then, too, there were darker rumors still... rumors of an army marching from the shattered lands of Solamnia, an army led by a powerful, black-robed wizard...

“Very well!” King Duncan snarled with no good grace. “You have won again, Kharas. Tell the hill dwarf I will meet him in the Hall of Thanes at the next watch. See if you can dredge up representatives from the other thanes. We’ll do this above board, since that’s what you recommend.”

Smiling, Kharas bowed, his long beard nearly sweeping the tops of his boots. With a surly nod, Duncan turned and stomped below, his boots ringing out the measure of his displeasure. The other dwarves along the battlements bowed as their king passed but almost immediately turned back to their watch. Dwarves are an independent lot, loyal to their clans first and anyone else second. Though all respected Duncan, he was not revered and he knew it. Maintaining his position was a daily struggle.

Conversation, briefly interrupted by the passage of the king, renewed almost immediately. These dwarves knew war was coming, were eager for it, in fact. Hearing their deep voices, listening to their talk of battles and fighting, Kharas gave another sigh.

Turning in the opposite direction, he started off in search of the delegation of hill dwarves, his heart nearly as heavy as the gigantic war hammer he carried—a hammer few other dwarves could even lift. Kharas, too, saw war coming. He felt as he had felt once when, as a young child, he had traveled to the city of Tarsis and stood on the beach, watching in wonder as the waves crashed upon the shore. That war was coming seemed as inevitable and unstoppable as the waves themselves. But he was determined to do what he could to try to prevent it.

Kharas made no secret of his hatred of war, he was strong in his arguments for peace. Many among the dwarves found this odd, for Kharas was the acknowledged hero of his race. As a young dwarf in the days before the Cataclysm, he had been among those who fought the legions of goblins and ogres in the Great Goblin Wars fomented by the Kingpriest of Istar.

That was a time when there was still trust among races. Allies of the Knights, the dwarves had gone to their aid when the goblins invaded Solamnia. The dwarves and knights fought side by side, and young Kharas had been deeply impressed by the knightly Code and the Measure. The Knights, in turn, had been impressed by the young dwarf’s fighting skill.

Taller and stronger than any others of his race, Kharas wielded a huge hammer that he had made himself—legend said it was with the god, Reorx’s, help—and there were countless times he held the field alone until his men could rally behind him to drive off the invaders.

For his valor, the Knights awarded him the name “Kharas,” which means “knight” in their language. There was no higher honor they could bestow upon an outsider.

When Kharas returned home, he found his fame had spread. He could have been the military leader of the dwarves; indeed, he might have been king himself, but he had no such ambitions.

He had been one of Duncan’s strongest supporters, and many believed Duncan owed his rise to power in his clan to Kharas. But, if so, that fact had not poisoned their relationship. The older dwarf and the younger hero became close friends Duncan’s rock-hard practicality keeping Kharas’s idealism well-grounded.

And then came the Cataclysm. In those first, terrible years following the shattering of the land, Kharas’s courage shone as an example to his beleaguered people. His had been the speech that led the thanes to join together and name Duncan king. The Dewar trusted Kharas, when they trusted no other. Because of this unification, the dwarves had survived and even managed to thrive.

Now, Kharas was in his prime. He had been married once, but his beloved wife perished during the Cataclysm, and dwarves, when they wed, wed for life. There would be no sons bearing his name, for which Kharas, contemplating the bleak future he foresaw ahead for the world, was almost thankful.

“Reghar Fireforge, of the hill dwarves, and party.”

The herald pronounced the name, stamping the butt end of his ceremonial spear upon the hard, granite floor. The hill dwarves entered, walking proudly up to the throne where Duncan sat in what was now called the Hall of Thanes in the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Behind him, in shorter chairs that had been hastily dragged in for the occasion, sat the six representatives of the other clans to act as witnesses for their thanes. They were witnesses only, there to report back to their thanes what had been said and done. Since it was war time, all authority rested with Duncan. (At least as much of it as he could claim.)

The witnesses were, in fact, nothing more than captains of their respective divisions. Though supposedly a single unit made up collectively of all the dwarves from each clan, the army was, nonetheless, merely a collection of clans gathered together. Each clan provided its own units with its own leaders; each clan lived separate and apart from the others. Fights among the clans were not uncommon—there were blood feuds that went back for generations. Duncan had tried his best to keep a tight lid on these boiling cauldrons, but—every now and then—the pressure built too high and the lid blew off.

Now, however, facing a common foe, the clans were united. Even the Dewar representative, a dirty-faced, ragged captain named Argat who wore his beard braided in knots in a barbaric fashion and who amused himself during the proceedings by skillfully tossing a knife into the air and catching it as it descended, listened to the proceedings with less than his usual air of sneering contempt.

There was, in addition, the captain of a squadron of gully dwarves. Known as the Highgug, he was there by Duncan’s courtesy only. The word “gug” meaning “private” in gully dwarf language, this dwarf was therefore nothing more than a “high private,” a rank considered laughable in the rest of the army. It was an outstanding honor among gully dwarves, however, and the Highgug was held in awe by most of his troops. Duncan, always politic, was unfailingly polite to the Highgug and had, therefore, won his undying loyalty. Although there were many who thought this might have been more of a hindrance than a help, Duncan replied that you never knew when such things could come in handy.

And so the Highgug was here as well, though few saw him. He had been given a chair in an obscure corner and told to sit still and keep quiet, instructions he followed to the letter. In fact, they had to return to remove him two days later.

“Dwarves is dwarves,” was an old saying common to the populace of the rest of Krynn when referring to the differences between the hill dwarves and the mountain dwarves.

But there were differences—vast differences, to the dwarvish mind, though these might not have been readily apparent to any outside observer. Oddly enough, and neither the elves nor the dwarves would admit it, the hill dwarves had left the ancient kingdom of Thorbardin for many of the same reasons that the Qualinesti elves left the traditional homeland of Silvanesti.

The dwarves of Thorbardin lived rigid, highly structured lives. Everyone knew his or her place within his or her own clan. Marriage between clans was unheard of; loyalty to the clan being the binding force of every dwarf’s life. Contact with the outside world was shunned—the very worst punishment that could be inflicted upon a dwarf was exile; even execution was considered more merciful. The dwarf’s idea of an idyllic life was to be born, grow up, and die without ever sticking one’s nose outside the gates of Thorbardin.

Unfortunately, this was—or at least had been in the past—a dream only. Constantly called to war to defend their holdings, the dwarves were forced to mix with the outside world. And—if there were no wars—there were always those who sought the dwarven skill in building and who were willing to pay vast sums to acquire it. The beautiful city of Palanthas had been lovingly constructed by a veritable army of dwarves, as had many of the other cities in Krynn. Thus a race of well-traveled, free-spirited, independent dwarves came about. They talked of intermarriage between the clans, they spoke matter of factly about trade with humans and elves. They actually expressed a desire to live in the open air. And—most heinous of all—they expressed the belief that other things in life might hold more importance than the crafting of stone.

This, of course, was seen by the more rigid dwarves as a direct threat to dwarvish society itself, so, inevitably, the split occurred. The independent dwarves left their home beneath the mountain in Thorbardin. The parting did not occur peacefully. There were harsh words on both sides. Blood feuds started then that would last for hundreds of years. Those who left took to the hills where, if life wasn’t all they had hoped for, at least it was free—they could marry whom they chose, come and go as they chose, earn their own money. The dwarves left behind simply closed ranks and became even more rigid, if that were possible.

The two dwarves facing each other now were thinking of this, as they sized each other up. They were also thinking, perhaps, that this was a historic moment—the first time both sides had met in centuries.

Reghar Fireforge was the elder of the two, a top-ranking member of the strongest clan of hill dwarves. Though nearing his two-hundredth Day of Life Gift, the old dwarf was hale and hearty still. He came of a long-lived clan. The same could not be said of his sons, however. Their mother had died of a weak heart and the same malady seemed to run in the family. Reghar had lived to bury his eldest son and, already, he could see some of the same symptoms of an early death in his next oldest—a young man of seventy-five, just recently married.

Dressed in furs and animal skins, looking as barbaric (if cleaner) than the Dewar, Reghar stood with his feet wide apart, staring at Duncan, his rock-hard eyes glittering from beneath brows so thick many wondered how the old dwarf could see at all. His hair was iron gray, so was his beard, and he wore it plaited and combed and tucked into his belt in hill-dwarf fashion. Flanked by an escort of hill dwarves—all dressed much the same—the old dwarf was an impressive sight.

King Duncan returned Reghar’s gaze without faltering—this staring-down contest was an ancient dwarvish practice and, if the parties were particularly stubborn, had been known to result in both dwarves keeling over from exhaustion unless interrupted by some neutral third party. Duncan, as he regarded Reghar grimly, began to stroke his own curled and silky beard that flowed freely over his broad stomach. It was a sign of contempt, and Reghar, noticing it without admitting that he noticed it, flushed in anger.

The six clan members sat stoically in their chairs, prepared for a long sitting. Reghar’s escort spread their feet and fixed their eyes on nothing. The Dewar continued to toss his knife in the air—much to everyone’s annoyance. The Highgug sat in his corner, forgotten except for the redolent odor of gully dwarf that pervaded the chill room. It seemed likely, from the look of things, that Pax Tharkas would crumble with age around their heads before anyone spoke. Finally, with a sigh, Kharas stepped in between Reghar and Duncan. Their line of vision broken, each party could drop his gaze without losing dignity.

Bowing to his king, Kharas turned and bowed to Reghar with profound respect. Then he retreated. Both sides were now free to talk on an equal basis, though each side privately had its own ideas about how equal that might be.

“I have granted you audience,” Duncan stated, starting matters off with formal politeness that, among dwarves, never lasted long, “Reghar Fireforge, in order to hear what brings our kinsmen on a journey to a realm they chose to leave long ago.”

“A good day it was for us when we shook the dust of the mouldy old tomb from our feet,” Reghar growled, “to live in the open like honest men instead of skulking beneath the rock like lizards.”

Reghar patted his plaited beard, Duncan stroked his. Both glared at each other. Reghar’s escort wagged their heads, thinking their chieftain had come off better in the first verbal contest.

“Then why is it that the honest men have returned to the mouldy old tomb, except that they come as grave robbers?” Duncan snapped, leaning back with an air of self-satisfaction.

There was a murmur of appreciation from the six mountain dwarves, who clearly thought their thane had scored a point.

Reghar flushed. “Is the man who takes back what was stolen from him first a thief?” he demanded.

“I fail to understand the point of that question,” Duncan said smoothly, “since you have nothing of value anyone would want to steal. It is said even the kender avoid your land.”

There was appreciative laughter from the mountain dwarves, while the hill dwarves literally shook with rage—that being a mortal insult. Kharas sighed.

“I’ll tell you about stealing!” Reghar snarled, his beard quivering with anger. “Contracts—that’s what you’ve stolen! Underbidding us, working at a loss to take the bread from our mouths! And there’ve been raids into our lands—stealing our grain and cattle! We’ve heard the stories of the wealth you’ve amassed and we’ve come to claim what is rightfully ours! No more, no less!”

“Lies!” roared Duncan, leaping to his feet in a fury. “All lies! What wealth lies below the mountain we’ve worked for, with honest sweat! And here you come back, like spendthrift children, whining that your bellies are empty after wasting the days carousing when you should have been working!” He made an insulting gesture. “You even look like beggars!”

“Beggars, is it?” Reghar roared in his turn, his face turning a deep shade of purple. “No, by Reorx’s beard! If I was starving and you handed me a crust of bread, I’d spit on your shoes! Deny that you’re fortifying this place, practically on our borders! Deny that you’ve roused the elves against us, causing them to cut off their trade! Beggars! No! By Reorx’s beard and his forge and his hammer, we’ll come back, but it’ll be as conquerors! We’ll have what is rightfully ours and teach you a lesson to boot!”

“You’ll come, you sniveling cowards”—Duncan sneered “hiding behind the skirts of a black-robed wizard and the bright shields of human warriors, greedy for spoils! They’ll stab you in the back and then rob your corpses!”

“Who should know better about robbing corpses!” Reghar shouted. “You’ve been robbing ours for years!”

The six clan members sprang out of their chairs, and Reghar’s escort jumped forward. The Dewar’s high-pitched laughter rose above the thundering shouts and threats. The Highgug crouched in his corner, his mouth wide open.

The war might have started then and there had not Kharas run between the two sides, his tall figure towering over everyone. Pushing and shoving, he forced both sides to back off. Still, even after the two were separated, there was the shout of derision, the occasional insult hurled. But—at a stern glance from Kharas—these soon ceased and all fell into a sullen, surly silence.

Kharas spoke, his deep voice gruff and filled with sadness. “Long ago, I prayed the god to grant me the strength to fight injustice and evil in the world. Reorx answered my prayer by granting me leave to use his forge, and there, on the forge of the god himself, I made this hammer. It has shone in battle since, fighting the evil things of this world and protecting my homeland, the homeland of my people. Now, you, my king, would ask of me that I go to war against my kinsmen? And you, my kinsmen, would threaten to bring war to our land? Is this where your words are leading you—that I should use this hammer against my own blood?”

Neither side spoke. Both glowered at each other from beneath tangled brows, both seemed almost half-ashamed. Kharas’s heartfelt speech touched many. Only two heard it unmoved. Both were old men, both had long ago lost any illusions about the world, both knew this rift had grown too wide to be bridged by words. But the gesture had to be made.

“Here is my offer, Duncan, King of Thorbardin,” Reghar said, breathing heavily. “Withdraw your men from this fortress. Give Pax Tharkas and the lands that surround it to us and our human allies. Give us one-half of the treasure beneath the mountain—the half that is rightfully ours—and allow those of us who might choose to do so to return to the safety of the mountain if the evil grows in this land. Persuade the elves to lift their trade barriers, and split all contracts for masonry work fifty-fifty.

“In return, we will farm the land around Thorbardin and trade our crops to you for less than it’s costing you to grow them underground. We’ll help protect your borders and the mountain itself, if need arises.”

Kharas gave his lord a pleading look, begging him to consider—or at least negotiate. But Duncan was beyond reasoning, it seemed.

“Get out!” he snarled. “Return to your black-robed wizard! Return to your human friends! Let us see if your wizard is powerful enough to blow down the walls of this fortress, or uproot the stones of our mountain. Let us see how long your human friends remain friends when the winter winds swirl about the campfires and their blood drips on the snow!”

Reghar gave Duncan a final look, filled with such enmity and hatred it might well have been a blow. Then, turning on his heel, he motioned to his followers. They stalked out of the Hall of Thanes and out of Pax Tharkas.

Word spread quickly. By the time the hill dwarves were ready to leave, the battlements were lined with mountain dwarves, shouting and hooting derisively. Reghar and his party rode off, their faces stern and grim, never once looking back.

Kharas, meanwhile, stood in the Hall of Thanes, alone with his king (and the forgotten Highgug).

The six witnesses had all returned to their clans, spreading the news. Kegs of ale and the potent drink known as dwarf spirits were broached that night in celebration. Already, the sounds of singing and raucous laughter could be heard echoing through the great stone monument to peace.

“What would it have hurt to negotiate, Thane?” Kharas asked, his voice heavy with sorrow.

