Looking up, I see the scaffold, the hooded figure with its head onthe block, the hooded figure of the executioner, the sharp bladeof the axe glinting in the burning sun. 
The axe falls, the victim's severed head rolls on the woodenplatform, the hood comes off 
"My head!" Raistlin whispered feverishly, twisting his thin handstogether in anguish. 
The executioner, laughing, removes his hood, revealing 
"My face!" Raistlin murmured, his fear spreading through his bodylike a malign growth, making him sweat and chill by turns.Clutching at his head, he tried to banish the evil visions thathaunted his dreams continually, night after night, and lingered todisturb his waking hours as well, turning all he ate or drank toashes in his mouth. 
But they would not depart. "Master of Past and Present!" Raistlinlaughed hollowly-bitter, mocking laughter. "I am Master ofnothing! All this power, and I am trapped! Trapped! Following inhis footsteps, knowing that every second that passes has passedbefore! I see people I've never seen, yet I know them! I hear theecho of my own words before I speak them! This face!" His handspressed against his cheeks. "This face! His face! Not mine! Notmine! Who am I? I am my own executioner!" 
Book 1 
The River Flows On.... 
The dark waters of time swirled about the archmage's black robes,carrying him and those with him forward through the years. 
The sky rained fire, the mountain fell upon the city of Istar,plunging it down, down into the depths of the ground. The seawaters, taking mercy on the terrible destruction, rushed in tofill the void. The great Temple, where the Kingpriest was stillwaiting for the gods to grant him his demands, vanished from theface of the world. Even those sea elves who ventured into the newly-created Blood Sea of Istar looked in wonder at the place where the Temple had stood. There was nothing there now but a deepblack pit. The sea water within was so dark and chill that eventhese elves, born and bred and living beneath the water, dared notswim near it. 
But there were many on Ansalon who envied the inhabitants ofIstar. For them at least, death had come swiftly. 
For those who survived the immediate destruction on Ansalon, deathcame slowly, in hideous aspect-starvation, disease, murder ... 
War. 
CHAPTER 1 
A hoarse, bellowing yell of fear and horror shattered Crysania'ssleep. So sudden and awful was the yell and so deep her sleepthat, for a moment, she could not even think what had wakened her.Terrified and confused, she stared around, trying to understandwhere she was, trying to discover what had frightened her so thatshe could scarcely breathe. 
She was lying on a damp, hard floor. Her body shook convulsivelyfrom the chill that penetrated her bones; her teeth chattered fromthe cold. Holding her breath, she sought to hear something or seesomething. But the darkness around was thick and impenetrable, thesilence was intense. 
She let go her breath and tried to draw another, but the darknessseemed to be stealing it away. Panic gripped her. Desperately shetried to structure the darkness, to people it with shapes andforms. But none came to her mind. There was only the darkness andit had no dimension. It was eternal.... 
Then she heard the yell again and recognized it as what hadawakened her. And, though she came near gasping in relief at thesound of another human voice, the fear she heard in that yellechoed in her soul. 
Desperately, frantically trying to penetrate the darkness, sheforced herself to think, to remember. . . . 
There had been singing stones, a chanting voice -Raistlin's voice-and his arms around her. Then the sensation of stepping into waterand being carried into a swift, vast darkness. 
Raistlin! Reaching out a trembling hand, Crysania felt nothingnear her but damp, chill stone. And then memory returned withhorrifying impact. Caramon lunging at his brother with theflashing sword in his hand.... Her words as she cast a clericalspell to protect the mage.... The sound of a sword clanging onstone. 
But that yell-it was Caramon's voice! What if he 
"Raistlin!" Crysania called fearfully, struggling to her feet. Hervoice vanished, disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. It wassuch a terrible feeling that she dared not speak again. Claspingher arms about her, shivering in the intense cold, Crysania's handwent involuntarily to the medallion of Paladine that hung aroundher neck. The god's blessing flowed through her. 
"Light," she whispered and, holding the medallion fast, she prayedto the god to light the darkness. 
Soft light welled from the medallion between her fingers, pushingback the black velvet that smothered her, letting her breathe.Lifting the chain over her head, Crysania held the medallionaloft. Shining it about her surroundings, she tried to rememberthe direction from which the yell had come. 
She had quick impressions of shattered, blackened furniture,cobwebs, books lying scattered about the floor, bookshelvesfalling off walls. But these were almost as frightening as thedarkness itself; it was the darkness that gave them birth. Theseobjects had more right to this place than she. 
And then the yell came again. 
Her hand shaking, Crysania turned swiftly toward the sound. Thelight of the god parted the darkness, bringing two figures intoshockingly stark relief. One, dressed in black robes, lay stilland silent on the cold floor. Standing above that unmoving figurewas a huge man. Dressed in blood-stained golden armor, an ironcollar bolted around his neck, he stared into the darkness, hishands outstretched, his mouth open wide, his face white withterror. 
The medallion slipped from Crysania's nerveless hand as sherecognized the body lying huddled at the feet of the warrior. 
"Raistlin!" she whispered. 
She ran across the floor, her world reeling with the light thatswung crazily from her hand. Dark shapes scurried from beneath herfeet, but Crysania never noticed them. Filled with a fear moresuffocating than the darkness, she knelt beside the mage. 
He lay face down upon the floor, his hood cast over his head.Gently, Crysania lifted him, turning him over. Fearfully shepushed the hood back from his face and held the glowing medallionabove him. Fear chilled her heart. 
The mage's skin was ashen, his lips blue, his eyes closed andsunken into his hollow cheekbones. 
"What have you done?" she cried to Caramon, looking up from whereshe knelt beside the mage's seemingly lifeless body. "What haveyou done?" she demanded, her voice breaking in her grief and herfury. 
"Crysania?" Caramon whispered hoarsely. 
The light from the medallion cast strange shadows over the form ofthe towering gladiator. His arms still outstretched, his handsgrasping feebly at the air, he bent his head toward the sound ofher voice. "Crysania?" he repeated again, with a sob. Taking astep toward her, he fell over his brother's legs and plungedheadlong to the floor. 
Almost instantly, he was up again, crouched on his hands andknees, his breath coming in quick gasps, his eyes still wide andstaring. He reached out his hand. 
"Crysania?" He lunged toward the sound of her voice. "Your light!Bring us your light! Quickly!" 
"I have a light, Caramon! I-Blessed Paladine!" Crysania murmured,staring at him in the medallion's soft glow. "You are blind!" 
Reaching out her hand, she took hold of his grasping, twitchingfingers. At her touch, Caramon sobbed again in relief. Hisclinging hand closed over hers with crushing strength, andCrysania bit her lip with the pain. But she held onto him firmlywith one hand, the medallion with the other. 
Rising to her feet, she helped Caramon to his. The warrior's bigbody shook, and he clutched at her in desperate terror, his eyesstill staring straight ahead, wild, unseeing. Crysania peered intothe darkness, searching desperately for a chair, a couch ...something. 
And then she became aware, suddenly, that the darkness was lookingback. 
Hurriedly averting her eyes, keeping her gaze carefully within thelight of her medallion, she guided Caramon to the only large pieceof furniture she saw. 
"Here, sit down," she instructed. "Lean up against this." 
She settled Caramon on the floor, his back against an ornatelycarved wooden desk that, she thought, seemed vaguely familiar toher. The sight brought a rush of painful, familiar memories-shehad seen it somewhere. But she was too worried and preoccupied togive it much thought. 
"Caramon?" she asked shakily. "Is Raistlin d- Did you kill-" Hervoice broke. 
"Raistlin?" Caramon turned his sightless eyes toward the sound ofher voice. The expression on his face grew alarmed. He tried tostand. "Raist! Where-" 
"No. Sit back!" Crysania ordered in swift anger and fear. Her handon his shoulder, she shoved him down. 
Caramon's eyes closed, a wry smile twisted his face. For a moment,he looked very like his twin. 
"No, I didn't kill him!" he said bitterly. "How could I? The lastthing I heard was you cry out to Paladine, then everything wentdark. My muscles wouldn't move, the sword fell from my hand. Andthen-" 
But Crysania wasn't listening. Running back to where Raistlin laya few feet from them, she knelt down beside the mage once again.Holding the medallion near his face, she reached her hand insidethe black hood to feel for the lifebeat in his neck. Closing hereyes in relief, she breathed a silent prayer to Paladine. 
"He's alive!" she whispered. "But then, what's wrong with him?" 
Flushing almost guiltily, Crysania described the mage's condition. 
Caramon shrugged. "Exhausted by the spell casting," he said, hisvoice expressionless. "And, remember, he was weak to begin with,at least so you told me. Sick from the nearness of the gods orsome such thing." His voice sank. "I've seen him like that before.The first time he used the dragon orb, he could scarcely moveafterward. I held him in my arms-" 
He broke off, staring into the darkness, his face calm now, calmand grim. "There's nothing we can do for him, " he said. "He hasto rest." 
After a short pause, Caramon asked quietly, "Lady Crysania, canyou heal me?" 
Crysania's skin burned. "I-I'm afraid not," she replied,distraught. "It-it must have been my spell that blinded you." Oncemore, in her memory, she saw the big warrior, the bloodstainedsword in his hand, intent on killing his twin, intent on killingher-if she got in his way. 
"I'm sorry," she said softly, feeling so tired and chilled she wasalmost sick. "But I was desperate and ... and afraid. Don't worry,though," she added, "the spell is not permanent. It will wear off,in time." 
Caramon sighed. "I understand," he said. "Is there a light in thisroom? You said you had one." 
"Yes," she answered. "I have the medallion-" 
"Look around. Tell me where we are. Describe it." 
"But Raistlin-" 
"He'll be all right!" Caramon snapped, his voice harsh andcommanding. "Come back here, near me. Do as I say! Our lives-hislife-may depend on it! Tell me where we are!" 
Looking into the darkness, Crysania felt her fear return.Reluctantly leaving the mage, she came back to sit beside Caramon. 
"I-I don't know," she faltered, holding the glowing medallion highagain. "I can't see much of anything beyond the medallion's light.But it seems to be some place I've been before, I just can't placeit. There's furniture lying around, but it's all broken andcharred, as though it had been in a fire. There are lots of booksscattered about. There's a big wooden desk-you're leaning againstit. It seems to be the only piece of furniture not broken. And itseems familiar to me," she added softly, puzzled. "It's beautiful,carved with all sorts of strange creatures." 
Caramon felt beneath him with his hand. "Carpet," he said, "overstone." 
"Yes, the floor is covered with carpet-or was. But it's torn now,and it looks like something's eaten it-" 
She choked, seeing a dark shape suddenly skitter away from herlight. 
"What?" Caramon asked sharply. 
"What's been eating the carpet apparently," Crysania replied witha nervous little laugh. "Rats." She tried to continue, "There's afireplace, but it hasn't been used in years. It's all filled withcobwebs. In fact, the place is covered with cobwebs-" 
But her voice gave out. Sudden images of spiders dropping from theceiling and rats running past her feet made her shudder and gatherher torn white robes around her. The bare and blackened fireplacereminded her of how cold she was. 
Feeling her body tremble, Caramon smiled bleakly and reached outfor her hand. Clasping it tightly, he said in a voice that wasterrible in its calm, "Lady Crysania, if all we have to face arerats and spiders, we may count ourselves lucky." 
She remembered the shout of sheer terror that had awakened her. Yet he hadn't been able to see! Swiftly, she glanced about. "Whatis it? You must have heard or sensed something, yet-" 
"Sensed," Caramon repeated softly. "Yes, I sensed it. There arethings in this place, Crysania. Horrible things. I can feel themwatching us! I can feel their hatred. Wherever we are, we haveintruded upon them. Can't you feel it, too?" 
The longer she looked and concentrated upon them, the more realthey became. Although she could not see them, she knew theywaited, just beyond the circle of light cast by the medallion.Their hatred was strong, as Caramon had said, and, what was worse,she felt their evil flow chillingly around her. It was like ...like ... 
Crysania caught her breath. 
"What?" Caramon cried, starting up. 
"Sst," she hissed, gripping his hand tightly. "Nothing. It's just-I know where we are!" she said in hushed tones. 
He did not answer but turned his sightless eyes toward her. 
"The Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas!" she whispered. 
"Where Raistlin lives?" Caramon looked relieved. 
"Yes . . . no." Crysania shrugged helplessly. "It's the same roomI was in-his study-but it doesn't look the same. It looks like noone's lived here for maybe a hundred years or more and-Caramon!That's it! He said he was taking me to 'a place and time whenthere were no clerics!' That must be after the Cataclysm andbefore the war. Before-" 
"Before he returned to claim this Tower as his own," Caramon saidgrimly. "And that means the curse is still upon the Tower, LadyCrysania. That means we are in the one place in Krynn where evilreigns supreme. The one place more feared than any other upon theface of the world. The one place where no mortal dare tread,guarded by the Shoikan Grove and the gods know what else! He hasbrought us here! We have materialized within its heart!" 
Crysania suddenly saw pale faces appear outside the circle oflight, as if summoned by Caramon's voice. Disembodied heads,staring at her with eyes long ago closed in dark and dismal death,they floated in the cold air, their mouths opening wide inanticipation of warm, living blood. 
"Caramon, I can see them!" Crysania choked, shrinking close to thebig man. "I can see their faces!" 
"I felt their hands on me," Caramon said. Shivering convulsively,feeling her shivering as well, he put his arm about her, drawingher close to him. "They attacked me. Their touch froze my skin.That was when you heard me yell." 
"But why didn't I see them before? What keeps them from attackingnow?" 
"You, Lady Crysania," Caramon said softly. "You are a cleric ofPaladine. These are creatures spawned of evil, created by thecurse. They do not have the power to harm you." 
Crysania looked at the medallion in her hands. The light welledforth still, but-even as she stared at it-it seemed to dim.Guiltily, she remembered the elven cleric, Loralon. She rememberedher refusal to accompany him. His words rang in her mind: You willsee only when you are blinded by the darkness.... 
"I am a cleric, true," she said softly, trying to keep the despairfrom her voice, "but my faith is ... imperfect. These things sensemy doubts, my weakness. Perhaps a cleric as strong as Elistanwould have the power to fight them. I don't think I do '" The glowdimmed further. "My light is failing, Caramon," she said, after amoment. Looking up, she could see the pallid faces eagerly driftnearer, and she shrank closer to him. "What can we do?" 
"What can we do! I have no weapon! I can't see!" Caramon cried outin agony, clenching his fist. 
"Hush!" Crysania ordered, grasping his arm, her eyes on theshimmering figures. "They seem to grow stronger when you talk likethat! Perhaps they feed off fear. c hose in he Shoikan Grove do,so Dalamar told me." 
Caramon drew a deep breath. His body glistened with sweat, and hebegan to shake violently. 
"We've got to try to wake up Raistlin," Crysania said. 
"No good!" Caramon whispered through chattering teeth. "I know-" 
"We have to try!" Crysania said firmly, though she shuddered atthe thought of walking even a few feet under that terriblescrutiny. 
"Be careful, move slowly," Caramon advised, letting her go. 
Holding the medallion high, her eyes oh the eyes of the darkness,Crysania crept over to Raistlin. She placed one hand oh the mage'sthin, black-robed shoulder. "Raistlin!" she said as loudly as shedared, shaking him. "Raistlin!" 
There was ho response. She might as well have tried to rouse acorpse. Thinking of that, she glanced out at the waiting figures.Would they kill him? she wondered. After all, he didn't exist inthis time. The "master of past and present" had hot yet returnedto claim his property-this Tower. 
Or had he? 
Crysania called to the mage again and, as she did so, she kept hereyes oh the undead, who were moving hearer as her light grewweaker. 
"Fistandantilus!" she said to Raistlin. 
"Yes!" Caramon cried, hearing her and understanding. "Theyrecognize that name. What's happening? I feel a change... ." 
"They've stopped!" Crysania said breathlessly. "They're looking athim how." 
"Get back!" Caramon ordered, rising to a half-crouch. "Keep awayfrom him. Get that light away from him! Let them see him as heexists in their darkness!" 
"No!" Crysania retorted angrily. "You're mad! Once the light'sgone, they'll devour him-" 
"It's our only chance!" 
Lunging for Crysania blindly, Caramon caught her off guard. Hegrabbed her in his strong arms and yanked her away from Raistlin,hurling her to the floor. Then he fell across her, smashing thebreath from her body. 
"Caramon!" She gasped for air. "They'll kill him! No-"Frantically, Crysania struggled against the big warrior, but heheld her pinned beneath him. 
The medallion was still clutched in her fingers. its light glowedweaker and weaker. Twisting her body, she saw Raistlin, lying indarkness how, outside the circle of her light. 
But Caramon held her all the more firmly, pressing her downagainst the cold floor. His face was anguished, yet grim anddetermined, his sightless eyes staring down at her. His flesh wascold against her own, his muscles tense and knotted. 
She would cast another spell oh him! The words were oh her lipswhen a shrill cry of pain pierced the darkness. 
"Paladine, help me!" Crysania prayed.... 
Nothing happened. 
Weakly, she tried one more time to escape Caramon, but it washopeless and she knew it. And how, apparently, even her god hadabandoned her. Crying out in frustration, cursing Caramon, shecould only watch. 
The pale, shimmering figures surrounded Raistlin how. She couldsee him only by the light of the horrid aura their decaying bodiescast. Her throat ached and a low moan escaped her lips as one ofthe ghastly creatures raised its cold hands and laid them upon hisbody. 
Raistlin screamed. Beneath the black robes, his body jerked inspasms of agony. 
Caramon, too, heard his brother's cry. Crysania could see itreflected in his deathly, pale face. "Let me up!" she pleaded.But, though cold sweat beaded his forehead, he shook his headresolutely, holding her hands tightly. 
Raistlin screamed again. Caramon shuddered, and Crysania felt hismuscles grow flaccid. Dropping the medallion, she freed her armsto strike at him with her clenched fists. But as she did so, themedallion's light vanished, plunging them both into completedarkness. Caramon's body was suddenly wrenched off hers. Hishoarse, agonized scream mingled with the screams of his brother. 
Dizzily, her heart racing in terror, Crysania struggled to sit up,her hand pawing the floor frantically for the medallion. 
A face came hear hers. She glanced up quickly from her search,thinking it was Caramon.. . . 
"No!" she whispered, unable to move, feeling life drain from herhands, her body, her very heart. Fleshless hands grasped her arms,drawing her near; bloodless lips gaped, eager for warmth. 
"Paladi-" Crysania tried to pray, but she felt her soul beingsucked from her body by the creature's deadly touch. 
Then she heard, dimly and far away, a weak voice chanting words ofmagic. Light exploded around her. The head so near her ownvanished with a shriek, the fleshless hands loosed their grasp.There was an acrid smell of sulphur. 
"Shirak." The explosive light was gone. A soft glow lit the room. 
Crysania sat up. "Raistlin!" she whispered thankfully. Staggeringto her hands and knees, she crawled forward across the blackened,blasted floor to reach the mage, who lay on his back, breathingheavily. One hand rested on the Staff of Magius. Light radiatedfrom the crystal ball clutched in the golden dragon's claw atopthe staff. 
"Raistlin! Are you all right?" 
Kneeling beside him, she looked into his thin, pale face as heopened his eyes. Wearily, he nodded. Then, reaching up, he drewher down to him. Embracing her, he stroked her soft, black hair.She could feel his heart beat. The strange warmth of his bodydrove away the chill. 
"Don't be afraid!" he whispered soothingly, feeling her tremble."They will not harm us. They have seen me and recognized me. Theydidn't hurt you?" 
She could not speak but only shook her head. He sighed again.Crysania, her eyes closed, lay in his embrace, lost in comfort. 
Then, as his hand went to her hair once more, she felt his bodytense. Almost angrily, he grasped her shoulders and pushed heraway from him. 
"Tell me what happened," he ordered in a weak voice. 
"I woke up here-" Crysania faltered. The horror of her experienceand the memory of Raistlin's warm touch confused and unnerved her. 
Raistlin's eyes opened wide. "My brother?" he said, startled. "Sothe spell brought him, too. I'm amazed I am still alive. Where ishe?" Lifting his head weakly, he saw his brother, lyingunconscious on the floor. "What's the matter with him?" 
"I-I cast a spell. He's blind," Crysania said, flushing. "I didn'tmean to, it was when he was trying to ki-kill you-in Istar, rightbefore the Cataclysm-" 
"You blinded him! Paladine . . . blinded him! Raistlin laughed.The sound reverberated off the cold stones, and Crysania cringed,feeling a chill of horror. But the laughter caught in Raistlin'sthroat. The mage began to choke and gag, gasping for breath. 
Crysania watched, helpless, until the spasm passed and Raistlinlay quietly once more. "Go on," he whispered irritably. 
"I heard him yell, but I couldn't see in the darkness. Themedallion gave me light, though, and I found him and I-I knew hewas blind. I found you, too. You were unconscious. We couldn'twake you. Caramon told me to describe where we were and then Isaw'-she shuddered-"I saw those ... those horrible-" 
"Continue," Raistlin said. 
Crysania drew a deep breath, "Then the light from the medallionbegan to fail-" 
Raistlin nodded. 
"-and those ... things came toward us. I called out to you, usingthe name Fistandantilus. That made them pause. Then" -Crysania'svoice lost its fear and was edged with anger-"your brother grabbedme and threw me down on the floor, shouting something about 'letthem see him as he exists in their own darkness!' When Paladine's light no longer touched you, those creatures-" She shuddered andcovered her face with her hands, still hearing Raistlin's terriblescream echoing in her mind. 
"My brother said that?" Raistlin asked softly after a moment. 
Crysania moved her hands to look at him, puzzled at his tone ofmingled admiration and astonishment. "Yes," she said coldly aftera moment. "Why?" 
"He saved our lives," Raistlin remarked, his voice once morecaustic. "The great dolt actually had a good idea. Perhaps youshould leave him blind-it aids his thinking'' 
Raistlin tried to laugh, but it turned to a cough that nearlychoked him instead. Crysania started toward him to help him, buthe halted her with a fierce look, even as his body twisted inpain. Rolling to his side, he retched. 
He fell back weakly, his lips stained with blood, his handstwitching. His breathing was shallow and too fast. Occasionally acoughing spasm wrenched his body. 
Crysania stared at him helplessly. 
"You told me once that the gods could not heal this malady. Butyou're dying, Raistlin! Isn't there something I can do?" she askedsoftly, not daring to touch him. 
He nodded, but for a minute could neither speak nor move. Finally,with an obvious effort, he lifted a trembling hand from the chillfloor and motioned Crysania near. She bent over him. Reaching up,he touched her cheek, drawing her face close to his. His breathwas warm against her skin. 
"Water!" He gasped inaudibly. She could understand him only byreading the movements of his blood-caked lips. "A potion ... willhelp. . . ." Feebly, his hand moved to a pocket in his robes. "And... and warmth, fire! I ... have not ... the strength...... 
Crysania nodded, to show she understood. 
"Caramon?" His lips formed the words. 
"Those-those things attacked him," she said, glancing over at thebig warrior's motionless body. "I'm not sure if he's still alive.. . ." 
"We need him! You ... must ... heal him!" He could not continue but lay panting for air, his eyes closed. 
Crysania swallowed, shivering. "Are-are you sure?" she askedhesitantly. "He tried to murder you-" 
Raistlin smiled, then shook his head. The black hood rustledgently at the motion. Opening his eyes, he looked up at Crysania "Crysania . . ." he breathed, "I ... am going ... to loseconsciousness.... You ... will ... be alone ... in this place ofdarkness.... My brother ... can help.... Warmth . . ." His eyesclosed, but his grasp on Crysania's hand tightened, as thoughendeavoring to use her lifeforce to cling to reality. With aviolent struggle, he opened his eyes again to look directly intohers. "Don't leave this room!" he mouthed. His eyes rolled back inhis head. 
You will be alone! Crysania glanced around fearfully, feelingsuffocated with terror. Water! Warmth! How could she manage? Shecouldn't! Not in this chamber of evil! 
"Raistlin!" she begged, grasping his frail hand in both her handsand resting her cheek against it. "Raistlin, please don't leaveme!" she whispered, cringing at the touch of his cold flesh. "Ican't do what you ask! I haven't the power! I can't create waterout of dust-" 
Raistlin's eyes opened. They were nearly as dark as the room inwhich he lay. Moving his hand, the hand she held, he traced a linefrom her eyes down her cheek. Then the hand went limp, his headlolled to one side. 
Crysania raised her own hand to her skin in confusion, wonderingwhat he meant by such a strange gesture? It had not been a caress.He was trying to tell her something, that much had been apparentby his insistent gaze. But what? Her skin burned at his touch ...bringing back memories.... 
And then she knew. 
I can't create water out of dust.... 
"My tears!" she murmured. 
CHAPTER 2 
Sitting alone in the chill chamber, kneeling beside Raistlin'sstill body, seeing Caramon lying nearby, pale and lifeless,Crysania suddenly envied both of them fiercely. How easy it would be, she thought, to slip into unconsciousness and let the darknesstake me! The evil of the place-which had seemingly fled at thesound of Raistlin's voice-was returning. She could feel it on herneck like a cold draft. Eyes stared at her from the shadows, eyesthat were kept back, apparently, only by the light of the Staff ofMagius, which still gleamed. Even unconscious, Raistlin's handrested on it. 
Crysania lay the archmage's other hand, the hand she held, gentlyacross his chest. Then she sat back, her lips pressed tightlytogether, swallowing her tears. 
"He's depending on me," she said to herself, talking to dispel thesounds of whispering she heard around her. "In his weakness, he isrelying on my strength. All my life," she continued, wiping tearsfrom her eyes and watching the water gleam on her fingers in thestaff's light, "I have prided myself on my strength. Yet, untilnow, I never knew what true strength was., Her eyes went toRaistlin. "Now, I see it in him! I will not let him down! 
"Warmth," she said, shivering so much that she could barely stand."He needs warmth. We all do." She sighed helplessly. "Yet how am Ito do that! If we were in Ice Wall Castle, my prayers alone wouldbe enough to keep us warm. Paladine would aid us. But this chillis not the chill of ice or snow. 
"It is deeper than that-freezing the spirit more than the blood.Here, in this place of evil, my faith might sustain me, but itwill never warm us!" 
Thinking of this and glancing around the room dimly seen by thelight of the staff, Crysania saw the shadowy forms of tatteredcurtains hanging from the windows. Made of heavy velvet, they werelarge enough to cover all of them. Her spirits rose, but sankalmost instantly as she realized they were far across the room.Barely visible within the writhing darkness, the windows wereoutside of the staff's circle of bright light. 
"I'll have to walk over there," she said to herself, "in theshadows!" Her heart almost failed her, her strength ebbed. "I willask Paladine's help." But, as she spoke, her gaze went to themedallion lying cold and dark on the floor. 
Bending down to pick it up, she hesitated, fearing for a moment totouch it, remembering in sorrow how its light had died at thecoming of the evil. 
Once again, she thought of Loralon, the great elven cleric who hadcome to take her away before the Cataclysm. She had refused,choosing instead to risk her life, to hear the words of theKingpriest-the words that called down the wrath of the gods. WasPaladine angry? Had he abandoned her in his anger, as manybelieved he had abandoned all of Krynn following the terribledestruction of Istar? Or was his divine guidance simply unable topenetrate the chill layers of evil that shrouded the accursedTower of High Sorcery? 
Confused and frightened, Crysania lifted the medallion. It did notglow. It did nothing. The metal felt cold in her hand. Standing inthe center of the room, holding the medallion, her teethchattering, she willed herself to walk to a window. 
"If I don't," she muttered through stiff lips, "I'll die of thecold. We'll all die," she added, her gaze going back to thebrothers. Raistlin wore his black velvet robes, but she rememberedthe icy feel of his hand in hers. Caramon was still dressed as hehad been for the gladiator games in little more than golden armorand a loincloth. 
