The Soulforge Page 20

  Suffice it to say that Tanis had left the elven kingdom some years ago. He’d gone for help to the first person—the only person—he knew outside of Qualinesti: Flint Fireforge. Tanis had no skill at all in working metal, but he did have a head for figures and a keen business sense. He soon discovered that Flint was selling his wares far below their true worth. He was cheating himself.

  “People will be happy to pay more for quality workmanship,” Tanis had pointed out to the dwarf, who was terrified that he would lose his clientele. “You’ll see.”

  Tanis proved to be right, and Flint prospered, much to the dwarf’s astonishment. The two became partners. Tanis began accompanying the dwarf on his summer travels. Tanis hired the wagon and the horses, put up the booths at the local fairs, made appointments to show Flint’s wares privately to the well-to-do.

  The two developed a friendship that was deep and abiding. Flint asked Tanis to move in with him, but Tanis pointed out that the dwarf’s house was a bit cramped for the tall half-elf. Tanis’s dwelling place was nearby, however, built up in the tree branches. The only quarrel the two ever had—and it wasn’t really a quarrel, more of a grumbling argument—was over Tanis’s trips back to Qualinesti.

  “You’re not fit for anything when you come back from that place,” Flint said bluntly. “You’re in a dark mood for a week. They don’t want you around; they’ve made that plain enough. You upset their lives and they upset yours. The best thing for you to do is wash the mud of Qualinesti off your boots and never go back.”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Tanis reflectively. “And every time I leave, I swear I will never return. But something draws me back. When I hear the music of the aspen trees in my dreams, I know it is time for me to return home. And Qualinesti is my home. They can’t deny it to me, no matter how they’d like to try.”

  “Bah! That’s the elf in you!” Flint scoffed. “ ‘Music of the aspen trees!’ Horse droppings! I haven’t been home in one hundred years. You don’t hear me carrying on about the music of the walnuts, do you?”

  “No, but I have heard you express a longing for proper dwarf spirits,” Tanis teased.

  “That’s completely different,” Flint returned sagaciously. “We’re talking life’s blood here. I do wonder that Otik can’t seem to get the recipe right. I’ve given it to him often enough. It’s these local mushrooms, or what humans think pass for mushrooms.”

  Despite Flint’s urgings, Tanis left that fall for Qualinesti. He was gone during Yule. The heavy snows set in, and it began to look as if he wouldn’t be back before spring.

  Flint had always been a bit lonely when Tanis was gone, though the dwarf would have cut off his beard before he admitted it. The inadvertent addition of Tasslehoff eased the dwarf’s loneliness some, though Flint would have cut off his head before he admitted that. The kender’s lively chatter filled in the silence, though the dwarf always irritably put a stop to it when he found himself becoming too interested.

  Teaching the young humans how to handle themselves in a fight gave Flint a true feeling of accomplishment. He showed them the little tricks and skillful maneuvers he had learned from a lifetime of encounters with ogres and goblins, thieves and footpads, and other hazards faced by those who travel the unchancy roads of Abanasinia. He likened this feeling of satisfaction to that of turning out an exceptional piece of metalwork.

  In essence, he was doing much the same: shaping and crafting young lives as he shaped and crafted his metal. One of them, however, was not particularly malleable.

  Raistlin continued to “shiver” Flint’s skin.

  The twins were nineteen that winter, and they were spending the winter together.

  Early in the fall, a fire had burned down Master Theobald’s mage school, forcing him to relocate. By this time, Theobald was well known and trusted in Solace. The authorities—once assured that the fire had been from natural causes and not supernatural—gave him permission to open his new school within the town limits.

  Raistlin no longer needed to board at the school. He could spend the winters at home with Caramon. But neither he nor Caramon were home much of the time.

  Raistlin enjoyed the company of the dwarf and the kender. He required knowledge of the world beyond the vallenwoods, knowledge of a world in which he would soon be taking his place. Since acquiring the ability to cast his magic, he had dared to dream of his future.