Duncan, his sudden anger apparently vanished, looked at the taller dwarf and shook his head, his graying beard brushing against his robes of state. He was well within his rights to refuse to answer such an impertinent question. Indeed, no one but Kharas would have had the courage to question Duncan’s decision at all.

“Kharas,” Duncan said, putting his hand on his friend’s arm affectionately, “tell me—is there treasure beneath the mountain? Have we robbed our kinsmen? Do we raid their lands, or the lands of the humans, for that matter? Are their accusations just?”

“No,” Kharas answered, his eyes meeting those of his sovereign steadily.

Duncan sighed. “You have seen the harvest. You know that what little money remains in the treasury we will spend to lay in what we can for this winter.”

“Tell them this!” Kharas said earnestly. “Tell them the truth! They are not monsters! They are our kinsmen, they will understand—”

Duncan smiled sadly, wearily. “No, they are not monsters. But, what is worse, they have become like children.” He shrugged. “Oh, we could tell them the truth—show them even. But they would not believe us. They would not believe their own eyes. Why? Because they want to believe otherwise!”

Kharas frowned, but Duncan continued patiently. “They want to believe, my friend. More than that, they have to believe. It is their only hope for survival. They have nothing, nothing except that hope. And so they are willing to fight for it. I understand them.” The old king’s eyes dimmed for a moment, and Kharas—staring at him in amazement—realized then that his anger had been all feigned, all show.

“Now they can return to their wives and their hungry children and they can say, ‘We will fight the usurpers! When we win, you will have full bellies again.’ And that will help them forget their hunger, for awhile.”

Kharas’s face twisted in anguish. “But to go this far! Surely, we can share what little—”

“My friend,” Duncan said softly, “by Reorx’s Hammer, I swear this—if I agree to their terms, we would all perish. Our race would cease to exist.”

Kharas stared at him. “As bad as that?” he asked.

Duncan nodded. “Aye, as bad as that. Few only know this the leaders of the clans, and now you. And I swear you to secrecy. The harvest was disastrous. Our coffers are nearly empty, and now we must hoard what we can to pay for this war. Even for our own people, we will be forced to ration food this winter. With what we have, we calculate that we can make it—barely. Add hundreds of more mouths—” He shook his head.

Kharas stood pondering, then he lifted his head, his dark eyes flashing. “If that is true, then so be it!” he said sternly. “Better we all starve to death, than die fighting each other!”

“Noble words, my friend,” Duncan answered. The beating of drums thrummed through the room and deep voices raised in stirring war chants, older than the rocks of Pax Tharkas, older—perhaps—than the bones of the world itself. “You can’t eat noble words, though, Kharas. You can’t drink them or wrap them around your feet or burn them in your firepit or give them to children crying in hunger.”

“What about the children who will cry when their father leaves, never to return?” Kharas asked sternly.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “They will cry for a month,” he said simply, “then they will eat his share of the food. And wouldn’t he want it that way?”

With that, he turned and left the Hall of Thanes, heading for the battlements once more.

As Duncan counseled Kharas in the Hall of Thanes, Reghar Fireforge and his party were guiding their short-statured, shaggy hill ponies out of the fortress of Pax Tharkas, the hoots and laughter of their kinsmen ringing in their ears.

Reghar did not speak a word for long hours, until they were well out of sight of the huge double towers of the fortress. Then, when they came to a crossing in the road, the old dwarf reined in his horse.

Turning to the youngest member of the party, he said in a grim, emotionless voice, “Continue north, Darren Ironfist.” The old dwarf drew forth a battered, leather pouch. Reaching inside, he pulled out his last gold piece. For a long moment he stood staring at it, then he pressed it into the hands of the dwarf. “Here. Buy passage across the New Sea. Find this Fistandantilus and tell him... tell him—”

Reghar paused, realizing the enormity of his action. But, he had no choice. This had been decided before he left. Scowling, he snarled, “Tell him that, when he gets here, he’ll have an army waiting to fight for him.”

2

The night was cold and dark over the lands of Solamnia. The stars above gleamed with a sparkling, brittle light. The constellations of the Platinum Dragon, Paladine, and Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, circled each other endlessly around Gilean’s Scales of Balance. It would be two hundred years or more before these same constellations vanished from the skies, as the gods and men waged war over Krynn.

For now, each was content with watching the other.

If either god had happened to glance down, he or she would, perhaps, have been amused to see what appeared to be mankind’s feeble attempts to imitate their celestial glory. On the plains of Solamnia, outside the mountain fortress city of Garnet, campfires dotted the flat grasslands, lighting the night below as the stars lit the night above.

The Army of Fistandantilus.

The flames of the campfires were reflected in shield and breastplate, danced off sword blades and flashed on spear tip. The fires shone on faces bright with hope and new-found pride, they burned in the dark eyes of the camp followers and leaped up to light the merry play of the children.

Around the campfires stood or sat groups of men, talking and laughing, eating and drinking, working over their equipment. The night air was filled with jests and oaths and tall tales. Here and there were groans of pain, as men rubbed shoulders and arms that ached from unaccustomed exercise. Hands calloused from swinging hoes were blistered from wielding spears. But these were accepted with good-natured shrugs. They could watch their children play around the campfires and know that they had eaten, if not well, at least adequately that night. They could face their wives with pride. For the first time in years, these men had a goal, a purpose in their lives.

There were some who knew this goal might well be death, but those who knew this recognized and understood it and made the choice to remain anyway.

“After all,” said Garic to himself as his replacement came to relieve him of his guard duty, “death comes to all. Better a man meet it in the blazing sunlight, his sword flashing in his hand, than to have it come creeping up on him in the night unawares, or clutch at him with foul, diseased hands.”

The young man, now that he was off duty, returned to his campfire and retrieved a thick cloak from his bedroll. Hastily gulping down a bowl of rabbit stew, he then walked among the campfires.

Headed for the outskirts of the camp, he walked with purpose, ignoring many invitations to join friends around their fires. These he waved off genially and continued on his way. Few thought anything of this. A great many fled the lights of the fires at night. The shadows were warm with soft sighs and murmurs and sweet laughter.

Garic did have an appointment in the shadows, but it was not with a lover, though several young women in camp would have been more than happy to share the night with the handsome young nobleman. Coming to a large boulder, far from camp and far from other company, Garic wrapped his cloak about him, sat down, and waited.

He did not wait long.

“Garic?” said a hesitant voice.

“Michael!” Garic cried warmly, rising to his feet. The two men clasped hands and then, overcome, embraced each other warmly.

“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you ride into camp today, cousin!” Garic continued, gripping the other young man’s hand as though afraid to let him go, afraid he might disappear into the darkness.

“Nor I you,” said Michael, holding fast to his kinsmen and trying to rid his throat of a huskiness it seemed to have developed. Coughing, he sat down on the boulder and Garic joined him. Both remained silent for a few moments as they cleared their throats and pretended to be stern and soldierly.

“I thought it was a ghost,” Michael said with a hollow attempt at a laugh. “We heard you were dead... His voice died and he coughed again. “Confounded damp weather,” he muttered, “gets in a man’s windpipes.”

“I escaped,” Garic said quietly. “But my father, my mother, and my sister were not so lucky.”

“Anne?” Michael murmured, pain in his voice.

“She died quickly,” Garic said quietly, “as did my mother. My father saw to that, before the mob butchered him. It made them mad. They mutilated his body—”

Garic choked. Michael gripped his arm in sympathy. “A noble man, your father. He died as a true Knight, defending his home. A better death than some face,” he added grimly, causing Garic to look at him with a sharp, penetrating glance. “But, what is your story? How did you get away from the mob? Where have you been this last year?”

“I did not get away from them,” Garic said bitterly. “I arrived when it was all over. Where I had been did not matter’—the young man flushed—“but I should have been with them, to die with them!”

“No, your father would not have wanted that.” Michael shook his head. “You live. You will carry on the name.”

Garic frowned, his eyes glinted darkly. “Perhaps. Though I have not lain with a woman since—” He shook his head. “At any rate, I could only do for them what I could. I set fire to the castle—”

Michael gasped, but Garic continued, unhearing.

“—so that the mobs should not take it over. My family’s ashes remain there, among the blackened stones of the hall my great-great-grandfather built. Then I rode aimlessly, for a time, not much caring what happened to me. Finally, I met up with a group of other men, man y like myself—driven from their homes for various reasons.

“They asked no questions. They cared nothing about me except that I could wield a sword with skill. I joined them and we lived off our wits.”

“Bandits?” Michael asked, trying to keep a startled tone from his voice and failing, apparently, for Garic cast him a dark glance.

“Yes, bandits,” the young man answered coldly. “Does that shock you? That a Knight of Solamnia should so forget the Code and the Measure that he joins with bandits? I’ll ask you this, Michael—where were the Code and the Measure when they murdered my father, your uncle? Where are they anywhere in this wretched land?”

“Nowhere, perhaps,” Michael returned steadily, “except in our hearts.”

Garic was silent. Then he began to weep, harsh sobs that tore at his body. His cousin put his arms around him, holding him close. Garic gave a shuddering sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I have not cried once since I found them,” he said in a muffled voice. “And you are right, cousin. Living with robbers, I had sunk into a pit from which I might not have escaped, but for the general—”

“This Caramon?”

Garic nodded. “We ambushed him and his party one night. And that opened my eyes. Before, I had always robbed people without much thought or, sometimes, I even enjoyed it—telling myself it was dogs like these who had murdered my father. But in this party there was a woman and the magic-user. The wizard was ill. I hit him, and he crumpled at my touch like a broken doll. And the woman—I knew what they would do to her and the thought sickened me. But, I was afraid of the leader Steeltoe, they called him. He was a beast! Half-ogre.

“But the general challenged him. I saw true nobility that night—a man willing to give his life to protect those weaker than himself. And he won.” Garic grew calmer. As he talked, his eyes shone with admiration. “I saw, then, what my life had become. When Caramon asked if we would come with him, I agreed, as did most of the others. But it wouldn’t have mattered about them—I would have gone with him anywhere.”

“And now you’re part of his personal guard?” Michael said, smiling.

Garic nodded, flushing with pleasure. “I—I told him I was no better than the others—a bandit, a thief. But he just looked at me, as though he could see inside my soul, and smiled and said every man had to walk through a dark, starless night and, when he faced the morning, he’d be better for it.”

“Strange,” Michael said. “I wonder what he meant?”

“I think I understand,” Garic said. His glance went to the far edge of the camp where Caramon’s huge tent stood, smoke from the fires curling around the fluttering, silken flag that was a black streak against the stars. “Sometimes, I wonder if he isn’t walking through his own ‘dark night.’ I’ve seen a look on his face, sometimes—” Garic shook his head. “You know,” he said abruptly, “he and the wizard are twin brothers.”

Michael’s eyes opened wide. Garic confirmed it with a nod. “It is a strange relationship. There’s no love lost between them.”

“One of the Black Robes?” Michael said, snorting. “I should think not! I wonder the mage even travels with us. From what I have heard, these wizards can ride the night winds and summon forces from the graves to do their battles.”

“This one could do that, I’ve no doubt,” Garic replied, giving a smaller tent next to the general’s a dark glance. “Though I have seen him do his magic only once—back at the bandit camp—I know he is powerful. One look from his eyes, and my stomach shrivels inside of me, my blood turns to water. But, as I said, he was not well when we first met up with them. Night after night, when he still slept in his brother’s tent, I heard him cough until I did not think he could draw breath again.

How can a man live with such pain, I asked myself more than once.”

“But he seemed fine when I saw him today.”

“His health has improved greatly. He does nothing to tax it, however. Just spends all day in his tent, studying the spellbooks he carries with him in those great, huge chests. But he’s walking his ‘dark night,’ too,” Garic added. “A gloom hangs about him, and it’s been growing the farther south we travel. He is haunted by terrible dreams. I’ve heard him cry out in his sleep. Horrible cries—they’d wake the dead.”

Michael shuddered, there., sighing, looked over at Caramon’s tent. “I had grave misgivings about joining an army led, they say, by one of the Black Robes. And of all the wizards who have ever lived, this Fistandantilus is rumored to be the most powerful. I had not fully committed myself to join when I rode in today. I thought I would look things over, find out if it’s true they go south to help the oppressed people of Abanasinia in their fight against mountain dwarves.”

Sighing again, he made a gesture as if to stroke long mustaches, but his hand stopped. He was clean-shaven, having removed the ages-old symbol of the Knights—the symbol that led, these days, to death.

“Though my father still lives, Garic,” Michael continued, “I think he might well trade his life for your father’s death. We were given a choice by the lord of Vingaard Keep—we could stay in the city and die or leave and live. Father would have died. I, too, if we’d had only ourselves to think of. But we could not afford the luxury of honor. A bitter day it was when we packed what we could on a mean cart and left the Hall. I saw them settled in a wretched cottage in Throtyl. They’ll be all right, for the winter at least. Mother is strong and does the work of a man. My little brothers are good hunters... .”

“Your father?” Garic asked gently when Michael stopped talking.

“His heart broke that day,” Michael said simply. “He sits staring out the window, his sword on his lap. He has not spoken one word to anyone since the day we left the family hall.”

Michael suddenly clenched his fist. “Why am I lying to you, Garic? I don’t give a damn about oppressed people in Abanasinia! I came to find the treasure! The treasure beneath the mountain! And glory! Glory to bring back the light in his eyes! If we win, the Knights can lift their heads once more!”

He, too, gazed at the small tent next to the large one—the small tent that had the sign of a wizard’s residence hung upon it, the small tent that everyone in the camp avoided, if possible. “But, to find this glory, led by the man called the Dark One. The Knights of old would not have done so. Paladine—”

“Paladine has forgotten us,” Garic said bitterly. “We are left on our own. I know nothing of black-robed wizards, I care little about that one. I stay here and I follow because of one man the general. If he leads me to my fortune, well and good. If not”—Garic sighed deeply—“then he has at least led me to find peace within myself. I could wish the same for him,” he said, beneath his breath. Then, rising, he shook off his gloomy thoughts.

Michael rose, too.

“I must return to camp and get some sleep. It is early waking tomorrow,” Garic said. “We’re preparing to march within the week, so I hear. Well, cousin, will you stay?”

Michael looked at Garic. He looked at Caramon’s tent, its bright-colored flag with the nine-pointed star fluttering in the chill air. He looked at the wizard’s tent. Then, he nodded. Garic grinned widely. The two clasped hands and walked back to the campfires, arms around each other’s shoulders.

“Tell me this, though, “Michael said in a hushed voice as they walked, “is it true this Caramon keeps a witch?”

3

“Where are you going?” Caramon demanded harshly. Stepping into his tent, his eyes blinked rapidly to try to get accustomed to the shadowy darkness after the chill glare of the autumn sun.

“I’m moving out,” Crysania said, carefully folding her white clerical robes and placing them in the chest that had been stored beneath her cot. Now it sat open on the floor beside her.

“We’ve been through this,” Caramon growled in a low voice. Glancing behind him at the guards outside the tent entrance, he carefully lowered the tent flap.

Caramon’s tent was his pride and joy. Having originally belonged to a wealthy Knight of Solamnia, it had been brought to Caramon as a gift by two young, stern-faced men, who though they claimed to have “found” it—handled it with such skilled hands and loving care that it was obvious they had no more “found” it than they had found their own arms or legs.