Lifting her chin, Crysania cast a defiant glance at the unseen,whispering things that lurked around her, then she walkedsteadfastly out of the circle of magical light shed by Raistlin'sstaff. 
Almost instantly, the darkness came alive! The whispers grewlouder and, in horror, she realized she could understand thewords! 
How loud your heart is calling, love, 
How close the darkness at your breast, 
How hectic are the rivers, love, 
Drawn through your dying wrist. 
And love, what heat your frail skin hides, 
As pure as salt, as sweet as death, 
And in the dark the red moon rides 
The foxfire of your breath. 
There was a touch of chill fingers on her skin. Crysania startedin terror and shrank back, only to see nothing there! Nearly sickwith fear and the horror of the gruesome love song of the dead,she could not move for a long moment. 
"No!" she said angrily. "I will go on! These creatures of evilshall not stop me! I am a cleric of Paladine! Even if my god hasabandoned me, I will not abandon my faith!" 
Raising her head, Crysania thrust out her hand as though she wouldactually part the darkness like a curtain. Then she continued towalk to the window. The hiss of whispers sounded around her, sheheard eerie laughter, but nothing harmed her, nothing touched her.Finally, after a journey that seemed miles long, she reached thewindows. 
Clinging to the curtains, shaking, her legs weak, she drew themaside and looked out, hoping to see the lights of the city ofPalanthas to comfort her. There are other living beings out there,she said to herself, pressing her face against the glass. I'll seethe lights 
But the prophecy had not yet been fulfilled. Raistlin-as master ofthe past and the present-had not yet returned with power to claimthe Tower as would happen in the future. And so the Tower remainedcloaked in impenetrable darkness, as though a perpetual black foghung about it. If the lights of the beautiful city of Palanthasglowed, she could not see them. 
With a bleak sigh, Crysania grasped hold of the cloth and yanked.The rotting fabric gave way almost instantly, nearly burying herin a shroud of velvet brocade as the curtains tumbled down around her. Thankfully, she wrapped the heavy material around hershoulders like a cloak, huddling gratefully in its warmth. 
Clumsily tearing down another curtain, she dragged it back acrossthe dark room, hearing it scrape against the floor as it collectedbroken pieces of furniture on its way. 
The staff's magical light gleamed, guiding her through thedarkness. Reaching it finally, she collapsed upon the floor,shaking with exhaustion and the reaction to her terror. 
She hadn't realized until now how tired she was. She had not sleptin nights, ever since the storm began in Istar. Now that she was "Stop it!" she ordered herself. Forcing herself to stand up, shedragged the curtain over to Caramon and knelt beside him. Shecovered him with the heavy fabric, pulling it up over his broadshoulders. His chest was still, he was barely breathing. Placingher cold hand on his neck, she felt for the lifebeat. It was slowand irregular. And then she saw marks upon his neck, dead whitemarks-as of fleshless lips. 
The disembodied head floated in Crysania's memory. Shuddering, shebanished it from her thoughts and, wrapped in the curtain, placedher hands upon Caramon's forehead. 
"Paladine," she prayed softly, "if you have not turned from yourcleric in anger, if you will only try to understand that what shedoes she does to honor you, if you can part this terrible darknesslong enough to grant this one prayer-heal this man! If his destinyhas not been fulfilled, if there is still something more he mustdo, grant him health. If not, then gather his soul gently to yourarms, Paladine, that he may dwell eternally-" 
Crysania could not go on. Her strength gave out. Weary, drained byterror and her own internal struggles, lost and alone in the vastdarkness, she let her head sink into her hands and began to crythe bitter sobs of one who sees no hope. 
And then she felt a hand touch hers. She started in terror, butthis hand was strong and warm. "There now, Tika," said a deep,sleepy-sounding voice. "It'll be all right. Don't cry." 
Lifting her tear-stained face, Crysania saw Caramon's chest riseand fall with deep breaths. His face lost its deathly pallor, thewhite marks on his neck faded. Patting her hand soothingly, hesmiled. 
"It's jus' a bad dream, Tika," he mumbled. "Be all gone ... bymorning...... 
Gathering the curtain up around his neck, snuggling in its warmth,Caramon gave a great, gaping yawn and rolled over onto his side todrift into a deep, peaceful sleep. 
Too tired and numb even to offer thanks, Crysania could only sitand watch the big man sleep for a moment. Then a sound caught herear-the sound of water dripping! Turning, she saw-for the first time-a glass beaker resting on the edge of the desk. The beaker'slong neck was broken and it lay upon its side, its mouth hangingover the edge. It had been empty a long time apparently, itscontents spilled one hundred years before. But now it shone with aclear liquid that dripped upon the floor, gently, one drop at atime, each drop sparkling in the light of the staff. 
Reaching out her hand, Crysania caught some of the drops in herpalm, then lifted her hand hesitantly to her lips. 
"Water!" she breathed. 
The taste was faintly bitter, almost salty, but it seemed to herthe most delicious water she had ever drunk. Forcing her achingbody to move, she poured more water into her hand, gulpingthirstily. Standing the beaker upright on the desk, she saw thewater level rise again, replacing what she had taken. 
Now she could thank Paladine with words that rose from the verydepths of her being, so deep that she could not speak them. Herfear of the darkness and the creatures in it vanished. Her god hadnot abandoned her-he was with her still, even though-perhaps-shehad disappointed him. 
Her fears at ease, she took a final look at Caramon. Seeing himsleeping peacefully, the lines of pain smoothed from his face, sheturned from him and walked over to where his brother lay huddledin his robes, his lips blue with cold. 
Lying down beside the mage, knowing that the heat of their bodieswould warm them both, Crysania wrapped the curtain over them and,resting her head on Raistlin's shoulder, she closed her eyes andlet the darkness enfold her. 
CHAPTER 3 
"She called him 'Raistlin!' " 
"But then -'Fistandantilus!' " 
"How can we be certain? This is not right! He came not through theGrove, as was foretold. He came not with power! And these others?He was supposed to come alone!" 
"Not even for such rich reward?" 
"The blood smell has driven you mad! If it is he, and he discoversyou have feasted on his chosen, he will send you back to theeverlasting darkness where you will dream always of warm blood andnever taste it!" 
"And if it is not, and we fail in our duties to guard this place,then She will come in her wrath and make that fate seem pleasant!" 
Silence. Then, 
"There is a way we can make certain. . . . " 
"It is dangerous. He is weak, we might kill him. " 
"We must know! Better for him to die than for us to fail in our duty to Her Dark Majesty. " 
"Yes.... His death could be explained. His life ... maybe not. " 
Cold, searing pain penetrated the layers of unconsciousness likeslivers of ice piercing his brain. Raistlin struggled in theirgrasp, fighting through the fog of sickness and exhaustion toreturn for one brief moment to conscious awareness. Opening hiseyes, fear nearly suffocated him as he saw two pallid headsfloating above him, staring at him with eyes of vast darkness.Their hands were on his chest-it was the touch of those icyfingers that tore through his soul. 
Looking into those eyes, the mage knew what they sought and suddenterror seized him. "No," he spoke without breath, "I will not livethat again!" 
"You will. We must know!" was all they said. 
Anger at this outrage gripped Raistlin. Snarling a bitter curse,he tried to raise his arms from the floor to wrest the ghostlyhands from their deadly grip. But it was useless. His musclesrefused to respond, a finger twitched, nothing more. 
Fury and pain and bitter frustration made him shriek, but it was asound no one heard-not even himself. The hands tightened theirgrasp, the pain stabbed him, and he sank-not into darkness-butinto remembrance. 
There were no windows in the Learning Room where the sevenapprentice magic-users worked that morning. No sunlight wasadmitted, nor was the light of the two moons-silver and red. Asfor the third moon, the black moon, its presence could be felthere as elsewhere on Krynn without being seen. 
The room was lit by thick beeswax candles that stood in silvercandleholders on the tables. The candles could thus be easilypicked up and carried about to suit the convenience of theapprentices as they went about their studies. 
This was the only room in the great castle of Fistandantilus litby candles. In all others, glass globes with continual lightspells cast upon them hovered in the air, shedding magicalradiance to lighten the gloom that was perpetual in this darkfortress. The globes were not used in the Learning Room, however,for one very good reason-if brought into this room, their lightwould instantly fail-a Dispel Magic spell was in constant effecthere. Thus the need for candles and the need to keep out anyinfluence that might be gleaned from the sun or the two lightshedding moons. 
Six of the apprentices sat near each other at one table, sometalking together, a few studying in silence. The seventh satapart, at a table far across the room. Occasionally one of the sixwould raise his head and cast an uneasy glance at the one who satapart, then lower his head quickly, for, no matter who looked orat what time, the seventh always seemed to be staring back atthem. 
The seventh found this amusing, and he indulged in a bitter smile.Raistlin had not found much to smile about during these months hehad been living in the castle of Fistandantilus. It had not beenan easy time for him. Oh, it had been simple enough to maintainthe deception, keeping Fistandantilus from guessing his trueidentity, concealing his true powers, making it seem as if he weresimply one of this group of fools working to gain the favor of thegreat wizard and thus become his apprentice. 
Deception was life's blood to Raistlin. He even enjoyed his littlegames of oneupsmanship with the apprentices, always doing thingsjust a little bit better, always keeping them nervous, off guard.He enjoyed his game with Fistandantilus, too. He could sense thearchmage watching him. He knew what the great wizard was thinking-who is this apprentice? Where does he get the power that the Sometimes Raistlin thought he could detect Fistandantilus studyinghis face, as though thinking it looked familiar.... 
No, Raistlin enjoyed the game. But it was totally unexpected thathe come upon something he had not enjoyed. And that was to beforcibly reminded of the most unhappy time of his life-his oldschool days. 
The Sly One-that had been his nickname among the apprentices athis old Master's school. Never liked, never trusted, feared evenby his own Master, Raistlin spent a lonely, embittered youth. Theonly person who ever cared for him had been his twin brother,Caramon, and his love was so patronizing and smothering thatRaistlin often found the hatred of his classmates easier to accept. 
And now, even though he despised these idiots seeking to please aMaster who would-in the end-only murder the one chosen, eventhough he enjoyed fooling them and taunting them, Raistlin stillfelt a pang sometimes, in the loneliness of the night, when heheard them together, laughing.... 
Angrily, he reminded himself that this was all beneath hisconcern. He had a greater goal to achieve. He had to concentrate,conserve his strength. For today was the day, the dayFistandantilus would choose his-apprentice. 
You six will leave; Raistlin thought to himself. You will leavehating and despising me, and none of you will ever know that oneof you owes me his life! 
The door to the Learning Room opened with a creak, sending a joltof alarm through the six black-robed figures sitting at the table.Raistlin, watching them with a twisted smile, saw the samesneering smile reflected on the wizened, gray face of the man whostood in the doorway. 
The wizard's glittering gaze went to each of the six in turn,causing each to pale and lower his hooded head while hands toyedwith spell components or clenched in nervousness. 
Finally, Fistandantilus turned his black eyes to the seventhapprentice, who sat apart. Raistlin met his gaze withoutflinching, his twisted smile twisted further-into mockery. 
The wizard walked to the front of the Learning Room, his stepsslow and faltering. He leaned upon a staff and his old bonescreaked as he lowered himself into a chair. The wizard's gaze wentonce more to the six apprentices seated before him and, as helooked at them-at their youthful, healthy bodies one ofFistandantilus's withered hands raised to caress a pendant he woreon a long, heavy chain around his neck. It was an odd-lookingpendant-a single, oval bloodstone set in plain silver. 
Often the apprentices discussed this pendant among themselves,wondering what it did. It was the only ornamentationFistandantilus ever wore, and all knew it must be highly valuable.Even the lowest level apprentice could sense the powerful spellsof protection and warding laid upon it, guarding it from everyform of magic. What did it do? they whispered, and theirspeculations ranged from drawing beings from the celestial planesto communicating with Her Dark Majesty herself. 
One of their number, of course, could have told them. Raistlinknew what it did. But he kept his knowledge to himself. 
Fistandantilus's gnarled and trembling hand closed over thebloodstone eagerly, as his hungry gaze went from one apprentice tothe other. Raistlin could have sworn the wizard licked his lips,and the young mage felt a moment of sudden fear. What if I fail?he asked himself, shuddering. He is powerful! The most powerfulwizard who ever lived! Am I strong enough? What if 
"Begin the test," Fistandantilus said in a cracked voice, his gazegoing to the first of the six. 
Firmly, Raistlin banished his fears. This was what he had worked alifetime to attain. If he failed, he would die. He had faced deathbefore. In fact, it would be like meeting an old friend.... 
One by one, the young mages rose from their places, opened theirspellbooks, and recited their spells. If the Dispel Magic had notbeen laid upon the Learning Room, it would have been filled withwonderful sights. Fireballs would have exploded within its walls,incinerating all who were within range; phantom dragons would havebreathed illusory fire; dread beings would have been draggedshrieking from other planes of existence. But, as it was, the room One by one, each mage completed his test, then resumed his seat.All performed remarkably well. This was not unexpected.Fistandantilus permitted only seven of the most skilled of theyoung male magic-users who had already passed the grueling Test atthe Tower of High Sorcery to study further with him. Out of thatnumber, he would choose one to be his assistant. 
So they supposed. 
The archmage's hand touched the bloodstone. His gaze went toRaistlin. "Your turn, mage," he said. There was a flicker in theold eyes. The wrinkles on the wizard's forehead deepened slightly,as though trying to recall the young man's face. 
Slowly, Raistlin rose to his feet, still smiling the bitter,cynical smile, as if this were all beneath him. Then, with anonchalant shrug, he slammed shut his spellbook. The other sixapprentices exchanged grim glances at this. Fistandantilusfrowned, but there was a spark in his dark eyes. 
Glibly, sneeringly Raistlin began to recite the complicated spellfrom memory. The other apprentices stirred at this show of skill,glaring at him with hatred and undisguised envy. Fistandantiluswatched, his frown changing to a look of hunger so malevolent thatit nearly broke Raistlin's concentration. 
Forcing himself to keep his mind firmly on his work, the youngmage completed the spell, and suddenly the Learning Room was litby a brilliant flare of multicolored light, its silence shatteredby the sound of an explosion! 
Fistandantilus started, the grin wiped off his face. The otherapprentices gasped. 
"How did you break the Dispel Magic spell?" Fistandantilusdemanded angrily. "What strange power is this?" 
In answer, Raistlin opened his hands. In his palms he held a ballof blue and green flame, blazing with such radiance that no onecould look at it directly. Then, with that same, sneering smile,he clapped his hands. The flame vanished. 
The Learning Room was silent once more, only now it was thesilence of fear as Fistandantilus rose to his feet. His rage Raistlin did not shrink from that anger. He remained standingcalmly, coolly watching the wizard's approach. 
"How did you-" Fistandantilus's voice grated. Then his gaze fellupon the young mage's slender hands. With a vicious snarl, thewizard reached out and grasped Raistlin's wrist. 
Raistlin gasped in pain, the archmage's touch was cold as thegrave. But he made himself smile still, though he knew his grinmust look like a death's head. 
"Flash powder!" Fistandantilus jerked Raistlin forward, holdinghis hand under the candlelight so that all could see. "A commonsleight-of-hand trick, fit only for street illusionists!" 
"Thus I earned my living," Raistlin said through teeth clenchedagainst the pain. "I thought it suitable for use in such acollection of amateurs as you have gathered together, Great One." 
Fistandantilus tightened his grip. Raistlin choked in agony, buthe did not struggle or try to withdraw. Nor did he lower his gazefrom that of his Master. Though his grip was painful, the wizard'sface was interested, intrigued. 
"So you consider yourself better than these?" Fistandantilus askedRaistlin in a soft, almost kindly voice, ignoring the angrymutterings of the apprentices. 
Raistlin had to pause to gather the strength to speak through thehaze of pain. "You know I am!" 
Fistandantilus stared at him, his hand still grasping him by thewrist. Raistlin saw a sudden fear in the old man's eyes, a fearthat was quickly quenched by that look of insatiable hunger.Fistandantilus loosed his hold on Raistlin's arm. The young magecould not repress a sigh of intense relief as he sank into hischair, rubbing his wrist. The mark of the archmage's hand could beseen upon it plainly-it had turned his skin icy white. 
"Get out!" Fistandantilus snapped. The six mages rose, their blackrobes rustling about them. Raistlin rose, too. "You stay," thearchmage said coldly. 
Raistlin sat back down, still rubbing his injured wrist. Warmthand life were returning to it. As the other young mages filed out,Fistandantilus followed them to the door. Turning back, he facedhis new apprentice. 
"These others will soon be gone and we shall have the castle toourselves. Meet me in the secret chambers far below when it is Darkwatch. I am conducting an experiment that will require your... assistance." 
Raistlin watched in a kind of horrible fascination as the old wizard's hand went to the bloodstone, stroking it lovingly. For amoment, Raistlin could not answer. Then, he smiled sneeringly-onlythis time it was at himself, for his own fear. 
" I will be there, Master," he said. 
Raistlin lay upon the stone slab in the laboratory located farbeneath the archmage's castle. Not even his thick black velvetrobes could keep out the chill, and Raistlin shivereduncontrollably. But whether it was from the cold, fear, orexcitement, he could not tell. 
He could not see Fistandantilus, but he could hear him-the whisperof his robes, the soft thud of the staff upon the floor, theturning of a page in the spellbook. Lying upon the slab, feigningto be helpless under the wizard's influence, Raistlin tensed. Themoment fast approached. 
As if in answer, Fistandantilus appeared in his line of vision,leaning over the young mage with that look of eager hunger, thebloodstone pendant swinging from the chain around his neck. 
"Yes," said the wizard, "you are skilled. More skilled and morepowerful than any young apprentice I have met in these many, manyyears." 
"What will you do to me?" Raistlin asked hoarsely. The note ofdesperation in his voice was not entirely forced. He must know howthe pendant worked. 
"How can that matter?" Fistandantilus questioned coolly, layinghis hand upon the young mage's chest. 
"My ... object in coming to you was to learn," Raistlin said,gritting his teeth and trying not to writhe at the loathsometouch. "I would learn, even to the last!" 
"Commendable." Fistandantilus nodded, his eyes gazing into thedarkness, his thoughts abstracted. Probably going over the spellin his mind, Raistlin thought to himself. "I am going to enjoyinhabiting a body and a mind so thirsty for knowledge, as well asone that is innately skilled in the Art. Very well, I willexplain. My last lesson, apprentice. Learn it well. 
"You cannot know, young man, the horrors of growing old. How wellI remember my first life and how well I remember the terriblefeeling of anger and frustration I felt when I realized that I-themost powerful magic-user who had ever lived-was .destined to betrapped in a weak and wretched body that was being consumed byage! My mind-my mind was sound! Indeed, I was stronger mentallythan I had ever been in my life! But all this power, all this vastknowledge would be wasted, turned to dust! Devoured by worms! 
"I wore the Red Robes then 
"You start. Are you surprised? Taking the Red Robes was aconscious, cold-blooded decision, made after seeing how best Icould gain. In neutrality, one learns better, being able to drawfrom both ends of the spectrum and being beholden to neither. Iwent to Gilean, God of Neutrality, with my plea to be allowed toremain upon this plane and extend my knowledge. But, in this, theGod of the Book could not help me. Humans were his creation, andit was because of my impatient human nature and the knowledge ofthe shortness of my life that I had pressed on with my studies. Iwas counseled to accept my fate." 
Fistandantilus shrugged. "I see comprehension in your eyes,apprentice. In a way, I am sorry to destroy you. I think we couldhave developed a rare understanding. But, to make a long storyshort, I walked out into the darkness. Cursing the red moon, Iasked that I be allowed to look upon the black. The Queen ofDarkness heard my prayer and granted my request. Donning the BlackRobes, I dedicated myself to her service and, in return, I wastaken to her plane of existence. I have seen the future, I havelived the past. She gave me this pendant, so that I am able tochoose a new body during my stay in this time. And, when I chooseto cross the boundaries of time and enter the future, there is abody prepared and ready to accept my soul." 
Raistlin could not repress a shudder at this. His lip curled inhatred. His was the body the wizard spoke of! Ready andwaiting.... 
But Fistandantilus did not notice. The wizard raised the bloodstone pendant, preparing to cast the spell. 
Looking at the pendant as it glistened in the pale light cast by aglobe in the center of the laboratory, Raistlin felt his heartbeatquicken. His hands clenched. 
With an effort, his voice trembling with excitement that he hopedwould be mistaken for terror, he whispered, "Tell me how it works!Tell me what will happen to me!" 
Fistandantilus smiled, his hand slowly revolving the bloodstoneabove Raistlin's chest. "I will place this upon your breast, rightover your heart. And, slowly, you will feel your lifeforce startto ebb from your body. The pain is, I believe, quite excruciating.But it will not last long, apprentice, if you do not struggleagainst it. Give in and you will quickly lose consciousness. Fromwhat I have observed, fighting only prolongs the agony." 
"Are there no words to be spoken?" Raistlin asked, shivering. 
"Of course," Fistandantilus replied coolly, his body bending downnear Raistlin's, his eyes nearly on a level with the young mage's.Carefully, he placed the bloodstone on Raistlin's chest. "You areabout to hear them.... They will be the last sounds you ever hear.. . . 
Raistlin felt his flesh crawl at the touch and for a moment could barely restrain himself from breaking away and fleeing. No, hetold himself coldly, clenching his hands, digging his nails intothe flesh so that the pain would distract his thoughts from fear,I must hear the words! 
Quivering, he forced himself to lie there, but he could notrefrain from closing his eyes, blotting out the sight of the evil,wizened face so near his own that he could smell the decayingbreath.... 
"That's right," said a soft voice, "relax...... Fistandantilusbegan to chant. 
Concentrating on the complex spell, the wizard closed his owneyes, swaying back and forth as he pressed the bloodstone pendant into Raistlin's flesh. Fistandantilus did not notice, therefore,that his words were being repeated, murmured feverishly by theintended victim. By the time he realized something was wrong, hehad ended the reciting of the spell and was standing, waiting, forthe first infusion of new life to warm his ancient bones. 
There was nothing. 
Alarmed, Fistandantilus opened his eyes. He stared in astonishmentat the black-robed young mage lying on the cold stone slab, andthen the wizard made a strange, inarticulate sound and staggeredbackward in a sudden fear he could not hide. 
"I see you recognize me at last," said Raistlin, sitting up. Onehand rested upon the stone slab, but the other was in one of thesecret pockets of his robes. "So much for the body waiting for youin the future." 
Fistandantilus did not answer. His gaze darted to Raistlin'spocket, as though he would pierce through the fabric with hisblack eyes. 
Quickly he regained his composure. "Did the great Par-Salian sendyou back here, little mage?" he asked derisively. But his gazeremained on the mage's pocket. 
Raistlin shook his head as he slid off the stone slab. Keeping onehand in the pocket of his robes, he moved the other to draw backthe black hood, allowing Fistandantilus to see his true face, notthe illusion he had maintained for these past long months. "I camemyself. I am Master of the Tower now." 
"That's impossible," the wizard snarled. 
Raistlin smiled, but there was no answering smile in his coldeyes, which kept Fistandantilus always in their mirror like gaze."So you thought. But you made a mistake. You underestimated me.You wrenched part of my lifeforce from me during the Test, inreturn for protecting me from the drow. You forced me to live alife of constant pain in a shattered body, doomed me to dependenceon my brother. You taught me to use the dragon orb and kept mealive when I would have died at the Great Library of Palanthas.During the War of the Lance, you helped me drive the Queen ofDarkness back to the Abyss where she was no longer a threat to theworld-or to you. Then, when you had gained enough strength in thistime, you intended to return to the future and claim my body! Youwould have become me." 
Raistlin saw Fistandantilus's eyes narrow, and the young magetensed, his hand closing over the object he carried in his robes.But the wizard only said mildly, "That is all correct. What do youintend to do about it? Murder me?" 
"No," said Raistlin softly, "I intend to become you!" 
"Fool!" Fistandantilus laughed shrilly. Raising a withered hand,he held up the bloodstone pendant. "The only way you could do thatis to use this on me! And it is protected against all forms ofmagic by charms the power of which you have no conception, littlemage-" 
His voice died away to a whisper, strangled in sudden fear andshock as Raistlin removed his hand from his robe. In his palm laythe bloodstone pendant. 
"Protected from all forms of magic," said the young mage, his grinlike that of a skull's, "but not protected against sleight-of-hand. Not protected against the skills of a common streetillusionist. . . ." 
Raistlin saw the wizard turn deathly pale. Fistandantilus's eyeswent feverishly to the chain on his neck. Now that the illusionwas revealed, he realized he held nothing in his hand. 
A rending, cracking sound shattered the silence. The stone floorbeneath Raistlin's feet heaved, sending the young mage stumblingto his knees. Rock blew apart as the foundation of the laboratorybroke in half. Above the chaos rose Fistandantilus's voice,chanting a powerful spell of summoning. 
Recognizing it, Raistlin responded, clutching the bloodstone inhis hand as he cast a spell of shielding around his body to givehimself time to work his magic. Crouched on the floor, he twistedaround to see a figure burst through the foundation, its hideousshape and visage something seen only in insane dreams. 
"Seize him, hold him!" Fistandantilus shrieked, pointing atRaistlin. The apparition surged across the crumbling floor towardthe young mage and reached for him with its writhing coils. 
Fear overwhelmed Raistlin as the creature from beyond worked itsown horrible magic on him. The shielding spell crumbled beneaththe onslaught. The apparition would devour his soul and feast uponhis flesh. 
Control! Long hours of study, long-practiced strength and rigorousself-discipline brought the words of the spell Raistlin needed tohis mind. Within moments, it was complete. As the young mage beganto chant the words of banishment, he felt the ecstasy of his magicflow through his body, delivering him from the fear. 
The apparition hesitated. 
Fistandantilus, furious, ordered it on. 
Raistlin ordered it to halt. 
The apparition glared at each, its coils twisting, its veryappearance shifting and shimmering in the gusty winds of itscreation. Both mages held it in check, watching the otherintently, waiting for the eye blink, the lip twitch, the spasmodicjerk of a finger that would prove fatal. 
Neither moved, neither seemed likely to move. Raistlin's endurancewas greater, but Fistandantilus's magic came from ancient sources;he could call upon unseen powers to support him. 
Finally, it was the apparition itself who could no longer endure.Caught between two equal, conflicting powers, tugged and pulled inopposite directions, its magical being could be held together nolonger. With a brilliant flash, it exploded. 
The force hurled both mages backward, slamming them into thewalls. A horrible smell filled the chamber, and broken glass felllike rain. The walls of the laboratory were blackened and charred.Here and there, small fires burned with bright, multicoloredflames, casting a lurid glow over the site of the destruction. 
Raistlin staggered swiftly to his feet, wiping blood from a cut onhis forehead. His enemy was not less quick, both knowing weaknessmeant death. The two mages faced each other in the flickeringlight. 
"So, it comes to this!" Fistandantilus said in his cracked andancient voice. "You could have gone on, living a life of ease. Iwould have spared you the debilities, the indignities of old age.Why rush to your own destruction?" 
"You know," Raistlin said softly, breathing heavily, his strengthnearly spent. 
"Life for one. Death for the other," Raistlin said. Reaching outhis hand, he carefully laid the bloodstone pendant upon the coldslab. Then he heard the words of chanting and raised his voice inan answering chant himself. 
The battle lasted long. The two guardians of the Tower, whowatched the sight they had conjured up from the memories of theblack-robed mage lying within their grasp, were lost in confusion.They had, up to this point, seen everything throug Raistlin'svision. But so close now were the two magic-users that the Tower'sguardians saw the battle through the eyes of both opponents. 