  Raistlin was now an assistant teacher at the school. Master Theobald hoped that by providing some honorable way for the young man to earn money, Raistlin would quit performing in public. Raistlin was not a particularly good teacher; he had no patience for ignorance and tended to be extremely sarcastic. But he kept the boys quiet during Master Theobald’s afternoon nap, which was all the master required. Master Theobald had once mentioned that Raistlin might like to open a mage school himself. Raistlin had laughed in the master’s face.

  Raistlin wanted power. Not power over a bunch of mewling brats, dully reciting their aas and ais. He wanted the power he held over people when they watched him cast even minor cantrips. Their expressions of awe, their wide-eyed respect were deeply gratifying. He saw himself gaining increasing power over others.

  Power for good, of course.

  He would give money to the impoverished, health to the sickly, justice to evildoers. He would be loved, admired, feared, and envied. If he was going to hold sway over vast numbers of people (such are the ambitious dreams of youth!), he would need to know as much as possible about those people—all of them, not just humans. The dwarf and the kender proved to be excellent character studies.

  The first thing Raistlin learned was that a kender’s fingers are into everything, and a kender’s hands will carry it off. He had been enraged the first time Tasslehoff appropriated the small bag in which the young mage proudly kept his one and only spell component.

  “Look what I found!” Tasslehoff announced. “A leather pouch with the letter R on it. Let’s see what’s inside.”

  Raistlin recognized the pouch, which only moments earlier had been hanging from his belt. “No! Wait! Don’t—”

  Too late. Tas had opened the pouch. “There’s a bunch of dried-up flowers in here. I’ll just empty those out.” He dumped the rose petals on the floor, looked back inside. “Nope, nothing else. That’s odd. Why would anyone—”

  “Give me that!” Raistlin snatched the pouch. He was literally trembling with rage.

  “Oh, is that yours?” Tas looked up at him, eyes bright. “I cleaned it out for you. Someone had stuck a bunch of dead flowers inside it.”

  Raistlin opened his mouth, but words were not only inadequate, they were nonexistent. He could only glare, make incoherent sounds, and at least satisfy some of his anger by casting a furious glance at his laughing brother.

  After losing the pouch and the rose petals twice more, Raistlin realized that outrage, threats of violence and/or legal action did not work with kender. He could never catch the deft fingers that could untie any knot, no matter how tight and slide the bag away with the lightness of touch of a spider. Coping with Tasslehoff required subtlety.

  Raistlin conducted an experiment. He placed a rounded lump of brightly colored glass, acquired from leavings at the glassblowers, inside his pouch. The next time Tas “found” the pouch, he discovered the glass inside. Enchanted, he drew out the glass, dropped the pouch to the floor. Raistlin retrieved the pouch and his spell components intact. After that, he took to putting some trinket or interesting object (a bird’s egg, a petrified beetle, a sparkling rock) in the pouch. Whenever he missed it, he knew where to look.

  As Raistlin learned more about kender, Caramon was learning the fine and not-so-fine points of dwarven combat.

  Due to the short stature of dwarves and the fact that they generally fight opponents much taller than themselves, dwarven fighting techniques are not elegant. Flint used a number of moves—groin kicks and rabbit punches, for example—that were not chivalrous, according to Sturm.

 
“I will not fight like a common street brawler,” he protested.

  The time of year was the deepest part of midwinter. Crystalmir Lake was frozen and snow-covered. Most people kept indoors where it was warm, toasting their feet and drinking hot punch. Flint had Sturm and Caramon outside, working them into a lather, “toughening them up.”

  “Is that so?” Flint walked over to stand beneath the tall young man. Drops of water from his panting breath coated Sturm’s mustaches, making him look like walrus, according to Tasslehoff.

  “And what will you do when you are attacked by a common street brawler, laddie?” Flint demanded. “Raise your sword to him in some fool salute while he kicks you in your privates?”

  Caramon guffawed. Sturm frowned at the vulgarity, but conceded that the dwarf had a point. He should at least know how to counter such an attack.