Made of some fabric none in this day and age could identify, it was so cunningly woven that not a breath of wind penetrated even the seams. Rainwater rolled right off it; Raistlin said it had been treated with some sort of oil. It was large enough for Caramon’s cot, several large chests containing maps, the money, and jewels they brought from the Tower of High Sorcery, clothes and armor, plus a cot for Crysania, as well as a chest for her clothing. Still, it did not seem crowded when Caramon received visitors.

Raistlin slept and studied in a smaller tent made of the same fabric and construction that was pitched near his brother’s. Though Caramon had offered to share the larger tent, the mage had insisted upon privacy. Knowing his twin’s need for solitude and quiet, and not particularly enjoying being around his brother anyway, Caramon had not argued. Crysania, however, had openly rebelled when told she must remain in Caramon’s tent.

In vain, Caramon argued that it was safer for her there. Stories about her “witchcraft,” the strange medallion of a reviled god she wore, and her healing of the big warrior had spread quickly through the camp and were eagerly whispered to all newcomers. The cleric never left her tent but that dark glances followed her. Women grabbed their babies to their breasts when she came near. Small children ran from her in fear that was half mocking and half real.

“I am well aware of your arguments,” Crysania remarked, continuing to fold her clothes and pack them away without looking up at the big man. “And I don’t concede them. Oh!” she stopped him as he drew a breath to speak—“I’ve heard your stories of witch-burning. More than once! I do not doubt their validity, but that was in a day and age far removed from this one.”

“Whose tent are you moving to, then?” Caramon asked, his face flushing. “My brother’s?”

Crysania ceased folding the clothes, holding them for long moments over her arm, staring straight ahead. Her face did not change color. It grew, if possible, a shade more pale. Her lips pressed tightly together. When she answered, her voice was cold and calm as a winter’s day. “There is another small tent, similar to his. I will live in that one. You may post a guard, if you think it necessary.”

“Crysania, I’m sorry,” Caramon said, moving toward her. She still did not look at him. Reaching out his hands, he took hold of her arms, gently, and turned her around, forcing her to face him. “I ... I didn’t mean that. Please forgive me. And, yes, I think it is necessary to post a guard! But there is no one I trust, Crysania, unless it is myself. And, even then—” His breathing quickened, the hands on her arms tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I love you, Crysania,” he said softly. “You’re not like any other woman I’ve ever known! I didn’t mean to. I don’t know how it happened. I—I didn’t even really much like you when I first met you. I thought you were cold and uncaring, wrapped up in that religion of yours. But when I saw you in the clutches of that half-ogre, I saw your courage, and when I thought about what—what they might do to you—”

He felt her shudder involuntarily; she still had dreams about that night. She tried to speak, but Caramon took advantage of her reaction to hurry on.

“I’ve seen you with my brother. It reminds me of the way I was, in the old days”—his voice grew wistful—“you care for him so tenderly, so patiently.”

Crysania did not break free of his grasp. She simply stood there, looking up at him with clear, gray eyes, holding the folded white robe close against her chest. “This, too, is a reason, Caramon,” she said sadly. “I have sensed your growing”—now she flushed, slightly—“affection for me and, while I know you too well to believe you would ever force attentions on me that I would consider unwelcome, I do not feel comfortable sleeping in the same tent alone with you.”

“Crysania!” Caramon began, his face anguished, his hands trembling as they held her.

“What you feel for me isn’t love, Caramon,” Crysania said softly. “You are lonely, you miss your wife. It is her you love. I know, I’ve seen the tenderness in your eyes when you talk about Tika.”

His face darkened at the sound of Tika’s name.

“What would you know of love?” Caramon asked abruptly, releasing his grasp and looking away.

“I love Tika, sure. I’ve loved lots of women. Tika’s loved her share of men, too, I’ll wager.” He drew in an angry breath. That wasn’t true, and he knew it. But it eased his own guilt, guilt he’d been wrestling with for months. “Tika’s human!” he continued surlily. “She’s flesh and blood—not some pillar of ice!”

“What do I know of love?” Crysania repeated, her calm slipping, her gray eyes darkening in anger. “I’ll tell you what I know of love. I—”

“Don’t say it!” Caramon cried in a low voice, completely losing control of himself and grabbing her in his arms. “Don’t say you love Raistlin! He doesn’t deserve your love! He’s using you, just like he used me! And he’ll throw you away when he’s finished!”

“Let go of me!” Crysania demanded, her cheeks stained pink, her eyes a deep gray.

“Can’t you see!” Caramon cried, almost shaking her in his frustration. “Are you blind?”

“Pardon me,” said a soft voice, “if I am interrupting. But there is urgent news.”

At the sound of that soft voice, Crysania’s face went white, then scarlet. Caramon, too, started at the sound, his hands loosening their hold. Crysania drew back from him and, in her haste, stumbled over the chest and fell to her knees. Her face well hidden by her long, black, flowing hair, she remained kneeling beside the chest, pretending to rearrange her things with hands that shook.

Scowling, his own face flushed an ugly red, Caramon turned to face his twin.

Raistlin coolly regarded his brother with his mirrorlike eyes. There was no expression on his face, as there had been no expression in his voice when he spoke upon first entering. But Caramon had seen, for a split second, the eyes crack. The glimpse of the dark and burning jealousy inside appalled him, hitting him an almost physical blow. But the look was gone instantly, leaving Caramon to doubt if he had truly seen it. Only the tight, knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach and the sudden bitter taste in his mouth made him believe it had been there.

“What news?” he growled, clearing his throat.

“Messengers have arrived from the south,” Raistlin said.

“Yes?” Caramon prompted, as his brother paused.

Casting off his hood, Raistlin stepped forward, his gaze holding his brother’s gaze, binding them together, making the resemblance between them strong. For an instant, the mage’s mask dropped.

“The dwarves of Thorbardin are preparing for war!” Raistlin hissed, his slender hand clenching into a fist. He spoke with such intense passion that Caramon blinked at him in astonishment and Crysania raised her head to regard him with concern.

Confused and uncomfortable, Caramon broke free of his brother’s feverish stare and turned away, pretending to shuffle some maps on the map table. The warrior shrugged. “I don’t know what else you expected,” he said coolly. “It was your idea, after all. Talking of hidden wealth. We’ve made no secret of the fact that’s where we’re headed. In fact, it’s practically become our recruiting slogan! ‘Join up with Fistandantilus and raid the mountain!’”

Caramon tossed this off thoughtlessly, but its effect was startling. Raistlin went livid. He seemed to try to speak, but no intelligible sounds came from his lips, only a blood-stained froth. His sunken eyes flared, as the moon on an ice-bound lake. His fist still clenched, he took a step toward his brother.

Crysania sprang to her feet. Caramon—truly alarmed—took a step backward, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword. But, slowly and with a visible effort, Raistlin regained control. With a vicious snarl, he turned and walked from the tent, his intense anger still so apparent, however, that the guards shivered as he passed them.

Caramon remained standing, lost in confusion and fear, unable to comprehend why his brother had reacted as he did. Crysania, too, stared after Raistlin in perplexity until the sound of shouting voices outside the tent roused both of them from their thoughts. Shaking his head, Caramon walked over to the entrance. Once there, he half-turned but did not look at Crysania as he spoke.

“If we are truly preparing for war,” he said coldly, “I can’t take time to worry about you. As I have stated before, you won’t be safe in a tent by yourself. So you’ll continue to sleep here. I’ll leave you alone, you may be certain of that. You have my word of honor.”

With this, he stepped outside the tent and began conferring with his guards.

Flushing in shame, yet so angry she could not speak, Crysania remained in the tent for a moment to regain her composure. Then she, too, walked from the tent. One glance at the guards’ faces and she realized at once that, despite the fact that she and Caramon had kept their voices low, part of their conversation had been overheard.

Ignoring the curious, amused glances, she looked around quickly and saw the flutter of black robes disappearing into the forest. Returning to the tent, she caught up her cloak and, tossing it hurriedly around her shoulders, headed off in the same direction.

Caramon saw Crysania enter the woods near the edge of camp. Though he had not seen Raistlin, he had a pretty good idea of why Crysania was headed in that direction. He started to call to her. Though he did not know of any real danger lurking in the scraggly forest of pine trees that stood at the base of the Garnet Mountains, in these unsettled times, it was best not to take chances.

As her name was on his lips, however, he saw two of his men exchange knowing looks. Caramon had a sudden vivid picture of himself calling after the cleric like some love-sick youth, and his mouth snapped shut. Besides, here was Garic coming up, followed by a weary-looking dwarf and a tall, dark-skinned young man decked out in the furs and feathers of a barbarian.

The messengers, Caramon realized. He would have to meet with them. But—His gaze went once more to the forest. Crysania had vanished. A premonition of danger seized Caramon. It was so strong that he almost crashed through the trees after her, then and there. Every warrior’s instinct called to him. He could put no name to his fear, but it was there, it was real.

Yet, he could not rush off, leaving these emissaries, while he went chasing after a girl. His men would never respect him again. He could send a guard, but that would make him look almost as foolish. There was no help for it. Let Paladine look after her, if that was what she wanted. Gritting his teeth, Caramon turned to greet the messengers and lead them into his tent.

Once there, once he had made them comfortable and had exchanged formal and meaningless pleasantries, once food had been brought and drinks poured, he excused himself and slipped out the back...

Footsteps in the sand, leading me on...

Looking up, I see the scaffold, the hooded figure with its head on the block, the hooded figure of the executioner, the sharp blade of the axe glinting in the burning sun.

The axe falls, the victim’s severed head rolls on the wooden platform, the hood comes off...

“My head!” Raistlin whispered feverishly, twisting his thin hands together in anguish.

The executioner, laughing, removes his hood, revealing...

“My face!” Raistlin murmured, his fear spreading through his body like a malign growth, making him sweat and chill by turns. Clutching at his head, he tried to banish the evil visions that haunted his dreams continually, night after night, and lingered to disturb his waking hours as well, turning all he ate or drank to ashes in his mouth.

But they would not depart. “Master of Past and Present!” Raistlin laughed hollowly-bitter, mocking laughter. “I am Master of nothing! All this power, and I am trapped! Trapped! Following in his footsteps, knowing that every second that passes has passed before! I see people I’ve never seen, yet I know them! I hear the echo of my own words before I speak them! This face!” His hands pressed against his cheeks. “This face! His facet Not mine! Not mine! Who am I? I am my own executioner!”

His voice rose to a shriek. In a frenzy, not realizing what he was doing, Raistlin began to claw at his skin with his nails as though his face were a mask, and he could tear it from his bones.

“Stop! Raistlin, what are you doing? Stop, please!”

He could barely hear the voice. Firm but gentle hands grasped his wrists, and he fought them, struggling. But then the madness passed. The dark and frightful waters in which he had been drowning receded, leaving him calm and drained. Once more, he could see and feel and hear.

His face stung. Looking down, he saw blood on his nails.

“Raistlin!” It was Crysania’s voice. Lifting his gaze, he saw her standing before him, holding his hands away from his face, her eyes wide and filled with concern.

“I’m all right,” Raistlin said coldly. “Leave me alone!” But, even as he spoke, he sighed and lowered his head again, shuddering as the horror of the dream washed over him. Pulling a clean cloth from a pocket, he began to dab at the wounds on his face.

“No, you’re not,” Crysania murmured, taking the cloth from his shaking hand and gently touching the bleeding gouges. “Please, let me do this,” she said, as he snarled something unintelligible. “I know you won’t let me heal you, but there is a clear stream near. Come, drink some water, rest and let me wash these.”

Sharp, bitter words were on Raistlin’s lips. He raised a hand to thrust her away. But then he realized that he didn’t want her to leave. The darkness of the dream receded when she was with him. The touch of warm, human flesh was comforting after the cold fingers of death.

And so, he nodded with a weary sigh.

Her face pale with anguish and concern, Crysania put her arm around him to support his faltering steps, and Raistlin allowed himself to be led through the forest, acutely conscious of the warmth and the motion of her body next to his.

Reaching the bank of the stream, the archmage sat down upon a large, flat rock, warmed by the autumn sun. Crysania dipped her cloth in the water and, kneeling next to him, cleaned the wounds on his face. Dying leaves fell around them, muffling sound, falling into the stream to be whisked away by the water.

Raistlin did not speak. His gaze followed the path of the leaves, watching as each clung to the branch with its last, feeble strength, watching as the ruthless wind tore it from its hold, watching as it swirled in the air to fall into the water, watching as it was carried off into oblivion by the swift-running stream. Looking past the leaves into the water, he saw the reflection of his face wavering there. He saw two long, bloody marks down each cheek, he saw his eyes—no longer mirrorlike, but dark and haunted. He saw fear, and he sneered at himself derisively.

“Tell me,” said Crysania hesitantly, pausing in her ministrations and placing her hand over his, “tell me what’s wrong. I don’t understand. You’ve been brooding ever since we left the Tower. Has it something to do with the Portal being gone? With what Astinus told you back in Palanthas?”

Raistlin did not answer. He did not even look at her. The sun was warm on his black robes, her touch was warmer than the sun. But, somewhere, some part of his mind was coldly balancing, calculating—tell her? What will I gain? More than if I kept silent?

Yes... draw her nearer, enfold her, wrap her up, accustom her to the darkness... .

“I know,” he said finally, speaking as if reluctantly, yet—for reason still not looking at her as he spoke but staring into the water, “that the Portal is in a place near Thorbardin, in the magical fortress called Zhaman. This I discovered from Astinus.

“Legend tells us that Fistandantilus undertook what some call the Dwarfgate Wars so that he could claim the mountain kingdom of Thorbardin for his own. Astinus relates much the same thing in his Chronicles”—Raistlin’s voice grew bitter “much the same thing! But, read between the lines, read closely, as I should have read but, in my arrogance, did not, and you will read the truth!”

His hands clenched. Crysania sat before him, the damp, blood-stained cloth held fast, forgotten as she listened, enthralled.

“Fistandantilus came here to do the very same thing I came here to do!” Raistlin’s words hissed with a strange, foreboding passion. “He cared nothing for Thorbardin! It was all a sham, a ruse! He wanted one thing—and that was to reach the Portal! The dwarves stood in his way, as they stand in mine. They controlled the fortress then, they controlled the land for miles around it. The only way he could reach it was to start a war so that he could get close enough to gain access to it! And, so, history repeats itself.

“For I must do what he did... I am doing what he did!”

His expression bitter, he stared silently into the water.

“From what I have read of Astinus’s Chronicles,” Crysania began, speaking hesitantly, “the war was bound to come anyway. There has long been bad blood between the hill dwarves and their cousins. You can’t blame yourself—”

Raistlin snarled impatiently. “I don’t give a damn about the dwarves! They can sink into the Sirrion, for all I care.” Now he looked at her, coldly, steadily. “You say you have read Astinus’s works on this. If so, think! What caused the end of the Dwarfgate Wars?”

Crysania’s eyes grew unfocused as she sought back in her mind, trying to recall. Then her face paled. “The explosion,” she said softly. “The explosion that destroyed the Plains of Dergoth. Thousands died and so did—”

“So did Fistandantilus!” Raistlin said with grim emphasis.