Lightning crackled from fingertips, black-robed bodies twisted inpain, screams of agony and fury echoed amidst the crash of rockand timber. 
Magical walls of fire thawed walls of ice, hot winds blew with theforce of hurricanes. Storms of flame swept the hallways,apparitions sprang from the Abyss at the behest of their masters,elementals shook the very foundations of the castle. The greatdark fortress of Fistandantilus began to crack, stones tumblingfrom the battlements. 
And then, with a fearful shriek of rage and pain, one of theblack-robed mages collapsed, blood flowing from his mouth. 
Which was which? Who had fallen? The guardians sought franticallyto tell, but it was impossible. 
The other mage, nearly spent, rested a moment, then managed todrag himself across the floor. His trembling hand reached up tothe top of the stone slab, groped about, then found and graspedthe bloodstone pendant. With his last strength, the black-robedmage gripped the pendant and crawled back to kneel beside thestill-living body of his victim. 
The mage on the floor could not speak, but his eyes, as they gazedinto the eyes of his murderer, cast a curse of such hideous aspectthat the two guardians of the Tower felt even the chill of theirtormented existence grow warm by comparison. 
The black-robed mage holding the bloodstone hesitated. He was soclose to his victim's mind that he could read the unspoken messageof those eyes, and his soul shrank from what it saw. But then hislips tightened. Shaking his hooded head and giving a grim smile oftriumph, he carefully and deliberately pressed the pendant down onthe black-robed chest of his victim. 
The body on the floor writhed in tormented agony, a shrill screambubbled from his blood-frothed lips. Then, suddenly, the screamsceased. The mage's skin wrinkled and cracked like dry parchment,his eyes stared sightlessly into the darkness. He slowly witheredaway. 
With a shuddering sigh, the other mage collapsed on top of thebody of his victim, he himself weak, wounded, near death. Butclutched in his hand was the bloodstone and flowing through hisveins was new blood, giving him life that would- in time-fullyrestore him to health. In his mind was knowledge, memories ofhundreds of years of power, spells, visions of wonders and terrorsthat spanned generations. But there, too, were memories of a twinbrother, memories of a shattered body, of a prolonged, painfulexistence. 
As two lives mingled within him, as hundreds of strange,conflicting memories surged through him, the mage reeled at theimpact. Crouching beside the corpse of his rival, the black robedmage who had been the victor stared at the bloodstone in his hand.Then he whispered in horror. 
"Who am I?" 
CHAPTER 4 
The guardians slid away from Raistlin, staring at him with holloweyes. Too weak to move, the mage stared back, his own eyesreflecting the darkness. 
"I tell you this"-he spoke to them without a voice and wasunderstood-"touch me again, and I will turn you to dust-as I didhim!" 
"Yes, Master," the voices whispered as their pale visages fadedback into the shadows. 
"What-" murmured Crysania sleepily. "Did you say something-"Realizing she had been sleeping with her head upon his shoulder,she flushed in confusion and embarrassment and hurriedly sat up."Can-can I get you anything-" she asked. 
"Hot water"-Raistlin lay back limply-"for ... my potion." 
Crysania glanced around, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes.Gray light seeped through the windows. Thin and wispy as a ghost,it brought no comfort. The Staff of Magius cast its light still,keeping away the dark things of the night. But it shed no warmth.Crysania rubbed her aching neck. She was stiff and sore and sheknew she must have been asleep for hours. The room was stillfreezing cold. Bleakly, she looked over at the cold and blackenedfiregrate. 
"There's wood," she faltered, her gaze going to the brokenfurniture lying about, "but I-I have no tinder or flint. I can't-" 
"Wake my brother!" snarled Raistlin, and immediately began to gaspfor breath. He tried to say something further, but could do nomore than gesture feebly. His eyes glittered with such anger andhis face was twisted with such rage that Crysania stared at him inalarm, feeling a chill that was colder than the air around her. 
Raistlin closed his eyes wearily and his hand went to his chest."Please," he whispered in agony, "the pain . . ." 
"Of course," Crysania said gently, overwhelmed with shame. Whatwould it be like to live with such pain, day after day? Leaningforward, she drew the curtain from her own shoulders and tucked itcarefully around Raistlin. The mage nodded thankfully but couldnot speak. Then, shivering, Crysania crossed the room to whereCaramon lay. 
Putting her hand out to touch his shoulder, she hesitated. What ifhe's still blind? she thought, or what if he can see and decides... decides to kill Raistlin? 
But her hesitation lasted only a moment. Resolutely, she put herhand on his shoulder and shook him. If he does, she said toherself grimly, I will stop him. I did it once, I can do it again. 
Even as she touched him, she was aware of the pale guardians,lurking in the darkness, watching her every move. 
"Caramon," she called softly, "Caramon, wake up. Please! We need-" "What?" Caramon sat up quickly, his hand going reflexively to hissword hilt-that wasn't there. His eyes focused on Crysania, andshe saw with relief tinged with fear that he could see her. Hestared at her blankly, however, without recognition, then lookedquickly around his surroundings. 
Then Crysania saw remembrance in the darkening of his eyes, sawthem fill with a haunted pain. She saw remembrance in theclenching of his jaw muscles and the cold gaze he turned upon her.She was about to say something-apologize, explain, rebuke-when hiseyes grew suddenly tender as his face softened with concern. 
"Lady Crysania," he said, sitting up and dragging the curtain fromhis body, "you're freezing! Here, put this around you." 
Before she could say a word in protest, Caramon wrapped thecurtain around her snugly. She noticed as he did so that he lookedonce at his twin. But his gaze passed quickly over Raistlin, as ifhe did not exist. 
Crysania caught hold of his arm. "Caramon," she said, "he savedour lives. He cast a spell. Those things out there in the darknessleave us alone because he told them to!" 
"Because they recognize one of their own!" Caramon said harshly,lowering his gaze and trying to withdraw his arm from her grasp.But Crysania held him fast, more with her eyes than her cold hand. 
"You can kill him now," she said angrily. "Look, he's helpless,weak. Of course, if you do, we'll all die. But you were preparedto do that anyway, weren't you!" 
"I can't kill him," Caramon said. His brown eyes were clear andcold, and Crysania-once again-saw a startling resemblance betweenthe twins. "Let's face it, Revered Daughter, if I tried, you'donly blind me again." 
Caramon brushed her hand from his arm. 
"One of us, at least, should see clearly," he said. 
Crysania felt herself flush in shame and anger, hearing Loralon'swords echo in the warrior's sarcasm. Turning away from her,Caramon stood up quickly. 
"I believe they will," Crysania said, speaking with equal coolnessas she, too, rose to her feet. "They did not hinder me when ...when I tore down the curtains." She could not help a quivercreeping into her voice at the memory of being trapped by thoseshadows of death. 
Caramon glanced around at her and, for the first time, it occurredto Crysania what she must look like. Wrapped in a rotting blackvelvet curtain, her white robes torn and stained with blood, blackwith dust and ash from the floor. Involuntarily, her hand went toher hair-once so smooth, carefully braided and coiled. Now it hungabout her face in straggling wisps. She could feel the dried tearsupon her cheeks, the dirt, the blood.... 
Self-consciously, she wiped her hand across her face and tried topat back her hair. Then, realizing how futile and even stupid shemust look, and angered still further by Caramon's pityingexpression, she drew herself up with shabby dignity. 
"So, I am no longer the marble maiden you first met," she saidhaughtily, "just as you are no longer the sodden drunk. It seemswe have both learned a thing or two on our journey." 
"I know I have," Caramon said gravely. 
"Have you?" Crysania retorted. "I wonder! Did you learn as I did-that the mages sent me back in time, knowing that I would notreturn?" 
Caramon stared at her. She smiled grimly. 
"No. You were unaware of that small fact, or so your brother said.The time device could be used by only one person-the person towhom it was given-you! The mages sent me back in time to die-because they feared me!" 
Caramon frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shook hishead. "You could have left Istar with that elf who came for you." 
"Would you have gone?" Crysania demanded. "Would you have given upyour life in our time if you could help it? No! Am I sodifferent?" 
Caramon's frown deepened and he started to reply, but at thatmoment, Raistlin coughed. Glancing at the mage, Crysania sighedand said, "You better build the fire, or we'll all perish anyway."Turning her back on Caramon, who still stood regarding hersilently, she walked over to his brother. 
Looking at the frail mage, Crysania wondered if he had heard. Shewondered if he were even still conscious. 
He was conscious, but if Raistlin was at all aware of what hadpassed between the other two, he appeared to be too weak to takeany interest in it. Pouring some of the water into a cracked bowl,Crysania knelt down beside him. Tearing a piece from the cleanestportion of her robe, she wiped his face; it burned with fever evenin the chill room. 
Behind her, she heard Caramon gathering up bits of the brokenwooden furniture and stacking it in the grate. 
"I need something for tinder," the big man muttered to himself."Ah, these books-" 
At that, Raistlin's eyes flared open, his head moved and he triedfeebly to rise. 
"Don't, Caramon!" Crysania cried, alarmed. Caramon stopped, a bookin his hand. 
"Dangerous, my brother!" Raistlin gasped weakly. "Spellbooks!Don't touch them... ." 
His voice failed, but the gaze of his glittering eyes was fixed onCaramon with a look of such apparent concern that even Caramonseemed taken aback. Mumbling something unintelligible, the big mandropped the book and began to search about the desk. Crysania sawRaistlin's eyes close in relief. 
"Here's- Looks like . . . letters," Caramon said after a moment ofshuffling through paper on the floor. "Would-would these be allright?" he asked gruffly. 
Raistlin nodded wordlessly, and, within moments, Crysania heardthe crackling of flame. Lacquer-finished, the wood of the brokenfurniture caught quickly, and soon the fire burned with a bright,cheering light. Glancing into the shadows, Crysania saw the pallidfaces withdraw-but they did not leave. 
"Yes," Caramon answered tonelessly. Coming to stand besideCrysania, he stared down at his brother. Then he shrugged. "Lethim magic himself over there if that's what he wants." 
Crysania's eyes flashed in anger. She turned to Caramon, scathingwords on her lips, but, at a weak gesture from Raistlin, she bither lower lip and kept silent. 
"You pick an inopportune time to grow up, my brother," the magewhispered. 
"Maybe," said Caramon slowly, his face filled with unutterablesorrow. Shaking his head, he walked back over to stand by thefire. "Maybe it doesn't matter anymore." 
Crysania, watching Raistlin's gaze follow his brother, wasstartled to see him smile a swift, secret smile and nod insatisfaction. Then, as he looked up at her, the smile vanishedquickly. Lifting one arm; he motioned her to come near him. 
"I can stand," he breathed, "with your help." 
"Here, you'll need your staff," she said, extending her hand forit. 
"Don't touch it !" Raistlin ordered, catching hold of her hand inhis. "No," he repeated more gently, coughing until he couldscarcely breathe. "Other hands . .. . touch it ... lightfails...... 
Shivering involuntarily, Crysania cast a swift glance around theroom. Raistlin, seeing her, and seeing the shimmering shapeshovering just outside the light of the staff, shook his head. "No,I do not believe they would attack us," he said softly as Crysaniaput her arms around him and helped him to rise. "They know who Iam." His lip curled in a sneer at this, and he choked. "They knowwho I am," he repeated more firmly, "and they dare not cross me.But-" he coughed again, and leaned heavily upon Crysania, one armaround her shoulder, the other hand clutching his staff-"it willbe safer to keep the light of the staff burning." 
The mage staggered as he spoke and nearly fell. Crysania paused tolet him catch his breath. Her own breath was coming more rapidlythan normal, revealing the confused tangle of her emotions. 
Hearing the harsh rattle of Raistlin's labored breathing, she wasconsumed with pity for his weakness. Yet, she could feel. theburning heat of the body pressed so near hers. There was theintoxicating scent of his spell components-rose petals, spice-andhis black robes were soft to the touch, softer than the curtainaround her shoulders. His gaze met hers as they stood there; for amoment, the mirrorlike surface of his eyes cracked and she sawwarmth and passion. His arm around her tightened reflexively,drawing her closer without seeming to mean to do so. 
Crysania flushed, wanting desperately to both run away and stayforever in that warm embrace. Quickly, she lowered her gaze, butit was too late. She felt Raistlin stiffen. Angrily, he withdrewhis arm. Pushing her aside, he gripped his staff for support. 
But he was still too weak. He staggered and started to fall.Crysania moved to help him, but suddenly a huge body interposeditself between her and the mage. Strong arms caught Raistlin up asif he were no more than a child. Caramon carried his brother to a frayed and blackened, heavily cushioned chair he had dragged nearthe fire. 
For a few moments, Crysania could not move from where she stood,leaning against the desk. It was only when she realized that shewas alone in the darkness, outside the light of both fire andstaff, that she walked hurriedly over near the fire herself. 
"Sit down, Lady Crysania," said Caramon, drawing up another chairand beating the dust and ash off with his hands as best he could. 
"Thank you," she murmured, trying, for some reason, to avoid thebig man's gaze. Sinking down into the chair, she huddled near theblaze, staring fixedly into the flames until she felt she hadregained some of her composure. 
When she was able to look around, she saw Raistlin lying back inhis chair, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Caramon washeating water in a battered iron pot that he had dragged, from thelooks of it, out of the ashes of the fireplace. He stood beforeit, staring intently into the water. The firelight glistened onhis golden armor, glowed on his smooth, tan skin. His musclesrippled as he flexed his great arms to keep warm. 
He is truly a magnificently built man, Crysania thought, thenshuddered. Once again, she could see him entering that roombeneath the doomed Temple, the bloody sword in his hand, death inhis eyes.... 
"Let me fix the potion," she said quickly, thankful for somethingto do. 
Raistlin opened his eyes as she came near him. Looking into them,she saw only a reflection of herself, pale, wan, disheveled.Wordlessly, he held out a small, velvet pouch. As she took it, hegestured to his brother, then sank back, exhausted. 
Taking the pouch, Crysania turned to find Caramon watching her, alook of mingled perplexity and sadness giving his face anunaccustomed gravity. But all he said was, "Put a few of theleaves in this cup, then fill it with the hot water." 
"What is it?" Crysania asked curiously. Opening the pouch, hernose wrinkled at the strange, bitter scent of the herbs. Caramonpoured the water into the cup she held. 
"I don't know," he said, shrugging. "Raist always gathered theherbs and mixed them himself. Par-Salian gave the recipe to himafter ... after the Test, when he was so sick. I know"-he smiledat her-"it smells awful and must taste worse." His glance wentalmost fondly to his brother. "But it will help him." His voicegrated harshly. Abruptly, he turned away. 
Crysania carried the steaming potion to Raistlin, who clutched atit with trembling hands and eagerly brought the cup to his lips.Sipping at it, he breathed a sigh of relief and, once more, sankback among the cushions of the chair. 
An awkward silence fell. Caramon was staring down at the fire oncemore. Raistlin, too, looked into the flames and drank his potionwithout comment. Crysania returned to her own chair to do whateach of the others must be doing, she realized-trying to sort outthoughts, trying to make some sense of what had happened. 
Hours ago, she had been standing in a doomed city, a city destinedto die by the wrath of the gods. She had been on the verge ofcomplete mental and physical collapse. She could admit this now,though she could not have then. How fondly she had imagined hersoul to be girded round by the steel walls of her faith. Notsteel, she saw now, with shame and regret. Not steel, but ice. Theice had melted in the harsh light of truth, leaving her exposed Raistlin ... Her face flushed. This was something else she hadnever thought to contend with-love, passion. She had beenbetrothed to a young man, years ago, and she had been quite fondof him. But she had not loved him. She had, in fact, never reallybelieved in love-the kind of love that existed in tales told to children. To be that wrapped up in another person seemed ahandicap, a weakness to be avoided. She remembered something TanisHalf-Elven had said about his wife, Laurana-what was it? "When sheis gone, it is like I'm missing my right arm...." 
What romantic twaddle, she had thought at the time. But now sheasked herself, did she feel that way about Raistlin? Her thoughtswent to the last day in Istar, the terrible storm, the flashing ofthe lightning, and how she had suddenly found herself inRaistlin's arms. Her heart contracted with the swift ache of desire as she felt, once again, his strong embrace. But there wasalso a sharp fear, a strange revulsion. Unwillingly, sheremembered the feverish gleam in his eyes, his exultation in thestorm-as if he himself had called it down. 
It was like the strange smell of the spell components that clungto him-the pleasant smell of roses and spice, but mingled with it-the cloying odor of decaying creatures, the acrid smell ofsulphur. Even as her body longed for his touch, something in hersoul shrank away in horror.... 
Caramon's stomach rumbled loudly. The sound, in the deathly stillchamber, was startling. 
Looking up, her thoughts shattered, Crysania saw the big man blushdeeply in embarrassment. Suddenly reminded of her own hunger-shecouldn't remember the last time she had been able to choke down a mouthful of food-Crysania began to laugh. 
Caramon looked at her dubiously, perhaps thinking her hysterical.At the puzzled look on the big man's face, Crysania only laughedharder. It felt good to laugh, in fact. The darkness in the roomseemed pushed back, the shadows lifted from her soul. She laughedmerrily and, finally, caught by the infectious nature of hermirth, Caramon began to laugh, too, though he still shook hishead, his face red. 
"Thus do the gods remind us we're human," Crysania said when shecould speak, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Here we are, in the most horrible place imaginable, surrounded by creatures waitingeagerly to devour us whole, and all I can think of right now ishow desperately hungry I am!" 
"We need food," said Caramon soberly, suddenly serious. "Anddecent clothing, if we're going to be here long." He looked at hisbrother. "How long are we going to be here?" 
"Not long," Raistlin replied. He had finished the potion, and hisvoice was already stronger. Some color had returned to his paleface. "I need time to rest, to recover my strength, and tocomplete my studies. This lady"-his glittering gaze went toCrysania, and she shivered at the sudden impersonal tone in hisvoice-"needs to commune with her god and renew her faith. Then, wewill be ready to enter the Portal. At which time, my brother, youmay go where you will.' 
Crysania felt Caramon's questioning glance, but she kept her facesmooth and expressionless, though Raistlin's cool, casual mentionof entering the dread Portal, of going into the Abyss and facingthe Queen of Darkness froze her heart. She refused to meetCaramon's eyes, therefore, and stared into the fire. 
The big man sighed, then he cleared his throat. "Will you send mehome?" he asked his twin. 
"If that is where you wish to go." 
"Yes," Caramon said, his voice deep and stern. "I want to go backto Tika and to ... talk to Tanis." His voice broke. "I'll have to ... to explain, somehow, about Tas dying ... back there in Istar... ." 
"In the name of the gods, Caramon," Raistlin snapped, making anirritated motion with his slender hand, "I thought we had seensome glimmer of an adult lurking in that hulking body of yours!You will undoubtedly return to find Tasslehoff sitting in yourkitchen, regaling Tika with one stupid story after another, havingrobbed you blind in the meantime!" 
"What?" Caramon's face grew pale, his eyes widened. 
"Listen to me, my brother!" Raistlin hissed, pointing a finger atCaramon. "The kender doomed himself when he disrupted Par-Salian'sspell. There is a very good reason for the prohibition againstthose of his race and the races of dwarves and gnomes travelingback in time. Since they were created by accident, through a quirk of fate and the god, Reorx's, carelessness, these races are notwithin the flow of time, as are humans, elves, and ogres-thoseraces first created by the gods. 
"Thus, the kender could have altered time, as he was quick torealize when I inadvertently let slip that fact. I could not allowthat to happen! Had he stopped the Cataclysm, as he intended, whoknows what might have occurred? Perhaps we might have returned toour own time to find the Queen of Darkness reigning supreme andunchallenged, since the Cataclysm was sent, in part, to preparethe world to face her coming and give it the strength to defy her" 
"So you murdered him!" Caramon interrupted hoarsely. 
"I told him to get the device" -Raistlin bit the words-"I taughthim how to use it, and I sent him home!" 
Caramon blinked. "You did?" he asked suspiciously. 
Raistlin sighed and laid his head back into the cushions of thechair. "I did, but I don't expect you to believe me, my brother."His hands plucked feebly at the black robes he wore. "Why shouldyou, after all?" 
"You know," said Crysania softly, "I seem to remember, in thoselast horrible moments before the earthquake struck, seeingTasslehoff. He ... he was with me ... in the Sacred Chamber. . . ." 
She saw Raistlin open his eyes a slit. His glittering gaze piercedher heart and startled her, distracting her thoughts for a moment. 
"Go on," Caramon urged. 
"I-I remember . . . he had the magical device. At least I think hedid. He said something about it." Crysania put her hand to herforehead. "But I can't think what it was. It-it's all so dreadful and confused. But-I'm certain he said he had the device!" 
Raistlin smiled slightly. "Surely, you will believe Lady Crysania,my brother?" He shrugged. "A cleric of Paladine will not lie." 
"So Tasslehoff's home? Right now?" Caramon said, trying toassimilate this startling information. "And, when I go back, I'llfind him-" "-safe and sound and loaded down with most of your personalpossessions," Raistlin finished wryly. "But, now, we must turn ourattention to more pressing matters. You are right, my brother. Weneed food and warm clothing, and we are not likely to find eitherhere. The time we have come forward to is about one hundred yearsafter the Cataclysm. This Tower'-he waved his hand-"has beendeserted all those years. It is now guarded by the creatures ofdarkness called forth by the curse of the magic-user whose body isstill impaled upon the spikes of the gates below us. The ShoikanGrove has grown up around it, and there are none on Krynn who dareenter. 
"None except myself, of course. No, no one can get inside. But theguardians will not prevent one of us-you, my brother, for example-from leaving. You will go into Palanthas and buy food andclothing. I could produce it with my magic, but I dare not expendany unnecessary energy between now and when I-that is Crysania andI-enter the Portal." 
Caramon's eyes widened. His gaze went to the soot blackenedwindow, his thoughts to the horrifying stories of the ShoikanGrove beyond. 
"I will give you a charm to guard you, my brother," Raistlin addedin exasperation, seeing the frightened look on Caramon's face. "Acharm will be necessary, in fact, but not to aid your way throughthe Grove. It is far more dangerous in here. The guardians obeyme, but they hunger for your blood. Do not set foot outside thisroom without me. Remember that. You, too, Lady Crysania'' 
"Where is this ... this Portal?" Caramon asked abruptly. 
"In the laboratory, above us, at the top of the Tower," Raistlinreplied. "The Portals were kept in the most secure place thewizards could devise because, as you can imagine, they areextremely dangerous!" 
"It's like wizards to go tampering with what they should bestleave alone," Caramon growled. "Why in the name of the gods didthey create a gateway to the Abyss?" 
Placing the tips of his fingers together, Raistlin stared into thefire, speaking to the flames as if they were the only ones withthe power to understand him. 
"In the hunger for knowledge, many things are created. Some aregood, that benefit us all. A sword in your hands, Caramon, champions the cause of righteousness and truth and protects theinnocent. But a sword in the hands of, say, our beloved sister,Kitiara, would split the heads of the innocent wide open if itsuited her. Is this the fault of the sword's creator?" 
"N-" Caramon began, but his twin ignored him. 
"Long ago, during the Age of Dreams, when magic-users wererespected and magic flourished upon Krynn, the five Towers of HighSorcery stood as beacons of light in the dark sea of ignorancethat was this world. Here, great magics were worked, benefitingall. There were plans for greater still. Who knows but that now wemight have been riding on the winds, soaring the skies likedragons. Maybe even leaving this wretched world and inhabitingother worlds, far away ... far away. . . 
His voice grew soft and quiet. Caramon and Crysania held verystill, spellbound by his tone, caught up in the vision of hismagic. 
He sighed. "But that was not to be. In their desire to hastentheir great works, the wizards decided they needed to communicatedirectly with each other, from one Tower to another, without theneed for cumbersome teleportation spells. And so, the Portals wereconstructed." 
"They succeeded?" Crysania's eyes shone with wonder. 
"They succeeded!" Raistlin snorted. "Beyond their wildest dreams"-his voice dropped-"their worst nightmares. For the Portals couldnot only provide movement in one step between any of the far-flungTowers and fortresses of magic-but also into the realms of thegods, as an inept wizard of my own order discovered to hismisfortune." 
Raistlin shivered, suddenly, and drew his black robes more tightlyaround him, huddling close to the fire. 
"Tempted by the Queen of Darkness, as only she can tempt mortalman when she chooses"-Raistlin's face grew pale-"he used thePortal to enter her realm and gain the prize she offered himnightly, in his dreams." Raistlin laughed, bitter, mockinglaughter. "Fool! What happened to him, no one knows. But he neverreturned through the Portal. The Queen, however, did. And withher, came legions of dragons-" 
"The first Dragon Wars!" Crysania gasped. 
"Yes, brought upon us by one of my own kind with no discipline, noself-control. One who allowed himself to be seduced-" Breakingoff, Raistlin stared broodingly into the fire. 
"But, I never heard that!" Caramon protested. "According to thelegends, the dragons came together-" 
"Your history is limited to bedtime tales, my brother!" Raistlinsaid impatiently. "And just proves how little you know of dragons.They are independent creatures, proud, self-centered, andcompletely incapable of coming together to cook dinner, much lesscoordinate any sort of war effort. No, the Queen entered the worldcompletely that time, not just the shadow she was during our warwith her. She waged war upon the world, and it was only throughHuma's great sacrifice that she was driven back." 
Raistlin paused, hands to his lips, musing. "Some say that Humadid not use the Dragonlance to physically destroy her, as thelegend goes. But, rather, the lance had some magical propertyallowing him to drive her back into the Portal and seal it shut.The fact that he did drive her back proves that-in this world-sheis vulnerable." Raistlin stared fixedly into the flames. "Hadthere been someone-someone of true power at the Portal when sheentered, someone capable of destroying her utterly instead ofsimply driving her back-then history might well have beenrewritten." 
No one spoke. Crysania stared into the flames, seeing, perhaps,the same glorious vision as the archmage. Caramon stared at histwin's face. 
Raistlin's gaze suddenly left the flames, flashing into focus witha clear, cold intensity. "When I am stronger, tomorrow, I willascend to the laboratory alone"-his stern glance swept over bothCaramon and Crysania-"and begin my preparations. You, lady, hadbest start communing with your god." 
Crysania swallowed nervously. Shivering, she drew her chair nearerthe fire. But suddenly Caramon was on his feet, standing beforeher. Reaching down, his strong hands gripped her arms, forcing herto look up into his eyes. 
"This is madness, lady," he said, his voice soft andcompassionate. "Let me take you from this dark place! You'refrightened-you have reason to be afraid! Maybe not everything Par-Salian said about Raistlin was true. Maybe everything I thought about him wasn't true, either. Perhaps I've misjudged him. But Isee this clearly, lady. You're frightened and I don't blame you!Let Raistlin do this thing alone! Let him challenge the gods-ifthat's what he wants! But you don't have to go with him! Comehome! Let me take you back to our time, away from here." 
Raistlin did not speak, but his thoughts echoed in Crysania's mindas clearly as if he had. You heard the Kingpriest! You saidyourself that you know his mistake! Paladine favors you. Even inthis dark place, he grants your prayers. You are his chosen! Youwill succeed where the Kingpriest failed! Come with me, Crysania.This is our destiny! 
"I am frightened," Crysania said, gently disengaging Caramon'shands from her arms. "And I am truly touched by your concern. Butthis fear of mine is a weakness in me that I must combat. With Paladine's help, I will overcome it-before I enter the Portal withyour brother." 
"So be it," Caramon said heavily, turning away. 
Raistlin smiled, a dark, secret smile that was not reflected ineither his eyes or his voice. 
