War of the Twins (18 page)

“Wait!” Caramon gasped, rising to his feet as the crowd of muttering men drew near. Only the fear of Raistlin’s magic kept the men from rushing them, he knew, and—hearing his brother’s sudden racking cough—Caramon feared Raistlin’s strength might soon give out.

Catching hold of the confused Crysania, Caramon thrust her protectively behind him as he confronted the crowd of frightened, angry men.

“Touch this woman, and you will die as your leader died,” he shouted, his voice loud and clear above the driving rain.

“Why should we let a witch live?” snarled one, and there were mutters of agreement.

“Because she’s
my
witch!” Caramon said sternly, casting a defiant gaze around. Behind him, he heard Crysania draw in a sharp breath, but Raistlin gave her a warning glance and, if she had been going to speak, she sensibly kept quiet. “She does not hold me in thrall but obeys my commands and those of the wizard. She will do you no harm, I swear.”

There were murmurs among the men, but their eyes, as they looked at Caramon, were no longer threatening. Admiration there had been—now he could see grudging respect and a willingness to listen.

“Let us be on our way,” Raistlin began in his soft voice, “and we—”

“Wait!” rasped Caramon. Gripping his brother’s arm, he drew him near and whispered. “I’ve got an idea. Watch over Crysania!”

Nodding, Raistlin moved to stand near Crysania, who stood quietly, her eyes on the now silent group of bandits. Caramon walked over to where the body of the half-ogre lay in the reddening mud. Leaning down, he wrested the great sword from Steeltoe’s deathgrip and raised it high over his head. The big warrior was a magnificent sight, the firelight reflecting off his bronze skin, the muscles rippling in his arms as he stood in triumph above the body of his slain enemy.

“I have destroyed your leader. Now I claim the right to take his place!” Caramon shouted, his voice echoing among the trees. “I ask only one thing—that you leave this life of butchery and rape and robbery. We travel south—”

That got an unexpected reaction. “South! They travel south!” several voices cried and there was scattered cheering. Caramon stared at them, taken aback, not understanding. Raistlin, coming forward, clutched at him.

“What are you doing?” the mage demanded, his face pale.

Caramon shrugged, looking about in puzzled amazement at the enthusiasm he had created. “It just seemed a good idea to have an armed escort, Raistlin,” he said. “The lands south of here are, by all accounts, wilder than those we have ridden
through. I figured we could take a few of these men with us, that’s all. I don’t understand—”

A young man of noble bearing, who more than any of the others, recalled Sturm to Caramon’s mind, stepped forward. Motioning the others to quiet down, he asked, “You’re going south? Do you, perchance, seek the fabled wealth of the dwarves in Thorbardin?”

Raistlin scowled.
“Now
do you understand?” he snarled. Choking, he was shaken by a fit of coughing that left him weak and gasping. Had it not been for Crysania hurrying to support him, he might have fallen.

“I understand you need rest,” Caramon replied grimly. “We all do. And unless we come up with some sort of armed escort, we’ll never have a peaceful night’s sleep. What do the dwarves in Thorbardin have to do with anything? What’s going on?”

Raistlin stared at the ground, his face hidden by the shadows of his hood. Finally, sighing, he said coldly, “Tell them yes, we go south. We’re going to attack the dwarves.”

Caramon’s eyes opened wide. “Attack Thorbardin?”

“I’ll explain later,” Raistlin snarled softly. “Do as I tell you.”

Caramon hesitated.

Shrugging his thin shoulders, Raistlin smiled unpleasantly. “It is your only way home, my brother! And maybe our only way out of here alive.”

Caramon glanced around. The men had begun to mutter again during this brief exchange, obviously suspicious of their intentions. Realizing he had to make a decision quickly or lose them for good—and maybe even face another attack—he turned back, vying for time to try to think things through further.

“We go south,” he said, “it is true. But for our own reasons. What is this you say of wealth in Thorbardin?”

“It is said that the dwarves have stored great wealth in the kingdom beneath the mountain,” the young man answered readily. Others around him nodded.

“Wealth they stole from humans,” added one.

“Aye! Not just money,” cried out a third, “but grain and
cattle and sheep. They’ll eat like kings this winter, while our bellies go empty!”

“We have talked before of going south to take our share,” the young man continued, “but Steeltoe said things were well enough here. There are some, though, who were having second thoughts.”

Caramon pondered, wishing he knew more of history. He had heard of the Great Dwarfgate Wars, of course. His old dwarf friend, Flint, talked of little else. Flint was a hill dwarf. He had filled Caramon’s head with tales of the cruelty of the mountain dwarves of Thorbardin, saying much the same things these men said. But to hear Flint tell it, the wealth the mountain dwarves stole had been taken from their cousins, the hill dwarves.

