War of the Twins (52 page)

Prostrate upon his knees, clutching the orb to his chest, Raistlin felt the presence and the majesty of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness rise up before him. Awe-stricken, he cowered, trembling, at the Dark Queen’s feet.

This is your doom!
Her words hissed in his mind.
Your mother’s fate will be your own. Swallowed by your magic, you will be held forever spellbound without even the sweet consolation of death to end your suffering!

Raistlin collapsed. He felt his body shrivel. Thus he had seen the withered body of Fistandantilus shrivel at the touch of the bloodstone.

His head resting on the stone floor as it rested upon the executioner’s block of his nightmare, the mage was about to admit defeat.…

But there was a core of strength within Raistlin. Long ago, Par-Salian, head of the Order of White Robes, had been given a task by the gods. They needed a magic-user strong enough to help defeat the growing evil of the Queen of Darkness. Par-Salian had searched long and had at last chosen Raistlin. For he had seen within the young mage this inner core of strength. It had been a cold, shapeless mass of iron when Raistlin was young. But Par-Salian hoped that the white-hot
fire of suffering, pain, war, and ambition would forge that mass into finest tempered steel.

Raistlin lifted his head from the cold stone.

The heat of the Queen’s fury beat around him. Sweat poured from his body. He could not breathe as fire seared his lungs. She tormented him, mocked him with his own words, his own visions. She laughed at him, as so many had laughed at him before. And yet, even as his body shivered with a fear unlike any he had ever known, Raistlin’s soul began to exult.

Puzzled, he tried to analyze it. He sought to regain control and, after an exertion that left him weak and shaking, he banished the ringing sounds of his mother’s voice from his ears. He closed his eyes to his Queen’s mocking smile.

Darkness enveloped him and he saw, in the cool, sweet darkness, his Queen’s fear.

She was afraid … afraid of him!

Slowly, Raistlin rose to his feet. Hot winds blew from the Portal, billowing the black robes around him until he seemed enveloped in thunderclouds. He could look directly into the Portal now. His eyes narrowed. He regarded the dread door with a grim, twisted smile. Then, lifting his hand, Raistlin hurled the dragon orb into the Portal.

Hitting that invisible wall, the orb shattered. There was an almost imperceptible scream. Dark, shadowy wings fluttered around the mage’s head, then, with a wail, the wings dissolved into smoke and were blown away.

Strength coursed through Raistlin’s body, strength such as he had never known. The knowledge of his enemy’s weakness affected him like an intoxicating liquor. He felt the magic flow from his mind into his heart and from there to his veins. The accumulated, combined power of centuries of learning was his—his and Fistandantilus’s!

And then he heard it, the clear, clarion call of a trumpet, its music cold as the air from the snow-covered mountains of the dwarven homelands in the distance. Pure and crisp, the trumpet call echoed in his mind, driving out the distracting voices, calling him into darkness, giving him a power over death itself.

Raistlin paused. He hadn’t intended to enter the Portal this soon. He would have like to have waited just a little longer. But now would do, if necessary. The kender’s arrival meant time could be altered. The death of the gnome insured there would be no interference from the magical device—the interference that had proved the death of Fistandantilus.

The time had come.

Raistlin gave the Portal a last, lingering glance. Then, with a bow to his Queen, he turned and strode purposefully away up the corridor.

Crysania knelt in prayer in her room.

She had started to go back to bed after her return from the kender, but a strange feeling of foreboding filled her. There was a breathlessness in the air. A sense of waiting made her pause. Sleep would not come. She was alert, awake, more awake than she had ever been in her entire life.

The sky was filled with light—the cold fire of the stars burning in the darkness; the silver moon, Solinari, shining like a dagger. She could see every object in her room with an uncanny clarity, Each seemed alive, watching, waiting with her.

Transfixed, she stared at the stars, tracing the lines of the constellations—Gilean, the Book, the Scales of Balance; Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness, the Dragon of Many Colors and of None; Paladine, the Valiant Warrior, the Platinum Dragon. The moons—Solinari, God’s Eye; Lunitari, Night Candle. Beyond them, ranged about the skies, the lesser gods, and among them, the planets.

And, somewhere, the Black Moon—the moon only his eyes could see.

Standing, staring into the night, Crysania’s fingers grew cold as she rested them upon the chill stone. She realized she was shivering and she turned around, telling herself it was time to sleep.…

But there was still that tremulous intake of breath about the night. “Wait,” it whispered. “Wait.…”

And then she heard the trumpet. Pure and crisp, its music
pierced her heart, crying a paean of victory that thrilled her blood.

At that moment, the door to her room opened.

She was not surprised to see him. It was as if she had been expecting his arrival, and she turned, calmly, to face him.

Raistlin stood silhouetted in the doorway, outlined against the light of torches blazing in the corridor and outlined as well by his own light which welled darkly from beneath his robes, an unholy light that came from within.

Drawn by some strange force, Crysania looked back into the heavens and saw, gleaming with that same dark light, Nuitari—the Black Moon.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the dizzying rush of blood, the beating of her heart. Then, feeling herself grow strong, she opened them again to find Raistlin standing before her.

She caught her breath. She had seen him in the ecstasy of his magic, she had seen him battling defeat and death. Now she saw him in the fullness of his strength, in the majesty of his dark power. Ancient wisdom and intelligence were etched into his face, a face that she barely recognized as his own.

“It is time, Crysania,” he said, extending his hands.

She took hold of his hands. Her fingers were chilled, his touch burned them. “I am afraid,” she whispered.

He drew her near.

“You have no need to be afraid,” he said. “Your god is with you. I see that clearly. It is my goddess who is afraid, Crysania. I sense her fear! Together, you and I will cross the borders of time and enter the realm of death. Together, we will battle the Darkness. Together, we will bring Takhisis to her knees!”