"And now, Caramon," he said caustically, "if you are quite throughmeddling in matters you are completely incapable of comprehending,you had best prepare for your journey. It is midmorning, now. Themarkets-such as they are in these bleak times-are just opening."Reaching into a pocket in his black robes, Raistlin withdrewseveral coins and tossed them at his brother. "That should be sufficient for our needs." 
Caramon caught the coins without thinking. Then he hesitated,staring at his brother with the same look Crysania had seen himwear in the Temple at Istar, and she remembered thinking, whatterrible hate ... what terrible love! 
Finally, Caramon lowered his gaze, stuffing the money into hisbelt. 
"Come here to me, Caramon," Raistlin said softly. 
"Why?" he muttered, suddenly suspicious. 
"Well, there is the matter of that iron collar around your neck.Would you walk the streets with the mark of slavery still? Andthen there is the charm." Raistlin spoke with infinite patience. 
Glancing over at the pallid faces, who were still watchingintently from the shadows, Caramon came to stand before hisbrother, his arms crossed before his chest. "Now what?" hegrowled. 
"Kneel down before me." 
Caramon's eyes flashed with anger. A bitter oath burned on hislips, but, his eyes going furtively to Crysania, he choked backand swallowed his words. 
Raistlin's pale face appeared saddened. He sighed. "I amexhausted, Caramon. I do not have the strength to rise. Please-" 
His jaw clenched, Caramon slowly lowered himself, bending knee tofloor so that he was level with his frail, black-robed twin. 
Raistlin spoke a soft word. The iron collar split apart and fellfrom Caramon's neck, landing with a clatter on the floor. 
"Come nearer," Raistlin said. 
Swallowing, rubbing his neck, Caramon did as he was told. thoughhe stared at his brother bitterly. "I'm doing this for Crysania,"he said, his voice taut. "If it were just you and me, I'd let yourot in this foul place!" 
Reaching out his hands, Raistlin placed them on either side of histwin's head with a gesture that was tender, almost caressing."Would you, my brother?" the mage asked so softly it was no morethan a breath. "Would you leave me? Back there, in Istar-would youtruly have killed me?" 
Caramon only stared at him, unable to answer. Then, Raistlin bentforward and kissed his brother on the forehead. Caramon flinched,as though he had been touched with a red-hot iron. 
Raistlin released his grip. 
Caramon stared at him in anguish. "I don't know!" he murmuredbrokenly. "The gods help me-I don't know!" 
With a shuddering sob, he covered his face with his hands. Hishead sank into his brother's lap. 
Raistlin stroked his brother's brown, curling hair. "There, now,Caramon," he said gently. "I have given you the charm. The thingsof darkness cannot harm you, not so long as I am here." 
CHAPTER 5 
Caramon stood in the doorway to the study, peering out into thedarkness of the corridor beyond-a darkness that was alive withwhispers and eyes. Beside him was Raistlin, one hand on his twin'sarm, the Staff of Magius in his other. 
"All will be well, my brother," Raistlin said softly. "Trust me." 
Caramon glanced at his twin out of the corner of his eye. Seeinghis look, Raistlin smiled sardonically. "I will send one of thesewith you," the mage continued, motioning with his slender hand. 
"I'd rather not!" Caramon muttered, scowling as the pair ofdisembodied eyes nearest him drew nearer still. 
"Attend him," Raistlin commanded the eyes. "He is under myprotection. You see me? You know who I am?" 
The eyes lowered their gaze in reverence, then fixed their coldand ghastly stare upon Caramon. The big warrior shuddered and castone final glance at Raistlin, only to see his brothers face turngrim and stern. 
"The guardians will guide you safely through the Grove. You mayhave more to fear, however, once you leave it. Be wary, mybrother. This city is not the beautiful, serene place it willbecome in two hundred years. Now, refugees pack it, living in thegutters, the streets, wherever they can. Carts rumble over thecobblestones every morning, removing the bodies of those who diedduring the night. There are men out there who will murder you foryour boots. Buy a sword, first thing, and carry it openly in yourhand." 
"I'll worry about the town," Caramon snapped. Turning abruptly, hewalked off down the corridor, trying without much success toignore the pale, glowing eyes that floated near his shoulder. 
Raistlin watched until his brother and the guardian had passedbeyond the staff's radius of magical light and were swallowed upby the noisome darkness. Waiting until even the echoes of hisbrothers heavy footfalls had faded, Raistlin turned 
Lady Crysania sat in her chair, trying without much success tocomb her fingers through her tangled hair. Padding softly acrossthe floor to stand near her, unseen, Raistlin reached into one ofthe pockets of his black robes and drew forth a handful of finewhite sand. Coming up behind her, the mage raised his hand and letthe sand drift down over the woman's dark hair. 
"Ast tasark simiralan krynawi," Raistlin whispered, and almostimmediately Crysania's head drooped, her eyes closed, and shedrifted into a deep, magical sleep. Moving to stand before her,Raistlin stared at her for long moments. 
Though she had washed the stain of tears and blood from her face,the marks of her journey through darkness were still visible inthe blue shadows beneath her long lashes, a cut upon her lip, andthe pallor of her complexion. Reaching out his hand, Raistlingently brushed back the hair that fell in dark tendrils across hereyes. 
Crysania had cast aside the velvet curtain she had been using as ablanket as the room was warmed by the fire. Her white robes, tornand stained with blood, had come loose around her neck. Raistlincould see the soft curves of her breasts beneath the white cloth rising and falling with her deep, even breathing. 
"Were I as other men, she would be mine," he said softly. 
His hand lingered near her face, her dark, crisp hair curlingaround his fingers. 
"But I am not as other men," Raistlin murmured. Letting her hairfall, he pulled the velvet curtain up around her shoulders andacross her slumbering form. Crysania smiled from some sweet dream,perhaps, and nestled more snugly into the chair, resting her cheekupon her hand as she laid her head on the armrest. 
Raistlin's hand brushed against the smooth skin of her face,recalling vivid memories. He began to tremble. He had but toreverse the sleep spell, take her in his arms, hold her as he heldher when he cast the magic spell that brought them to this place.They would have an hour alone together before Caramon returned.... 
Abruptly walking away, his dour gaze encountered the staring,watchful eyes of the guardians. 
"Watch over her while I am gone," he said to several half seen,hovering spectres lurking in the dark shadows in the corner of thestudy. "You two," he ordered the two who been with him when heawakened, "accompany me." 
"Yes, Master," the two murmured. As the staff's light fell uponthem, the faint outlines of black robes could be seen. 
Stepping out into the corridor, Raistlin carefully closed the doorto the study behind him. He gripped the staff, spoke a soft wordof command, and was instantly taken to the laboratory at the topof the Tower of High Sorcery. 
He had not even drawn a breath when, materializing out of thedarkness, he was attacked. 
Shrieks and howls of outrage screamed around him. Dark shapesdarted out of the air, daring the light of the staff as bone whitefingers clutched for his throat and grasped his robes, rending thecloth. So swift and sudden was the attack and so awful the sense of hatred that Raistlin very nearly lost control. 
But he was in command of himself quickly. Swinging the staff in awide arc, shouting hoarse words of magic, he drove back thespectres. 
"Talk to them!" he commanded the two guardians with him. "Tellthem who I am!" 
"Fistandantilus," he heard them say through a roaring in his ears,". . . though his time has not yet come as was foretold ... somemagical experiment...... 
Weakened and dizzy, Raistlin staggered to a chair and slumped downinto it. Bitterly cursing himself for not being prepared for suchan onslaught and cursing the frail body that was, once again,failing him, he wiped blood from a jagged cut upon his face andfought to remain conscious. 
This is your doing, my Queen. His thoughts came grimly through ahaze of pain. You dare not fight me openly. I am too strong foryou on this-my plane-of existence! You have your foothold in this world. Even now, the Temple has appeared in its perverted form inNeraka. You have wakened the evil dragons. They are stealing theeggs of the good dragons. But the door remains closed, theFoundation Stone has been blocked by self-sacrificing love. Andthat was your mistake. For now, by your entry into our plane, youhave made it possible for us to enter yours! I cannot reach youyet ... you cannot reach me... . But the time will come ... thetime will come.... 
"Are you unwell, Master?" came a frightened voice near him. "I amsorry we could not prevent them from harming you, but you movedtoo swiftly! Please, forgive us. Let us help-" 
"There is nothing you can do!" Raistlin snarled, coughing. He feltthe pain in his chest ease. "Leave me a moment.... Let me rest.Drive these others out of here." 
"Yes, Master." 
Closing his eyes, waiting for the horrible dizziness and pain topass, Raistlin sat for an hour in the darkness, going over hisplans in his mind. He needed two weeks of unbroken rest and studyto prepare himself. That time he would find here easily enough.Crysania was his-she would follow him willingly, eagerly in fact,calling down the power of Paladine to assist him in opening thePortal and fighting the dread Guardians beyond. 
He had the knowledge of Fistandantilus, knowledge accumulated bythe mage over the ages. He had his own knowledge, too, plus thestrength of his younger body. By the time he was ready to enter,he would be at the height of his powers-the greatest archmage everto have lived upon Krynn! 
The thought comforted him and gave him renewed energy. Thedizziness subsided finally, the pain eased. Rising to his feet, hecast a quick glance about the laboratory. He recognized it, ofcourse. It looked exactly the same as when he had entered it in apast that was now two hundred years in the future. Then he hadcome with power-as foretold. The gates had opened, the evilguardians had greeted him reverently-not attacked him. 
As he walked through the laboratory, the Staff of Magius shiningto light his way, Raistlin glanced about curiously. He noticedodd, puzzling changes. Everything should have been exactly as itwas when he would arrive two hundred years from now. But a beakernow standing intact had been broken when he found it. A spellbook "Do the guardians disturb things?" he asked the two who remainedwith him. His robes rustled about his ankles as he made his way tothe very back of the huge laboratory, back to the Door That WasNever Opened. 
"Oh, no, Master," said one, shocked. "We are not permitted totouch anything." 
Raistlin shrugged. Lots of things could happen in two hundredyears to account for such occurrences. "Perhaps an earthquake," hesaid to himself, losing interest in the matter as he approachedthe shadows where the great Portal stood. 
Raising the Staff of Magius, he shone its magical light ahead ofhim. The shadows fled the far corner of the laboratory, the cornerwhere stood the Portal with its platinum carvings of the fivedragon heads and its huge silver-steel door that no key upon Krynncould unlock. 
Raistlin held the staff high ... and gasped. 
For long moments he could do nothing but stare, the breathwheezing in his lungs, his thoughts seething and burning. Then,his shrill scream of anger and rage and fury pierced the livingfabric of the Towers darkness. 
So dreadful was the cry, echoing through the dark corridors of theTower, that the evil guardians cowered back into their shadows,wondering if perhaps their dread Queen had burst in upon them. 
Caramon heard the cry as he entered the door at the bottom of theTower. Shivering with sudden terror, he dropped the packages hecarried and, with trembling hands, lit the torch he had brought.Then, the naked blade of his new sword in his hand, the bigwarrior raced up the stairs two at a time. 
Bursting into the study, he saw Lady Crysania looking around insleepy fearfulness. 
"I heard a scream-" she said, rubbing her eyes and rising to herfeet. 
"Are you all right?" Caramon gasped, trying to catch his breath. 
"Why, yes," she said, looking startled, as she realized what hewas thinking. "It wasn't me. I must have fallen asleep. It wokeme-" 
"Where's Raist?" Caramon demanded. 
"Raistlin!" she repeated, alarmed, and started to push her waypast Caramon when he caught hold of her. 
"This is why you slept," he said grimly, brushing fine white sandfrom her hair. "Sleep spell." 
Crysania blinked. "But why-" 
"We'll find out." 
"Warrior," said a cold voice almost in his ear. 
Whirling, Caramon thrust Crysania behind him, raising his sword asa black-robed, spectral figure materialized out of the darkness."You seek the wizard? He is above, in the laboratory. He is inneed of assistance, and we have been commanded not to touch him." 
"I'll go," Caramon said, "alone." 
"I'm coming with you," Crysania said. "I will come with you," sherepeated firmly, in response to Caramon's frown. 
Caramon started to argue, then, remembering that she was a clericof Paladine and had once before exerted her powers over thesecreatures of darkness, shrugged and gave in, though with littlegrace. 
"What happened to him, if you were commanded not to touch him?"Caramon asked the spectre gruffly as he and Crysania followed itfrom the study out into the dark corridor. "Keep close to me," hemuttered to Crysania, but the command was not necessary. 
If the darkness had seemed alive before, it throbbed and pulsedand jittered and jabbered with life now as the guardians, upset bythe scream, thronged the corridors. Though he was now warmlydressed, having purchased clothes at the marketplace, Caramonshivered convulsively with the chill that flowed from their undeadbodies. Beside him, Crysania shook so she could barely walk. 
"Let me hold the torch," she said through clenched teeth. Caramonhanded her the torch, then encircled her with his right arm,drawing her near. She clasped her arm about him, both of themfinding comfort in the touch of living flesh as they climbed thestairs after the spectre. 
"What happened?" he asked again, but the spectre did not answer.It simply pointed up the spiral stairs. 
Holding his sword in his left hand, his sword hand, Caramon andCrysania followed the spectre as it flowed up the stairs, thetorchlight dancing and wavering. 
After what seemed an endless climb, the two reached the top of theTower of High Sorcery, both of them aching and frightened andchilled to the very heart. 
"We must rest," Caramon said through lips so numb he waspractically inaudible. Crysania leaned against him, her eyesclosed, her breath coming in labored gasps. Caramon himself didnot think he could have climbed another stair, and he was insuperb physical condition. 
"Where is Raist-Fistandantilus?" Crysania stammered after herbreathing had returned somewhat to normal. 
"Within." The spectre pointed again, this time to a closed doorand, as it pointed, the door swung silently open. 
Cold air flowed from the room in a dark wave, ruffling Caramon'shair and blowing aside Crysania's cloak. For a moment Caramoncould not move. The sense of evil coming from within that chamberwas overwhelming. But Crysania, her hand firmly clasped over themedallion of Paladine, began to walk forward. 
Reaching out, Caramon drew her back. "Let me go first." 
Crysania smiled at him wearily. "In any other case but this,warrior," she said, "I would grant you that privilege. But, here,the medallion I hold is as formidable a weapon as your sword." 
"You have no need for any weapon," the spectre stated coldly. "TheMaster commanded us to see that you come to no harm. We will obeyhis request." 
"What if he's dead?" Caramon asked harshly, feeling Crysaniastiffen in fear beside him. 
Hesitantly, Crysania pressed close beside him, Caramon entered thelaboratory. Crysania lifted the torch, holding it high, as bothpaused, looking around. 
"There," Caramon whispered, the innate closeness that existedbetween the twins leading him to find the dark mass, barelyvisible on the floor at the back of the laboratory. 
Her fears forgotten, Crysania hurried forward, Caramon followingmore slowly, his eyes warily scanning the darkness. 
Raistlin lay on his side, his hood drawn over his face. The Staffof Magius lay some distance from him, its light gone out, asthough Raistlin-in bitter anger-had hurled it from him. In itsflight, it had, apparently, broken a beaker and knocked aspellbook to the floor. 
Handing Caramon the torch, Crysania knelt beside the mage and feltfor the lifebeat in his neck. It was weak and irregular, but helived. She sighed in relief, then shook her head. "He's all right.But I don't understand. What happened to him?" 
"He is not hurt physically," the spectre said, hovering near them."He came to this part of the laboratory as though looking forsomething. And then he walked over here, muttering about a portal.Holding his staff high, he stood where he lies now, staringstraight ahead. Then he screamed, hurled the staff from him, andfell to the floor, cursing in fury until he lost consciousness." 
Puzzled, Caramon held the torch up. "I wonder what could havehappened?" he murmured. "Why, there's nothing here! Nothing but abare, blank wall!" 
CHAPTER 6 
"How has he been?" Crysania asked softly as she entered the room.Drawing back the white hood from her head, she untied her cloak toallow Caramon to remove it from around her shoulders. 
Crysania sighed and bit her lip. "I wish I had better news," shemurmured. 
"I'm glad you don't," Caramon said grimly, folding Crysania'scloak over a chair. "Maybe he'll give up this insane idea and comehome." 
"I can't-" began Crysania, but she was interrupted. 
"If you two are quite finished with whatever it is you are doingthere in the darkness, perhaps you will come tell me what youdiscovered, lady." 
Crysania flushed deeply. Casting an irritated glance at Caramon,she hurried across the room to where Raistlin lay on a pallet nearthe fire. 
The mage's rage had been costly. Caramon had carried him from thelaboratory where they'd found him lying before the empty stonewall to the study. Crysania had made up a bed on the floor, thenwatched, helplessly, as Caramon ministered to his brother asgently as a mother to a sick child. But there was little even thebig man could do for his frail twin. Raistlin lay unconscious forover a day, muttering strange words in his sleep. Once he wakenedand cried out in terror, but he immediately sank back intowhatever darkness he wandered. 
Bereft of the light of the staff that even Caramon dared not touchand was forced to leave in the laboratory, he and Crysania sathuddled near Raistlin. They kept the fire burning brightly, butboth were always conscious of the presence of the shadows of theguardians of the Tower, waiting, watching. 
Finally, Raistlin awoke. With his first breath, he ordered Caramonto prepare his potion and, after drinking this, was able to sendone of the guardians to fetch the staff. Then he beckoned toCrysania. "You must go to Astinus," he whispered. 
"Astinus!" Crysania repeated in blank astonishment. "Thehistorian? But why- I don't understand-" 
Raistlin's eyes glittered, a spot of color burned into his palecheek with feverish brilliance. "The Portal is not here!" he "Don't waste my time with fool questions! Just go!" he commandedin such terrible anger that she shrank away, startled. Raistlinfell back, gasping for breath. 
Caramon glanced up at Crysania in concern. She walked to the desk,staring down unseeing at some of the tattered and blackenedspellbooks that lay upon it. 
"Now wait just a minute, lady," Caramon said softly, rising andcoming to her. "You're not really considering going? Who is thisAstinus anyway? And how do you plan to get through the Grovewithout a charm?" 
"I have a charm," Crysania murmured, "given to me by your brotherwhen-when we first met. As for Astinus, he is the keeper of theGreat Library of Palanthas, the Chronicler of the History ofKrynn." 
"He may be that in our time, but he won't be there now!" Caramonsaid in exasperation. "Think, lady!" 
"I am thinking," Crysania snapped, glancing at him in anger."Astinus is known as the Ageless One. He was first to set footupon Krynn, so the legends say, and he will be the last to leaveit." 
Caramon regarded her skeptically. 
"He records all history as it passes. He knows everything that hashappened in the past and is happening in the present. But"-Crysania glanced at Raistlin with a worried look-"he cannot seeinto the future. So I'm not certain what help he can be to us." 
Caramon, still dubious and obviously not believing half of thiswild tale, had argued long against her going. But Crysania onlygrew more determined, until, finally, even Caramon realized theyhad no choice. Raistlin grew worse instead of better. His skinburned with fever, he lapsed into periods of incoherence and, whenhe was himself, angrily demanded to know why Crysania hadn't beento see Astinus yet. 
So she had braved the terrors of the Grove and the equallyappalling terrors of the streets of Palanthas. Now she kneltbeside the mage's bed, her heart aching as she watched him "Tell me everything!" he ordered hoarsely. "Exactly as itoccurred. Leave out nothing." 
Nodding wordlessly, still shaken by the terrifying walk throughthe Tower, Crysania tried to force herself to calm down and sortout her thoughts. 
"I went to the Great Library and-and asked to see Astinus," shebegan, nervously smoothing the folds of the plain, white robeCaramon had brought her to replace the blood-stained gown she hadworn. "The Aesthetics refused to admit me, but then I showed themthe medallion of Paladine. That threw them into confusion, as youmight well imagine." She smiled. "It has been a hundred yearssince any sign of the old gods has come, so, finally, one hurriedoff to report to Astinus. 
"After waiting for some time, I was taken to his chamber where hesits all day long and many times far into the night, recording thehistory of the world." Crysania paused, suddenly frightened at theintensity of Raistlin's gaze. It seemed he would snatch the wordsfrom her heart, if he could. 
Looking away for a moment to compose herself, she continued, herown gaze now on the fire. "I entered the room, and he-he just satthere, writing, ignoring me. Then the Aesthetic who was with meannounced my name, 'Crysania of the House of Tarinius,' as youtold me to tell him. And then-" 
She stopped, frowning slightly. 
Raistlin stirred. "What?" 
"Astinus looked up then," Crysania said in a puzzled tone, turningto face Raistlin. "He actually ceased writing and laid his pendown. And he said, 'You!' in such a thundering voice that I wasstartled and the Aesthetic with me nearly fainted. But before Icould say anything or ask what he meant or even how he knew me, hepicked up his pen and-going to the words he had just written-crossed them out!" 
"Crossed them out," Raistlin repeated thoughtfully, his eyes darkand abstracted. "Crossed them out," he murmured, sinking back downonto his pallet. 
"What did he do then?" the mage asked weakly. 
"He wrote something down over the place where he had made theerror, if that's what it was. Then he raised his gaze to mineagain and I thought he was going to be angry. So did theAesthetic, for I could feel him shaking. But Astinus was quitecalm. He dismissed the Aesthetic and bade me sit down. Then he asked why I had come. 
"I told him we were seeking the Portal. I added, as youinstructed, that we had received information that led us tobelieve it was located in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas,but that, upon investigation, we had discovered our informationwas wrong. The Portal was not there. 
"He nodded, as if this did not surprise him. 'The Portal was movedwhen the Kingpriest attempted to take over the Tower. For safety'ssake, of course. In time, it may return to the Tower of HighSorcery at Palanthas, but it is not there now.' 
"'Where is it, then?' I asked. 
"For long moments, he did not answer me. And then-" Here Crysaniafaltered and glanced over at Caramon fearfully, as if warning himto brace himself. 
Seeing her look, Raistlin pushed himself up on the pallet. "Tellme!" he demanded harshly. 
Crysania drew a deep breath. She would have looked away, butRaistlin caught hold of her wrist and, despite his weakness, heldher so firmly, she found she could not break free of his deathlikegrip. 
"He-he said such information would cost you. Every man has hisprice, even he." 
"Cost me!" Raistlin repeated inaudibly, his eyes burning. 
Crysania tried unsuccessfully to free herself as his grasptightened painfully. 
"What is the cost?" Raistlin demanded. 
Raistlin loosed her wrist. Crysania sank back away from him,rubbing her arm, avoiding Caramon's pitying gaze. Abruptly, thebig man rose to his feet and stalked away. Ignoring him, ignoringCrysania, Raistlin sank back onto his frayed pillows, his facepale and drawn, his eyes suddenly dark and shadowed. 
Crysania stood up and went to pour herself a glass of water. Buther hand shook so she slopped most of it on the desk and wasforced to set the pitcher down. Coming up behind her, Caramonpoured the water and handed her the glass, a grave expression onhis face. 
Raising the glass to her lips, Crysania was suddenly aware ofCaramon's gaze going to her wrist. Looking down, she saw the marksof Raistlin's hand upon her flesh. Setting the glass back downupon the desk, Crysania quickly drew her robe over her injuredarm. 
"He's doesn't mean to hurt me," she said softly in answer toCaramon's stern, unspoken glare. "His pain makes him impatient.What is our suffering, compared to his? Surely you of all peoplemust understand that? He is so caught up in his greater visionthat he doesn't know when he hurts others." 
Turning away, she walked back to where Raistlin lay, staringunseeing into the fire. 
"Oh, he knows all right," Caramon muttered to himself. "I'm justbeginning to realize-he's known all along!" 
Astinus of Palanthas, historian of Krynn, sat in his chamber,writing. The hour was late, very late, past Darkwatch, in fact.The Aesthetics had long ago closed and barred the doors to theGreat Library. Few were admitted during the day, none at night.But bars and locks were nothing to the man who entered the Libraryand who now stood, a figure of darkness, before Astinus. 
The historian did not glance up. "I was beginning to wonder whereyou were," he said, continuing to write. 
"I have been unwell," the figure replied, its black robesrustling. As if reminded, the figure coughed softly. 
"I am returning to health slowly," the figure replied. "Manythings tax my strength." 
"Be seated, then," Astinus remarked, gesturing with the end of hisquill pen to a chair, his gaze still upon his work. 
The figure, a twisted smile on its face, padded over to the chairand sat down. There was silence within the chamber for manyminutes, broken only by the scratching of Astinus's pen and theoccasional cough of the black-robed intruder. 
Finally, Astinus laid the pen down and lifted his gaze to meetthat of his visitor. His visitor drew back the black hood from his face. Regarding him silently for long moments, Astinus nodded tohimself. 
"I do not know this face, Fistandantilus, but I know your eyes.There is something strange in them, however. I see the future intheir depths. So you have become master of time, yet you do notreturn with power, as was foretold." 
"My name is not Fistandantilus, Deathless One. It is Raistlin, andthat is sufficient explanation for what has happened." Raistlin'ssmile vanished, his eyes narrowed. "But surely you knew that?" Hegestured. "Surely the final battle between us is recorded-" 
"I recorded the name as I recorded the battle," Astinus saidcoolly. "Would you care to see the entry ... Fistandantilus?"Raistlin frowned, his eyes glittered dangerously. But Astinusremained unperturbed. Leaning back in his chair, he studied thearchmage calmly. 
"Have you brought what I asked for?" 
"I have," Raistlin replied bitterly. "Its making cost me days ofpain and sapped my strength, else I would have come sooner." 
And now, for the first time, a hint of emotion shone on Astinus'scold and ageless face. Eagerly, he leaned forward, his eyesshining as Raistlin slowly drew aside the folds of his blackrobes, revealing what seemed an empty, crystal globe hoveringwithin his hollow chest cavity like a clear, crystalline heart. 
Even Astinus could not repress a start at this sight, but it wasapparently nothing more than an illusion, for, with a gesture,Raistlin sent the globe floating forward. With his other hand, hedrew the black fabric back across his thin chest. 
As the globe drifted near him, Astinus placed his hands upon it,caressing it lovingly. At his touch, the globe was filled withmoonlight-silver, red, even the strange aura of the black moon wasvisible. Beneath the moons whirled vision after vision. 
"You see time passing, even as we sit here," Raistlin said, hisvoice tinged with an unconscious pride. "And thus, Astinus, nolonger will you have to rely on your unseen messengers from theplanes beyond for your knowledge of what happens in the worldaround you. Your own eyes will be your messengers from this pointforward." 
"Yes! Yes!" Astinus breathed, the eyes that looked into the globeglimmering with tears, the hands that rested upon it shaking. 
"And now my payment," Raistlin continued coldly. "Where is thePortal?" 
Astinus looked up from the globe. "Can you not guess, Man of theFuture and the Past? You have read the histories... ." 
Raistlin stared at Astinus without speaking, his face growing paleand chill until it might have been a death mask. 
"You are right. I have read the histories. So that is whyFistandantilus went to Zhaman," the archmage said finally. 
Astinus nodded wordlessly. 
"Zhaman, the magical fortress, located in the Plains of Dergoth... near Thorbardin-home of the mountain dwarves. And Zhaman is in land controlled by the mountain dwarves," Raistlin went on, hisvoice expressionless as though reading from a textbook. "Andwhere, even now, their cousins, the hill dwarves, go-driven by theevil that has consumed the world since the Cataclysm to demandshelter within the ancient mountain home." 
"The Portal is located-" 
"-deep within the dungeons of Zhaman," Raistlin said bitterly."Here, Fistandantilus fought the Great Dwarven War-" "Will fight," Raistlin murmured, "the war that will encompass hisown doom!" 
The mage fell silent. Then, abruptly, he rose to his feet andmoved to Astinus's desk. Placing his hands upon the book, heturned it. around to face him. Astinus observed him with cool,detached interest. 
