The War of the Lance t2-3 Read online

  "Which side do you want to be on?" Earwig asked eagerly, tugging at Caramon's hand to drag him forward. "I think I'd like to be a knight, but then I've wanted to be a mage, too. I don't suppose your brother would let me borrow his staff — "

  "Hush!" ordered Caramon harshly, his voice cracking in his dry throat.

  The corridor was coming to an end, opened into a great, wide hall. Sir Gawain was standing right in front of him, holding the torch high and shouting out words in a language the big warrior didn't understand but guessed to be Solamnic.

  The clamoring of the voices was louder. Caramon felt them tugging him in both directions. But another voice, a voice within him, was stronger. This voice was his brother's, a voice he loved and trusted, and he remembered what it had said.

  YOU MUST PREVENT GAWAIN FROM OFFERING HIS SWORD TO THE KNIGHT!

  "Stay here," he told Earwig firmly, placing his hand on the kender's shoulder. "You promise?"

  "I promise," said Earwig, impressed by Caramon's pale and solemn face.

  "Good." Turning, Caramon continued down the corridor and came up in back of the knight.

  "What's happening?" Earwig writhed with frustration. "I can't see a thing from here. But I promised. I know! He didn't mean me to say HERE, in this one spot. He just meant me to stay here — in the keep!" Happily, the kender crept forward, Caramon's dagger (which he had appropriated) in his hand.

  "Oh, my!" breathed Earwig. "Caramon, can you see what I see?"

  Caramon could. On one side of the hall, their bodies encased in shining armor, their hands grasping swords, stood a troop of knights. On the other side stood an army of wizards, their robes fluttering around them as if stirred by a hot wind. The knights and the wizards had turned their faces toward the strangers who had entered, and Caramon saw in horror that each one of them was a rotting corpse.

  A knight materialized in front of his troops. This knight, too, was dead. The marks of his numerous wounds could be seen plainly on his body. Fear swept over Caramon, and he shrank back against the wall, but the knight paid no attention either to him or the transfixed kender standing by his side. The fixed and staring eyes of the corpse looked straight at Gawain.

  "Fellow knight, I call upon you, by the Oath and the Measure, to come to my aid against my enemy."

  The dead knight gestured and there appeared, standing some distance from him, a wizard clad in red robes that were torn and stained black with blood. The wizard, too, was dead and had, it seemed from his wounds, died most horribly.

  Earwig started forward. "I'll fight on your side if you'll teach me how to cast spells!"

  Caramon, catching hold of the kender by the scruff of his neck, lifted him off his feet and tossed him backward. Slamming into the wall, the kender slid down to the floor where he spent an entertaining few moments attempting to breathe. Caramon reached out a shaking hand.

  "Gawain, let's get out of — "

  The knight thrust Caramon's hand aside and, kneeling on one knee, started to lay his sword at the knight's feet. "I will come to your aid, Sir Knight!"

  "Caramon, stop him!" The hissing whisper slid over stone and through shadow. "Stop him or we ourselves are doomed!"

  "No!" said the dead knight, his fiery eyes seeming to see Caramon for the first time. "Join my fight! Or are you a coward?"

  "Coward!" Caramon glowered. "No man dares call me — "

  "Listen to me, my brother!" Raistlin commanded. "For my sake, if for no other or I will be lost, too!"

  Caramon cast a fearful look at the dead wizard, saw the mage's empty eyes fixed on Raistlin. The dead knight was leaning down to lift Gawain's sword. Lurching forward on stiff legs, Caramon kicked the weapon with his foot and sent it spinning across the stone floor.

  The dead knight howled in rage. Gawain jumped up and ran to retrieve his weapon. Caramon, with a desperate lunge, managed to grab hold of the knight by the shoulders. Gawain whirled around and struck at him with his bare hands. The legion of dead knights clattered their swords against their shields, the wizards raised their hollow voices in a cheer that grew louder when Raistlin entered the room.

  "What an interesting experience," said Earwig, feeling to see if any ribs were cracked. Finding himself in one piece, he rose to his feet and looked to see what was going on. "My goodness, someone's lost a sword. I'll just go pick it up."