For long moments, Crysania could only stare at him. Then the full realization of what he meant sank in. “Oh, but surely not!” she cried, dropping the blood-stained cloth and clutching Raistlin’s hand with her own.. You’re not same person The circumstances are different. They must be!

You’ve made a mistake!”

Raistlin shook his head, smiling cynically. Gently disengaging his hand from hers, he reached out and touched her chin, raising her head so that she looked directly into his eyes. “No, the circumstances are not different. I have not made a mistake. I am caught in time, rushing forward to my own doom.”

“How do you know? How can you be certain?”

“I know because—one other perished with Fistandantilus that day.”

“Who?” Crysania asked, but even before he told her she felt a dark mantle of fear settle upon her shoulders, falling around her with a rustle as soft as the dying leaves.

“An old friend of yours.” Raistlin’s smile twisted. “Denubis!”

“Denubis!” she repeated soundlessly.

“Yes,” Raistlin replied, unconsciously letting his fingers trace along her firm jaw, cup her chin in his hand. “That much I learned from Astinus. If you will recall, your cleric friend was already drawn to Fistandantilus, even though he refused to admit it to himself. He had his doubts about the church, much the same as yours. I can only assume that during those final, horrifying days in Istar, Fistandantilus persuaded him to come—”

“You didn’t persuade me,” Crysania interrupted firmly. “I chose to come! It was my decision.”

“Of course,” Raistlin said smoothly, letting go of her. He hadn’t realized what he was doing, caressing her soft skin. Now, unbidden, he felt his blood stir. He found his gaze going to her curving lips, her white neck. He had a sudden vivid image of her in his brother’s arms. He remembered the wild surge of jealousy he had felt.

This must not happen! he reprimanded himself. It will interfere with my plans... He started to rise, but Crysania caught hold of his hand with both of hers and rested her cheek in his palm.

“No,” she said softly, her gray eyes looking up at him, shining in the bright sunlight that filtered through the leaves, holding him with her steadfast gaze, “we will alter time, you and I! You are more powerful than Fistandantilus. I am stronger in my faith than Denubis! I heard the Kingpriest’s demands of the gods. I know his mistake! Paladine will answer my prayers as he has in the past. Together, we will change the ending... you and I... .”

Caught up in the passion of her words, Crysania’s eyes deepened to blue, her skin, cool on Raistlin’s hand, flushed a delicate pink. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the lifeblood pulse in her neck. He felt her tenderness, her softness, her smoothness... and suddenly he was down on his knees beside her. She was in his arms. His mouth sought her lips, his lips touched her eyes, her neck. His fingers tangled in her hair. Her fragrance filled his nostrils, and the sweet ache of desire filled his body.

She yielded to his fire, as she had yielded to his magic, kissing him eagerly. Raistlin sank down into the soft carpet of dying leaves. Lying back, he drew Crysania down with him, holding her in his arms. The sunlight in the blue autumn sky was brilliant, blinding him. The sun itself beat upon his black robes with a unbearable heat, almost as unbearable as the pain inside his body.

Crysania’s skin was cool to his feverish touch, her lips like sweet water to a man dying of thirst.

He gave himself up to the light, shutting his eyes against it. And then, the shadow of a face appeared in his mind: a goddess—dark-haired, dark-eyed, exultant, victorious, laughing...

“No!” Raistlin cried. “No!” he shrieked in half-strangled tones as he hurled Crysania from him.

Trembling and dizzy, he staggered to his feet.

His eyes burned in the sunlight. The heat upon his robes was stifling, and he felt himself gasping for air. Drawing his black hood over his head, he stood, shaking, trying to regain his composure, his control.

“Raistlin!” Crysania cried, clinging to his hand. Her voice was warm with passion. Her touch worsened the pain, even as it promised to ease it. His resolve began to crumble, the pain tore at him...

Furiously, Raistlin snatched his hand free. Then, his face grim, he reached out and grasped the fragile white cloth of her robes. With a jerk, he ripped it from her shoulders, while, with the other hand, he shoved her half-naked body down into the leaves.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice taut with anger. “If so, wait here for my brother. He’s bound to be along soon!” He paused, struggling for breath.

Lying on the leaves, seeing her nakedness reflected starkly in those mirrorlike eyes, Crysania clutched the torn cloth to her breast and stared at him wordlessly.

“Is this what we have come here to attain?” Raistlin continued relentlessly. “I thought your aim was higher, Revered Daughter! You boast of Paladine, you boast of your powers. Did you think that this might be the answer to your prayers? That I would fall victim to your charms?”

That shot told! He saw her flinch, her gaze waver. Closing her eyes, she rolled over, sobbing in agony, clasping her torn robe to her body. Her black hair fell across her bare shoulders, the skin of her back was white and soft and smooth...

Turning abruptly, Raistlin walked away. He walked rapidly and, as he walked, he felt calm return to him. The ache of passion subsided, leaving him once more able to think clearly.

His eyes caught a glimpse of movement, a flash of armor. His smile curled into a sneer. As he had predicted, there went Caramon, setting out in search of her. Well, they were welcome to each other. What did it matter to him?

Reaching his tent, Raistlin entered its cool, dark confines. The sneer still curled his lips but, recalling his weakness, recalling how close he’d come to failure, recalling—against his will her soft, warm lips, it faded. Shaking, he collapsed into a chair and let his head sink into his hands.

But the smile was back, half an hour later, when Caramon burst into his tent. The big man’s face was flushed, his eyes dilated, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I should kill you, you damned bastard!” he said in a choked voice.

“What for this time, my brother?” Raistlin asked in irritation, continuing to read the spellbook he was studying. “Have I murdered another of your pet kender?”

“You know damn well what for!” Caramon snarled with an oath. Lurching forward, he grabbed the spellbook and slammed it shut. His fingers burned as he touched its nightblue binding, but he didn’t even feel the pain. “I found Lady Crysania in the woods, her clothes ripped off, crying her heart out! Those marks on your face—”

“Were made by my hands. Did she tell you what happened?” Raistlin interrupted.

“Yes, but—”

“Did she tell you that she offered herself to me?”

“I don’t believe—”

“And that I turned her down,” Raistlin continued coldly, his eyes meeting his brother’s unwaveringly.

“You arrogant son of a—”

“And even now, she probably sits weeping in her tent, thanking the gods that I love her enough to cherish her virtue.” Raistlin gave a bitter, mocking laugh that pierced Caramon like a poisoned dagger.

“I don’t believe you!” Caramon said softly. Grabbing hold of his brother’s robes, he yanked Raistlin from his chair. “I don’t believe her! She’d say anything to protect your miserable—”

“Remove your hands, brother!” Raistlin said in a flat, soft whisper.

“I’ll see you in the Abyss!”

“I said remove your hands!” There was a flash of blue light, a crackle and sizzling sound, and Caramon screamed in pain, loosening his hold as a jarring, paralyzing shock surged through his body.

“I warned you.” Raistlin straightened his robes and resumed his seat.

“By the gods, I will kill you this time!” Caramon said through clenched teeth, drawing his sword with a trembling hand.

“Then do so,” Raistlin snapped, looking up from the spellbook he had reopened, “and get it over with. This constant threatening becomes boring!”

There was an odd gleam in the mage’s eyes, an almost eager gleam—a gleam of invitation.

“Try it!” he whispered, staring at his brother. “Try to kill me! You will never get home again... .”

“That doesn’t matter!” Lost in blood-lust, overwhelmed by jealousy and hatred, Caramon took a step toward his brother, who sat, waiting, that strange, eager look upon his thin face.

“Try it!” Raistlin ordered again.

Caramon raised his sword.

“General Caramon!” Alarmed voices shouted outside; there was the sound of running footsteps.

With an oath, Caramon checked his swing and hesitated, half-blinded by tears of rage, staring grimly at his brother.

“General! Where are you?” The voices sounded closer, and there were the answering voices of his guard, directing them to Raistlin’s tent.

“Here!” Caramon finally shouted. Turning from his brother, he thrust the sword back into its scabbard and yanked open the tent flap. “What is it?”

“General, I—Sir, your hands! They’re burned. How—?”

“Never mind. What’s the matter?”

“The witch, sir. She’s gone!”

“Gone?” Caramon repeated in alarm. Casting his brother a vicious glance, the big man hurried out of the tent. Raistlin heard his booming voice demanding explanations, the men giving them.

Raistlin did not listen. He closed his eyes with a sigh. Caramon had not been allowed to kill him.

Ahead of him, stretched out before him in a straight, narrow line, the footsteps led inexorably on.

4

Caramon had once complimented her on her riding skill. Until leaving Palanthas with Tanis Half-Elven to ride south to seek the magical Forest of Wayreth, Crysania had never been nearer a horse than seated inside one of her fathers elegant carriages. Women of Palanthas did not ride, not even for pleasure, as did the other Solamnic women.

But that had been in her other life.

Her other life. Crysania smiled grimly to herself as she leaned over her mount’s neck and dug her heels into its flanks, urging it forward at a trot. How far away it seemed; long ago and distant.

She checked a sigh, ducking her head to avoid some lowhanging branches. She did not look behind her. Pursuit would not be very swift in coming, she hoped. There were the messengers—Caramon would have to deal with them first and he dared not send any of his guards out without him. Not after the witch!

Suddenly, Crysania laughed. If anyone ever looked like a witch, I do! She had not bothered to change her torn robes. When Caramon had found her in the woods, he had fastened them together with clasps from his cloak. The robes had ceased, long ago, to be snowy white; from travel and wear and being washed in streams, they had dulled to a dove-colored gray. Now, torn and mud-spattered, they fluttered around her like bedraggled feathers. Her cloak whipped out behind her as she rode. Her black hair was a tangled mass. She could scarcely see through it.

She rode out of the woods. Ahead of her stretched the grasslands, and she reined in the horse for a moment to study the land lying ahead of her. The animal, used to plodding along with the ranks of the slow-moving army, was excited by this unaccustomed exercise. It shook its head and danced sideways a few steps, looking longingly at the smooth expanse of grass, begging for a run. Crysania patted its neck.

“Come on, boy,” she urged, giving it free rein.

Nostrils flaring, the horse laid back its ears and sprang forward, galloping across the open grasslands, thrilling in its newfound freedom. Clinging to the creature’s neck, Crysania gave herself up to the pleasure of her newfound freedom. The warm afternoon sun was a pleasant contrast to the sharp, biting wind in her face. The rhythm of the animal’s gallop, the excitement of the ride, and the faint edge of fear she always felt on horseback numbed her mind, easing the ache in her heart.

As she rode, her plans crystallized in her mind, becoming clearer and sharper. Ahead of her, the land darkened with the shadows of a pine forest; above her, to her right, the snowcapped peaks of the Garnet Mountains glistened in the bright sunshine. Giving the reins a sharp jerk to remind the animal that she was in control, Crysania slowed the horse’s mad gallop and guided it toward the distant woods.

Crysania had been gone from camp almost an hour before Caramon managed to get matters organized enough to set off in pursuit. As Crysania had foreseen, he had to explain the emergency to the messengers and make certain they were not offended before he coul d leave.

This involved some time, because the Plainsman spoke very little Common and no dwarven, and, while the dwarf spoke Common fairly well (one reason he had been chosen as messenger), he couldn’t understand Caramon’s strange accent and was constantly forcing the big man to repeat himself.

Caramon had begun trying to explain who Crysania was and what her relationship was to him, but that proved impossible for either the dwarf or the Plainsman to comprehend. Finally, Caramon gave up and told them, bluntly, what they were bound to hear in camp anyway—that she was his woman and she had run off.

The Plainsman nodded in understanding. The women of his tribe, being notably wild, occasionally took it into their heads to do the same thing. He suggested that when Caramon caught her, he have all her hair cut off—the sign of a disobedient wife. The dwarf was somewhat astonished—a dwarven woman would as soon think of running away from home and husband as she would of shaving her chin whiskers. But, he reminded himself dourly, he was among humans and what could you expect?

Both bid Caramon a quick and successful journey and settled down to enjoy the camp’s stock of ale. Heaving a sigh of relief, Caramon hurried out of his tent to find that Garic had saddled a horse and was holding it ready for him.

“We picked up her trail, General,” the young man said, pointing. “She rode north, following a small animal trail into the woods. She’s on a fast horse—” Garic shook his head a moment in admiration. “She stole one of the best, I’ll say that for her, sir. But, I wouldn’t think she’d get far.”

Caramon mounted. “Thank you, Garic,” he began, then stopped as he saw another horse being led up. “What’s this?” he growled. “I said I was going alone—”

“I am coming, too, my brother,” spoke a voice from the shadows.

Caramon looked around. The archmage came out of his tent, dressed in his black traveling cloak and boots. Caramon scowled, but Garic was already respectfully helping Raistlin to mount the thin, nervous black horse the archmage favored. Caramon dared not say anything in front of the men—and his brother knew it. He saw the amused glint in Raistlin’s eyes as he raised his head, the sunlight hitting their mirrored surface.

“Let’s be off, then,” Caramon muttered, trying to conceal his anger. “Garic, you’re in command while I’m gone. I don’t expect it will be long. Make certain that our guests are fed and get those farmers back out there on the field. I want to see them spearing those straw dummies when I return, not each other!”

“Yes, sir,” Garic said gravely, giving Caramon the Knight’s salute.

A vivid memory of Sturm Brightblade came to Caramon’s mind, and with it days of his youth; days when he and his brother had traveled with their friends—Tanis, Flint the dwarven metalsmith, Sturm... . Shaking his head, he tried to banish the memories as he guided his horse out of camp.

But they returned to him more forcefully when he reached the trail into the woods and caught a glimpse of his brother riding next to him, the mage keeping his horse just a little behind the warrior’s, as usual. Though he did not particularly like riding, Raistlin rode well, as he did all things well if he set his mind to it. He did not speak nor even look at his brother, keeping his hood cast over his head, lost in his own thoughts. This was not unusual—the twins had sometimes traveled for days with little verbal communication.

But there was a bond between them, nonetheless, a bond of blood and bone and soul. Caramon felt himself slipping into the old, easy comradeship. His anger began to melt away—it had been partly at himself, anyhow.

Half-turning, he spoke over his shoulder.

“I—I’m sorry... about... back there, Raist,” he said gruffly as they rode deeper into the forest, following Crysania’s clearly marked trail. “What you said was true—she did tell me that... that she—”

Caramon floundered, blushing. He twisted around in the saddle. “That she—Damn it, Raist! Why did you have to be so rough with her?”

Raistlin lifted his hooded head, his face now visible to his brother. “I had to be rough,” he said in his soft voice. “I had to make her see the chasm yawning at her feet, a chasm that, if we fell into it, would destroy us all!”

Caramon stared at his twin in wonder. “You’re not human!”

To his astonishment, Raistlin sighed. The mage’s harsh, glittering eyes softened a moment. “I am more human than you realize, my brother,” he said in a wistful tone that went straight to Caramon’s heart.

“Then love her, man!” Caramon said, dropping back to ride beside his brother. “Forget this nonsense about chasms and pits or whatever! You may be a powerful wizard and she may be a holy cleric, but, underneath those robes, you’re both flesh and blood! Take her in your arms and... and...”