"You are right," Raistlin said, scanning the still-wet writing onthe parchment. "I am from the future. I have read the Chronicles,as you penned them. Parts of them, at any rate. I remember readingthis entry-one you will write there." He pointed to a blank space,then recited from memory. "'As of this date, After Darkwatchfalling 30, Fistandantilus brought me the Globe of Present TimePassing: " 
Astinus did not reply. Raistlin's hand began to shake. "You willwrite that?" he persisted, anger grating in his voice. 
Astinus paused, then acquiesced with a slight shrug of hisshoulders. 
Raistlin sighed. "So I am doing nothing that has not been donebefore! "His hand clenched suddenly and, when he spoke again, hisvoice was tight with the effort it was taking to control himself. 
"Lady Crysania came to you, several days ago. She said you werewriting as she entered and that, after seeing her, you crossedsomething out. Show me what that was." 
Astinus frowned. 
"Show me!" Raistlin's voice cracked, it was almost a shriek. 
Placing the globe to one side of the table, where it hovered nearhim, Astinus reluctantly removed his hands from its crystalsurface. The light blinked out, the globe grew dark and empty.Reaching around behind him, the historian pulled out a great,leather-bound volume and, without hesitation, found the pagerequested. 
He turned the book so that Raistlin could see. 
The archmage read what had been written, then read the correction.When he stood up, his black robes whispering about him as he "This alters time." 
"This alters nothing," Astinus said coolly. "She came in hisstead, that is all. An even exchange. Time flows on, undisturbed." 
"And carries me with it?" 
"Unless you have the power to change the course of rivers bytossing in a pebble," Astinus remarked wryly. 
Raistlin looked at him and smiled, swiftly, briefly. Then hepointed at the globe. "Watch, Astinus," he whispered, "watch forthe pebble! Farewell, Deathless One." 
The room was empty, suddenly, except for Astinus. The historiansat silently, pondering. Then, turning the book back, he read oncemore what he had been writing when Crysania had entered. 
On this date, Afterwatch rising 15, Denubis, a cleric ofPaladine, arrived here, having been sent by the great archmage,Fistandantilus, to discover the whereabouts of the Portal. Inreturn for my help. Fistandantilus will make what he has longpromised me-the Globe of Present Time Passing.... 
Denubis's name had been crossed out, Crysania's written in. 
CHAPTER 7 
"I'm dead," said Tasslehoff Burrfoot. 
He waited expectantly a moment. 
"I'm dead," he said again. "My, my. This must be the Afterlife." 
Another moment passed. 
"Well," said Tas, "one thing I can say for it-it certainly is

dark." 
Still nothing happened. Tas found his interest in being dead
beginning to wane. He was, he discovered, lying on his back on 

"Perhaps I'm laid out on a marble slab, like Huma's," he said,trying to drum up some enthusiasm. "Or a hero's crypt, like wherewe buried Sturm " 
That thought entertained him a while, then, "Ouch!" He pressed hishand to his side, feeling a stabbing pain in his ribs and, at thesame time, he noticed another pain in his head. He also came torealize that he was shivering, a sharp rock was poking him in theback, and he had a stiff neck. 
"Well, I certainly didn't expect this," he snapped irritably. "Imean, by all accounts when you're dead, you're not supposed tofeel anything." He said this quite loudly, in case someone waslistening. "I said you're not supposed to feel anything!" herepeated pointedly when the pain did not go away. 
"Drat!" muttered Tas. "Maybe it's some sort of mix-up. Maybe I'mdead and the word just hasn't gotten around my body yet. Icertainly haven't gone all stiff, and I'm sure that's supposed tohappen. So I'll just wait." 
Squirming to get comfortable (first removing the rock from beneathhis back), Tas folded his hands across his chest and stared upinto the thick, impenetrable darkness. After a few minutes ofthis, he frowned. 
"If this is being dead, it sure isn't all it's cracked up to be,"he remarked sternly. "Now I'm not only dead, I'm bored, too.Well," he said after a few more moments of staring into thedarkness, "I guess I can't do much about being dead, but I can dosomething about being bored. There's obviously been a mix-up. I'lljust have to go talk to someone about this." 
Sitting up, he started to swing his legs around to jump off themarble slab, only to discover that he was-apparently-lying on astone floor. "How rude!" he commented indignantly. "Why not justdump me in someone's root cellar!" 
Stumbling to his feet, he took a step forward and bumped intosomething hard and solid. "A rock," he said gloomily, running hishands over it. "Humpf! Flint dies and begets a tree! I die and Iget a rock. It's obvious someone's done something all wrong. 
"Hey!-" he cried, groping around in the darkness. "Is anyone-Well, what do you know? I've still got my pouches! They let mebring everything with me, even the magical device. At least thatwas considerate. Still"-Tas's lips tightened with firm resolve-"someone better do something about this pain. I simply won't putup with it." 
Investigating with his hands, since he couldn't see a thing, Tasran his fingers curiously over the big rock. It seemed to becovered with carved images-runes, maybe? And that struck him asfamiliar. The shape of the huge rock, too, was odd. 
"It isn't a rock after all! It's a table, seemingly," he said,puzzled. "A rock table carved with runes-" Then his memoryreturned. "I know!" he shouted triumphantly. "It's that big stonedesk in the laboratory where I went to hunt for Raistlin andCaramon and Crysania, and found that they'd all gone and left mebehind. I was standing there when the fiery mountain came down ontop of me! In fact, that's the place where I died!" 
He felt his neck. Yes, the iron collar was still there-the collarthey had put on him when he was sold as a slave. Continuing togrope around in the darkness, Tas tripped over something. Reachingdown, he cut himself on a something sharp. 
"Caramon's sword!" he said, feeling the hilt. "I remember. I foundit on the floor. And that means," said Tas with growing outrage,"that they didn't even bury me! They just left my body where itwas! I'm in the basement of a ruined Temple." Brooding, he suckedhis bleeding finger. A sudden thought occurred to him. "And Isuppose they intend for me to walk to wherever it is I'm going inthe Afterlife. They don't even provide transportation! This isreally the last straw!" 
He raised his voice to a shout. "Look!" he said, shaking his smallfist. "I want to talk to whoever 's in charge!" 
But there was no sound. 
"No light," Tas grumbled, falling over something else. "Stuck downin the bottom of a ruined temple-dead! Probably at the bottom ofthe Blood Sea of Istar. . . . Say," he said, pausing to think,"maybe I'll meet some sea elves, like Tanis told me about. But,no, I forgot"-he sighed-"I'm dead, and you can't, as far as I'mable to understand, meet people after you're dead. Unless you'rean undead, like Lord Soth." The kender cheered up considerably. "Iwonder how you get that job? I'll ask. Being a death knight must Picking himself up again, Tas managed to make his way to what hefigured was probably the front of the room beneath the Temple. Hewas thinking about the Blood Sea of Istar and wondering why therewasn't more water about when something else suddenly occurred tohim. 
"Oh, dear!" he muttered. "The Temple didn't go into the Blood Sea!It went to Neraka! I was in the Temple, in fact, when I defeatedthe Queen of Darkness." 
Tas came to a doorway-he could tell by feeling the frame andpeered out into the darkness that was so very dark. 
"Neraka, huh," he said, wondering if that was better or worse thanbeing at the bottom of an ocean. 
Cautiously, he took a step forward and felt something beneath hisfoot. Reaching down, his small hand closed over- "A torch ! Itmust have been the one over the doorway. Now, somewhere in here,I've got a tinderbox-" Rummaging through several pouches, he cameup with it at last. 
"Strange," he said, glancing about the corridor as the torchflared to light. "It looks just like it did when I left it-allbroken and crumbled after the earthquake. You'd think the Queenwould have tidied up a bit by now. I don't remember it being insuch a mess when I was in it in Neraka. I wonder which is the wayout." 
He looked back toward the stairs he had come down in his search for Crysania and Raistlin. Vivid memories of the walls crackingand columns falling came to his mind. "That's no good, that's forsure," he muttered, shaking his head. "Ouch, that hurts." He puthis hand to his forehead. "But that was the only way out, I seemto recall." He sighed, feeling a bit low for a moment. But hiskender cheerfulness soon surfaced. "There sure are a lot of cracks in the walls, though. Perhaps something's opened up." 
Walking slowly, mindful of the pain in his head and his ribs, Tasstepped out into the corridor. He carefully checked out each wallwithout seeing anything promising until he reached the very end ofthe hall. Here he discovered a very large crack in the marblethat, unlike the others, made an opening deeper than Tas'storchlight could illuminate. 
No one but a kender could have squeezed into that crack, and, evenfor Tas, it was a tight fit, forcing him to rearrange all hispouches and slide through sideways. 
"All I can say is-being dead is certainly a lot of bother!" hemuttered, squeezing through the crack and ripping a hole in hisblue leggings. 
Matters didn't improve. One of his pouches got hung up on a rock,and he had to stop and tug at it until it was finally freed. Thenthe crack got so very narrow he wasn't at all certain he wouldmake it. Taking off all his pouches, he held them and the torchover his head and, after holding his breath and tearing his shirt,he gave a final wiggle and managed to pop through. By this time,however, he was aching, hot, sweaty, and in a bad mood. 
"I always wondered why people objected to dying," he said, wipinghis face. "Now I know!" 
Pausing to catch his breath and rearrange his pouches, the kenderwas immensely cheered to see light at the far end of the crack.Flashing his torch around, he discovered that the crack wasgetting wider, so-after a moment-he went on his way and soonreached the end-the source of the light. 
Reaching the opening, Tas peered out, drew a deep breath, andsaid, "Now this is more what I had in mind!" 
The landscape was certainly like nothing he had ever seen beforein his life. It was flat and barren, stretching on and on into avast, empty sky that was lit with a strange glow, as if the sunhad just set or a fire burned in the distance. But the whole skywas that strange color, even above him. And yet, for all thebrightness, things around him were very dark. The land seemed tohave been cut out of black paper and pasted down over the eerie-looking sky. And the sky itself was empty-no sun, no moons, nostars. Nothing. 
Tas took a cautious step or two forward. The ground felt nodifferent from any other ground, even though-as he walked on it-henoticed that it took on the same color as the sky. Looking up, hesaw that, in the distance, it turned black again. After a few moresteps, he stopped to look behind him at the ruins of the greatTemple. 
"Great Reorx's beard!" Tas gasped, nearly dropping his torch. 
There was nothing behind him! Wherever it was he had come from wasgone! The kender turned around in a complete circle. Nothing aheadof him, nothing behind him, nothing in any direction he looked. 
Tasslehoff Burrfoot's heart sank right down to the bottom of hisgreen shoes and stayed there, refusing to be comforted. This was,without a doubt, the most boring place he'd ever seen in hisentire existence) 
"This can't be the Afterlife," the kender said miserably. "Thiscan't be right) There must be some mistake. Hey, wait a minute!I'm supposed to meet Flint here! Fizban said so and Fizban mayhave been a bit muddled about other things, but he didn't soundmuddled about that! 
"Let's see-how did that go? There was a big tree, a beautifultree, and beneath it sat a grumbling, old dwarf, carving wood and-Hey! There's the tree) Now, where did that come from?" 

The kender blinked in astonishment. Right ahead of him, wherenothing had been just a moment before, he now saw a large tree. 
"Not exactly my idea of a beautiful tree," Tas muttered, walkingtoward it, noticing-as he did so-that the ground had developed acurious habit of trying to slide out from under his feet. "Butthen, Fizban had odd taste and so, come to think of it, didFlint." 
He drew nearer the tree, which was black-like everything else-andtwisted and hunched over like a witch he'd seen once. It had no leaves on it. "That thing's been dead at least a hundred years!"Tas sniffed. "If Flint thinks I'm going to spend my After-lifesitting under a dead tree with him, he's got another think coming.I- Hey, Flint!" The kender cried out, coming up to the tree andpeering around. "Flint? Where are you? I- Oh, there you are," hesaid, seeing a short, bearded figure sitting on the ground on theother side of the tree. "Fizban told me I'd find you here. I'llbet you're surprised to see me! I-" 
The kender came round the tree, then stopped short. "Say," hecried angrily, "you're not Flint! Who- Arack!" 
Tas staggered backward as the dwarf who had been the Master of theGames in Istar suddenly turned his head and looked at him withsuch an evil grin on his twisted face that the kender felt hisblood run cold-an unusual sensation; he couldn't remember ever With a startled yelp, Tas swung his torch to keep Arack back,while with his other hand he fumbled for the small knife he wore in his belt. But, just as he pulled his knife out, Arack vanished.The tree vanished. Once again, Tas found himself standing smack inthe center of nothing beneath that fire-lit sky. 
"All right now," Tas said, a small quiver creeping into his voice,though he tried his best to hide it, "I don't think this is at allfun. It's miserable and horrible and, while Fizban didn't exactlypromise the Afterlife would be one endless party, I'm certain hedidn't have anything like this in mind!" The kender slowly turnedaround, keeping his knife drawn and his torch held out in front ofhim. 
"I know I haven't been very religious," Tas added with a snuffle,looking out into the bleak landscape and trying to keep his feeton the weird ground, "but I thought I led a pretty good life. AndI did defeat the Queen of Darkness. Of course, I had some help,"he added, thinking that this might be a good time for honesty,"and I am a personal friend of Paladine and-" 
"In the name of Her Dark Majesty," said a soft voice behind him,"what are you doing here?" 
Tasslehoff sprang three feet into the air in alarm -a sure signthat the kender was completely unnerved-and whirled around. There-where there hadn't been anyone standing a moment before-stood afigure that reminded him very much of the cleric of Paladine,Elistan, only this figure wore black clerical robes instead ofwhite and around its neck-instead of the medallion of Paladinehung the medallion of the Five Headed Dragon. 
"Uh, pardon me, sir," stammered Tas, "but I'm not at all sure whatI'm doing here. I'm not at all sure where here is, to be perfectlytruthful, and-oh, by the way, my name's Tasslehoff Burrfoot." Heextended his small hand politely. "What's yours?" 
But the figure, ignoring the kender's hand, threw back its blackcowl and took a step nearer. Tas was considerably startled to seelong, iron-gray hair flow out from beneath the cowl, hair so long,in fact, that it would easily have touched the ground if it hadnot floated around the figure in a weird sort of way, as did the "S-say, that's quite ... remarkable," Tas stuttered, his mouthdropping open. "How did you do that? And, I don't suppose youcould tell me, but where did you say I was? You s-see-" The figuretook another step nearer and, while Tas certainly wasn't afraid ofhim, or it, or whatever it was, the kender found that he didn'twant it or him coming any closer for some reason. "I-I'm dead,"Tas continued, trying to back up only to find that, for someunaccountable reason, something was blocking him, "and-by theway"-indignation got the better of fear-"are you in charge aroundhere? Because I don't think this death business is being handledat all well! I hurt!" Tas said, glaring at the figure accusingly."My head hurts and my ribs. And then I had to walk all this way,coming up out of the basement of the Temple-" 
"The basement of the Temple!" The figure stopped now, only inchesfrom Tasslehoff. Its gray hair floated as if stirred by a hotwind. Its eyes, Tas could see now, were the same red color as thesky, its face gray as ash. 
"Yes!" Tas gulped. Besides everything else, the figure had a mosthorrible smell. "I-I was following Lady Crysania and she wasfollowing Raistlin and-" 
"Raistlin!" The figure spoke the name in a voice that made Tas'shair literally stand up on his head. "Come with me!" 
The figure's hand-a most peculiar-looking hand-closed overTasslehoff's wrist. "Ow!" squeaked Tas, as pain shot through hisarm. "You're hurting-" 
But the figure paid no attention. Closing its eyes, as though lostin deep concentration, it gripped the kender tightly, and theground around Tas suddenly began to shift and heave. The kendergasped in wonder as the landscape itself took on a rapid, fluidmotion. 
We're not moving, Tas realized in awe, the ground is! 
"Uh," said Tas in a small voice, "where did you say I was?" 
"You are in the Abyss," said the figure in a sepulchral tone. 
"Oh, dear," Tas said sorrowfully, "I didn't think I was that bad."A tear trickled down his nose. "So this is the Abyss, I hope you don't mind me telling you that I'm frightfully disappointed in it.I always supposed the Abyss would be a fascinating place. But sofar it isn't. Not in the least. It-it's awful boring and ... ugly... and, I really don't mean to be rude, but there is a mostpeculiar smell." Sniffling, he wiped his nose on his sleeve, toounhappy even to reach for a pocket handkerchief. "Where did yousay we were going?' 
"You asked to see the person in charge," the figure said, and itsskeletal hand closed over the medallion it wore around its neck. 
The landscape changed. It was every city Tas had ever been in, itseemed, and yet none. It was familiar, yet he didn't recognize athing. It was black, flat, and lifeless, yet teeming with life. Hecouldn't see or hear anything, yet all around him was sound andmotion. 
Tasslehoff stared at the figure beside him, at the shifting planesbeyond and above and below him, and the kender was stricken dumb.For only the second time in his life (the first had been when hefound Fizban alive when the old man was supposed to have beendecently dead), Tas couldn't speak a word. 
If every kender on the face of Krynn had been asked to name PlacesI'd Most Like To Visit; the plane of existence where the Queen ofDarkness dwelled would have come in at least third on many lists. 
But now, here was Tasslehoff Burrfoot, standing in the waitingroom of the great and terrible Queen, standing in one of the mostinteresting places known to man or kender, and he had never feltunhappier in his life. 
First, the room the gray-haired, black-robed cleric told him tostay in was completely empty. There weren't any tables withinteresting little objects on them, there weren't any chairs(which was why he was standing). There weren't even any walls! Infact, the only way he knew he was in a room at all was that whenthe cleric told him to "stay in the waiting room," Tas suddenlyfelt he was in a room. 
But, as far as he could see, he was standing in the middle ofnothing. He wasn't even certain, at this point, which way was upor which way was down. Both looked alike-an eerie glowing, flamelike color. 
"I was surrounded by a great darkness," Tanis had said, and, eventhough it was months after the experience, his voice stilltrembled, "but it seemed more a darkness of my own mind than anyactual physical presence. I couldn't breathe. Then the darknesslifted, and she spoke to me, though she said no word. I heard herin my mind. And I saw her in all her forms-the Five Headed Dragon,the Dark Warrior, the Dark Temptress-for she was not completely inthe world yet. She had not yet gained control." 
Tas remembered Tanis shaking his head. "Still, her majesty andmight were very great. She is, after all, a goddess-one of thecreators of the world. Her dark eyes stared into my soul, and Icouldn't help myself-I sank to my knees and worshipped her...... 
And now he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, was going to meet the Queen asshe was in her own plane of existence-strong and powerful."Perhaps she'll appear as the Five-Headed Dragon," Tas said tocheer himself up. But even that wonderful prospect didn't help,though he had never seen a five-headed anything before, much lessa dragon. It was as if all the spirit of adventure and curiositywere oozing out of the kender like blood dripping from a wound. 
"I'll sing a bit," he said to himself, just to hear the sound ofhis own voice. "That generally raises my spirits." 
He began to hum the first song that came into his head-a Hymn tothe Dawn that Goldmoon had taught him. 
Even the night must failFor light sleeps in the eyesAnd dark becomes dark on dark Until the darkness dies. 
Soon the eye resolvesComplexities of nightInto stillness, where the heartFalls into fabled light. 
Tas was just starting in on the second verse when he became aware,to his horror, that his song was echoing back to him only thewords were now twisted and terrible.... 
Even the night must fail When light sleeps in the eyes,When dark becomes dark on dark And into darkness dies. 
Soon the eye dissolves,Perplexed by the teasing night,Into a stillness of the heart,A fable of fallen light. 
"Stop it," cried Tas frantically into the eerie, burning silencethat resounded with his song. "I didn't mean to say that! I-" 
With startling suddenness, the black-robed cleric materialized infront of Tasslehoff, seeming to coalesce out of the bleaksurroundings. 
"Her Dark Majesty will see you now," the cleric said, and, beforeTasslehoff could blink, he found himself in another place. 
He knew it was another place, not because he had moved a step oreven because this place was different from the last place, butthat he felt he was someplace else. There was still the same weirdglow, the same emptiness, except now he had the impression hewasn't alone. 
The moment he realized this, he saw a black, smooth wooden chairappear-its back to him. Seated in it was a figure dressed inblack, a hood pulled up over its head. 
Thinking perhaps some mistake had been made and that the clerichad taken him to the wrong place, Tasslehoff-gripping his pouchesnervously in his hand-walked cautiously around the chair to seethe figure's face. Or perhaps the chair turned to around to seehis face. The kender wasn't certain. 
But, as the chair moved, the figure's face came into view. 
Tasslehoff knew no mistake had been made. 
It was not a Five-Headed Dragon he saw. It was not a huge warriorin black, burning armor. It was not even the Dark Temptress, whoso haunted Raistlin's dreams. It was a woman dressed all in black,a tight-fitting hood pulled up over her hair, framing her face ina black oval. Her skin was white and smooth and ageless, her eyeslarge and dark. Her arms, encased in tight black cloth, rested onthe arms of her chair, her white hands curved calmly around theends of the armrests. 
The expression on her face was not horrifying, nor terrifying, northreatening, nor awe-inspiring; it was, in fact, not even anexpression at all. Yet Tas was aware that she was scrutinizing himintensely, delving into his soul, studying parts of him that hewasn't even aware existed. 
"I-I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot, M-majesty," said the kender,reflexively stretching out his small hand. Too late, he realizedhis offense and started to withdraw his hand and bow, but then hefelt the touch of five fingers in his palm. It was a brief touch,but Tas might have grabbed a handful of nettles. Five stingingbranches of pain shot through his arm and bored into his heart,making him gasp. 
But, as swiftly as they touched him, they were gone. He foundhimself standing very close to the lovely, pale woman, and so mildwas the expression in her eyes that Tas might well have doubtedshe was the cause of the pain, except that looking down at hispalm-he saw a mark there, like a five pointed star. 
Tell me your story. 
Tas started. The woman's lips had not moved, but he heard herspeak. He realized, also, in sudden fright, that she probably knewmore of his story than he did. 
Sweating, clutching his pouches nervously, Tasslehoff Burrfootmade history that day-at least as far as kender storytelling wasconcerned. He told the entire story of his trip to Istar in underfive seconds. And every word was true. 
"Par-Salian accidentally sent me back in time with my friendCaramon. We were going to kill Fistandantilus only we discoveredit was Raistlin so we didn't. I was going to stop the Cataclysmwith a magical device, but Raistlin made me break it. I followed acleric named Lady Crysania down to a laboratory beneath the Templeof Istar to find Raistlin and make him fix the device. The roof caved in and knocked me out. When I woke up, they had all left meand the Cataclysm struck and now I'm dead and I've been sent tothe Abyss." 
Tasslehoff drew a deep, quivering breath and mopped his face withthe end of his long topknot of hair. Then, realizing his lastcomment had been less than complimentary, he hastened to add, "Notthat I'm complaining, Your Majesty. I'm certain whoever did thismust have had quite a good reason. After all, I did break a dragon orb, and I seem to recall once someone said I took something thatdidn't belong to me, and ... and I wasn't as respectful of Flintas I should have been, I guess, and once, for a joke, I hidCaramon's clothes while he was taking a bath and he had to walkinto Solace stark naked. But"-Tas could not help a snuffle-"Ialways helped Fizban find his hat!" 
You are not dead, said the voice, nor have you been sent here. Youare not, in fact, supposed to be here at all. 
At this startling revelation, Tasslehoff looked up directly intothe Queen's dark and shadowy eyes. "I'm not?" he squeaked, feelinghis voice go all queer. "Not dead?" Involuntarily, he put his handto his head-which still ached. "So that explains it! I justthought someone had botched things up-" 
Kender are not allowed here, continued the voice. 
"That doesn't surprise me," Tas said sadly, feeling much morehimself since he wasn't dead. "There are quite a number of placeson Krynn kender aren't allowed." 
The voice might not have even heard him. When you entered thelaboratory of Fistandantilus, you were protected by the magicalenchantment he had laid on the place. The rest of Istar wasplunged far below the ground at the time the Cataclysm struck. ButI was able to save the Temple of the Kingpriest. When I am ready,it will return to the world, as will I, myself. " 
"But you won't win," said Tas before he thought. "I-I k-know," hestuttered as the dark-eyed gaze shot right through him. "I was ththere." 
No, you were not there, for that has not happened yet. You see,kender, by disrupting Par-Salian's spell, you have made itpossible to alter time. Fistandantilus-or Raistlin, as you knowhim-told you this. That was why he sent you to your death or so hesupposed. He did not want time altered. The Cataclysm wasnecessary to him so that he could bring this cleric of Paladineforward to a time when he will have the only true cleric in theland. 
It seemed to Tasslehoff that he saw, for the first time, a flickerof dark amusement in the woman's shadowy eyes, and he shiveredwithout understanding why. 
How soon you will come to regret that decision, Fistandantilus, myambitious friend. But it is too late. Poor, puny mortal. You havemade a mistake-a costly mistake. You are locked in your own timeloop. You rush forward to your own doom. 
"I don't understand," cried Tas. 
Yes, you do, said the voice calmly. Your coming has shown me thefuture. You have given me the chance to change it. And, bydestroying you, Fistandantilus has destroyed his only chance ofbreaking free. His body will perish again, as he perished longago. Only this time, when his soul seeks another body to house it,I will stop him. Thus, the young mage, Raistlin, in the future,will take the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery, and he will diethere. He will not live to thwart my plans. One by one, the otherswill die. For without Raistlin's help, Goldmoon will not find theblue crystal staff. Thus-the beginning of the end for the world. 
"No!" Tas whimpered, horror-stricken. "This-this can't be! I-Ididn't mean to do this. I-I just wanted to-to go with Caramon on-on this adventure! He-he couldn't have made it alone. He needed me!" 
The kender stared around frantically, seeking some escape. But,though there seemed everywhere to run, there was nowhere to hide.Dropping to his knees before the black clothed woman, Tas staredup at her. "What have I done? What have I done?" he criedfrantically. 
You have done such that even Paladine might be tempted to turn hisback upon you, kender. 
"What will you do to me?" Tas sobbed wretchedly. "Where will Igo?" He lifted a tear-streaked face. "I don't suppose you c-couldsend me back to Caramon? Or back to my own time?" 
Your time no longer exists. As for sending you to Caramon, that isquite impossible, as you surely must understand. No, you willremain here, with me, so I may insure that nothing goes wrong. 
"Here?" Tas gasped. "How long?" 
The woman began to fade before his eyes, shimmering and finallyvanishing into the nothingness around him. Not long, I shouldimagine, kender. Not long at all. Or perhaps always.... 
"Though not dead, you are-even now-dying. Your lifeforce is ebbingfrom you, as it must for any of the living who mistakenly venturedown here and who have not the power to fight the evil thatdevours them from within. When you are dead, the gods willdetermine your fate." 
"I see," said Tas, choking back a lump in his throat. He hung hishead. "I deserve it, I suppose. Oh, Tanis, I'm sorry! I trulydidn't mean to do it...... 
The cleric gripped his arm painfully. The surroundings changed,the ground shifted away beneath his feet. But Tasslehoff nevernoticed. His eyes filling with tears, he gave himself up to darkdespair and hoped death would come quickly. 
CHAPTER 8 
"Here you are," said the dark cleric. 
"Where?" Tas asked listlessly, more out of force of habit thanbecause he cared. 
The cleric paused, then shrugged. "I suppose if there were aprison in the Abyss, you would be in it now." 
Tas looked around. As usual, there was nothing there simply a vastbarren stretch of eerie emptiness. There were no walls, no cells,no barred windows, no doors, no locks, no jailer. And he knew,with deep certainty, that-this time there was no escape. 
"Am I supposed to just stand here until I drop?" Tas asked in asmall voice. "I mean, couldn't I at least have a bed and a-astool-oh!" 
