War of the Twins (26 page)

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 man’s 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, then—catching 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 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—”