Caramon was so carried away that he checked his horse, stopping in the middle of the trail, his face lit with his passion and enthusiasm. Raistlin brought his horse to a stop, too. Leaning forward, he laid his hand on his brother’s arm, his burning fingers searing Caramon’s skin. His expression was hard, his eyes once again brittle and cold as glass.

“Listen to me, Caramon, and try to understand,” Raistlin said in an expressionless tone that made his twin shudder. “I am incapable of love. Haven’t you realized that, yet? Oh, yes, you are right—beneath these robes I am flesh and blood, more’s the pity. Like any other man, I am capable of lust. That’s all it is... lust.”

He shrugged. “It would probably matter little to me if I gave in to it, perhaps weaken me some temporarily, nothing more. It would certainly not affect my magic. But”—his gaze went through Caramon like a sliver of ice—“it would destroy Crysania when she found out. And she would find out!”

“You black-hearted bastard!” Caramon said through clenched teeth.

Raistlin raised an eyebrow. “Am I?” he asked simply. “If I were, wouldn’t I just take my pleasure as I found it? I am capable of understanding and controlling myself—unlike others.”

Caramon blinked. Spurring his horse, he proceeded down the trail again, lost in confusion.

Somehow, his brother had managed, once again, to turn everything upside down. Suddenly he, Caramon, felt consumed with guilt—a prey to animal instincts he wasn’t man enough to control, while his brother by admitting he was incapable of love-appeared noble and self-sacrificing. Caramon shook his head.

The two followed Crysania’s trail deeper into the woods. It was easy going, she had kept to the path, never veering, never bothering, even, to cover her tracks.

“Women!” Caramon muttered after a time. “If she was going to have a sulking fit, why didn’t she just do it the easy way and walk! Why did she have to take a blasted horseback ride halfway into the countryside?”

“You do not understand her, my brother,” Raistlin said, his gaze on the trail. “Such is not her intent. She has a purpose in this ride, believe me.”

“Bah!” Caramon snorted. “This from the expert on women! I’ve been married! I know! She’s ridden off in a huff, knowing we’ll come after her. We’ll find her somewhere along here, her horse ridden into the ground, probably lame. She’ll be cold and haughty. W e’ll apologize and... and I’ll let her have her damn tent if she wants it and—see there! What’d I tell you?” Bringing his horse to a halt, he gestured across the flat grasslands. “There’s a trail a blind gully dwarf could follow! Come on.”

Raistlin did not answer, but there was a thoughtful look on his thin face as he galloped after his brother. The two followed Crysania’s trail across the grasslands. They found where she entered the woods again, came to a stream and crossed it. But there, on the bank of the stream Caramon brought his horse to a halt.

“What the—” He looked left and right, guiding his animal around in a circle. Raistlin stopped, sighing, and leaned over the pommel of his saddle.

“I told you,” he said grimly. “She has a purpose. She is clever, my brother. Clever enough to know your mind and how it works... when it does work!”

Caramon glowered at his twin but said nothing.

Crysania’s trail had disappeared.

As Raistlin said, Crysania had a purpose. She was clever and intelligent, she guessed what Caramon would think and she purposefully misled him. Though certainly not skilled in woodslore herself, for months now, she had been with those who were. Often lonely—few spoke to the “witch”—and often left to her own devices by Caramon, who had problems of command to deal with, and Raistlin, who was wrapped up in his studies, Crysania had little to do but ride by herself, listening to the stories of those about her and learning from them.

Thus it had been a simple thing to double back on her own trail, riding her horse down the center of the stream, leaving no tracks to follow. Coming to a rocky part of the shore where, again, her horse would leave no tracks, she left the stream. Entering the woods, she avoided the main trail, searching instead for one of the many, smaller animal trails that led to the stream. Once on it, she covered her tracks as best she could. Although she did it crudely, she was fairly certain Caramon would not give her credit enough even for that, so she had no fear he would follow her.

If Crysania had known Raistlin rode with his brother, she might have had misgivings, for the mage seemed to know her mind better than she did herself. But she didn’t, so she continued ahead at a leisurely pace—to rest the horse and to give herself time to go over her plans.

In her saddlebags, she carried a map, stolen from Caramon’s tent. On the map was marked a small village nestled in the mountains. It was so small it didn’t even have a name—at least not one marked on the map. But this village was her destination. Here she planned to accomplish a two-fold purpose: she would alter time and she would prove—to Caramon and his brother and herself—that she was more than a piece of useless, even dangerous, baggage. She would prove her own worth.

Here, in this village, Crysania intended to bring back the worship of the ancient gods.

This was not a new thought for her. It was something she had often considered attempting but had not for a variety of reasons. The first was that both Caramon and Raistlin had absolutely forbidden her to use any clerical powers while in camp. Both feared for her life, having seen witch-burnings themselves in their younger days. (Raistlin had, in fact, nearly been a victim himself, until rescued by Sturm and Caramon.)

Crysania herself had enough common sense to know that none of the men or their families traveling with the army would listen to her, all of them firmly believing that she was a witch. The thought had crossed her mind that if she could get to people who knew nothing of her, tell them her story, give them the message that the gods had not abandoned man, but that man had abandoned the gods, then they would follow her as they would follow Goldmoon two hundred years later.

But it was not until she had been stung by Raistlin’s harsh words that she had gathered the courage to act. Even now, leading the horse at a walk through the quiet forest in the twilight, she could still hear his voice and see his flashing eyes as he reprimanded her.

I deserved it, she admitted to herself. I had abandoned my faith. I was using my “charms” to try to bring him to me, instead of my example to bring him to Paladine. Sighing, she absently brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. If it had not been for his strength of will, I would have fallen.

Her admiration for the young archmage, already strong, deepened—as Raistlin had foreseen. She determined to restore his faith in her and prove herself worthy, once more, of his trust and regard. For, she feared, blushing, he must have a very low opinion of her now. By returning to camp with a corps of followers, of true believers, she planned not only to show him that he was wrong—that time could be altered by bringing clerics into a world where, before, there were none—but also she hoped to extend her teachings throughout the army itself.

Thinking of this, making her plans, Crysania felt more at peace with herself than she had in the months since they’d come to this time period. For once she was doing something on her own. She wasn’t trailing along behind Raistlin or being ordered about by Caramon. Her spirits rose. By her calculations, she should reach the village just before dark.

The trail she was on had been steadily climbing up the side of the mountain. Now it topped a rise and then dipped down, descending into a small valley. Crysania halted the horse. There, nestled in the valley, she could at last see the village that was her destination.

Something struck her as odd about the village, but she was not yet a seasoned enough traveler to have learned to trust her instincts about such things. Knowing only that she wanted to reach the village before darkness fell, and eager to put her plan into immediate action, Crysania mounted her horse once more and rode down the trail, her hand closing over the medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck.

“Well, what do we do now?” Caramon asked, sitting astride his horse and looking both up and down the stream.

“You’re the expert on women,” Raistlin retorted.

“All right, I made a mistake,” Caramon grumbled. “That doesn’t help us. It’ll be dark soon, and then we’ll never find her trail. I haven’t heard you come up with any helpful suggestions,” he grumbled, glancing at his brother balefully. “Can’t you magic up something?”

“I would have ‘magicked up’ brains for you long ago, if I could have,” Raistlin snapped peevishly.

“What would you like me to do—make her appear out thin air or look for her in my crystal ball? No, I won’t waste my strength. Besides it’s not necessary. Have you a map, or did you manage to think that far ahead?”

“I have a map,” Caramon said grimly, drawing it out of his belt and handing it to his brother.

“You might as well water the horses and let them rest,” Raistlin said, sliding off his. Caramon dismounted as well and led the horses to the stream while Raistlin studied the map.

By the time Caramon had tethered the horses to a bush and returned to his brother, the sun was setting. Raistlin held the map nearly up to his nose trying to read it in the dusk. Caramon heard him cough and saw him hunch down into his traveling cloak.

“You shouldn’t be out in the night air,” Caramon said gruffly.

Coughing again, Raistlin gave him a bitter glance. “I’ll be all right.”

Shrugging, Caramon peered over his brother’s shoulder al the map. Raistlin pointed a slender finger at a small spot, half way up the mountainside.

“There,” he said.

“Why? What would she go to some out-of-the-way place like that for?” Caramon asked, frowning, puzzled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Because you have still not seen her purpose!” Raistlin returned. Thoughtfully, he rolled up the map, his eyes staring into the fading light. A dark line appeared between his brows.

“Well?” Caramon prompted skeptically. “What is this great purpose you keep mentioning? What’s the matter?”

“She has placed herself in grave danger,” Raistlin said suddenly, his cool voice tinged with anger.

Caramon stared at him in alarm.

“What? How do you know? Do you see—”

“Of course I can’t see, you great idiot!” Raistlin snarled over his shoulder as he walked rapidly to his horse. “I think! I use my brain! She is going to this village to establish the old religion She is going there to tell them of the true gods!”

“Name of the Abyss!” Caramon swore, his eyes wide “You’re right Raist,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve heard her talk about trying that, now I think of it. I never believed she was serious, though.”

Then, seeing his brother untying his horse and preparing to mount, he hurried forward and laid his hand on his brother’s bridle. “Just a minute, Raist! There’s nothing we can do now. We’ll have to wait until morning.” He gestured into the mountains. “You know as well as I do that we don’t dare ride those wretched trails after dark. We’d be taking a chance on the horses stumbling into a hole and breaking a leg. To say nothing of what lives in these god-forsaken woods.”

“I have my staff for light,” Raistlin said, motioning to the Staff of Magius, snug in its leather carrier on the side of saddle. He started to pull himself up, but a fit of coughing forced him to pause, clinging to the saddle, gasping for breath.

Caramon waited until the spasm eased. “Look, Raist,” he said in milder tones, “I’m just as worried about her as you are but I think you’re overreacting. Let’s be sensible. It’s not as if she were riding into a den of goblins! That magical light’ll draw to us whatever’s lurking out there in the night like moths to a candleflame. The horses are winded. You’re in no shape to go on, much less fight if we have to. We’ll make camp here for the night. You get some rest, and we’ll start fresh in the morning.”

Raistlin paused, his hands on his saddle, staring at his brother. It seemed as if he might argue, then a coughing fit seized him. His hands slipped to his side, he laid his forehead against the horse’s flank as if too exhausted to move.

“You are right, my brother,” he said, when he could speak.

Startled at this unusual display of weakness, Caramon almost went to help his twin, but checked himself in time—a show of concern would only bring a bitter rebuke. Acting as if nothing were at all amiss, he began untying his brothers bedroll, chatting along, not really thinking about what he was saying.

“I’ll spread this out, and you rest. We can probably risk a small fire, and you can heat up that potion of yours to help your cough. I’ve got some meat here and a few vegetables Garic threw together for me.” Caramon prattled on, not even realizing what he was saying. “I’ll fix up a stew. It’ll be just like the old days.

“By the gods!” He paused a moment, grinning. “Even though we never knew where our next steel piece was coming from, we still ate well in those days! Do you remember? There was a spice you had. You’d toss it in the pot. What was it?” He gazed off into the distance, as though he could part the mists of time with his eyes. “Do you remember the one I’m talking about? You use it in your spellcasting. But it made damn good stews, too! The name... it was like ours—marjere, marjorie? Hah!” Caramon laughed—“I’ll never forget the time that old master of yours caught us cooking with his spell components! I thought he’d turn himself inside out!”

Sighing, Caramon went back to work, tugging at the knots. “You know, Raist,” he said softly, after a moment, “I’ve eaten wondrous food in wondrous places since then—palaces and elf woods and all. But nothing could quite match that. I’d like to try it again, to see if it was like I remember it. It’d be like old times—”

There was a soft rustle of cloth. Caramon stopped, aware that his brother had turned his black hooded head and was regarding him intently. Swallowing, Caramon kept his eyes fixedly on the knots he was trying to untie. He hadn’t meant to make himself vulnerable and now he waited grimly for Raistlin’s rebuke, the sarcastic gibe.

There was another soft rustle of cloth, and then Caramon fell something soft pressed into his hand—a tiny bag.

“Marjoram,” Raistlin said in a soft whisper. “The name of the spice is marjoram...”

5

It wasn’t until Crysania rode into the outskirts of the village itself that she realized something was wrong.

Caramon, of course, would have noticed it when he first looked down at the village from the top of the hill. He would have detected the absence of smoke from the cooking fires. He would have noted the unnatural silence—no sounds of mothers calling for children or the plodding thuds of cattle coming in from the fields or neighbors exchanging cheerful greetings after a long day’s work. He would have seen that no smoke rose from the smithy’s forge, wondered uneasily at the absence of candlelight glowing from the windows. Glancing up, he would have seen with alarm the large number of carrion birds in the sky, circling...

All this Caramon or Tanis Half-Elven or Raistlin or any of them would have noted and, if forced to go on, he would have approached the village with hand on sword or a defensive magic spell on the lips.

But it was only after Crysania cantered into the village and, staring around, wondered where everyone was, that she experienced her first glimmerings of uneasiness. She became aware of the birds, then, as their harsh cries and calls of irritation at her presence intruded on her thoughts. Slowly, they flapped away, in the gathering darkness, or perched sullenly on trees, melting into the shadows.

Dismounting in front of a building whose swinging sign proclaimed it an inn, Crysania tied the horse to a post and approached the front door. If it was an inn, it was a small one, but well-built and neat with ruffled curtains in the windows and a general air of cheery welcome about it that seemed, somehow, sinister in the eerie silence. No light came from the window. Darkness was rapidly swallowing the little town. Crysania, pushing open the door, could barely see inside.

“Hello?” she called hesitantly. At the sound of her voice, the birds outside squawked raucously, making her shiver. “Is anyone here? I’d like a room—”

But her voice died. She knew, without doubt, that this place was empty, deserted. Perhaps everyone had left to join the army? She had known of entire villages to do so. But, looking around, she realized that that wasn’t true in this case. There would have been nothing left here except furniture; the people would have taken their possessions with them.

Here, the table was set for dinner...

Stepping farther inside as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see glasses still filled with wine, the bottles sitting open in the center of the table. There was no food. Some of the dishes had been knocked off and lay broken on the floor, next to some gnawed-on bones. Two dogs and a cat skulking about, looking half-starved, gave her an idea of how that had happened.

A staircase ran up to the second floor. Crysania thought about going up it, but her courage failed her. She would look around the town first. Surely someone was here, someone who could tell her what was going on.

Picking up a lamp, she lit it from the tinder box in her pack, then went back out into the street, now almost totally dark. What had happened? Where was everyone? It did not look as if the town had been attacked. There were no signs of fighting no broken furniture, no blood, no weapons lying about. No bodies.

Her uneasiness grew as she walked outside the door of the inn. Her horse whinnied at the sight of her. Crysania suppressed a wild desire to leap up on it and ride away as fast as she could. The animal was tired; it could go no farther without rest. It needed food. Thinking of that, Crysania untied it and led it around to the stable behind the inn. It was empty. Not unusual—horses were a luxury these days. But it was filled with straw and there was water, so at least the inn was prepared to receive travelers. Placing her lamp on a stand, Crysania unsaddled her exhausted animal and rubbed it down, crudely and clumsily she knew, having never done it before.

But the horse seemed satisfied enough and, when she left, was munching oats it found in a trough.