As he spoke, a bed materialized before his eyes, as did a three-legged, wooden stool. But even these familiar objects appeared sohorrifying, sitting in the middle of nothing, that Tas could notbear to look at them long. 
He waited a moment, to see if these, too, would appear. But theydidn't. The cleric shook his head, his gray hair forming aswirling cloud around him. 
"No, the needs of your mortal body will be cared for while you arehere. You will feel no hunger or thirst. I have even healed yourwounds." 
Tas suddenly noticed that his ribs had stopped hurting and thepain in his head was gone. The iron collar had vanished fromaround his neck. 
"There is no need for your thanks," the cleric continued, seeingTas open his mouth. "We do this so that you will not interrupt usin our work. And, so, farewell-" 
The dark cleric raised his hands, obviously preparing to depart. 
"Wait!" Tas cried, leaping up from his stool and clutching at thedark, flowing robes. "Wont I see you again? Don't leave me alone!"But he might as well have tried to grab smoke. The flowing robesslipped through his fingers, and the dark cleric disappeared. 
"When you are dead, we will return your body to lands above andsee that your soul speeds on its way ... or stays here, as you maybe judged. Until that time, we have no more need of contact withyou." 
"I'm alone!" Tas said, glancing around his bleak surroundings indespair. "Truly alone ... alone until I die.... Which won't belong," he added sadly. Walking over, he sat down upon his stool."I might as well die as fast as possible and get it over with. Atleast I'll probably go someplace different-I hope." He looked upinto the empty vastness. 
"Fizban," Tas said softly, "you probably can't hear me from cleardown here. And I don't suppose there's anything you could do forme anyway, but I did want to tell you, before I die, that I didn'tmean to cause all this trouble, disrupting Par-Salian's spell andgoing back in time when I wasn't supposed to go and all that." 
Heaving a sigh, Tas pressed his small hands together, his lowerlip quivering. "Maybe that doesn't count for much ... and Isuppose that-if I must be honest-part of me went along with Caramon just because"-he swallowed the tears that were beginningto trickle down his nose-"just because it sounded like so much fun! But, truly, part of me went with him because he had no businessgoing back into the past alone! He was fuddled because of thedwarf spirits, you see. And I promised Tika I'd look after him.Oh, Fizban! If there were just some way out of this mess, I'd trymy best to straighten everything out. Honestly-" 
"Hullothere." 
"What?" Tas nearly fell off his stool. Whirling around, halfthinking he might see Fizban, he saw, instead, only a shortfigure-shorter even than himself-dressed in brown britches, a graytunic, and a brown leather apron. 
"Isaidhullothere," repeated the voice, rather irritably. 
"Oh, he-hello," Tas stammered, staring at the figure. It certainlydidn't look like a dark cleric, at least Tas had never heard ofany that wore brown leather aprons. But, he supposed, there couldalways be exceptions especially considering the fact that brownleather aprons are such useful things. Still, this person bore astrong resemblance to someone he knew, if only he couldremember.... 
"Gnosh!" Tas exclaimed suddenly, snapping his fingers. "You're agnome! Uh, pardon me for asking such a personal question"-thekender flushed in embarrassment-"but are you-uh-dead?" 
"Areyou?" the gnome asked, eyeing the kender suspiciously. 
"No," said Tas, rather indignantly. 
"Welll'mnoteither!" snapped the gnome. 
"Uh, could you slow down a bit?" Tas suggested. "I know yourpeople talk rapidly, but it makes it hard for us to understand,sometimes-" 
"I said I'm not either!" the gnome shouted loudly. 
"Thank you," Tas said politely. "And I'm not hard of hearing. Youcan talk in a normal tone of voice-er, talk slowly in a normaltone of voice," the kender hurried to add, seeing the gnome drawin a breath. 
"Tasslehoff . . . Burrfoot." The kender extended a small hand,which the gnome took and shook heartily. "What's ... yours? Imean-what's yours? Oh, no! I didn't mean-" 
But it was too late. The gnome was off. 
"Gnimshmarigongalesefrahootsputhturandotsamanella-" 
"The short form!" Tas cried when the gnome stopped for breath. 
"Oh." The gnome appeared downcast. "Gnimsh." 
"Thank you. Nice meeting you-uh-Gnimsh," Tas said, sighing inrelief. He had completely forgotten that every gnome's nameprovides the unwary listener with a complete account of thegnome's family's life history, beginning with his earliest known(or imagined) ancestor. 
"Nice meeting you, Burrfoot," the gnome said, and they shook handsagain. 
"Will you be seated?" Tas said, sitting down on the bed andgesturing politely toward the stool. But Gnimsh gave the stool ascathing glance and sat down in a chair that materialized rightbeneath him. Tas gasped at the sight. It was truly a remarkablechair-it had a footrest that went up and down and rockers on thebottom that let the chair rock back and forth and it even tilted completely backward, letting the person sitting in it lie down ifso inclined. 
Unfortunately, as Gnimsh sat down, the chair tilted too farbackward, flipping the gnome out on his head. Grumbling, heclimbed back in it and pressed a lever. This time, the footrestflew up, striking him in the nose. At the same time, the back cameforward and, before long, Tas had to help rescue Gnimsh from thechair, which appeared to be eating him. 
"Drat," said the gnome and, with a wave of his hand, he sent thechair back to wherever it had come from, and sat down,disconsolately, on Tasslehoff's stool. 
Having visited gnomes and seen their inventions before, Tasslehoffmumbled what was proper. "Quite interesting ... truly an advanceddesign in chairs...... 
"No, it isn't," Gnimsh snapped, much to Tas's amazement. "It's arotten design. Belonged to my wife's first cousin. I should haveknown better than to think of it. But"-he sighed "sometimes I gethomesick." 
"I know," Tas said, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. "If-ifyou don't mind my asking, what are you doing here, if you're-uh-not dead?" 
"Will you tell me what you're doing here?" Gnimsh countered. 
"Of course," said Tas, then he had a sudden thought. Glancingaround warily, he leaned forward. "No one minds, do they?" heasked in a whisper. "That we're talking, I mean? Maybe we're notsupposed to-" 
"Oh, they don't care," Gnimsh said scornfully. "As long as weleave them alone, we're free to go around anywhere. Of course," headded, "anywhere looks about the same as here, so there's not muchpoint." 
"I see," Tas said with interest. "How do you travel?" 
"With your mind. Haven't you figured that out yet? No, probablynot." The gnome snorted. "Kender were never noted for theirbrains." 
"Gnomes and kender are related," Tas pointed out in miffed tones. 
"So I've heard," Gnimsh replied skeptically, obviously notbelieving any of it. 
Tasslehoff decided, in the interests of maintaining peace, tochange the subject. "So, if I want to go somewhere, I just thinkof that place and I'm there?" 
"Within limits, of course," Gnimsh said. "You can't, for example,enter any of the holy precincts where the dark clerics go-" 
"Oh." Tas sighed, that having been right up at the top of his listof tourist attractions. Then he cheered up again. "You made thatchair come out of nothing and, come to think of it, I made thisbed and this stool. If I think of something, will it just appear?" 
"Try it," Gnimsh suggested. 
Gnimsh snorted as a hatrack appeared at the end of the bed. "Nowthat's handy." 
"I was just practicing," Tas said in hurt tones. 
"You better watch it," the gnome said, seeing Tas's face light up."Sometimes things appear, but not quite the way you expected." 
"Yeah." Tas suddenly remembered the tree and the dwarf. Heshivered. "I guess you're right. Well, at least we have eachother. Someone to talk to. You can't imagine how boring it was."The kender settled back on the bed, first imagining-with caution-apillow. "Well, go ahead. Tell me your story." 
"You start." Gnimsh glanced at Tas out of the corner of his eye. 
"No, you're my guest." 
"I insist." 
"I insist." 
"You. After all, I've been here longer." 
"How do you know?" 
"I just do.... Go on." 
"But-" Tas suddenly saw this was getting nowhere, and though theyapparently had all eternity, he didn't plan on spending it arguingwith a gnome. Besides, there was no real reason why he shouldn'ttell his story. He enjoyed telling stories, anyway. So, leaningback comfortably, he told his tale. Gnimsh listened with interest,though he did rather irritate Tas by constantly interrupting andtelling him to "get on with it," just at the most exciting parts. 
Finally, Tas came to his conclusion. "And so here I am. Nowyours," he said, glad to pause for breath. 
"Well," Gnimsh said hesitantly, looking around darkly as thoughafraid someone might be listening, "it all began years and yearsago with my family's Life Quest. You do know"-he glared at Tas-"what a Life Quest is?" 
"Sure," said Tas glibly. "My friend Gnosh had a Life Quest. Onlyhis was dragon orbs. Each gnome has assigned to him a particularproject that he must complete successfully or never get into theAfterlife." Tas had a sudden thought. "That's not why you're here,is it?" 
"No." The gnome shook his wispy-haired head. "My family's LifeQuest was developing an invention that could take us from onedimensional plane of existence to another. And"-Gnimsh heaved asigh-"mine worked." 
"It worked?" Tas said, sitting up in astonishment. 
"Perfectly," Gnimsh answered with increasing despondency.Tasslehoff was stunned. He'd never before heard of such a thing-agnomish invention that worked ... and perfectly, too! Gnimshglanced at him. "Oh, I know what you're thinking," he said. "I'm afailure. You don't know the half of it. You see all of myinventions work. Every one." 
Gnimsh put his head in his hands. 
"How-how does that make you a Failure?" Tas asked, confused. 
Gnimsh raised his head, staring at him. "Well, what good isinventing something if it works? Where's the challenge? The needfor creativity? For forward thinking? What would become ofprogress? You know," he said with deepening gloom, "that if Ihadn't come here, they were getting ready to exile me. They said Iwas a distinct threat to society. I set scientific explorationback a hundred years." 
Gnimsh's head drooped. "That's why I don't mind being here. Likeyou, I deserve it. It's where I'm likely to wind up anyway." 
"Where is your device?" Tas asked in sudden excitement. "Oh, theytook it away, of course," Gnimsh answered, waving his hand. 
"Well"-the kender thought-"can't you imagine one? You imagined upthat chair?" 
"And you saw what it did!" Gnimsh replied. "Likely I'd end up withmy father's invention. It took him to another plane of existence,all right. The Committee on Exploding Devices is studying it now,in fact, or at least they were when I got stuck here. What are youtrying to do? Find a way out of the Abyss?" 
"I have to," Tas said resolutely. "The Queen of Darkness will winthe war, otherwise, and it will all be my fault. Plus, I've gotsome friends who are in terrible danger. Well, one of them isn'texactly a friend, but he is an interesting person and, while hedid try to kill me by making me break the magical device, I'mcertain it was nothing personal. He had a good reason. . . ." 
Tas stopped. 
"That's it!" he said, springing up off the bed. "That's it!" hecried in such excitement that a whole forest of hatracks appearedaround the bed, much to the gnome's alarm. 
Gnimsh slid off his stool, eyeing Tas warily. "What's it?" hedemanded, bumping into a hatrack. 
"Look!" Tas said, fumbling with his pouches. He opened one, thenanother. "Here it is!" he said, holding a pouch open to showGnimsh. But, just as the gnome was peering into it, Tas suddenlyslammed it shut. "Wait!" 
"What?" Gnimsh asked, startled. 
"Are they watching?" Tas asked breathlessly. "Will they know?" 
"Know what?" 
"Just-will they know?" 
"No, I don't suppose so," Gnimsh answered hesitantly. "I can't sayfor sure, since I don't know what it is they're not supposed toknow. But I do know that they're all pretty busy, right now, fromwhat I can tell. Waking up evil dragons and that sort of thing.Takes a lot of work." 
"Good," Tas said grimly, sitting on the bed. "Now, look at this."He opened his pouch and dumped out the contents. "What does thatremind you of?" 
"The year my mother invented the device designed to wash dishes,"the gnome said. "The kitchen was knee-deep in broken crockery. Wehad to-" 
"No!" Tas snapped irritably. "Look, hold this piece next to thisone and-" "My dimensional traveling device!" Gnimsh gasped. "You're right!It did look something like this. Mine didn't have all these gewgawjewels, but.... No, look. You've got it all wrong. I think thatgoes here, not there. Yes. See? And then this chain hooks on hereand wraps around like so. No, that's not quite the way. It must go... Wait, I see. This has to fit in there first." Sitting down onthe bed, Gnimsh picked up one of the jewels and stuck it intoplace. "Now, I need another one of these red gizmos." He begansorting through the jewels. "What did you do to this thing,anyway?" he muttered. "Put it into a meat grinder?" 
But the gnome, absorbed in his task, completely ignored Tas'sanswer. The kender, meanwhile, took advantage of the opportunityto tell his story again. Perching on the stool, Tas talkedblissfully and without interruption while, totally forgetting thekender's existence, Gnimsh began to arrange the myriad jewels andlittle gold and silver things and chains, stacking them into neatpiles. -
All the while Tas was talking, though, he was watching Gnimsh,hope filling his heart. Of course, he thought with a pang, he hadprayed to Fizban, and there was every possibility that, if Gnimshgot this device working, it might whisk them onto a moon or turnthem both into chickens or something. But, Tas decided, he'd justhave to take that chance. After all, he'd promised he'd try tostraighten things out, and though finding a failed gnome wasn'tquite what he'd had in mind, it was better than sitting around,waiting to die. 
Gnimsh, meanwhile, had imagined up a piece of slate and a bit ofchalk and was sketching diagrams, muttering, "Slide jewel A intogolden gizmo B-" 
CHAPTER 9 
"A wretched place, my brother," Raistlin remarked softly as heslowly and stiffly dismounted from his horse. 
"We've stayed in worse," Caramon commented, helping Lady Crysaniafrom her mount. "It's warm and dry inside, which makes it onehundred times better than out here. Besides," he added gruffly,glancing at his brother, who had collapsed against the side of hishorse, coughing and shivering, "we none of us can ride fartherwithout rest. I'll see to the horses. You two go on in." 
Crysania, huddled in her sodden cloak, stood in the foot deep mudand stared dully at the inn. It was, as Raistlin said, a wretchedplace. 
What the name might have been, no one knew, for no sign hung abovethe door. The only thing, in fact, that marked it as an inn at allwas a crudely lettered slate stuck in the broken front window thatread, "WayFarrers WelCum". The stone building itself was old andsturdily constructed. But the roof was falling in, though attemptshad been made, here and there, to patch it with thatch. One windowwas broken. An old felt hat covered it, supposedly to keep out therain. The yard was nothing but mud and a few bedraggled weeds. 
Raistlin had gone ahead. Now he stood in the open doorway, lookingback at Crysania. Light glowed from inside, and the smell of woodsmoke promised a fire. As Raistlin's face hardened into anexpression of impatience, a gust of wind blew back the hood ofCrysania's cloak, driving the slashing rain into her face. With asigh, she slogged through the mud to reach the front door. 
"Welcome, master. Welcome, missus." 
Crysania started at the voice that came from beside her-she hadnot seen anyone when she entered. Turning, she saw an ill-favoredman huddling in the shadows behind the door, just as it slammedshut. 
"A raw day, master," the man said, rubbing his hands together in aservile manner. That, a grease-stained apron, and a torn ragthrown over his arm marked him as the innkeeper. Glancing aroundthe filthy, shabby inn, Crysania thought it appropriate enough.The man drew nearer to them, still rubbing his hands, until he wasso close to Crysania that she could smell the foul odor of hisbeery breath. Covering her face with her cloak, she drew away fromhim. He seemed to grin at this, a drunken grin that might haveappeared foolish had it not been for the cunning expression in hissquinty eyes. 
Looking at him, Crysania felt for a moment that she would almostprefer to go back out into the storm. But Raistlin, with only asharp, penetrating glance at the innkeeper, said coldly, "A tablenear the fire." 
"Aye, master, aye. A table near the fire, aye. Good on such awicked day as this be. Come, master, missus, this way." Bobbingand bowing in a fawning manner that was, once again, belied by the look in his eyes, the man shuffled sideways across the floor,never taking his gaze from them, herding them toward a dirtytable. 
"A wizard be ye, master?" asked the innkeeper, reaching out a handto touch Raistlin's black robes but withdrawing it immediately atthe mage's piercing glance. "One of the Black 'uns, too. It's beena long while since we've seen the like, that it has," hecontinued. Raistlin did not answer. Overcome by another fit ofcoughing, he leaned heavily upon his staff. Crysania helped him toa chair near the fire. Sinking down into it, he huddled gratefullytoward the warmth. 
"Hot water," ordered Crysania, untying her wet cloak. 
"What be the matter with 'im?" the innkeeper asked suspiciously,drawing back. "Not the burning fever, is it? Cause if it is, yecan go back out-" 
"No," Crysania snapped, throwing off her cloak. "His illness ishis own, of no harm to others." Leaning down near the mage, sheglanced back up at the innkeeper. "I asked for hot water," shesaid peremptorily. 
"Aye." His lip curled. He no longer rubbed his hands but shovedthem beneath the greasy apron before he shuffled off. 
Her disgust lost in her concern for Raistlin, Crysania forgot theinnkeeper as she tried to make the mage more comfortable. Sheunfastened his traveling cloak and helped him remove it, thenspread it to dry before the fire. Searching the inn's common room,she discovered several shabby chair cushions and, trying to ignorethe dirt that covered them, brought them back to arrange aroundRaistlin so that he could lean back and breathe more easily. 
Kneeling beside him to help remove his wet boots, she felt a handtouch her hair. 
"Thank you," Raistlin whispered, as she looked up. 
Crysania flushed with pleasure. His brown eyes seemed warmer thanthe fire, and his hand brushed back the wet hair from her facewith a gentle touch. She could not speak or move but remained,kneeling at his side, held fast by his gaze. 
"Be you his woman?" 
The innkeepers harsh voice, coming from behind her, made Crysaniastart. She had neither seen him approach nor heard his shufflingstep. Rising to her feet, unable to look at Raistlin, she turnedabruptly to face the fire, saying nothing. 
"She is a lady of one of the royal houses of Palanthas," said adeep voice from the doorway. "And I'll thank you to speak of herwith respect, innkeep." 
"Aye, master, aye," muttered the innkeeper, seemingly daunted byCaramon's massive girth as the big man came inside, bringing in agust of wind and rain with him. "I'm sure I intended no disrespectand I hopes none was taken." 
Crysania did not answer. Half-turning, she said in a muffledvoice, "Here, bring that water to the table." 
As Caramon shut the door and came over to join them, Raistlin drewforth the pouch that contained the herbal concoction for hispotion. Tossing it onto the table, he directed Crysania, with agesture, to prepare his drink. Then he sank back among thecushions, his breath wheezing, gazing into the flames. Consciousof Caramon's troubled gaze upon her, Crysania kept her gaze on thepotion she was preparing. 
"The horses are fed and watered. We've ridden them easy enough, sothey'll be able to go on after an hour's rest. I want to reachSolanthus before nightfall," Caramon said after a moment'suncomfortable silence. He spread his cloak before the fire. Thesteam rose from it in clouds. "Have you ordered food?" he askedCrysania abruptly. 
"No, just the-the hot water," she murmured, handing Raistlin hisdrink. 
"Innkeep, wine for the lady and the mage, water for me, andwhatever you have to eat," Caramon said, sitting down near thefire on the opposite side of the table from his brother. Afterweeks of traveling this barren land toward the Plains of Dergoth,they had all learned that one ate what was on hand at theseroadside inns, if-indeed-there was anything at all. 
"This is only the beginning of the fall storms," Caramon saidquietly to his brother as the innkeeper slouched out of the roomagain. 'They will get worse the farther south we travel. Are youresolved on this course of action? It could be the death of you." 
"Nothing, Raistlin," Caramon said, taken aback by his brother'spiercing stare. "Just-just ... your cough. It's always worse inthe damp." 
Staring sharply at his twin, and seeing that, apparently, Caramonmeant no more than he had said, Raistlin leaned back into thecushions once more. "Yes, I am resolved upon this course ofaction. So should you be too, my brother. For it is the only wayyou will ever see your precious home again." 
"A lot of good it will do me if you die on the way," Caramongrowled. 
Crysania looked at Caramon in shock, but Raistlin only smiledbitterly. "Your concern touches me, brother. But do not fear formy health. My strength will be sufficient to get there and castthe final spell, if I do not tax myself overly in the meantime'" 
"It seems you have someone who will take care you do not do that,"Caramon replied gravely, his gaze on Crysania. 
She flushed again and would have made some remark, but theinnkeeper returned. Standing beside them, a kettle of somesteaming substance in one hand and a cracked pitcher in the other,he regarded them warily. 
"Pardon my asking, masters," he whined, "but I'll see the color ofyer money first. Times being what they are-" 
"Here," said Caramon, taking a coin from his purse and tossing itupon the table. "Will that suit?" 
"Aye, masters, aye." The innkeeper's eyes shone nearly as brightlyas the silver piece. Setting down the kettle and pitcher, sloppingstew onto the table, he grabbed the coin greedily, watching themage all the while as though fearful he might make it disappear. 
Thrusting the coin into his pocket, the innkeeper shuffled behindthe slovenly bar and returned with three bowls, three horn spoons,and three mugs. These he also slapped down on the table, thenstood back, his hands once more rubbing together. Crysania pickedup the bowls and, staring at them in disgust, immediately began towash them in the remaining hot water. 
"Do you have bread and cheese?" 
"Yes, master." 
"Wrap some up then, in a basket." 
"Ye'll be ... traveling on, will ye?" the innkeeper asked. 
Placing the bowls back upon the table, Crysania looked up, awareof a subtle change in the man's voice. She glanced at Caramon tosee if he noticed, but the big man was stirring the stew, sniffingat it hungrily. Raistlin, seeming not to have heard, staredfixedly into the fire, his hands clasping the empty mug limply. 
"We're certainly not spending the night here," Caramon said,ladling stew into the bowls. 
"Ye'll find no better lodgings in- Where did you say you washeaded?" the innkeeper asked. 
"It's no concern of yours," Crysania replied coldly. Taking a fullbowl of stew, she brought it to Raistlin. But the mage, after onelook at the thick, grease-covered substance, waved it away. Hungryas she was, Crysania could only choke down a few mouthfuls of themixture. Shoving the bowl aside, she wrapped herself in her still-damp cloak and curled up in her chair, closing her eyes and tryingnot to think that in an hour she'd be back on her horse, ridingthrough the bleak, storm-ridden land once again. 
Raistlin had already fallen asleep. The only sounds made were byCaramon, eating the stew with the appetite of an old campaigner,and by the innkeeper, returning to the kitchen to fix the basketas ordered. 
Within an hour, Caramon brought the horses round from the stable-three riding horses and one pack horse, heavily laden, its burdencovered with a blanket and secured with strong ropes. Helping hisbrother and Lady Crysania to mount, and seeing them both settledwearily into their saddles, Caramon mounted his own giganticsteed. The innkeeper stood out in the rain, bareheaded, holdingthe basket. He handed it up to Caramon, grinning and bobbing asthe rain soaked through his clothes. 
With curt thanks, and tossing another coin that landed in the mudat the innkeeper's feet, Caramon grabbed the reins of the packhorse and started off. Crysania and Raistlin followed, heavilymuffled in their cloaks against the downpour. 
The innkeeper, apparently oblivious to the rain, picked up thecoin and stood watching them ride away. Two figures emerged fromthe confines of the stables, joining him. 
Tossing the coin in the air, the innkeeper glanced at them. "Tell'im-they travel the Solanthus road." 
They fell easy victims to the ambush. 
Riding in the failing light of the dismal day, beneath thick treeswhose branches dripped water monotonously and whose fallen leavesobscured even the sound of their own horses' footfalls, each waslost in his or her own gloomy thoughts. None heard the gallopingof hooves or the ring of bright steel until it was too late. 
Before they knew what was happening, dark shapes dropped out ofthe trees like huge, terrifying birds, smothering them with theirblack-cloaked wings. It was all done quietly, skillfully. 
One clambered up behind Raistlin, knocking the mage unconsciousbefore he could turn. Another dropped from a branch besideCrysania, clasping his hand over her mouth and holding the pointof his dagger to her throat. But it took three of them to dragCaramon from his horse and wrestle the big man to the ground, and,when the struggle was finally over, one of the robbers did not getto his feet. Nor would he, ever again, it seemed. He lay quitestill in the mud, his head facing the wrong direction. 
"Neck's broke," reported one of the robbers to a figure who cameup-after all was over-to survey the handiwork. 
"Neat job of it, too," the robber commented coolly, eyeingCaramon, who was being held in the grip of four men, his big armsbound with bowstrings. A deep cut on his head bled freely, therainwater washing the blood down his face. Shaking his head,trying to clear it, Caramon continued to struggle. 
The leader, noticing the bulging muscles that strained the strong,wet bowstrings until several of his guards looked at themapprehensively, shook his head in admiration. 
Caramon, finally clearing the fuzziness from his head and shakingthe blood and rainwater from his eyes, glanced around. At leasttwenty or thirty heavily armed men stood around them. Looking upat their leader, Caramon breathed a muttered oath. This man waseasily the biggest human Caramon had ever seen! 
His thoughts went instantly back to Raag and the gladiator arenain Istar. "Part ogre," he said to himself, spitting out a tooththat had been knocked loose in the fight. Remembering vividly thehuge ogre who had helped Arack train the gladiators for the Games,Caramon saw that, though obviously human, this man had a yellow,ogre-ish cast to his skin and the same, flat-nosed face. He waslarger than most humans, too towering head and shoulders over thetall Caramon-with arms like tree trunks. But he walked with an odd gait, Caramon noticed, and he wore a long cloak that dragged theground, hiding his feet. 
Having been taught in the arena to size up an enemy and search outevery weakness, Caramon watched the man closely. When the windblew aside the thick fur cloak that covered him, Caramon saw inastonishment that the man had only one leg. The other was a steelpegleg. 
Noticing Caramon's glance at his pegleg, the half-ogre grinnedbroadly and took a step nearer the big man. Reaching out a hugehand, the robber patted Caramon tenderly on the cheek. 
"I admire a man who puts up a good fight," he said in a softvoice. Then, with startling swiftness, he doubled his hand into afist, drew back his arm, and slugged Caramon in the jaw. The forceof the blow knocked the big warrior backward, nearly causing thosewho held him to fall over, too. "But you'll pay for the death ofmy man." 
Gathering his long, fur cloak around him, the half-ogre stumpedover to where Crysania stood, held securely in the arms of one ofthe robbers. Her captor still had his hand over her mouth, and,though her face was pale, her eyes were dark and filled withanger. 
"Isn't this nice," the half-ogre said softly. "A present, and it'snot even Yule." His laughter boomed through the trees. Reachingout, he caught hold of her cloak and ripped it from her neck. Hisgaze flicked rapidly over her curving figure, well revealed as therain soaked instantly through her white robes. His smile widenedand his eyes glinted. He reached out a huge hand. 
"Why, what's this bauble you wear, sweet one?" he asked, his gazegoing to the medallion of Paladine she wore around her slenderneck. "I find it ... unbecoming. Pure platinum, it is!" Hewhistled. "Best let me keep it For you, dear. I fear that, in thepleasures of our passion, it might get lost-" 
Caramon had recovered enough by now to see the half-ogre grasp themedallion in his hand. There was a glint of grim amusement inCrysania's eyes, though she shuddered visibly at the man's touch.A flash of pure, white light crackled through the driving rain.The half-ogre clutched at his hand. Drawing it back with a snarlof pain, he released Crysania. 
There was a muttering among the men standing watching. The manholding Crysania suddenly loosened his grip and she jerked free,glaring at him angrily and pulling her cloak back around her. 
The half-ogre raised his hand, his face twisted in rage. Caramonfeared he would strike Crysania, when, at that moment, one of theman yelled out. 