  “Goblins, now,” Flint continued his lecture. “They’re basically cowards, unless they’re fired up with liquor, and then they’re just plain crazed. A goblin will always try to jump you from behind, slit your throat before you know what’s hit you. Like this … He’ll use his hairy hand to muffle your scream, and with his other, draw the blade right across here. You’ll bleed to death almost before your body hits the ground.

  “Now, here’s what you do. You use the goblin’s own weight and forward movement against him. He comes at you, jumps on you like this.…”

  “Let me be the goblin!” Tasslehoff begged, waving his hand. “Please, Flint! Let me!”

  “All right. Now, the kender—”

  “Goblin!” Tas corrected and leapt onto Flint’s broad back.

  “—jumps on you. What do you do? Just this.”

  Flint grabbed hold of the kender’s two hands that were clutching for his throat and, bending double, flipped the kender over his head.

  Tas landed hard on the frozen, snow-covered ground. He lay there a moment, gasping and gulping.

  “Knocked the air clean out me!” he said when he could talk. He scrambled to his feet. I’ve never not been able to breathe before, have you, Caramon? It’s an interesting feeling. And I saw the stars and it’s not even night. Do you want me to do it to you, Caramon?”

  “Hah! You couldn’t flip me!” Caramon scoffed.

  “Maybe not,” Tas admitted. “But I can do this.”

  Clenching his fist, he drove it right into Caramon’s broad midriff.

  Caramon groaned and doubled over, clutching his gut and sucking air.

  “Well struck, kender,” came an approving voice that rang out over the laughter of the others.

  “Not bad, Tasslehoff. Not bad,” said another.

  Two people, heavily muffled in furs, were walking through the snow.

  “Tanis!” Flint roared in welcome.

  “Kitiara!” Caramon cried out in surprise.

  “Tanis and Kitiara!” Tasslehoff yelled, though he’d never seen or met Kitiara before in his life.

  “Here, now. Do you all know each other?” Tanis demanded. He looked from Caramon and Raistlin to Kitiara in astonishment.

  “I should,” answered Kitiara with her crooked grin. “These two are my brothers. The twins I was telling you about. And as for Brightblade, here, he and I used to play together.” Her crooked smile gave the words a salacious meaning.

  Caramon whistled and poked Sturm in the ribs. Sturm flushed in embarrassment and anger. Saying stiffly that he was needed at home, he bowed coldly to the newcomers, turned on his heel, and stalked off.

  “What’d I say?” Kit asked. Then she laughed and, holding out her arms, invited her brothers to her embrace.

  Caramon gave her a bear hug. Showing off his strength, he lifted her from the ground.

  “Very good, little brother,” she said, eyeing him approvingly when he set her down. “You’ve grown since I saw you last.”

  “Two whole inches,” Caramon said proudly.

  Raistlin turned his cheek to his sister, avoided her embrace. Kitiara, with a laugh and a shrug, kissed him, an obliging peck. He stood motionless beneath her scrutinizing gaze, his hands folded in front of him. He was wearing the robes of a mage now, white robes, a gift from his mentor, Antimodes.

  “You’ve grown, too, baby brother,” Kit observed.

  “Raistlin’s grown a whole inch,” said Caramon. “It’s my cooking that’s done it.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant,” said Kit.

  “I know. Thank you, Sister,” Raistlin replied. The two exchanged glances, in perfect accord.

  “Well, well,” said Kit, turning back to Tanis. “Who would have thought it? I leave my brothers babes in arms and come back to find them grown men. And this”—she turned to the dwarf—“this must be Flint Fireforge.”

  She held out her gloved hand. “Kitiara uth Matar.”

  “Your servant, ma’am,” said Flint, accepting her hand.

  The two shook hands with every mark of mutual pleasure in the meeting.

  “And I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said Tas, offering one hand to be shaken while the other was gliding toward the young woman’s belt.

  “How do you do, Tasslehoff,” Kit said. “Touch that dagger and I’ll use it to slice off your ears,” she added good-naturedly.

  Something in her voice convinced Tasslehoff that she meant what she said. Being rather fond of his ears, which served to prop up his topknot, Tasslehoff began to rummage through a pouch Tanis obviously didn’t want.