Taking her lamp, Crysania returned to the empty, silent streets. She peered into dark houses, looked into darkened shop windows. Nothing. No one. Then, walking along, she heard a noise. Her heart stopped beating for an instant, the lamplight wavered in her shaking hand. She stopped, listening, telling herself it was a bird or an animal.

No, there it was again. And again. It was an odd sound, a kind of swishing, then a plop. Then a swish again, followed by a plop. Certainly there was nothing sinister or threatening about it. But still Crysania stood there, in the center of the street, unwilling to move toward the noise to investigate.

“What nonsense!” she told herself sternly. Angry at herself, disappointed at the failure—apparently—of her plans, and determined to discover what was going on, Crysania boldly walked forward. But her hand, she noted nervously, seemed of its own accord to reach for the medallion of her god.

The sound grew louder. The row of houses and small shops came to an end. Turning a corner, walking softly, she suddenly realized she should have doused her lamplight. But the thought came too late. At the sight of the light, the figure that had been making the odd sound turned abruptly, flung up his arm to shield his eyes, and stared at her.

“Who are you?” the mans voice called. “What do you want?” He did not sound frightened, only desperately tired, as if her presence were an additional, great burden.

But instead of answering, Crysania walked closer. For now she had figured out what the sound was. He had been shoveling! He held the shovel in his hand. He had no light. He had obviously been working so hard he was not even aware that night had fallen.

Raising her lamp to let the light shine on both of them, Crysania studied the man curiously. He was young, younger than she—probably about twenty or twenty-one. He was human, with a pale, serious face, and he was dressed in robes that, save for some strange, unrecognizable symbol upon them, she would have taken for clerical garb. As she drew nearer, Crysania saw the young man stagger. If his shovel had not been in the ground, he would have fallen. Instead, he leaned upon it, as if exhausted past all endurance.

Her own fears forgotten, Crysania hurried forward to help him. But, to her amazement, he stopped her with a motion of his hand.

“Keep away!” he shouted.

“What?” Crysania asked, startled.

“Keep away!” he repeated more urgently. But the shovel would support him no longer. He fell to his knees, clutching his stomach as if in pain.

“I’ll do no such thing,” Crysania said firmly, recognizing that the young man was ill or injured. Hurrying forward, she started to put her arm around him to help him up when her gaze fell upon what he had been doing.

She halted, staring in horror.

He had been filling in a grave—a mass grave.

Looking down into a huge pit, she saw bodies—men, women, children. There was not a mark upon them, no sign of blood. Yet they were all dead; the entire town, she realized numbly.

And then, turning, she saw the young man’s face, she saw sweat pouring from it, she saw the glazed, feverish eyes. And then she knew.

“I tried to warn you,” he said wearily, choking. “The burning fever!”

“Come along,” said Crysania, her voice trembling with grief. Turning her back firmly on the ghastly sight behind her, she put her arms around the young man. He struggled weakly.

“No! Don’t!” he begged. “You’ll catch it! Die... within hours... .”

“You are sick. You need rest,” she said. Ignoring his protests, she led him away.

“But the grave,” he whispered, his horrified gaze going to the dark sky where the carrion birds circled. “We can’t leave the bodies—”

“Their souls are with Paladine,” Crysania said, fighting back her own nausea at the thought of the gruesome feasting that would soon commence. Already she could hear the cackles of triumph.

“Only their shells still lie there. They understand that the living come first.”

Sighing, too weak to argue, the young man bowed his head and put his arm around Crysania’s neck. He was, she noted, unbelievably thin—she scarcely felt his weight at all as he leaned against her. She wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten a good meal.

Walking slowly, they left the gravesite. “My house, there,” he said, gesturing feebly to a small cabin on the edge of the village.

Crysania nodded. “Tell me what happened,” she said, to keep his thoughts and her own from the sound of flapping birds’ wings behind them.

“There’s not much to tell,” he said, shivering with chills. “It strikes quickly, without warning.

Yesterday, the children were playing in the yards. Last night, they were dying in their mothers’ arms. Tables were laid for dinner that no one was able to eat. This morning, those who were still able to move dug that grave, their own grave, as we all knew then... .”

His voice failed, a shudder of pain gripping him.

“It will be all right now,” Crysania said. “We’ll get you in bed. Cool water and sleep. I’ll pray...”

“Prayers!” The young man laughed bitterly. “I am their cleric!” He waved a hand back at the grave. “You see what good prayers have done!”

“Hush, save your strength,” Crysania said as they arrived at the small house. Helping him lie down upon the bed, she shut the door and, seeing a fire laid, lit it with the flame from her lamp.

Soon it was blazing. She lit candles and then returned to her patient. His feverish eyes had been following her every move.

Drawing a chair up next to the bed, she, poured water into a bowl, dipped a cloth into it, then sat down beside him, to lay the cool cloth across his burning forehead.

“I am a cleric, too,” she told him, lightly touching the medallion she wore around her neck, “and I am going to pray to my god to heal you.”

Setting the bowl of water on a small table beside the bed, Crysania reached out to the young man and placed her hands upon his shoulders. Then she began to pray. “Paladine—”

“What?” he interrupted, clutching at her with a hot hand. “What are you doing?”

“I am going to heal you,” Crysania said, smiling at him with gentle patience. “I am a cleric of Paladine.”

“Paladine!” The young man grimaced in pain, thencatching his breath—looked up at her in disbelief. “That’s who I thought you said. How can you be one of his clerics? They vanished, so it’s told, right before the Cataclysm.”

“It’s a long story,” Crysania replied, drawing the sheets over the young man’s shivering body, “and one I will tell you later. But, for now, believe that I am truly a cleric of this great god and that he will heal you!”

“No!” the young man cried, his hand wrapping around hers so tightly it hurt. “I am a cleric, too, a cleric of the Seeker gods. I tried to heal my people’—his voice cracked—“but there... there was nothing I could do. They died!” His eyes closed in agony. “I prayed! The gods... didn’t answer.”

“That’s because these gods you pray to are false gods,” Crysania said earnestly, reaching out to smooth back the young j man’s sweat-soaked hair. Opening his eyes, he regarded her intently. He was handsome, Crysania saw, in a serious, scholarly fashion. His eyes were blue, his hair golden.

“Water,” he murmured through parched lips. She helped him sit up. Thirstily, he drank from the bowl, then she eased him back down on the bed. Staring at her still, he shook his head, then shut his eyes wearily.

“You know of Paladine, of the ancient gods?” Crysania asked softly.

The young man’s eyes opened, there was a gleam of light in them. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “I know of them. I know they smashed the land. I know they brought storms and pestilence upon us. I know evil things have been unleashed in this land. And then they left. In our hour of need, they abandoned us!”

Now it was Crysania’s turn to stare. She had expected denial, disbelief, or even total ignorance of the gods. She knew she could handle that. But this bitter anger? This was not the confrontation she had been prepared to face. Expecting superstitious mobs, she had found instead a mass grave and a dying young cleric.

“The gods did not abandon us,” she said, her voice quivering in her earnestness. “They are here, waiting only for the sound of a prayer. The evil that came to Krynn man brought upon himself, through his own pride and willful ignorance.”

The story of Goldmoon healing the dying Elistan and thereby converting him to the ancient faith came vividly to Crysania, filling her with exultation. She would heal this young cleric, convert him...

“I am going to help you,” she said. “Then there will be time to talk, time for you to understand.”

Kneeling down beside the bed once more, she clasped the medallion she wore around her neck and again began, “Paladine—”

A hand grabbed her roughly, hurting her, breaking her hold on the medallion. Startled, she looked up. It was the young cleric. Half-sitting up, weak, shivering with fever, he still stared at her with a gaze that was intense but calm.

“No,” he said steadily, “you must understand. You don’t need to convince me. I believe you!” He looked up into the shadows above him with a grim and bitter smile. “Yes, Paladine is with you. I can sense his great presence. Perhaps my eyes have been opened the nearer I approach death.”

“This is wonderful!” Crysania cried ecstatically. “I can—”

“Wait!” The cleric gasped for breath, still holding her hand. “Listen! Because I believe I refuse... to let you heal me.”

“What?” Crysania stared at him, uncomprehending. Then, “You’re sick, delirious,” she said firmly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” he replied. “Look at me. Am I rational? Yes?”

Crysania, studying him, had to nod her head.

“Yes, you must admit it. I am... not delirious. I am fully conscious, comprehending.”

“Then, why—?”

“Because,” he said softly, each breath coming from him with obvious pain, “if Paladine is here—and I believe he is, now then why is he... letting this happen! Why did he let my people die? Why does he permit this suffering? Why did he cause it? Answer me!” He clutched at her angrily. “Answer me!”

Her own questions! Raistlin’s questions! Crysania felt her mind stumbling in confused darkness. How could she answer him, when she was searching so desperately for these answers herself?

Through numb lips, she repeated Elistan’s words: “We must have faith. The ways of the gods cannot be known to us, we cannot see—”

Lying back down, the young man shook his head wearily and Crysania herself fell silent, feeling helpless in the face of such violent, intense anger. I’ll heal him anyway, she determined. He is sick and weak in mind and body. He cannot be expected to understand...

Then she sighed. No. In other circumstances, Paladine might have allowed it. The god will not grant my prayers, Crysania knew in despair,. In his divine wisdom, he will gather the young man to himself and then all will be made clear.

But it could not be so now.

Suddenly, Crysania realized bleakly that time could not be altered, at least not this way, not by her. Goldmoon would restore man’s faith in the ancient gods in a time when terrible anger such as this had died, when man would be ready to listen and to accept and believe. Not before.

Her failure overwhelmed her. Still kneeling by the bed, she bowed her head in her hands and asked to be forgiven for not being willing to accept or understand.

Feeling a hand touch her hair, she looked up. The young man was smiling wanly at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, his fever-parched lips twitching. “Sorry... to disappoint you.”

“I understand,” Crysania said quietly, “and I will respect your wishes.”

“Thank you,” he replied. He was silent. For long moments, the only sound that could be heard was his labored breathing. Crysania started to stand up, but she felt his hot hand close over hers. “Do one thing for me,” he whispered.

“Anything,” she said, forcing herself to smile, though she could barely see him through her tears.

“Stay with me tonight... while I die... .”

6

Climbing the stairs leading up to the scaffold. Head bowed. Hands tied behind my back. I struggle to free myself, even as I mount the stairs, though I know it is useless—I have spent days, weeks, struggling to free myself, to no avail.

The black robes trip me. I stumble. Someone catches me, keeps me from falling, but drags me forward, nonetheless. I have reached the top. The block, stained dark with blood, is before me. Frantically now I seek to free my hands! If only I can loosen them! I can use my magic! Escape! Escape!

“There is no escape!” laughs my executioner, and I know it is myself speaking! My laughter! My voice! “Kneel, pathetic wizard! Place your head upon the cold and bloody pillow!”

No! I shriek with terror and rage and fight desperately, but hands grab me from behind. Viciously, they force me to my knees. My shrinking flesh touches the chill and slimy block! Still I wrench and twist and scream and still they force me down.

A black hood is drawn over my head... but I can hear the executioner coming closer, I can hear his black robes rustling around his ankles, I can hear the blade being lifted... lifted...

“Raist! Raistlin! Wake up!”

Raistlin’s eyes opened. Staring upward, dazed and wild with terror, he had no idea for a moment where he was or who had wakened him.

“Raistlin, what is it?” the voice repeated.

Strong hands held him firmly, a familiar voice, warm with concern, blotting out the whistling scream of the executioner’s falling axe blade...

“Caramon!” Raistlin cried, clutching at his brother. “Help me! Stop them! Don’t let them murder me! Stop them! Stop them!”

“Shhhh, I wont let them do anything to you, Raist,” Caramon murmured, holding his brother close, stroking the soft brown hair. “Shhh, you’re all right. I’m here... I’m here.”

Laying his head on Caramon’s chest, hearing his twin’s steady, slow heartbeat, Raistlin gave a deep, shuddering sigh. Then he closed his eyes against the darkness and sobbed like a child.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Raistlin muttered bitterly some time later, as his brother stirred up the fire and set an iron pot filled with water on it to boil. “The most powerful mage who has ever lived, and I am reduced to a squalling babe by a dream!”

“So you’re human,” Caramon grunted, bending over the pot, watching it closely with the rapt attention all pay to the business of forcing water to boil more quickly. He shrugged. “You said it yourself.”

“Yes... human!” Raistlin repeated savagely, huddled, shivering, in his black robes and traveling cloak.

Caramon glanced at him uneasily at this, remembering what Par-Salian and the other mages had told him at the Conclave held in the Tower of High Sorcery. Your brother intends to challenge the gods! He seeks to become a god himself!

But even as Caramon looked at his brother, Raistlin drew his knees up close to his body, rested his hands upon his knees, and laid his head down upon them wearily. Feeling a strange choking sensation in his throat, vividly remembering the warm and wonderful feeling he had experienced when his brother had reached out to him for comfort, Caramon turned his attention back to the water.

Raistlin’s head snapped up, suddenly.

“What was that?” he asked at the same time Caramon, hearing the sound as well, rose to his feet.

“I dunno,” Caramon said softly, listening. Padding soft footed, the big man moved with surprising swiftness to his bedroll, grasped his sword, and drew it from its scabbard.

Acting in the same moment, Raistlin’s hand closed over the Staff of Magius that lay beside him.

Twisting to his feet like a cat, he doused the fire, upending the kettle over it. Darkness descended on them with a soft, hissing sound as the coals sputtered and died.

Giving their eyes time to become accustomed to the sudden change, both the brothers stood still, concentrating on their hearing.

The stream near which they were camped burbled and lapped among the rocks, branches creaked and leaves rattled as a sharp breeze sprang up, slicing through the autumn night. But what they had heard was neither wind in the trees nor water.

“There it is,” said Raistlin in a whisper as his brother came to stand beside him. “In the woods, across the stream.”

It was a scrabbling sound, like someone trying unsuccessfully to creep through unfamiliar territory. It lasted a few moments, then stopped, then began again. Either some one unfamiliar with the territory or some thing—clumsy, heavy-booted.

“Goblins!” hissed Caramon.

Gripping his sword, he and his brother exchanged glances. The years of darkness, of estrangement between them, the jealousy, hatred—everything vanished within that instant.

Reacting to the shared danger, they were one, as they had been in their mother’s womb.

Moving cautiously, Caramon set foot in the stream. The red moon, Lunitari, glimmered through the trees. But it was new tonight. Looking like the wick of a pinched-out candle, it gave little light.

Fearing to turn his foot upon a stone, Caramon tested each step carefully before he put his weight upon it. Raistlin followed, holding his darkened staff in one hand, resting his other lightly upon his brother’s shoulder for balance.

They crossed the stream as silently as the wind whispering across the water and reached the opposite bank. They could still hear the noise. It was made by something living, though, there was no doubt. Even when the wind died, they could hear the rustling sound.

“Rear guard. Raiding party!” Caramon mouthed, half turning so that his brother could hear.

Raistlin nodded. Goblin raiding parties customarily sent scouts to keep watch upon the trail when they rode in to loot a village. Since it was a boring job and meant that the goblins elected had no share in the killing or the spoils, it generally fell to those lowest in rank—the least skilled, most expendable members of the party.

Raistlin’s hand closed suddenly over Caramon’s arm, halting him momentarily.