  "Wizard of the Red Robes!" The dead were shouting at Raistlin. "Join us in our fight!"

  Caramon caught a glimpse of his brother's face from the comer of his eye. Tense and excited, Raistlin was staring at the wizards, a fierce, eager light in his golden eyes.

  "Raist! No!" Caramon lost his hold on Gawain.

  The knight clouted him on the jaw, sending the big warrior to the floor, and bounded after the sword, only to find Earwig clutching it tightly, a look of radiant joy on his face that began to fade as the knight approached.

  "Oh, no," said the kender firmly, clutching the sword to his bosom. "Finders keepers. You obviously didn't want this anymore."

  "Raist! Don't listen to them!" Caramon staggered to his feet. TOO LATE, he thought. His brother was walking toward the dead wizard, who was extending a bony hand for the glowing staff.

  The chill fingers were nearly touching it when Raistlin suddenly turned the staff horizontally and held it out before him. The crystal's light flared, the dead wizard sprang back from the frail barrier as though it had scalded him.

  "I will not join your fight, for it is an eternal fight!" Raistlin raised his voice above the clamoring. "A fight that can never be won."

  At this, the dead ceased their calling. A brooding silence descended in the hall. Gawain ceased to threaten the kender and turned around. Earwig, suddenly losing interest in the sword, let it fall to the floor and hopped forward to see what was going on. Caramon rubbed his aching jaw and watched warily, ready to leap to his brother's defense.

  Leaning on his staff, whose crystal seemed to shine more brightly in the chill darkness, Raistlin walked forward until he stood in the center of the hall. He looked first at the knight — the rotting, decaying face beneath a battered helm, a bony hand clutching a rusting sword. The young mage turned his golden-eyed gaze to the wizard — red robes, torn and slashed by sword thrusts, covering a body that had for centuries been denied the peace of death.

  Then Raistlin, lifting his head, stared up into the darkness. "I would talk with the maiden," he called.

  The figure of a young woman materialized out of the night and came to stand before the mage. She was fairhaired and pretty, with an oval face, rich brown hair, and blue eyes that were bright and spirited. So lovely was she, and so warm and seemingly alive, that it took some moments before Caramon realized she was long-since dead.

  "YOU are the one who called down the curse, are you not?" asked Raistlin.

  "Yes," the maiden answered in a voice cold as the end of the world. "Which side do you choose, mage? Here stands pride" — she gestured toward the knight — "and here stands pride" — she gestured toward the mage. "Which will you choose? Not that it much matters."

  "I fight for neither," said Raistlin. "I do not choose pride. I choose," he paused, then said gently, "I choose love."

  Darkness crashed down upon them with the weight and force of an avalanche, quenching even the magical light of the staff.

  "Wow!" came the awed voice of the kender.

  Caramon blinked and peered around, trying to see through the blackness, which was thick and impenetrable as solid stone. The ghostly armies were gone.

  "Raistlin?" he called, panicked.

  "I am here, my brother. Hush. Keep silent."

  Feeling a hand grasp his shoulder, Caramon reached out and touched a warm human arm.

  "Gawain?" he whispered.

  "Yes," said the knight in strained tones. "What is happening? I don't trust that mage! He'll get us killed."

  "So far it seems to me he's done a good job of keeping us alive," said Caramon grimly. "Look!"

  "SHIRAK," said Rai
stlin and the crystal's light beamed brightly. Standing in front of Raistlin, illuminated by his staff, was the young woman.

  "You have broken the curse, young mage," said the spirit. "Is there anything you would ask of me before I go to my long-awaited rest?"

  "Tell us your story," said Raistlin. "According to the legend, the mage carried you off by force."

  "Of course, that is what they have said, who never bothered to seek the truth!" said the spirit scornfully. "And their words were fuel to the fire of my curse. The truth is that the mage and I loved each other. My father, a Knight of Solamnia, forbade me to marry a wizard. He betrothed me to another knight, one whom I did not love. The mage and I ran off together. I left of my own free will to be with the man I loved. The knight followed us and we fled to this place, knowing that it had long been abandoned. The mage and I could have escaped, but he said that, for his honor, he must turn and fight. For his honor," she repeated bitterly. Her blue eyes stared into the shadows of the hall as though she could still see what had transpired there so long before. "Within these walls, he challenged the knight to battle and they fought — one with his sword, the other with his magic. They fought, for their honor!