His hands caught her close to his breast, his arms embraced her. His lips closed over hers, stealing her breath with his kiss.

Crysania closed her eyes and let the magical fire, the fire that consumed the bodies of the dead, consume her body, consume the cold, frightened, white-robed shell she had been hiding in all these years.

He drew back, tracing her mouth with his hand, raising her chin so that she could look into his eyes. And there, reflected
in the mirror of his soul, she saw herself, glowing with a flaming aura of radiant, pure, white light. She saw herself beautiful, beloved, worshipped. She saw herself bringing truth and justice to the world, banishing forever sorrow and fear and despair.

“Blessed be to Paladine,” Crysania whispered.

“Blessed be,” Raistlin replied. “Once again, I give you a charm. As I protected you through Shoikan Grove, so you shall be guarded when we pass through the Portal.”

She trembled. Drawing her near, holding her close one last time, he pressed his lips upon her forehead. Pain shot through her body and seared her heart. She flinched but did not cry out. He smiled at her.

“Come.”

On the whispered words of a winged spell, they left the room to the night, just as the red rays of Lunitari spilled into the darkness—blood drawn from Solinari’s glittering knife.

he supply wagons?” Caramon asked in even, measured tones—the tones of one who already knows the answer.

“No word, sir,” replied Garic, avoiding Caramon’s steady gaze. “But … but we expect them—”

“They won’t be coming. They’ve been ambushed. You know that.” Caramon smiled wearily.

“At least we’ve found water,” Garic said lamely, making a valiant effort to sound cheerful, which failed miserably. Keeping his gaze fixed on the map spread on the table before him, he nervously drew a small circle around a tiny green dot on the parchment.

Caramon snorted. “A hole that is emptied by midday. Oh, sure, it fills again at night, but my own sweat tastes better. Blasted stuff must be tainted by sea water.”

“Still, it’s drinkable. We’re rationing, of course, and I’ve set guards around it. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to run dry.”

“Oh, well. There won’t be men enough left to drink it to worry about it after a while,” Caramon said, running his hand
through his curly hair with a sigh. It was hot in the room, hot and stuffy. Some overzealous servant had tossed wood onto the fire before Caramon, accustomed to living outdoors, could stop him. The big man had thrown open a window to let the fresh, crisp air inside, but the blaze roaring at his back was toasting him nicely nonetheless. “What’s the desertion count today?”

Garic cleared his throat. “About—about one hundred, sir,” he said reluctantly.

“Where’d they go? Pax Tharkas?”

“Yes, sir. So we believe.”

“What else?” Caramon asked grimly, his eyes studying Garic’s face. “You’re keeping something back.”

The young knight flushed. Garic had a passing wish, at this moment, that lying was not against every code of honor he held dear. As he would have given his life to spare this man pain, so he would almost have lied. He hesitated, then—looking at Caramon—he saw it wasn’t necessary. The general knew already.

Caramon nodded slowly. “The Plainsmen?”

Garic looked down at the maps.

“All of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Caramon’s eyes closed. Sighing softly, he picked up one of the small wooden figures that had been spread out on the map to represent the placement and disposition of his troops. Rolling it around in his fingers, he grew thoughtful. Then, suddenly, with a bitter curse, he turned and heaved the figurine into the fire. After a moment, he let his aching head sink into his hands.

“I don’t suppose I blame Darknight. It won’t be easy for him and his men, even now. The mountain dwarves undoubtedly hold the mountain passes behind us—that’s what happened to the supply wagons. He’ll have to fight his way home. May the gods go with him.”

Caramon was silent a moment, then his fists clenched. “Damn my brother,” he cursed. “Damn him!”

Garic shifted nervously. His gaze darted about the room, fearful that the black-robed figure might materialize from the shadows.

“Well,” Caramon said, straightening and studying the maps once again, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. Now, our only hope—as I see it—is to keep what’s left of our army here in the plains. We’ve got to draw the dwarves out, force them to fight in the open so we can utilize our cavalry. We’ll never win our way into the mountain,” he added, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice, “but at least we can retreat with a hope of winning back to Pax Tharkas with our forces still intact. Once there, we can fortify it and—”

“General.” One of the guards at the door entered the room, flushing at having to interrupt. “Begging your pardon, sir, but a messenger’s arrived.”

“Send him in.”

A young man entered the room. Covered with dust, his cheeks red from the cold, he cast the blazing fire a longing glance but stepped forward first to deliver his message.

“No, go on, warm yourself,” Caramon said, waving the man over to the fireplace. “I’m glad someone can appreciate it. I have a feeling your news is going to be foul to the taste anyway.”

“Thank you, sir,” the man said gratefully. Standing near the blaze, he spread his hands out to the warmth. “My news is this—the hill dwarves have gone.”

“Gone?” Caramon repeated in blank astonishment, rising to his feet. “Gone where? Surely not back—”

“They march on Thorbardin.” The messenger hesitated. “And, sir, the Knights went with them.”

“That’s insane!” Caramon’s fist crashed down upon the table, sending the wooden markers flying through the air, the maps rolling off the edges. His face grew grim. “My brother.”

“No, sir. It was apparently the Dewar. I was instructed to give you this.” Drawing a scroll from his pouch, he handed it to Caramon, who quickly opened it.

General Caramon
,

I have just learned from Dewar spies that the gates to the mountain will open when the trumpet sounds. We plan to steal a march on them. Rising at dawn, we will reach there by nightfall. I am sorry there wasn’t time to inform you of this. Rest assured, you will receive what share of the spoils you are due, even if you arrive late. Reorx’s light shine on your axes
.

Reghar Fireforge
.

Caramon’s mind went back to the piece of blood-stained parchment he’d held in his hand not long ago.
The wizard has betrayed you.…