“Crysania!” the mage whispered. “The village! We must know where the raiding party is!”

Caramon scowled. “I’ll take it alive!” He indicated this with a gesture of his huge hand wrapping itself around an imaginary goblin neck.

Raistlin smiled grimly in understanding. “And I will question it,” he hissed, making a gesture of his own.

Together, the twins crept up the trail, taking care to keep in the shadows so that even the faintest glimmer of moonlight should not be reflected from buckle or sword. They could still hear the sound. Though it ceased sometimes, it always started again. It remained in the same location.

Whoever or whatever it was appeared to have no idea of their approach. They drew toward it, keeping to the edges of the trail until they were—as well as they could judge—practically opposite it.

The sound, they could tell now, was in the woods, about twenty feet off the trail. Glancing swiftly around, Raistlin’s sharp eyes spotted a thin trail. Barely visible in the pale light of moon and stars, it branched off from the main one—an animal trail, probably leading down to the stream. A good place for scouts to lie hidden, giving them quick access to the main trail if they decided to attack, an easy escape route if the opposition proved too formidable.

“Wait here!” Caramon signed.

A rustle of his black hood was Raistlin’s response. Reaching out to hold aside a low, overhanging branch, Caramon entered the forest, moving slowly and stealthily about two feet away from the faint animal trail that led into it.

Raistlin stood beside a tree, his slender fingers reaching into one of his many, secret pockets, hastily rolling a pinch of sulfur up in a tiny ball of bat guano. The words to the spell were in his mind. He repeated them to himself. Even as he did this, however, he was acutely conscious of the sound of his brother’s movements.

Though Caramon was trying to be quiet, Raistlin could hear the creak of the big man’s leather armor, the metal buckles jingle, the crack of a twig beneath his feet as he moved away from his waiting twin. Fortunately, their quarry was continuing to make so much noise that the warrior would probably proceed unheard...

A horrible shriek rang through the, night, followed by a frightful yelling and thrashing sound, as if a hundred men were crashing through the wilderness.

Raistlin started.

Then a voice shouted, “Raist! Help! Aiiihh!”

More thrashing, the sound of tree limbs snapping, a thumping sound... .

Gathering his robes around him, Raistlin ran swiftly onto the animal trail, the time for concealment and secrecy past. He could hear his brother yelling, still. The sound was muffled, but clear, not choked or as if he were in pain.

Racing through the woods, the archmage ignored the branches that slapped his face and the brambles that caught at his robes. Breaking suddenly and unexpectedly into a clearing, he stopped, crouching, beside a tree. Ahead of him, he could see movement—a gigantic black shadow that seemed to be hovering in the air, floating above the ground. Grappling with the shadowy creature, yelling and cursing horribly, was—by the sound—Caramon!

“Ast kiranann Soth-aran/Suh kali Jalaran.” Raistlin chanted the words and tossed the small ball of sulphur high above him, into the leaves of the trees. An instantaneous burst of light in the branches was accompanied by a low, booming explosion. The treetops burst into flame, illuminating the scene below.

Raistlin darted forward, the words of a spell on his lips, magical fire crackling from his fingertips.

He stopped, staring in astonishment.

Before him, hanging upside down by one leg from a rope suspended over a tree branch, was Caramon. Suspended next to him, scrabbling frantically in fear of the flames, was a rabbit.

Raistlin stared, transfixed, at his brother. Shouting for help, Caramon turned slowly in the wind while flaming leaves fell all about him.

“Raist!” He was still yelling. “Get me—Oh—”

Caramon’s next revolution brought him within sight of his astounded twin. Flushing, the blood rushing to his head, Caramon gave a sheepish grin. “Wolf snare,” he said.

The forest was ablaze with brilliant orange light. The fire flickered on the big man’s sword, which lay on the ground where he’d dropped it. It sparkled on Caramon’s shining armor as he revolved slowly around again. It gleamed in the frantic, panic-stricken eyes of the rabbit.

Raistlin snickered.

Now it was Caramon’s turn to stare in hurt astonishment at his brother. Revolving back around to face him, Caramon twisted his head, trying to see Raistlin right side up. He gave a pitiful, pleading look.

C’mon Raist! Get me down!”

Raistlin began to laugh silently, his shoulders heaving.

“Damn it, Raist! This isn’t funny!” Caramon blustered, waving his arms. This gesture, of course, caused the snared warrior to stop revolving and begin to swing from side to side. The rabbit, on the other end of the snare, started swinging, too, pawing even more frantically at the air. Soon, the two of them were spinning in opposite directions, circling each other, entangling the ropes that held them.

“Get me down!” Caramon roared. The rabbit squealed in terror.

This was too much. Memories of their youth returned vividly to the archmage, driving away the darkness and horror that had clutched at his soul for what seemed like years unending. Once again he was young, hopeful, filled with dreams. Once again, he was with his brother, the brother who was closer to him than any other person had ever been, would ever be. His bumbling, thick-headed, beloved brother... Raistlin doubled over. Gasping for air, the mage collapsed up on the grass and laughed wildly, tears running down his cheeks.

Caramon glared at him—but this baleful look from a man being held upside down by his foot simply increased his twin’s mirth. Raistlin laughed until he thought he might have hurt something ins ide him. The laughter felt good. For a time, it banished the darkness. Lying on the damp ground of the glade illuminated by the light of the flaming trees, Raistlin laughed harder, feeling the merriment sparkle through his body like fine wine. And then Caramon joined in, his booming bellow echoing through the forest.

Only the falling of blazing bits of tree striking the ground near him recalled Raistlin to himself. Wiping his streaming eyes, so weak from laughter he could barely stand, the mage staggered to his feet. With a flick of his hand, he brought forth the little silver dagger he wore concealed upon his wrist.

Reaching up, stretching his full height, the mage cut the rope wrapped around his brothers ankle. Caramon plunged to the ground with a curse and thudding crash.

Still chuckling to himself, the mage walked over and cut the cord that some hunter had tied around the rabbit’s hind leg, catching hold of the animal in his arms. The creature was half mad with terror, but Raistlin gently stroked its head and murmured soft words. Gradually, the animal grew calm, seeming almost to be in a trance.

“Well, we took him alive,” Raistlin said, his lips twitching. He held up the rabbit. “I don’t think we’ll get much information out of him, however.”

So red in the face he gave the impression of having tumbled into a vat of paint, Caramon sat up and began to rub a bruised shoulder.

“Very funny,” he muttered, glancing up at the animal with a shamefaced grin. The flames in the treetops were dying, though the air was filled with smoke and, here and there, the grass was burning. Fortunately, it had been a damp, rainy autumn, so these small fires died quickly.

“Nice spell,” Caramon commented, looking up into the glowing remains of the surrounding treetops as, swearing and groaning, he hauled himself to his feet.

“I’ve always liked it,” Raistlin replied wryly. “Fizban taught it to me. You remember?” Looking up into the smoldering trees, he smiled. “I think that old man would have appreciated this.”

Cradling the rabbit in his arms, absently petting the soft, silken ears, Raistlin walked from the smoke-filled woods. Lulled by the mage’s caressing fingers and hypnotic words, the rabbit’s eyes closed. Caramon retrieved his sword from the brush where he’d dropped it and followed, limping slightly.

“Damn snare cut off my circulation.” He shook his foot to try to get the blood going.

Heavy clouds had rolled in, blotting out the stars and snuffing Lunitari’s flame completely. As the flames in the trees died, the woods were plunged into darkness so thick that neither brother could see the trail ahead.

“I suppose there is no need for secrecy now,” Raistlin murmured. “Shirak.” The crystal on the top of the Staff of Magius began to glow with a bright, magical brilliance.

The twins returned to their camp in silence, a companionable, comfortable silence, a silence they had not shared in years. The only sounds in the night were the restless stirring of their horses, the creak and jingle of Caramon’s armor, and the soft rustle of the mage’s black robes as he walked. Behind them, once, they heard a crash—the falling of a charred branch.

Reaching camp, Caramon ruefully stirred at the remains of their fire, then glanced up at the rabbit in Raistlin’s arms.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider that breakfast.”

“I do not eat goblin flesh,” Raistlin answered with a smile, placing the creature down on the trail. At the touch of the cold ground beneath its paws, the rabbit started, its eyes flared open. Staring around for an instant to get its bearings, it suddenly bolted for the shelter of the woods.

Caramon heaved a sigh, then, chuckling to himself, sat down heavily upon the ground near his bedroll. Removing his boot, he rubbed his bruised ankle.

“Dulak,” Raistlin whispered and the staff went dark. He laid it beside his bedroll, then laid down, drawing the blankets up around him.

With the return of darkness, the dream was there. Waiting.

Raistlin shuddered, his body suddenly convulsed with chills. Sweat covered his brow. He could not, dared not close his eyes! Yet, he was so tired... so exhausted. How many nights had it been since he’d slept?...

“Caramon,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Caramon answered from the darkness.

“Caramon,” Raistlin said after a moment’s pause, “do... do you remember how, when we were children, I’d have those... those horrible dreams?...” His voice failed him for a moment. He coughed.

There was no sound from his twin.

Raistlin cleared his throat, then whispered, “And you’d guard my sleep, my brother. You kept them away... .”

“I remember,” came a muffled, husky voice.

“Caramon,” Raistlin began, but he could not finish. The pain and weariness were too much. The darkness seemed to close in, the dream crept from its hiding place.

And then there was the jingle of armor. A big, hulking shadow appeared beside him. Leather creaking, Caramon sat down beside his brother, resting his broad back against a tree trunk and laying his naked sword across his knees.

“Go to sleep, Raist,” Caramon said gently. The mage felt a rough, clumsy hand pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll stay up and keep watch... .”

Wrapping himself in his blankets, Raistlin closed his eyes. Sleep, sweet and restful, stole upon him. The last thing he remembered was a fleeting fancy of the dream approaching, reaching out its bony hands to grasp him, only to be driven back by the light from Caramon s sword.

7

Caramon’s horse shifted restlessly beneath him as the big man leaned forward in the saddle, staring down into the valley at the village. Frowning darkly, he glanced at his brother. Raistlin s face was hidden behind his black hood. A steady rain had started about dawn and now dripped dull and monotonously around them. Heavy gray clouds sagged above them, seemingly upheld by the dark, towering trees. Other than the drip of water from the leaves, there was no sound at all.

Raistlin shook his head. Then, speaking gently to his horse, he rode forward. Caramon followed, hurrying to catch up, and there was the sound of steel sliding from a scabbard.

“You will not need your sword, my brother,” Raistlin said without turning.

The horses’ hooves clopped through the mud of the road, their sound thudding too loudly in the thick, rain-soaked air. Despite Raistlin’s words, Caramon kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword until they rode into the outskirts of the small village. Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to his brother, then, cautiously, approached the same small inn Crysania had first seen.

Peering inside, he saw the table set for dinner, the broken crockery. A dog came dashing up to him hopefully, licking his hand and whimpering. Cats slunk beneath the chairs, vanishing into the shadows with a guilty, furtive air. Absently patting the dog, Caramon was about to walk inside when Raistlin called.

“I heard a horse. Over there.”

Sword drawn, Caramon walked around the corner of the building. After a few moments, he returned, his weapon sheathed, his brow furrowed.

“It’s hers,” he reported. “Unsaddled, fed, and watered.”

Nodding his hooded head as though he had expected this information, Raistlin pulled his cloak more tightly about him.

Caramon glanced uneasily about the village. Water dripped from the eaves, the door to the inn swung on rusty hinges, making a shrill squeaking sound. No light came from any of the houses, no sounds of children’s laughter or women calling to each other or men complaining about the weather as they went to their work. “What is it, Raist?”

“Plague,” said Raistlin.

Caramon choked and instantly covered his mouth and nose with his cloak. From within the shadows of the cowl, Raistlin’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile.

“Do not fear, my brother,” he said, dismounting from his horse. Taking the reins, Caramon tied both animals to a post, then came to stand beside his twin. “We have a true cleric with us, have you forgotten?”

“Then where is she?” Caramon growled in a muffled voice, still keeping his face covered.

The mage’s head turned, staring down the rows of silent, empty houses. “There, I should guess,” he remarked finally. Caramon followed his gaze and saw a single light flickering in the window of a small house at the other end of the village.

“I’d rather be walking into a camp of ogres,” Caramon muttered as he and his brother slogged through the muddy, deserted streets. His voice was gruff with a fear he could not hide. He could face with equanimity the prospect of dying with six inches of cold steel in his gut. But the thought of dying helplessly, wasted by something that could not be fought, that floated unseen upon the air, filled the big man with horror.

Raistlin did not reply. His face remained hidden. What his thoughts might have been, his brother could not guess. The two reached the end of the row of houses, the rain spattering all around them with thudding plops. They were nearing the light when Caramon happened to glance to his left.

“Name of the gods!” he whispered as he stopped abruptly and grasped his brother by the arm.

He pointed to the mass grave.

Neither spoke. With croaks of anger at their approach, the carrion birds rose into the air, black wings flapping. Caramon gagged. His face pale, he turned hurriedly away. Raistlin continued to stare at the sight a moment, his thin lips tightening into a straight line.

“Come, my brother,” he said coldly, walking toward the small house again.

Glancing in at the window, hand on the hilt of his sword, Caramon sighed and, nodding his head, gave his brother a sign. Raistlin pushed gently upon the door, and it opened at his touch.

A young man lay upon a rumpled bed. His eyes were closed, his hands folded across his chest. There was a look of peace upon the still, ashen face, though the closed eyes were sunken into gaunt cheekbones and the lips were blue with the chill of death. A cleric dressed in robes that might once have been white knelt on the floor beside him, her head bowed on her folded hands. Caramon started to say something, but Raistlin checked him with a hand on his arm, shaking his hooded head, unwilling to interrupt her.

Silently, the twins stood together in the doorway, the rain dripping around them.

Crysania was with her god. Intent upon her prayers, she was unaware of the twins’ entrance until, finally, the jingle and creak of Caramon’s armor brought her back to reality. Lifting her head, her dark, tousled hair falling about her shoulders, she regarded them without surprise.

Her face, though pale with weariness and sorrow, was composed. Though she had not prayed to Paladine to send them, she knew the god answered prayers of the heart as well as those spoken openly. Bowing her head once more, giving thanks, she sighed, then rose to her feet and turned to face them.

Her eyes met Raistlin s eyes, the light of the failing fire causing them to gleam even in the depths of his hood. When she spoke, her voice seemed to her to blend with the sound of the falling raindrops.

“I failed,” she said.

Raistlin appeared undisturbed. He glanced at the body of the young man. “He would not believe?”

“Oh, he believed.” She, too, looked down at the body. “He refused to let me heal him. His anger was... very great.” Reaching down, she drew the sheet up over the still form. “Paladine has taken him. Now he understands, I am certain.”

“He does,” Raistlin remarked. “Do you?”

Crysania’s head bowed, her dark hair fell around her face. She stood so still for so long that Caramon, not understanding, cleared his throat and shifted uneasily.

“Uh, Raist—” he began softly.

“Shh!” Raistlin whispered.