  Flint deemed that the lessons were over, invited his guests inside for a sip and a bite.

  Tanis and Kit shed their cloaks. Kitiara was dressed in a long leather tunic that came to midthigh. She wore a man’s shirt, open at the neck, and a finely tooled leather belt of elven make and design. She was unlike any woman the others had ever known, and none of them, including her brothers, seemed to know quite what to make of her.

  Her gaze was that of a man, bold and straightforward, not the simpering, blushing modesty of a well-bred woman. Her movements were graceful—the grace of a trained swordsman—and she had the confidence and coolness of a blooded warrior. If she was a bit cocky, that only enhanced her exotic appeal.

  “You’ve noticed my belt,” she said, proudly exhibiting the hand-tooled leather girdle that encircled her slender waist. “It’s a gift from an admirer.”

  None of those present had to look far to find the gift giver. Tanis Half-Elven watched Kit’s every movement with open admiration.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Flint,” Kit added. “All good, of course.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing about you,” Flint returned, with his customary bluntness. “But I’ll wager I will.” He looked at Tanis, and mingled with his affection for his friend was a hint of concern. “Where did you two meet?”

  “Outside of Qualinesti,” said Tanis. “I was on my way back to Solace when I heard screams coming out of the woods. I went to investigate and found what I thought was this young woman being attacked by a goblin. I ran to her aid, only to discover that I’d been mistaken. The screams I’d heard were coming from the goblin.”

  “Qualinesti,” Flint said, eyeing Kit. “What were you—a human—doing in Qualinesti?”

  “I wasn’t in Qualinesti,” Kit said. “I was just near there. I’ve been in those parts several times. I pass through them on my way here.”

  “Way through from where?” Flint wondered.

  Kit either didn’t hear his question or she ignored it. He was about to repeat himself when she motioned her brothers to step forward for introductions.

  “I’m Tanis Half-Elven,” said Tanis, offering his hand.

  Caramon, in his enthusiasm, almost shook the half-elf’s hand off. Raistlin brushed his fingers across the half-elf’s palm.

  “I’m Caramon Majere, and this is my twin brother, Raistlin. We’re Kit’s half-brothers, really,” Caramon explained.

  Raistlin said nothing. He curiously examined the half-elf, about whom he’d heard much, for Flint talked about his friend daily. Tanis was dressed like a hun
ter, in a brown leather jerkin of elven make, green shirt and brown hose, brown traveling boots. He wore a sword at his waist, carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. His elven heritage was not readily apparent, except perhaps in the finely chiseled bones of his face. If his ears were pointed, it was impossible to tell, for they were covered over by his long, thick brown hair. He had the height of an elf, the broader girth of a human.

  He was a handsome man, young looking, but possessing the gravity and maturity of a much older man. Small wonder he had attracted Kit’s attention.

  Tanis regarded the brothers in his turn, marveling at the coincidence. “Kit and I meet by chance on the road. We become friends, and then I arrive home to find her brothers and my best friends have become friends! This meeting was fated, that’s all there is to it.”

  “For a meeting to be fated implies that something significant must come of it in the future. Do you foresee such an occurrence, sir?” Raistlin asked.

  “I … I guess it could,” Tanis stammered, taken aback. He wasn’t quite certain how to respond. “In truth, I meant it as a joke. I didn’t intend—”

  “Don’t mind Raistlin, Tanis,” Kitiara interrupted. “He’s a deep thinker. The only one in the family, by the way. Stop being so serious, will you?” she said to her younger brother in an undertone. “I like this man and I don’t want you scaring him off.”

  She grinned at Tanis, who smiled back at her. Raistlin knew then that the half-elf and his sister were more than friends. They were lovers. The knowledge and the sudden image in his mind made him feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. He suddenly disliked the half-elf intensely.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve been keeping my old friend Flint out of trouble, at least,” Tanis continued. Embarrassed himself, he hoped to change to subject.

  “Hah! Out of trouble!” Flint glowered. “Darn near drowned me, they did. It’s lucky I survived.”

  The story of an ill-fated boat trip had to be told then and there, with everyone talking at once.