  "And I came to realize as I watched, helpless to prevent their quarrel, that neither loved me nearly so much as each loved his own misbegotten pride.

  "When they were dead, I stood over their bodies and prayed to the gods that all men bound up in their own pride should come here and be held enthralled. Then I left this place and went forth into the world. I found a man who loved me truly enough to live for me, not die for me. I was blessed with a rich, full life, surrounded by love. After my death, my spirit returned to this place and has been here since, waiting for one who loved enough to ignore the voices" — her gaze went to Caramon — "and for one wise enough to break the spell.

  "And now, young mage, you have freed them and you have freed me. I will go to my rest at the side of my husband who has waited patiently for me throughout the years. But first I would ask one thing of you. How was it that you saw and understood the truth?"

  "I could say that I had a shining example of false pride before my eyes," said Raistlin, with a sidelong glance at the knight. Sir Gawain flushed and bowed his head. The mage, smiling slightly, added, "But it would be more truthful to say that it was mostly due to the curiosity of a kender."

  "Me!" gasped Earwig, struck by this revelation. "That's me he's talking about! I did it! I lifted the curse! I TOLD you it had to be a knight, a mage, AND a kender!" The young woman's image began to fade. "Farewell," said Raistlin. "May your rest be undisturbed." "Fare you well, young mage. I leave you with a warning. Very nearly you succumbed. Your wits and your will saved you. But unless you change, I foresee a time when this doom you have now avoided will drag you down at last." The blue eyes closed, and were seen no more. "Don't go!" wailed Earwig, rushing around and grabbing at the empty air with his hands. "I've got so many questions! Have you been to the Abyss? What's it like being dead? Oh, please…"

  Caramon came forward cautiously, his eyes on the place where the spirit had been, fearful that she might suddenly burst back to life. His big hand rested on his brother's shoulder.

  "Raist," he said worriedly, "what did she mean by that?" "How should I know?" Raistlin snapped, pulling himself free of his brother's touch. He began to cough violently. "Go find wood to build a fire! Can't you see I'm freezing to death!"

  "Sure, Raist," said Caramon gently. "C'mon, Earmite."

  "Earwig," said the kender automatically, trudging after the big warrior. "Wait until Cousin Tas hears about this! Not even Uncle Trapspringer — the most famous kender of all time — ever ended a curse!"

  Gawain remained standing in silence until Caramon and the kender had left the keep. Then, slowly, sword in hand, he approached the mage.

  "I owe you my life," he said grudgingly, awkwardly. "By the Oath and the Measure, I owe you my allegiance." He held the sword — hilt first — out to the mage. "What would you have me do?"

  Raistlin drew a shuddering breath. He glanced at the sword and his thin lip twisted. "What would I have you do? Break your Oath. Burn your Measure. As the maiden said, live for those you love. A time of darkness is coming to the world, Sir Knight, and love could well be the only thing that will save us."

  The knight's lips tightened, his face flushed. Raistlin stared at him, unmoving, and the expression on Gawain's face altered from anger to one of thoughtful consideration. Abruptly, he slid his sword back into its sheath.

  "Oh, and Sir Knight," said Raistlin coolly, "don't forget to give us our share of the reward."

  Gawain unbuckled his sword belt and removed it from around his waist. "Take it all," he said, tossing sword and belt at the mage's feet. "I've found something of far greater value." Bowing stiffly, he turned and walked from the keep.

  The red moon rose in the sky. Its eerie glow filtered through the crumbling walls of the ancient fortress, lighting the path. The mage remained standing in the empty hall. He could still feel, soft and silky beneath his fingers, the child's hair.

  "Yes, Sir Knight, you have," said Raistlin. He stood a moment, thinking of the spirit's words. Then, shrugging, he tightened his grip on the magical staff. "DULAK", he said, and the light went out, leaving him to stand in darkness lit only by the rays of the red moon.

  Dead on Target

  Roger E. Moore

  "There'd goes!" called a hobgoblin drunkenly in the last red light of evening. "There'd goes! S'goin' away!"