"The wizard, he's comin' to!" 
The half-ogre's eyes were still on Crysania, but he lowered hishand. Then, he smiled. "Well, witch, you have won the first round,it seems." He glanced back at Caramon. "I enjoy contests-both infighting and in love. This promises to be a night of amusement,all around." 
Giving a gesture, he ordered the man who had been holding Crysaniato take her in hand again, and the man did, though Caramon noticedit was with extreme reluctance. The half-ogre walked over to whereRaistlin lay upon the ground, groaning in pain. 
"Of all of them, the wizard's the most dangerous. Bind his handsbehind his back and gag him," ordered the robber in a gratingvoice. "If he so much as croaks, cut out his tongue. That'll endhis spellcasting days for good." 
"Why don't we just kill him now?" one of the men growled. 
"Go ahead, Brack," said the half-ogre pleasantly, turning swiftlyto regard the man who had spoken. "Take your knife and slit histhroat." 
"No? You'd rather I was the one cursed for murdering a BlackRobe?" the leader continued, still in the same, pleasant tone."You'd enjoy seeing my sword hand wither and drop off?" 
"I-I didn't mean that, of course, Steeltoe. I-I wasn't thinking,that's all." 
"Then start thinking. He can't harm us now. Look at him." Steeltoegestured to Raistlin. The mage lay on his back, his hands bound infront of him. His jaws had been forced open and a gag tied aroundhis mouth. However, his eyes gleamed from the shadows of his hoodin a baleful rage, and his hands clenched in such impotent furythat more than one of the strong men standing about wondereduneasily if such measures were adequate. 
Perhaps feeling something of this himself, Steeltoe limped over towhere Raistlin lay staring up at him with bitter hatred. As hestopped near the mage, a smile creased the half-ogre's yellowishface, and he suddenly slammed the steel toe of his pegleg againstthe side of Raistlin's head. The mage went limp. Crysania criedout in alarm, but her captor held her fast. Even Caramon wasamazed to feel swift, sharp pain contract his heart as he saw hisbrother's form lying huddled in the mud. 
"That should keep him quiet for a while. When we reach camp, we'llblindfold him and take him for a walk up on the Rock. If he slipsand falls over the cliff, well, that's the way of things, isn'tit, men? His blood won't be on our hands." 
There was some scattered laughter, but Caramon saw more than a fewglance uneasily at each other, shaking their heads. 
Steeltoe turned away from Raistlin to examine with gleaming eyesthe heavily laden pack horse. "We've made a rich haul this day,men," he said in satisfaction. Stumping back around, he came towhere Crysania stood, pinned in the arms of her somewhat nervouscaptor. 
"A rich haul, indeed," he murmured. One huge hand graspedCrysania's chin roughly. Bending down, he pressed his lips againsthers in a brutal kiss. Trapped in the arms of her captor, Crysaniacould do nothing. She did not struggle; perhaps some inner sensetold her this was precisely what the man wanted. She stoodstraight, her body rigid. But Caramon saw her hands clench and, "You know my policy, men," Steeltoe said, fondling her haircoarsely, "share the spoils among us-after I've taken my cut, ofcourse." 
There was more laughter at this and, here and there, somescattered cheering. Caramon had no doubt of the man's meaning andhe guessed, from the few comments he heard, that this wouldn't bethe first time "spoils" had been "shared." 
But there were some young faces who frowned, glancing at eachother in disquiet, shaking their heads. And there were even a fewmuttered comments, such as, "I'll have nought to do with a witch!"and "I'd sooner bed the wizard!" 
Witch! There was that term again. Vague memories stirred inCaramon's mind-memories of the days when he and Raistlin hadtraveled with Flint, the dwarven metalsmith; days before thereturn of the true gods. Caramon shivered, suddenly rememberingwith vivid clarity the time they had come into a town that wasgoing to burn an old woman at the stake for witchcraft. Herecalled how his brother and Sturm, the ever noble knight, hadrisked their lives to save the old crone, who turned out to benothing more than a second-rate illusionist. 
But Caramon had forgotten, until now, how the people of this timeviewed any type of magical powers, and Crysania's clerical powers-in these days when there were no true clerics-would be even moresuspect. He shuddered, then forced himself to think with coldlogic. Burning was a harsh death, but it was a far quicker onethan 
"Bring the witch to me." Steeltoe limped across the trail to whereone of his men held his horse. Mounting, he gestured. "Then followwith the others." 
Crysania's captor dragged her forward. Reaching down, Steeltoegrabbed her under the arms and lifted her onto the horse, seatingher in front of him. Grasping the reins in his hands, his thickarms wrapped around her, completely engulfing her. Crysania satstaring straight ahead, her face cold and impassive. 
Does she know? Caramon wondered, watching helplessly as Steeltoerode past him, the mans yellowish face twisted into a leer. She'salways been sheltered, protected from things like this. Perhaps And then Crysania glanced back at Caramon. Her face was calm andpale, but there was a look of such horror in her eyes, horror andpleading, that he hung his head, his heart aching. 
She knows. . . . The gods help her. She knows.... 
Someone shoved Caramon from behind. Several men grabbed him andflung him, headfirst, over the saddle of his horse. Hanging upsidedown, his strong arms bound with the bowstrings that were cuttinginto his flesh, Caramon saw the men lift his brother's limp bodyand throw it over his own horse's saddle. Then the bandits mounted up and led their captives deeper into the forest. 
The rain streamed down on Caramon's bare head as the horse ploddedthrough the mud, jouncing him roughly. The pommel of the saddlejabbed him in the side; the blood rushing to his head made himdizzy. But all he could see in his mind as they rode were thosedark, terror-filled eyes, pleading with him for help. 
And Caramon knew, with sick certainty, that no help would come. 
CHAPTER 10 
Raistlin walked across a burning desert. A line of footstepsstretched before him in the sand, and he was walking in thesefootsteps. On and on the footsteps led him, up and down dunes ofbrilliant white, blazing in the sun. He was hot and tired andterribly thirsty. His head hurt, his chest ached, and he wanted tolie down and rest. In the distance was a water hole, cooled byshady trees. But, try as he might; he could not reach it. Thefootsteps did not go that way, and he could not move his feet anyother direction. 
On and on he plodded, his black robes hanging heavily about him.And then, nearly spent, he looked up and gasped in terror. Thefootsteps led to a scaffold! A black-hooded figure knelt with itshead upon the block. And, though he could not see the face, heknew with terrible certainty that it was he himself who kneltthere, about to die. The executioner stood above him, a bloody axein his hand. The executioner, too, wore a black hood that coveredhis face. He raised the axe and held it poised above Raistlin's "Raist!" whispered a voice. 
The mage shook his aching head. With the voice came the comfortingrealization that he had been dreaming. He struggled to wake up,fighting off the nightmare. 
"Raist ! "hissed the voice, more urgently. 
A sense of real danger, not dreamed danger, roused the magefurther. Waking fully, he lay still for a moment, keeping his eyesclosed until he was more completely aware of what was going on. 
He lay on wet ground, his hands bound in front of him, his mouthgagged. There was throbbing pain in his head and Caramon's voicein his ears. 
Around him, he could hear sounds of voices and laughter, he couldsmell the smoke of cooking fires. But none of the voices seemedvery near, except his brothers. And then everything came back tohim. He remembered the attack, he remembered a man with a steelleg.... Cautiously, Raistlin opened his eyes. 
Caramon lay near him in the mud, stretched out on his stomach, hisarms bound tightly with bowstrings. There was a familiar glint inhis twin's brown eyes, a glint that brought back a rush ofmemories of old days, times long past-fighting together, combiningsteel and magic. 
And, despite the pain and the darkness around them, Raistlin felta sense of exhilaration he had not experienced in a long time. 
Brought together by danger, the bond between the two was strongnow, letting them communicate with both word and thought. Seeinghis brother fully cognizant of their plight, Caramon wriggled asclose as he dared, his voice barely a breath. 
"Is there any way you can free your hands? Do you still carry thesilver dagger?" 
Raistlin nodded once, briefly. At the beginning of time, magic-users were prohibited by the gods from carrying any type of weaponor wearing any sort of armor. The reason being, ostensibly, thatthey needed to devote time to study that could not be spentachieving proficiency in the art of weaponry. But, after the Bound to his wrist by a cunning leather thong that would allow theweapon to slip down into his hand when needed, the silver daggerwas Raistlin's last means of defense, to be used only when all hisspells were cast ... or at a time like this. 
"Are you strong enough to use your magic?" Caramon whispered. 
Raistlin closed his eyes wearily for a moment. Yes, he was strongenough. But-this meant a further weakening, this meant more timewould be needed to regain strength to face the Guardians of thePortal. Still, if he didn't live that long ... 
Of course, he must live! he thought bitterly. Fistandantilus hadlived! He was doing nothing more than following footsteps throughthe sand. 
Angrily, Raistlin banished the thought. Opening his eyes, henodded. I am strong enough, he told his brother mentally, andCaramon sighed in relief. 
"Raist," the big man whispered, his face suddenly grave andserious, "you ... you can guess what ... what they plan forCrysania." 
Raistlin had a sudden vision of that hulking, ogre-ish human'srough hands upon Crysania, and he felt a startling sensation-rageand anger such as he had rarely experienced gripped him. His heartcontracted painfully and, for a moment, he was blinded by a blood-dimmed haze. 
Seeing Caramon regarding him with astonishment, Raistlin realizedthat his emotions must be apparent on his face. He scowled, andCaramon continued hurriedly. "I have a plan." 
Raistlin nodded irritably, already aware of what his brother hadin mind. 
Caramon whispered, "If I fail-" 
"-I'll kill her first, then myself, Raistlin finished. But, ofcourse, there would be no need. He was safe ... protected.... 
Then, hearing men approaching, the mage closed his eyes,thankfully feigning unconsciousness again. It gave him time tosort his tangled emotions and force himself to regain control. Thesilver dagger was cold against his arm. He flexed the muscles thatwould release the thong. And, all the while, he pondered thatstrange reaction he'd felt about a woman he cared nothing for . .. except her usefulness to him as a cleric, of course. 
Two men jerked Caramon to his feet and shoved him forward. Caramonwas thankful to notice that, beyond a quick glance to make certainthe mage was still unconscious, neither man paid any attention tohis twin. Stumbling along over the uneven ground, gritting histeeth against the pain from cramped, chilled leg muscles, Caramonfound himself thinking about that odd expression on his brothersface when he mentioned Lady Crysania. Caramon would have called itthe outraged expression of a lover, if seen on the face of anyother man. But his brother? Was Raistlin capable of such anemotion? Caramon had decided in Istar that Raistlin wasn't, thathe had been completely consumed by evil. 
But now, his twin seemed different, much more like the oldRaistlin, the brother he had fought side by side with so manytimes before, their lives in each others keeping. What Raistlinhad told Caramon about Tas made sense. So he hadn't killed the kender after all. And, though sometimes irritable, Raistlin wasalways unfailingly gentle with Crysania. Perhaps 
One of the guards jabbed him painfully in the ribs, recallingCaramon to the desperateness of their situation. Perhaps! Hesnorted. Perhaps it would all end here and now. Perhaps the onlything he would buy with his life would be swift death for theother two. 
Walking through the camp, thinking over all he had seen and heardsince the ambush, Caramon mentally reviewed his plan. The bandit'scamp was more like a small town than a thieves' hideout. Theylived in crudely built log huts, keeping their animals shelteredin a large cave. They had obviously been here some time, andapparently feared no law-giving mute testimony to the strength andleadership capabilities of the half ogre, Steeltoe. 
But Caramon, having had more than a few run-ins with thieves inhis day, saw that many of these men were not loutish ruffians. Hehad seen several glance at Crysania and shake their heads inobvious distaste for what was to come. Though dressed in littlemore than rags, several carried fine weapons steel swords of the kind passed down from father to son, and they handled them withthe care given a family heirloom, not booty. And, though he couldnot be certain in the failing light of the stormy day, Caramonthought he had noted on many of the swords the Rose and theKingfisher-the ancient symbol of the Solamnic Knights. 
The men were clean-shaven, without the long mustaches that markedsuch knights, but Caramon could detect in their stern, young facestraces of his friend, the knight, Sturm Brightblade. And, remindedof Sturm, Caramon was reminded, too, of what he knew of thehistory of the knighthood following the Cataclysm. 
Blamed by most of their neighbors for bringing about the dreadfulcalamity, the knights had been driven from their homes by angrymobs. Many had been murdered, their families killed before theireyes. Those who survived went into hiding, roaming the land ontheir own or joining outlaw bands-like this one. 
Glancing at the men as they stood about the camp cleaning theirweapons and talking in low voices, Caramon saw the mark of evildeeds upon many faces, but he also saw looks of resignation andhopelessness. He had known hard times himself. He knew what itcould drive a man to do. 
All this gave him hope that his plan might succeed. 
A bonfire blazed in the center of the encampment, not far fromwhere he and Raistlin had been dumped on the ground. Glancingbehind, he saw his brother still feigning unconsciousness. But healso saw, knowing what to look for, that the mage had managed totwist his body around into a position where he could both see andhear clearly. 
As Caramon stepped forward into the fire's light, most of the menstopped what they were doing and followed, forming a half-circlearound him. Sitting in a large wooden chair near the blaze wasSteeltoe, a flagon in his hand. Standing near him, laughing andjoking, were several men Caramon recognized at once as typicaltoadies, fawning over their leader. And he was not surprised tosee, at the edge of the crowd, the grinning, ill-favored face oftheir innkeeper. 
Sitting in a chair beside Steeltoe was Crysania. Her cloak hadbeen taken from her. Her dress was ripped open at the bodice hecould imagine by whose hands. And, Caramon saw with growing anger,there was a purplish blotch on her cheek. One corner of her mouthwas swollen. 
But she held herself with rigid dignity, staring straight aheadand trying to ignore the crude jokes and frightful tales beingbandied back and forth. Caramon smiled grimly in admiration.Remembering the panic-stricken state of near madness to which shehad been reduced during the last days of Istar, and thinking ofher previous soft and sheltered life, he was pleased, if amazed,to see her reacting to this dangerous situation with a coolnessTika might have envied. 
Tika.. . . Caramon scowled. He had not meant to think of Tikaespecially not in connection with Lady Crysania! Forcing histhoughts to the present, he coldly averted his eyes from the womanto his enemy, concentrating on him. 
Seeing Caramon, Steeltoe turned from his conversation and gesturedbroadly for the warrior to approach. 
"Time to die, warrior," Steeltoe said to him, still in the samepleasant tone of voice. He glanced over lazily at Crysania. "I'mcertain, lady, you won't mind if our tryst is postponed a fewmoments while I take care of this matter. Just think of this as a little before-bed entertainment, my dear." He stroked Crysania'scheek with his hand. When she moved away from him, her dark eyesflashing in anger, he changed his caress to a slap, hitting heracross the face. 
Crysania did not cry out. Raising her head, she stared back at hertormenter with grim pride. 
Knowing that he could not let himself be distracted by concern forher, Caramon kept his gaze on the leader, studying him calmly.This man rules by fear and brute force, he thought to himself. Ofthose who follow, many do so reluctantly. They're all afraid ofhim; he's probably the only law in this godforsaken land. But he'sobviously kept them well fed and alive when they would otherwisehave perished. So they're loyal, but just how far will theirloyalty go? 
Keeping his voice evenly modulated, Caramon drew himself up,regarding the half-ogre with a look of disdain. "Is this how youshow your bravery? Beating up women?" Caramon sneered. "Untie meand give me my sword, and we'll see what kind of man you reallyare!" 
Steeltoe regarded him with interest and, Caramon saw uneasily, alook of intelligence on his brutish face. 
"I had thought to have something more original out of you,warrior," Steeltoe said with a sigh that was part show and partnot as he rose to his feet. "Perhaps you will not be such achallenge to me as I first thought. Still, I have nothing betterto do this evening. Early, in the evening, that is," he amended,with a leer and a rakish bow to Crysania, who ignored him. 
The half-ogre threw aside the great fur cloak he wore and,turning, commanded one of his men to bring him his sword. Thetoadies scattered to do his bidding, while the other men moved tosurround a cleared space to one side of the bonfire obviously thiswas a sport that had been enjoyed before. During the confusion,Caramon managed to catch Crysania's eye. 
Inclining his head, he glanced meaningfully toward where Raistlinlay. Crysania understood his meaning at once. Looking over at themage, she smiled sadly and nodded. Her hand closed about themedallion of Paladine and her swollen lips moved. 
Caramon's guards shoved him into the circle, and he lost sight ofher. "It'll take more than prayers to Paladine to get us out ofthis one, lady," he muttered, wondering with a certain amount ofamusement, if his brother was, at that moment, praying to theQueen of Darkness for help as well. 
Well, he had no one to pray to, nothing to help him but his ownmuscle and bone and sinew. 
They cut the bindings on his arms. Caramon flinched at the pain ofblood returning to his limbs, but he flexed his stiff muscles,rubbing them to help the circulation and to warm himself. Then hestripped off his soaking-wet shirt and his breeches to fightnaked. Clothes gave the enemy a chance for a hand-hold, so his oldinstructor, Arack the dwarf, had taught him in the Games Arena inIstar. 
At the sight of Caramon's magnificent physique, there was a murmurof admiration from the men standing around the circle. The rainstreamed down over his tan, well-muscled body, the fire gleamed onhis strong chest and shoulders, glinting off his numerous battlescars. Someone handed Caramon a sword, and the warrior swung itwith practiced ease and obvious skill. Even Steeltoe, entering thering of men, seemed a bit disconcerted at the sight of the formergladiator. 
But if Steeltoe was-momentarily-startled at the appearance of hisopponent, Caramon was no less taken aback at the appearance ofSteeltoe. Half-ogre and half-human, the man had inherited the besttraits of both races. He had the girth and muscle of the ogres,but he was quick on his feet and agile, while, in his eyes, wasthe dangerous intelligence of a human. He, too, fought almostnaked, wearing nothing but a leather loincloth. But what madeCaramon's breath whistle between his teeth was the weapon thehalf-ogre carried-easily the most wonderful sword the warrior hadever seen in his life. 
A gigantic blade, it was designed for use as a two-handed weapon.Indeed, Caramon thought, eyeing it expertly, there were few men heknew who could even have lifted it, much less wielded it. But, notonly did Steeltoe heft it with ease, he used it with one hand! Andhe used it well, that much Caramon could tell from the half-ogre'spracticed, well-timed swings. The steel blade caught the fire'slight as he slashed the air. It hummed as it sliced through thedarkness, leaving a blazing trail of light behind it. 
As his opponent limped into the ring, his steel pegleg gleaming,Caramon saw with despair that he faced not the brutish, stupidopponent he had expected, but a skilled swordsman, an intelligentman, who had overcome his handicap to fight with a mastery two-legged men might well envy. 
Not only had Steeltoe overcome his handicap, Caramon discoveredafter their first pass, but the half-ogre made use of it in a mostdeadly fashion. 
The two stalked each other, feinting, each watching for anyweakness in the opponent's defense. Then, suddenly, balancinghimself easily on his good leg, Steeltoe used his steel leg asanother weapon. Whirling around, he struck Caramon with the steelleg with such force that it sent the big man crashing to theground. His sword flew from his hands. 
Quickly regaining his balance, Steeltoe advanced with his hugesword, obviously intending to end the battle and get on to otheramusements. But, though caught off guard, Caramon had seen thistype of move in the arena. Lying on the ground, gasping forbreath, feigning having had the wind knocked out of him, Caramonwaited until his enemy closed on him. Then, reaching out, hegrabbed hold of Steeltoe's good leg and jerked it out from beneathhim. 
The men standing around cheered and applauded. As the soundbrought back vivid memories of the arena at Istar, Caramon felthis blood race. Worries about black-robed brothers and white-robed clerics vanished. So did thoughts of home. His self-doubtsdisappeared. The thrill of fighting, the intoxicating drug ofdanger, coursed through his veins, filling him with an ecstasymuch like his twin felt using his magic. 
Scrambling to his feet, seeing his enemy do the same, Caramon madea sudden, desperate lunge for his sword, which lay several feetfrom him. But Steeltoe was quicker. Reaching Caramon s swordfirst, he kicked it, sending it flying. 
Even as he kept an eye on his opponent, Caramon glanced about foranother weapon and saw the bonfire, blazing at the far end of thering. 
But Steeltoe saw Caramon s glance. Instantly guessing hisobjective, the half-ogre moved to block him. 
Caramon made a run for it. The half-ogre's slashing blade slicedthrough the skin on his abdomen, leaving a glistening trail ofblood behind. With a leaping dive, Caramon rolled near the logs,grabbed one by the end, and was on his feet as Steeltoe drove hisblade into the ground where the big man's head had been onlyseconds before. 
The sword arced through the air again. Caramon heard it hummingand barely was able to parry the blow with the log in time. Chipsand sparks flew as the sword bit into the wood, Caramon havinggrabbed a log that was burning at one end. The force of Steeltoe'sblow was tremendous, making Caramon's hands ring and the sharpedges of the log dig painfully into his flesh. But he held fast,using his great strength to drive the half-ogre backward asSteeltoe fought to recover his balance. 
The half-ogre held firm, finally shoving his pegleg into theground and pushing Caramon back. The two men slowly took up theirpositions again, circling each other. Then the air was filled withthe flashing light of steel and flaming cinders. 
How long they fought, Caramon had no idea. Time drowned in a hazeof stinging pain and fear and exhaustion. His breath came inragged gasps. His lungs burned like the end of the log, his handswere raw and bleeding. But still he gained no advantage. He hadnever in his life faced such an opponent. Steeltoe, too, who hadentered the fight with a sneer of confidence, now faced his enemy The only sounds at all, in fact, were the crackling of the fire,the heavy breathing of the opponents, or perhaps the splash of abody as one went down into the mud, or the grunt of pain when ablow told. 
The circle of men and the firelight began to blur in Caramon'seyes. To his aching arms, the log felt heavier than a whole tree,now. Breathing was agony. His opponent was as exhausted as he,Caramon knew, from the fact that Steeltoe had neglected to followup an advantageous blow, being forced to simply stand and catchhis breath. The half-ogre had an ugly purple welt running alonghis side where Caramon's log had caught him. Everyone in thecircle had heard the snapping of his ribs and seen the yellowishface contort in pain. 
But he came back with a swipe of his sword that sent Caramonstaggering backward, flailing away with the log in a franticattempt to parry the stroke. Now the two stalked each other,neither hearing nor caring about anything else but the enemyacross from him. Both knew that the next mistake would be fatal. 
And then Steeltoe slipped in the mud. It was just a small slip,sending him down on his good knee, balancing on his pegleg. At thebeginning of the battle, he would have been up in seconds. But hisstrength was giving out and it took a moment longer to struggle upagain. 
That second was what Caramon had been waiting for. Lurchingforward, using the last bit of strength in his own body, Caramonlifted the log and drove it down as hard as he could on the kneeto which the pegleg was attached. As a hammer strikes a nail,Caramon's blow drove the pegleg deep into the sodden ground. 
Snarling in fury and pain, the half-ogre turned and twisted,trying desperately to drag his leg free, all the while attemptingto keep Caramon back with slashing blows of his sword. Such washis tremendous strength that he almost succeeded. Even now, seeinghis opponent trapped, Caramon had to fight the temptation to lethis hurting body rest, to let his opponent go. 
But there could be only one end to this contest. Both men hadknown that from the beginning. Staggering forward, grimly swinginghis log, Caramon caught the half-ogre's blade and sent it flyingfrom his hands. Seeing death in Caramon's eyes, Steeltoe still The log smashed into the half-ogre's head with a wet, sodden thudand the crunch of bone, flinging the half-ogre backward. The bodytwitched, then was still. Steeltoe lay in the mud, his steelpegleg still pinning him to the ground, the rain washing away theblood and brains that oozed from the cracks in his skull. 
Stumbling in weariness and pain, Caramon sank to his knees,leaning on the blood- and rain-soaked log, trying to catch hisbreath. There was a roaring in his ears-the angry shouts of mensurging forward to kill him. He didn't care. It didn't matter. Letthem come.... 
But no one attacked. 
Confused by this, Caramon raised his blurred gaze to a black-robedfigure kneeling down beside him. He felt his brother's slender armencircle him protectively, and he saw flickering darts oflightning flash warningly from the mage's fingers. Closing hiseyes, Caramon leaned his head against his brother's frail chestand drew a deep, shuddering breath. 
Then he felt cool hands touch his skin and he heard a soft voice murmur a prayer to Paladine. Caramon's eyes flared open. He shovedthe startled Crysania away, but it was too late. Her healinginfluence spread through his body. He could hear the men gatheredaround him gasp as the bleeding wounds vanished, the bruisesdisappeared, and the color returned to his deathly pale face. Eventhe archmage's pyrotechnics had not created the outburst of alarmand shocked cries the healing did. 
"Witchcraft! She healed him! Burn the witch!" 
"Burn them both, witch and wizard!" 
"They hold the warrior in thrall. We'll take them and free hissoul!" 
Glancing at his brother, he saw-from the grim expression onRaistlin's face-that the mage, too, was reliving old memories andunderstood the danger. 
"Wait!" Caramon gasped, rising to his feet as the crowd ofmuttering men drew near. Only the fear of Raistlin's magic kept Catching hold of the confused Crysania, Caramon thrust herprotectively behind him as he confronted the crowd of frightened,angry men. 
"Touch this woman, and you will die as your leader died," heshouted, his voice loud and clear above the driving rain. "Whyshould we let a witch live?" snarled one, and there were muttersof agreement. 
"Because she's my witch!" Caramon said sternly, casting a defiantgaze around. Behind him, he heard Crysania draw in a sharp breath,but Raistlin gave her a warning glance and, if she had been goingto speak, she sensibly kept quiet. "She does not hold me in thrallbut obeys my commands and those of the wizard. She will do you noharm, I swear." 
There were murmurs among the men, but their eyes, as they lookedat 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 himnear 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 overto where the body of the half-ogre lay in the reddening mud.Leaning down, he wrested the great sword from Steeltoe's deathgripand raised it high over his head. The big warrior was amagnificent sight, the firelight reflecting off his bronze skin,the muscles rippling in his arms as he stood in triumph above thebody of his slain enemy. 
"I have destroyed your leader. Now I claim the right to take hisplace!" Caramon shouted, his voice echoing among the trees. "I askonly one thing-that you leave this life of butchery and rape androbbery. We travel south-" 
That got an unexpected reaction. "South! They travel south!"several voices cried and there was scattered cheering. Caramon "What are you doing?" the mage demanded, his face pale. 
Caramon shrugged, looking about in puzzled amazement at theenthusiasm he had created. "It just seemed a good idea to have anarmed escort, Raistlin," he said. "The lands south of here are, byall accounts, wilder than those we have ridden through. I figuredwe could take a few of these men with us, that's all. I don'tunderstand-" 
A young man of noble bearing, who more than any of the others,recalled Sturm to Caramon's mind, stepped forward. Motioning theothers 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, hewas shaken by a fit of coughing that left him weak and gasping.Had it not been for Crysania hurrying to support him, he mighthave 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 neverhave a peaceful night's sleep. What do the dwarves in Thorbardinhave to do with anything? What's going on?" 
Raistlin stared at the ground, his face hidden by the shadows ofhis hood. Finally, sighing, he said coldly, "Tell them yes, we gosouth. 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 isyour only way home, my brother! And maybe our only way out of herealive." 
Caramon glanced around. The men had begun to mutter again duringthis 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 timeto try to think things through further. 
"It is said that the dwarves have stored great wealth in thekingdom 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 cattleand sheep. They'll eat like kings this winter, while our belliesgo empty!" 