If this were true, then Caramon might well be justified in making this decision. He could, of course, do as his brother commanded. But something inside Caramon had snapped in Istar. Even though he was beginning to think he had misjudged his brother, he knew him well enough to continue to distrust him. Never again would he obey Raistlin blindly.

But then he sensed Raistlin’s glittering eyes upon him, and he heard his brother’s voice echo in his mind.

Your only way back home!

Caramon clenched his fist in swift anger, but Raistlin had him, he knew. “We go south to Thorbardin,” he said harshly, his troubled gaze on the sword in his hand. Then he raised his head to look at the men around him. “Will you come with us?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Several of the men came forward to talk to the young nobleman, who was now apparently their spokesman. He listened, nodded, then faced Caramon once more.

“We would follow
you
without hesitation, great warrior,” said the young man, “but what have you to do with this black-robed wizard? Who is
he
, that we should follow him?”

“My name is Raistlin,” the mage replied. “This man is my bodyguard.”

There was no response, only dubious frowns and doubtful looks.

“I am his bodyguard, that is true,” Caramon said quietly, “but the mage’s real name is Fistandantilus.”

At this, there were sharp intakes of breath among the men. The frowns changed to looks of respect, even fear and awe.

“My name is Garic,” the young man said, bowing to the archmage with the old-fashioned courtesy of the Knights of Solamnia. “We have heard of you, Great One. And though your deeds are dark as your robes, we live in a time of dark deeds, it seems. We will follow you and the great warrior you bring with you.”

Stepping forward, Garic laid his sword at Caramon’s feet. Others followed suit, some eagerly, others more warily. A few slunk off into the shadows. Knowing them for the cowardly ruffians they were, Caramon let them go.

He was left with about thirty men; a few of the same noble bearing as Garic, but most of them were ragged, dirty thieves and scoundrels.

“My army,” Caramon said to himself with a grim smile that night as he spread his blanket in Steeltoe’s hut the half-ogre had built for his own personal use. Outside the door, he could hear Garic talking to the other man Caramon had decided looked trustworthy enough to stand watch.

Bone-weary, Caramon had assumed he’d fall asleep quickly. But he found himself lying awake in the darkness, thinking, making plans.

Like most young soldiers, Caramon had often dreamed of becoming an officer. Now, unexpectedly, here was his chance. It wasn’t much of a command, maybe, but it was a start. For the first time since they’d arrived in this god-forsaken time, he felt a glimmer of pleasure.

Plans tumbled over and over in his mind. Training, the best routes south, provisioning, supplies … These were new and different problems for the former mercenary soldier. Even in the War of the Lance, he had generally followed Tanis’s lead. His brother knew nothing of these matters; Raistlin had informed Caramon coldly that he was on his own in this. Caramon found this challenging and—oddly—refreshing. These were flesh-and-blood problems, driving the
dark and shadowy problems with his brother from his mind.

Thinking of his twin, Caramon glanced over to where Raistlin lay huddled near a fire that blazed in a huge stone fireplace. Despite the heat, he was wrapped in his cloak and as many blankets as Crysania had been able to find. Caramon could hear his brother’s breath rattle in his lungs, occasionally he coughed in his sleep.

Crysania slept on the other side of the fire. Although exhausted, her sleep was troubled and broken. More than once she cried out and sat up suddenly, pale and trembling. Caramon sighed. He would have liked to comfort her—to take her in his arms and soothe her to sleep. For the first time, in fact, he realized how
much
he would like to do this. Perhaps it had been telling the men she was his. Perhaps it was seeing the half-ogre’s hands on her, feeling the same sense of outrage he had seen reflected on his brother’s face.

Whatever the reason, Caramon caught himself watching her that night in a much different way than he had watched her before, thinking thoughts that, even now, made his skin burn and his pulse quicken.

Closing his eyes, he willed images of Tika, his wife, to come to his mind. But he had banished these memories for so long that they were unsatisfying. Tika was a hazy, misty picture and she was far away. Crysania was flesh and blood and she was here! He was very much aware of her soft, even breathing.…

Damn! Women! Irritably, Caramon flopped over on his stomach, determined to sweep all thoughts of females beneath the rug of his other problems. It worked. Weariness finally stole over him.

As he drifted into sleep, one thing remained to trouble him, hovering in the back of his mind. It was not logistics, or red-haired warrior women, or even lovely, white-robed clerics.

It was nothing more than a look—the strange look he had seen Raistlin give him when Caramon had said the name “Fistandantilus.”

It had not been a look of anger or irritation, as Caramon might have expected. The last thing Caramon saw before sleep erased the memory was Raistlin’s look of stark, abject terror.

BOOK 2
The Army Of Fistandantilus

A
s 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 meager 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.…