  No cloud remained in the darkening sky. The wind picked up around me, the low roar almost drowning out the laughter of the hobgoblin sentries forty feet up the steep hillside at my back. From the sound of things, the two of them had long ago broken into one of the wine casks they'd taken from a farm near the outskirts of Twisting Creek, basking in the natural satisfaction hobgoblins get from killing unarmed farmers — like my cousins, Garayn and Klart.

  I licked my lips and felt for the leather waterskin on my belt, preparing to untie it, but found the water was already low. I released it and leaned back against the rock face, keeping my arm close to my side so that the hobgoblins above wouldn't notice the movement in the dim light. My fingers closed over my sword hilt but stayed relaxed. The glow above the plain to the west was almost gone; Lunitari was a low, red crescent on the horizon, the only moon visible. Far overhead, the pantheon of gods was played out in the brightening stars. It was beautiful, but I could tell there'd be rain by tomorrow night. Scouts know these things.

  "S'all gone!" called the hobgoblin again. "N'more sun!"

  Several distant shouts came back, all curses in the coarse hobgoblins' tongue. "You basdards wanned me d'be a lookoud, and I'm looking oud!" the hobgoblin roared back hotly, then laughed again. He sounded as if he had a broken nose. "Bedder look oud for th' sdars! They're coming da ged ya!"

  I'd gotten here only an hour ago but had already heard enough. About a dozen hobgoblins were camped out on this hilltop, near Solanthus's eastern border. Twisting Creek was two days to the southwest. On the other side of the low hills to the east, beyond the Garetmar River, was unclaimed territory populated by bandits, deserters, and hobgoblin garbage.

  A hobgoblin snickered, then drunkenly mumbled a phrase that the wind carried away. Soon, both sentries would be dead to the world. They had nothing to fear that they knew of. They had been clever enough to raid light and avoid attracting too much unfavorable attention from Twisting Creek's militia. Hit fast, grab loot, and run — the same old formula. The hobgoblins had burned a few barns, killed some horses, and stolen some odds and ends before scurrying off. They didn't want a fight. They just wanted to rub it in that they were around.

  I was Evredd Kaan: dark hair, dark eyes, good physique, ex-scout. I'd been out of the army since Neraka fell and my unit was disbanded. After that, I'd gone home to the city of Solanthus to find it mostly in ruins. I worked for a year on labor crews, shoveling ashes, rubble, and bones, sometimes taking night shift as a mil
itiaman in a city overrun with beggars who stole to survive. Finally, I just quit and headed east for Twisting Creek, where my parents had lived years ago before fever took them. I worked on my uncle's farm and maintained the wagons for his trading business, which suffered more than a bit with the obnoxious hobgoblins around.

  Three nights ago, the hobgoblins killed their first humans. Laughing Garayn and brooding Klart had been walking back from an evening in town when they were shot dead with crossbows. A hobgoblin dagger was found in one of the bodies. I watched as my neighbors wrapped my cousins for burial, then I went to my uncle and said I would be leaving for a few days.

  "Family business," I said.

  "Don't do anything foolish, my boy," my uncle urged. He was a big man with a pouchy face, hook nose, and receding hairline. Twisting Creek had been lucky enough not to be sacked and burned during the War of the Lance, ended just two years ago, and my uncle's business had survived. But now his two sons had been taken away from him, his life permanently scarred by the bad elements still roaming the land. "You're all I got left, Evredd."

  "What I do," I said tersely, "won't be foolish." His eyes glazed over. His hands moved around the valuables on his desk, touching them reassuringly. Tears squeezed from his eyes.

  "There's been killing enough," my uncle pleaded. "Let it go."

  Needless to say, I didn't listen to him. My uncle had been absorbed in his business lately, locking himself in his study with his ledgers and cursing the hobgoblins' effect on trade, and now this. He seemed like a destroyed man.

  I left town at dawn, taking food, my sword, and little else. I knew where part of the hobgoblins' old trails usually went, so I followed that course until a regular path appeared, six miles outside of town. The tracks stood out as if they had been laid down by a small army instead of a few raiders loaded down with loot. Two days later, I was here.