Crysania raised her head. She had not even heard Caramon. Her eyes were a deep gray now, so dark they seemed to reflect the archmage’s black robes. “I understand,” she said in a firm voice. “For the first time, I understand and I see what I must do. In Istar, I saw belief in the gods lost. Paladine granted my prayer and showed me the Kingpriest’s fatal weakness—pride. The god gave me to know how I might avoid that mistake. He gave me to know that, if I asked, he would answer.

“But Paladine also showed me, in Istar, how weak I was. When I left the wretched city and came here with you, I was little more than a frightened child, clinging to you in the terrible night. Now, I have regained my strength. The vision of this tragic sight has burned into my soul.”

As Crysania spoke, she drew nearer Raistlin. His eyes held hers in an unblinking gaze. She saw herself in their flat surface. The medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck shone with a cold, white light. Her voice grew fervent, her hands clasped together tightly.

“That sight will be before my eyes,” she said softly, coming to stand before the archmage, “as I walk with you through the Portal, armed with my faith, strong in my belief that together you and I will banish darkness from the world forever!”

Reaching out, Raistlin took hold of her hands. They were numb with cold. He enclosed them in his own slender hands, warming them with his burning touch.

“We have no need to alter time!” Crysania said. “Fistandantilus was an evil man. What he did, he did for his own personal glory. But we care, you and I. That alone will be sufficient to change the ending. I know—my god has spoken to me!”

Slowly, smiling his thin-lipped smile, Raistlin brought Crysania’s hands to his mouth and kissed them, never taking his eyes from her.

Crysania felt her cheeks flush, then caught her breath. With a choked, half-strangled sound, Caramon turned abruptly and walked out the door.

Standing in the oppressive silence, the rain beating down upon his head, Caramon heard a voice thudding at his brain with the same monotonous, dull tone as the drops spattering about him.

He seeks to become a god. He seeks to become a god!

Sick and afraid, Caramon shook his head in anguish. His interest in the army, his fascination with being a “general,” his attraction to Crysania, and all the other, thousand worries had driven from his mind the real reason he had come back. Now with Crysania’s words—it returned to him, hitting him like a wave of chill sea water.

Yet all he could think of was Raistlin as he was last night. How long had it been since he’d heard his brother laugh like that? How long had it been since they’d shared that warmth, that closeness? Vividly, he remembered watching Raistlin s face as he guarded his twin’s sleep. He saw the harsh lines of cunning smooth, the bitter creases around the mouth fade. The archmage looked almost young again, and Caramon remembered their childhood and young manhood together—those days that had been the happiest of his life.

But then came, unbidden, a hideous memory, as though his soul were taking a perverse delight in torturing and confusing him. He saw himself once more in that dark cell in Istar, seeing clearly, for the first time, his brothers vast capability for evil. He remembered his firm determination that his brother must die. He thought of Tasslehoff... .

But Raistlin had explained all that! He had explained things at Istar. Once again, Caramon felt himself foundering. What if Par-Salian is wrong, what if they are all wrong? What if Raist and Crysania could save the world from horror and suffering like this?

“I’m just a jealous, bumbling fool,” Caramon mumbled, wiping the rainwater from his face with a trembling hand. “Maybe those old wizards are all like me, all jealous of him.”

The darkness deepened about him, the clouds above grew denser, changing from gray to black. The rain beat down more heavily.

Raistlin came out the door, Crysania with him, her hand on his arm. She was wrapped in her thick cloak, her grayish-white hood drawn up over her head. Caramon cleared his throat.

“I’ll go bring him out and put him with the others,” he said gruffly, starting for the door. “Then I’ll fill in the grave—”

“No, my brother,” Raistlin said. “No. This sight will not be hidden in the ground.” He cast back his hood, letting the rain wash over his face as he lifted his gaze to the clouds. “This sight will flare in the eyes of the gods! The smoke of their destruction will rise to heaven! The sound will resound in their ears!”

Caramon, startled at this unusual outburst, turned to look at his twin. Raistlin’s thin face was nearly as gaunt and pale as the corpse’s inside the small house, his voice tense with anger.

“Come with me,” he said, abruptly breaking free of Crysania’s hold and striding toward the center of the small village. Crysania followed, holding her hood to keep the slashing wind and rain from blowing it off. Caramon came after, more slowly.

Stopping in the middle of the muddy, rain-soaked street, Raistlin turned to face Crysania and his brother as they came up to him.

“Get the horses, Caramon—ours and Crysania’s. Lead them to those woods outside of town”—the mage pointed “blindfold them, then return to me.”

Caramon stared at him.

“Do it!” Raistlin commanded, his voice rasping.

Caramon did as he was told, leading the horses away.

“Now, stand there,” Raistlin continued when his twin returned. “Do not move from that spot. Do not come close to me, my brother, no matter what happens.” His gaze went to Crysania, who was standing near him, then back to his brother. “You understand, Caramon.”

Caramon nodded wordlessly and, reaching out, gently took Crysania’s hand.

“What is it?” she asked, holding back.

“His magic,” Caramon replied.

He fell silent as Raistlin cast a sharp, imperious glance at him. Alarmed by the strange, fiercely eager expression on Raistlin’s face, Crysania suddenly drew nearer Caramon, shivering. The big man, his eyes on his frail twin, put his arm around her. Standing together in the pounding rain, almost not daring to breathe lest they disturb him, they watched the archmage.

Raistlin’s eyes closed. Lifting his face to the heavens, he raised his arms, palms outward, toward the lowering skies. His lips moved, but—for a moment—they could not hear him. Then, though he did not seem to raise his voice, each could begin to make out words—the spidery language of magic. He repeated the same words over and over, his soft voice rising and falling in a chant. The words never changed, but the way he spoke them, the inflection of each, varied every time he repeated the phrase.

A hush settled over the valley. Even the sound of the falling rain died in Caramon’s ears. All he could hear was the soft chanting, the strange and eerie music of his brother’s voice. Crysania pressed closer still, her dark eyes wide, and Caramon patted her reassuringly.

As the chanting continued, a feeling of awe crept over Caramon. He had the distinct impression that he was being drawn irresistibly toward Raistlin, that everything in the world was being drawn toward the archmage, though—in looking fearfully around—Caramon saw that he hadn’t moved from the spot. But, turning back to stare at his brother, the feeling returned even more forcibly.

Raistlin stood in the center of the world, his hands outstretched, and all sound, all light, even the air itself, seemed to rush eagerly into his grasp. The ground beneath Caramon’s feet began to pulse in waves that flowed toward the archmage.

Raistlin lifted his hands higher, his voice rising ever so slightly. He paused, then he spoke each word in the chant slowly, firmly. The winds rose, the ground heaved. Caramon had the wild impression that the world was rushing in upon his brother, and he braced his feet, fearful that he, too, would be sucked into Raistlin’s dark vortex.

Raistlin’s fingers stabbed toward the gray, boiling heavens. The energy that he had drawn from ground and air surged through him. Silver lightning flashed from his fingers, striking the clouds. Brilliant, jagged light forked down in answer, touching the small house where the body of the young cleric lay. With a shattering explosion, a ball of blue-white flame engulfed the building.

Again Raistlin spoke and again the silver lightning shot from his fingers. Again another streak of light answered, striking the mage! This time it was Raistlin who was engulfed in red-green flame.

Crysania screamed. Struggling in Caramon’s grasp, she sought to free herself. But, remembering his brothers words, Caramon held her fast, preventing her from rushing to Raistlin’s side.

“Look!” he whispered hoarsely, gripping her tightly. “The flames do not touch him!”

Standing amidst the blaze, Raistlin lifted his thin arms higher, and the black robes blew around him as though he were in the center of a violent wind storm. He spoke again. Fiery fingers of flame spread out from him, lighting the darkness, racing through the wet grass, dancing on top of the water as though it were covered with oil. Raistlin stood in the center, the hub of a vast, spoked wheel of flame.

Crysania could not move. Awe and terror such as she had never before experienced paralyzed her. She held onto Caramon, but he offered her no comfort. The two clung together like frightened children as the flames surged around them. Traveling through the streets, the fire reached the buildings and ignited them with one bursting explosion after another.

Purple, red, blue, and green, the magical fire blazed upward, lighting the heavens, taking the place of the cloud-shrouded sun. The carrion birds wheeled in fear as the tree they had occupied became a living torch.

Raistlin spoke again, one last time. With a burst of pure, white light, fire leaped down from the heavens, consuming the bodies in the mass grave.

Wind from the flames gusted about Crysania, blowing the hood from her head. The heat was intense, beating upon her face. The smoke choked her, she could not breathe. Sparks showered around her, flames flickered at her feet until it seemed that she, too, must end up part of the conflagration. But nothing touched her. She and Caramon stood safely in the midst of the blaze. And then Crysania became aware of Raistlin’s gaze upon her.

From the fiery inferno in which he stood, the mage beckoned.

Crysania gasped, shrinking back against Caramon.

Raistlin beckoned again, his black robes flowing about his body, rippling with the wind of the fire storm he had created. Standing within the center of the flames, he held out his hands to Crysania.

“No!” Caramon cried, holding fast to her. But Crysania, never taking her eyes from Raistlin, gently loosened the big mans grip and walked forward.

“Come to me, Revered Daughter!” Raistlin’s soft voice touched her through the chaos and she knew she was hearing it in her heart. “Come to me through the flame. Come taste the power of the gods...”

The heat of the blazing fire that enveloped the archmage burned and scorched her soul. It seemed her skin must blacken and shrivel. She heard her hair crackling. Her breath was sucked from her lungs, searing them painfully. But the fire’s light entranced her, the flames danced, luring her forward, even as Raistlin’s soft voice urged her toward him.

“No!” Behind her, she could hear Caramon cry out, but he was nothing to her, less than the sound of her own heart beating. She reached the curtain of flame. Raistlin extended his hand, but, for an instant, she faltered, hesitating.

His hand burned! She saw it withering, the flesh black and charred.

“Come to me, Crysania... .” whispered his voice.

Reaching out her hand, trembling, she thrust it into the flame. For an instant, there was searing, heart-stopping pain. She cried out in horror and anguish, then Raistlin’s hand closed over hers, drawing her through the blazing curtain. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes. Cool wind soothed her. She could breathe sweet air. The only heat she felt was the warm, familiar heat from the mage s body. Opening her eyes, she saw that she stood close to him. Raising her head, she gazed up into his face... and felt a swift, sharp ache in her heart.

Raistlin’s thin face glistened with sweat, his eyes reflected the pure, white flame of the burning bodies, his breath came fast and shallow. He seemed lost, unaware of his surroundings. And there was a look of ecstasy on his face, a look of exultation, of triumph.

“I understand,” Crysania said to herself, holding onto his hands. “I understand. This is why he cannot love me. He has only one love in this life and that is his magic. To this love he will give everything, for this love he will risk everything!”

The thought was painful, but it was a pleasant kind of melancholy pain.

“Once again,” she said to herself, her eyes dimming with tears, “he is my example. Too long have I let myself be preoccupied with petty thoughts of this world, of myself. He is right. Now I taste the power of the gods. I must be worthy—of them and of him!”

Raistlin closed his eyes. Crysania, holding onto him, felt the magic drain from him as though his life’s blood were flowing from a wound. His arms fell to his sides. The ball of flame that had enveloped them flickered and died.

With a sigh that was little more than a whisper, Raistlin sank to his knees upon the scorched ground. The rain resumed. Crysania could hear it hiss as it struck the charred remains of the still-smoldering village. Steam rose into the air, flitting among the skeletons of the buildings, drifting down the street like ghosts of the former inhabitants.

Kneeling beside the archmage, Crysania smoothed back his brown hair with her hand. Raistlin opened his eyes, looking at her without recognition. And in them she saw deep, undying sorrow—the look of one who has been permitted to enter a realm of deadly, perilous beauty and who now finds himself, once more, cast down into the gray, rain-swept world.

The mage slumped forward, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply. Crysania looked up at Caramon as the big man hurried over.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I’m all right,” she whispered. “How is he?”

Together, they helped Raistlin rise to his feet. He seemed completely unaware of their very existence. Tottering with exhaustion, he sagged against his brother.

“He’ll be fine. This always happens.” Caramon’s voice died, then he muttered, “Always happens! What I am saying? I’ve never seen anything like that in my life! Name of the gods”—he stared at his twin in awe—“I’ve never seen power like that! I didn’t know! I didn’t know...”

Supported by Caramon’s strong arm, Raistlin leaned against his twin. He began to cough, gasping for air, choking until he could barely stand. Caramon held onto him tightly. Fog and smoke swirled about their feet, the rain splashed down around them. Here and there came the crash of burning wood, the hiss of water upon flame. When the coughing fit passed, Raistlin raised his head, life and recognition returning to his eyes.

“Crysania,” he said softly, “I asked you to do that because you must have implicit faith in me and in my power. If we succeed in our quest, Revered Daughter, then we will enter the Portal and we will walk with our eyes open into the Abyss—a place of horror unimaginable.”

Crysania began to shiver uncontrollably as she stood before him, held mesmerized by his glittering eyes.

“You must be strong, Revered Daughter,” he continued intently. “And that is the reason I brought you on this journey. I have gone through my own trials. You had to go through yours. In Istar, you faced the trials of wind and water. You came through the trial of darkness within the Tower, and now you have withstood the trial by fire. But one more trial awaits you, Crysania! One more, and you must prepare for it, as must we all.”

His eyes closed wearily, he staggered. Caramon, his face grim and suddenly haggard, caught hold of his twin and, lifting him, carried him to the waiting horses.

Crysania hurried after them, her concerned gaze on Raistlin. Despite his weakness, there was a look of sublime peace and exultation on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He sleeps,” Caramon said, his voice deep and gruff, concealing some emotion she could not guess at.

Reaching the horses, Crysania stopped a moment, turning to look behind her.

Smoke rose from the charred ruins of the village. The skeletons of the buildings had collapsed into heaps of pure white ash, the trees were nothing but branched smoke drifting up to the heavens. Even as she watched, the rain beat down upon the ash, changing it to mud, washing it away. The fog blew to shreds, the smoke was swept away on the winds of the storm.

The village was gone as though it had never been.

Shivering, Crysania clutched her cloak about her and turned to Caramon, who was placing Raistlin into his saddle, shaking him, forcing him to wake up enough to ride.

“Caramon,” Crysania said as the warrior came over to help her. “What did Raistlin mean—‘another trial.’ I saw the look on your face when he said it. You know, don’t you? You understand?”

Caramon did not answer immediately. Next to them, Raistlin swayed groggily in his saddle. Finally, his head bowed, the mage lapsed once more into sleep. After assisting Crysania, Caramon walked over to his own horse and mounted. Then, reaching over, he took the reins from the limp hands of his slumbering brother. They rode back up the mountain, through the rain, Caramon never once looking behind at the village.

In silence, he guided the horses up the trail. Next to him, Raistlin slumped over his mount’s neck. Caramon steadied his brother with a firm, gentle hand.

“Caramon?” Crysania asked softly as they reached the summit of the mountain.

The warrior turned to look at Crysania. Then, with a sigh, his gaze went to the south, where, far from them, lay Thorbardin. The storm clouds massed thick and dark upon the distant horizon.

“It is an old legend that, before he faced the Queen of Darkness, Huma was tested by the gods. He went through the trial of wind, the trial of fire, the trial of water. And his last test,” Caramon said quietly, “was the trial of blood.”