"We have talked before of going south to take our share," theyoung man continued, "but Steeltoe said things were well enoughhere. There are some, though, who were having second thoughts." 
Caramon pondered, wishing he knew more of history. He had heard ofthe 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 dwarvesof Thorbardin, saying much the same things these men said. But tohear Flint tell it, the wealth the mountain dwarves stole had beentaken from their cousins, the hill dwarves. 
If this were true, then Caramon might well be justified in makingthis decision. He could, of course, do as his brother commanded.But something inside Caramon had snapped in Istar. Even though hewas beginning to think he had misjudged his brother, he knew himwell enough to continue to distrust him. Never again would he obeyRaistlin blindly. 
But then he sensed Raistlin's glittering eyes upon him, and heheard his brother's voice echo in his mind. Your only way backhome! 
Caramon clenched his fist in swift anger, but Raistlin had him, heknew. "We go south to Thorbardin," he said harshly, his troubledgaze on the sword in his hand. Then he raised his head to look atthe 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 theirspokesman. He listened, nodded, then faced Caramon once more. 
"My name is Raistlin," the mage replied. "This man is mybodyguard." 
There was no response, only dubious frowns and doubtful looks. 
"I am his bodyguard, that is true," Caramon said quietly, "but themage's real name is Fistandantilus." 
At this, there were sharp intakes of breath among the men. Thefrowns changed to looks of respect, even fear and awe. 
"My name is Garic," the young man said, bowing to the archmagewith the old-fashioned courtesy of the Knights of Solamnia. "Wehave heard of you, Great One. And though your deeds are dark asyour robes, we live in a time of dark deeds, it seems. We willfollow you and the great warrior you bring with you." 
Stepping forward, Garic laid his sword at Caramon's feet. Othersfollowed suit, some eagerly, others more warily. A few slunk offinto the shadows. Knowing them for the cowardly ruffians theywere, Caramon let them go. 
He was left with about thirty men; a few of the same noble bearingas Garic, but most of them were ragged, dirty thieves andscoundrels. 
"My army," Caramon said to himself with a grim smile that night ashe spread his blanket in Steeltoe's but the half-ogre had builtfor his own personal use. Outside the door, he could hear Garictalking to the other man Caramon had decided looked trustworthyenough to stand watch. 
Bone-weary, Caramon had assumed he'd fall asleep quickly. But hefound himself lying awake in the darkness, thinking, making plans. 
Like most young soldiers, Caramon had often dreamed of becoming anofficer. Now, unexpectedly, here was his chance. It wasn't much ofa command, maybe, but it was a start. For the first time sincethey'd arrived in this god-forsaken time, he felt a glimmer ofpleasure. 
Plans tumbled over and over in his mind. Training, the best routessouth, provisioning, supplies ... These were new and different problems for the former mercenary soldier. Even in the War of theLance, he had generally followed Tanis's lead. His brother knewnothing of these matters; Raistlin had informed Caramon coldlythat he was on his own in this. Caramon found this challengingand-oddly-refreshing. These were flesh-and-blood problems, drivingthe dark and shadowy problems with his brother from his mind. 
Thinking of his twin, Caramon glanced over to where Raistlin layhuddled near a fire that blazed in a huge stone fireplace. Despitethe heat, he was wrapped in his cloak and as many blankets asCrysania had been able to find. Caramon could hear his brothersbreath 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 outand sat up suddenly, pale and trembling. Caramon sighed. He wouldhave 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 hewould like to do this. Perhaps it had been telling the men she washis. Perhaps it was seeing the half-ogre's hands on her, feelingthe same sense of outrage he had seen reflected on his brother'sface. 
Whatever the reason, Caramon caught himself watching her thatnight in a much different way than he had watched her before,thinking thoughts that, even now, made his skin burn and his pulsequicken. 
Closing his eyes, he willed images of Tika, his wife, to come tohis mind. But he had banished these memories for so long that theywere unsatisfying. Tika was a hazy, misty picture and she was faraway. Crysania was flesh and blood and she was here! He was verymuch 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 hisother 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 seenRaistlin give him when Caramon had said the name "Fistandantilus." 
Book 2 
The Army Of Fistandantilus 
As the band of men under Caramon's command traveled south toward the great dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin, their fame grew-and sodid their numbers. The fabled "wealth beneath the mountain" had long been legend among the wretched, half-starved people ofSolamnia. That summer, they had seen most of their crops witherand die in the fields. Dread diseases stalked the land, -= morefeared and deadly than even the savage bands of goblins and ogreswho had been driven from their ancient lands by hunger. 
Though it was autumn still, the chill of coming winter was in thenight air. Faced with nothing but the bleak prospect of watchingtheir children perish through starvation or cold or the illnessesthat the clerics of these new gods could not cure, the men andwomen of Solamnia believed they had nothing to lose. Abandoningtheir homes, they packed up their families and their meagrepossessions to join the army and travel south. 
From having to worry about feeding thirty men, Caramon suddenlyfound himself responsible for several hundred, plus women andchildren as well. And more came to the camp daily. Some wereknights, trained with sword and spear; their nobility apparenteven through their rags. Others were farmers, who held the swordsCaramon put in their hands as they might have held their hoes. Butthere was a kind of grim nobility about them, too. After years ofhelplessly facing Famine and Want, it was an exhilarating thoughtto be preparing to face an enemy that could be killed andconquered. 
Without quite realizing how it happened, Caramon found himselfgeneral of what was now being called the "Army of Fistandantilus." 
At first, he had all he could manage to do in acquiring food forthe vast numbers of men and their families. But memories of the lean days of mercenary life returned to him. Discovering those whowere skilled hunters, he sent them ranging far afield in search of Many of those who came brought what grain and fruit they hadmanaged to harvest. This Caramon pooled, ordering the grainpounded into flour or maize, baking it into the rock-hard butlife-sustaining trail bread a traveling army could live on formonths. Even the children had their tasks-snaring or shootingsmall game, fishing, hauling water, chopping wood. 
Then he had to undertake the training of his raw recruits drillingthem 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 comingspread.... 
CHAPTER I 
Pax Tharkas-a monument to peace. Now it had become a symbol ofwar. 
The history of the great stone fortress of Pax Tharkas has itsroots in an unlikely legend-the story of a lost race of dwarvesknown as the Kal-thax. 
As humans cherish steel-the forging of bright weapons, the glitterof bright coin; as elves cherish their woodlands-the bringingforth and nurturing of life; so the dwarves cherish stone-theshaping of the bones of the world. 
Before the Age of Dreams was the Age of Twilight when the historyof the world is shrouded in the mists of its dawning. There dweltin the great halls of Thorbardin a race of dwarves whose stoneworkwas so perfect and so remarkable that the god Reorx, Forger of theWorld, looked upon it and marveled. Knowing in his wisdom thatonce such perfection had been attained by mortals there wasnothing left in life to strive for, Reorx took up the entire Kalthax race and brought them to live with him near heaven's forge. 
Few examples remain of the ancient craftwork of the Kal-thax.These are kept within the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin and arevalued above all other things. After the time of the Kal-thax, it As time went by, however, this worthy goal became perverted andtwisted into an obsession. Thinking and dreaming of nothing butstone, the lives of the dwarves became as inflexible andunchanging as the medium of their craft. They burrowed deep intotheir ancient halls beneath the mountain, shunning the outsideworld. And the outside world shunned them. 
Time passed and brought the tragic wars between elves and men.This ended with the signing of the Swordsheath Scroll and thevoluntary exile of Kith-Kanan and his followers from the ancientelven homeland of Silvanesti. By the terms of the SwordsheathScroll, the Qualinesti elves (meaning "freed nation") were giventhe lands west of Thorbardin for the establishment of their new homeland. 
This was agreeable to both humans and elves. Unfortunately, no onebothered to consult the dwarves. Seeing this influx of elves as athreat to their way of life beneath the mountain, the dwarvesattacked. Kith-Kanan found, to his sorrow, that he had walked awayfrom one war only to find himself embroiled in another. 
After many long years, the wise elven king managed to convince thestubborn dwarves that the elves had no interest in their stone. They wanted only the living beauty of their wilderness. Thoughthis love for something changeable and wild was totallyincomprehensible to the dwarves, they at last came to accept theidea. The elves were no longer seen as a threat. The races could,at last, become friends. 
To honor this agreement, Pax Tharkas was built. Guarding themountain pass between Qualinesti and Thorbardin, the fortress wasdedicated as a monument to differences-a symbol of unity anddiversity. 
In those times, before the Cataclysm, elves and dwarves hadtogether manned the battlements of this mighty fortress. But now,dwarves alone kept watch from its two tall towers. For the eviltime brought division once again to the races. 
Retreating into their forested homeland of Qualinesti, nursingthe, wounds that drove them to seek solitude, the elves left PaxTharkas. Safe inside their woodlands, they closed their borders toall. Trespassers-whether human or goblin, dwarf or ogre-werekilled instantly and without question. 
Duncan, King of Thorbardin, thought of this as he watched the sundrop down behind the mountains, falling from the sky intoQualinesti. He had a sudden, playful vision of the elves attackingthe sun itself for daring to enter their land, and he snortedderisively. Well, they have good reason to be paranoid, he said tohimself. They have good reason to shut out the world. What did theworld do for them? 
Entered their lands, raped their women, murdered their children,burned their homes, stole their food. And was it goblins or ogres,spawn of evil? No! Duncan growled savagely into his beard. It wasthose they had trusted, those they had welcomed as friends-humans. 
And now it's our turn, Duncan thought, pacing the battlements, aneye on the sunset that had bathed the sky in blood. It's our turnto shut our doors and tell the world good riddance! Go to theAbyss in your own way and let us go to it in ours! 
Lost in his thoughts, Duncan only gradually became aware thatanother person had joined him in his pacing; iron-shod stepskeeping time with his. The new dwarf was head and shoulders tallerthan his king and, with his long legs, could have taken two stepsfor his king's one. But he had, out of respect, slowed his pace tomatch his monarch's. 
Duncan frowned uncomfortably. At any other time, he would havewelcomed this person's company. Now it came to him as a sign ofill omen. It threw a shadow over his thoughts, as the sinking suncaused the chill shadow of the mountain peaks to lengthen andstretch out their fingers toward Pax Tharkas. 
"They'll guard our western border well," Duncan said by way ofopening the conversation, his gaze on the borders of Qualinesti. 
"Aye, Thane," the other dwarf answered, and Duncan cast a sharpglance at him from beneath his thick, gray eyebrows Though thetaller dwarf had spoken in agreement with his king, there was areserve, a coolness in the dwarf's voice indicative of hisdisapproval. 
Snorting in irritation, Duncan whirled abruptly in his pacing,heading the other direction, and had the amused satisfaction ofhaving caught his fellow dwarf off guard. But the taller dwarf,instead of stumbling to turn around and catch up with his king,simply stopped and stood staring sadly out over the battlements ofPax Tharkas into the now shadowy elven lands beyond. 
Irritably, Duncan first considered simply continuing on withouthis companion, then he came to a halt, giving the tall dwarf timeto catch up. The tall dwarf made no move, however, so finally withan exasperated expression, Duncan turned and stomped back. 
"By Reorx's beard, Kharas," he growled, "what is it?" 
"I think you should meet with Fireforge," Kharas said slowly, hiseyes on the sky that was now deepening to purple. Far above, asingle, bright star sparkled in the darkness. 
"I have nothing to say to him," Duncan said shortly. 
"The Thane is wise," Kharas spoke the ritual words with a bow, buthe accompanied it with a heavy sigh, clasping his hands behind hisback. 
Duncan exploded. "What you mean to say is 'The Thane's a stupidass!' " The king poked Kharas in the arm. "Isn't that nearer themark?" 
Kharas turned his head, smiling, stroking the silken tresses ofhis long, curling beard that shone in the light of the torchesbeing lit upon the walls. He started to reply, but the air wassuddenly filled with noise-the ringing of boots, the stamping offeet and calling of voices, the clash of axes against steel: thechanging of the watch. Captains shouted commands, men left theirpositions, others took them over. Kharas, observing this insilence, used it as a meaningful backing for his statement when hefinally did speak. 
"I think you should listen to what he has to say to you, ThaneDuncan," Kharas said simply. "There is talk that you are goadingour cousins into war-" 
"Me!" Duncan roared in a rage. "Me goading them into war! They'rethe ones who're on the march, swarming down out of their hillslike rats! It was they who left the mountain. We never asked themto abandon their ancestral home! But no, in their stiff-neckedpride they-" He sputtered on, relating a long history of wrongs,both justified and imagined. Kharas allowed him to talk, waitingpatiently until Duncan had blown off most of his anger. 
Then the tall dwarf said patiently, "It will cost you nothing tolisten, Thane, and might buy us great gains in the long run. Othereyes than those of our cousins are watching, you may be certain." 
Duncan growled, but he kept silent, thinking. Contrary to what hehad accused Kharas of thinking, King Duncan was not a stupiddwarf. Nor did Kharas consider him such. Quite the contrary. Oneof seven thanes ruling the seven clans of the dwarven kingdom,Duncan had managed to ally the other thanedoms under hisleadership giving the- dwarves of Thorbardin a king for the firsttime in centuries. Even the Dewar acknowledged Duncan theirleader, albeit reluctantly. 
The Dewar, or so-called dark dwarves, dwelt far beneath theground, in dimly lit, foul-smelling caves that even the mountaindwarves of Thorbardin, who lived most of their lives below ground,hesitated to enter. Long ago, a trace of insanity had shown up inthis particular clan, causing them to be shunned by the others.Now, after centuries of inbreeding forced upon them by isolation,the insanity was more pronounced, while those judged sane were anembittered, dour lot. 
But they had their uses as well. Quick to anger, ferocious killerswho took pleasure in killing, they were a valued part of theThane's army. Duncan treated them well for that reason andbecause, at heart, he was a kind and just dwarf. But he was smartenough not to turn his back on them. 
Likewise, Duncan was smart enough to consider the wisdom ofKharas's words. "Other eyes will be watching." That was trueenough. He cast a glance back to the west, this time a wary one.The elves wanted no trouble, of that he felt certain.Nevertheless, if they thought the dwarves likely to provoke war,they would act swiftly to protect their homeland. Turning, helooked to the north. Rumor had it that the warlike Plainsmen of Abanasinia were considering an alliance with the hill dwarves,whom they had allowed to camp upon their lands. In fact, for allDuncan knew, this alliance could have already been made. At leastif he talked to this hill dwarf, Fireforge, he might find out. 
Then, too, there were darker rumors still ... rumors of an armymarching from the shattered lands of Solamnia, an army led by apowerful, black-robed wizard.... 
"Very well!" King Duncan snarled with no good grace. "You have wonagain, Kharas. Tell the hill dwarf I will meet him in the Hall ofThanes at the next watch. See if you can dredge up representativesfrom the other thanes. We'll do this above board, since that'swhat you recommend." 
Smiling, Kharas bowed, his long beard nearly sweeping the tops ofhis boots. With a surly nod, Duncan turned and stomped below, hisboots ringing out the measure of his displeasure. The otherdwarves along the battlements bowed as their king passed butalmost immediately turned back to their watch. Dwarves are anindependent lot, loyal to their clans first and anyone elsesecond. Though all respected Duncan, he was not revered and heknew it. Maintaining his position was a daily struggle. 
Conversation, briefly interrupted by the passage of the king,renewed almost immediately. These dwarves knew war was coming,were eager for it, in fact. Hearing their deep voices, listeningto their talk of battles and fighting, Kharas gave another sigh. 
Turning in the opposite direction, he started off in search of thedelegation of hill dwarves, his heart nearly as heavy as thegigantic war hammer he carried-a hammer few other dwarves couldeven lift. Kharas, too, saw war coming. He felt as he had feltonce when, as a young child, he had traveled to the city of Tarsisand stood on the beach, watching in wonder as the waves crashedupon the shore. That war was coming seemed as inevitable andunstoppable as the waves themselves. But he was determined to dowhat he could to try to prevent it. 
Kharas made no secret of his hatred of war, he was strong in hisarguments for peace. Many among the dwarves found this odd, forKharas was the acknowledged hero of his race. As a young dwarf inthe days before the Cataclysm, he had been among those who foughtthe legions of goblins and ogres in the Great Goblin Wars fomentedby the Kingpriest of Istar. 
That was a time when there was still trust among races. Allies ofthe Knights, the dwarves had gone to their aid when the goblinsinvaded Solamnia. The dwarves and knights fought side by side, andyoung Kharas had been deeply impressed by the knightly Code andthe Measure. The Knights, in turn, had been impressed by the youngdwarf's fighting skill. 
Taller and stronger than any others of his race, Kharas wielded ahuge hammer that he had made himself-legend said it was with thegod, Reorx's, help-and there were countless times he held thefield alone until his men could rally behind him to drive off theinvaders. 
For his valor, the Knights awarded him the name "Kharas," whichmeans "knight" in their language. There was no higher honor theycould bestow upon an outsider. 
When Kharas returned home, he found his fame had spread. He couldhave been the military leader of the dwarves; indeed, he mighthave been king himself, but he had no such ambitions. He had beenone of Duncan's strongest supporters, and many believed Duncanowed his rise to power in his clan to Kharas. But, if so, thatfact had not poisoned their relationship. The older dwarf and theyounger hero became close friends Duncan's rock-hard practicalitykeeping Kharas's idealism well-grounded. 
And then came the Cataclysm. In those first, terrible yearsfollowing the shattering of the land, Kharas's courage shone as anexample to his beleaguered people. His had been the speech thatled the thanes to join together and name Duncan king. The Dewartrusted Kharas, when they trusted no other. Because of thisunification, the dwarves had survived and even managed to thrive. 
Now, Kharas was in his prime. He had been married once, but hisbeloved wife perished during the Cataclysm, and dwarves, when theywed, wed for life. There would be no sons bearing his name, forwhich Kharas, contemplating the bleak future he foresaw ahead forthe world, was almost thankful. 
"Reghar Fireforge, of the hill dwarves, and party." 
The herald pronounced the name, stamping the butt end of hisceremonial spear upon the hard, granite floor. The hill dwarvesentered, walking proudly up to the throne where Duncan sat in whatwas now called the Hall of Thanes in the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Behind him, in shorter chairs that had been hastily dragged in forthe occasion, sat the six representatives of the other clans toact as witnesses for their thanes. They were witnesses only, thereto report back to their thanes what had been said and done. Sinceit was war time, all authority rested with Duncan. (At least asmuch of it as he could claim.) 
The witnesses were, in fact, nothing more than captains of theirrespective divisions. Though supposedly a single unit made upcollectively of all the dwarves from each clan, the army was,nonetheless, merely a collection of clans gathered together. Eachclan provided its own units with its own leaders; each clan livedseparate and apart from the others. Fights among the clans werenot uncommon-there were blood feuds that went back for generations. Duncan had tried his best to keep a tight lid onthese boiling cauldrons, but-every now and then-the pressure builttoo high and the lid blew off. 
Now, however, facing a common foe, the clans were united. Even theDewar representative, a dirty-faced, ragged captain named Argatwho wore his beard braided in knots in a barbaric fashion and who amused himself during the proceedings by skillfully tossing aknife into the air and catching it as it descended, listened tothe proceedings with less than his usual air of sneering contempt. 
There was, in addition, the captain of a squadron of gullydwarves. Known as the Highgug, he was there by Duncan's courtesyonly. The word "gug" meaning "private" in gully dwarf language,this dwarf was therefore nothing more than a "high private," arank considered laughable in the rest of the army. It was anoutstanding honor among gully dwarves, however, and the Highgugwas held in awe by most of his troops. Duncan, always politic, wasunfailingly polite to the Highgug and had, therefore, won hisundying loyalty. Although there were many who thought this mighthave been more of a hindrance than a help, Duncan replied that younever knew when such things could come in handy. 
And so the Highgug was here as well, though few saw him. He hadbeen given a chair in an obscure corner and told to sit still andkeep quiet, instructions he followed to the letter. In fact, theyhad to return to remove him two days later. 
"Dwarves is dwarves," was an old saying common to the populace ofthe rest of Krynn when referring to the differences between thehill dwarves and the mountain dwarves. 
But there were differences-vast differences, to the dwarvish mind,though these might not have been readily apparent to any outsideobserver. Oddly enough, and neither the elves nor the dwarveswould admit it, the hill dwarves had left the ancient kingdom ofThorbardin for many of the same reasons that the Qualinesti elvesleft the traditional homeland of Silvanesti. 
The dwarves of Thorbardin lived rigid, highly structured lives.Everyone knew his or her place within his or her own clan.Marriage between clans was unheard of; loyalty to the clan beingthe binding force of every dwarf's life. Contact with the outsideworld was shunned-the very worst punishment that could beinflicted upon a dwarf was exile; even execution was consideredmore merciful. The dwarf's idea of an idyllic life was to be born,grow up, and die without ever sticking one's nose outside thegates of Thorbardin. 
Unfortunately, this was-or at least had been in the past-a dreamonly. Constantly called to war to defend their holdings, thedwarves were forced to mix with the outside world. And-if there were no wars-there were always those who sought the dwarven skillin building and who were willing to pay vast sums to acquire it.The beautiful city of Palanthas had been lovingly constructed by averitable army of dwarves, as had many of the other cities inKrynn. Thus a race of well-traveled, free-spirited, independentdwarves came about. They talked of intermarriage between theclans, they spoke matter of factly about trade with humans andelves. They actually expressed a desire to live in the open air.And-most heinous of all-they expressed the belief that otherthings in life might hold more importance than the crafting ofstone. 
This, of course, was seen by the more rigid dwarves as a directthreat to dwarvish society itself, so, inevitably, the splitoccurred. The independent dwarves left their home beneath themountain in Thorbardin. The parting did not occur peacefully.There were harsh words on both sides. Blood feuds started then that would last for hundreds of years. Those who left took to thehills where, if life wasn't all they had hoped for, at least itwas free-they could marry whom they chose, come and go as theychose, earn their own money. The dwarves left behind simply closedranks and became even more rigid, if that were possible. 
The two dwarves facing each other now were thinking of this, asthey sized each other up. They were also thinking, perhaps, thatthis was a historic moment-the first time both sides had met in centuries. 
Reghar Fireforge was the elder of the two, a top-ranking member ofthe strongest clan of hill dwarves. Though nearing his two-hundredth Day of Life Gift, the old dwarf was hale and heartystill. He came of a long-lived clan. The same could not be said ofhis sons, however. Their mother had died of a weak heart and thesame malady seemed to run in the family. Reghar had lived to buryhis eldest son and, already, he could see some of the samesymptoms of an early death in his next oldest-a young man ofseventy-five, just recently married. 
Dressed in furs and animal skins, looking as barbaric (if cleaner)than the Dewar, Reghar stood with his feet wide apart, staring atDuncan, his rock-hard eyes glittering from beneath brows so thickmany wondered how the old dwarf could see at all. His hair wasiron gray, so was his beard, and he wore it plaited and combed andtucked into his belt in hill-dwarf fashion. Flanked by an escort King Duncan returned Reghar's gaze without faltering-this staring-down contest was an ancient dwarvish practice and, if the partieswere particularly stubborn, had been known to result in bothdwarves keeling over from exhaustion unless interrupted by someneutral third party. Duncan, as he regarded Reghar grimly, beganto stroke his own curled and silky beard that flowed freely overhis broad stomach. It was a sign of contempt, and Reghar, noticingit without admitting that he noticed it, flushed in anger. 
The six clan members sat stoically in their chairs, prepared for along sitting. Reghar's escort spread their feet and fixed theireyes on nothing. The Dewar continued to toss his knife in the air-much to everyone's annoyance. The Highgug sat in his corner,forgotten except for the redolent odor of gully dwarf thatpervaded the chill room. It seemed likely, from the look ofthings, that Pax Tharkas would crumble with age around their headsbefore anyone spoke. Finally, with a sigh, Kharas stepped inbetween Reghar and Duncan. Their line of vision broken, each partycould drop his gaze without losing dignity. 
Bowing to his king, Kharas turned and bowed to Reghar withprofound respect. Then he retreated. Both sides were now free totalk on an equal basis, though each side privately had its ownideas about how equal that might be. 
"I have granted you audience," Duncan stated, starting matters offwith formal politeness that, among dwarves, never lasted long,"Reghar Fireforge, in order to hear what brings our kinsmen on ajourney to a realm they chose to leave long ago." 
"A good day it was for us when we shook the dust of the mouldy oldtomb from our feet," Reghar growled, "to live in the open likehonest men instead of skulking beneath the rock like lizards." 
Reghar patted his plaited beard, Duncan stroked his. Both glaredat each other. Reghar's escort wagged their heads, thinking theirchieftain had come off better in the first verbal contest. 
"Then why is it that the honest men have returned to the mouldyold tomb, except that they come as grave robbers?" Duncan snapped,leaning back with an air of self-satisfaction. 
There was a murmur of appreciation from the six mountain dwarves,who clearly thought their thane had scored a point. 
"I fail to understand the point of that question," Duncan saidsmoothly, "since you have nothing of value anyone would want tosteal. It is said even the kender avoid your land." 
There was appreciative laughter from the mountain dwarves, whilethe hill dwarves literally shook with rage-that being a mortalinsult. Kharas sighed. 
"I'll tell you about stealing!" Reghar snarled, his beardquivering with anger. "Contracts-that's what you've stolen!Underbidding us, working at a loss to take the bread from ourmouths! And there've been raids into our lands-stealing our grainand cattle! We've heard the stories of the wealth you've amassedand we've come to claim what is rightfully ours! No more, noless!" 
"Lies!" roared Duncan, leaping to his feet in a fury. "All lies!What wealth lies below the mountain we've worked for, with honestsweat! And here you come back, like spendthrift children, whiningthat your bellies are empty after wasting the days carousing whenyou should have been working!" He made an insulting gesture. "Youeven look like beggars!" 
"Beggars, is it?" Reghar roared in his turn, his face turning adeep shade of purple. "No, by Reorx's beard! If I was starving andyou handed me a crust of bread, I'd spit on your shoes! Deny thatyou're fortifying this place, practically on our borders! Denythat you've roused the elves against us, causing them to cut offtheir trade! Beggars! No! By Reorx's beard and his forge and hishammer, we'll come back, but it'll be as conquerors! We'll havewhat is rightfully ours and teach you a lesson to boot!" 
"You'll come, you sniveling cowards"-Duncan sneered "hiding behindthe skirts of a black-robed wizard and the bright shields of humanwarriors, greedy for spoils! They'll stab you in the back and thenrob your corpses!" 
"Who should know better about robbing corpses!" Reghar shouted."You've been robbing ours for years!" 
The six clan members sprang out of their chairs, and Reghar'sescort jumped forward. The Dewar's high-pitched laughter rose The war might have started then and there had not Kharas runbetween the two sides, his tall figure towering over everyone.Pushing and shoving, he forced both sides to back off. Still, evenafter the two were separated, there was the shout of derision, theoccasional insult hurled. But-at a stern glance from Kharas-thesesoon ceased and all fell into a sullen, surly silence. 
Kharas spoke, his deep voice gruff and filled with sadness. "Longago, I prayed the god to grant me the strength to fight injusticeand evil in the world. Reorx answered my prayer by granting meleave to use his forge, and there, on the forge of the godhimself, I made this hammer. It has shone in battle since,fighting the evil things of this world and protecting my homeland,the homeland of my people. Now, you, my king, would ask of me thatI go to war against my kinsmen? And you, my kinsmen, wouldthreaten to bring war to our land? Is this where your words areleading you-that I should use this hammer against my own blood?" 
Neither side spoke. Both glowered at each other from beneathtangled brows, both seemed almost half-ashamed. Kharas's heartfeltspeech touched many. Only two heard it unmoved. Both were old men,both had long ago lost any illusions about the world, both knewthis rift had grown too wide to be bridged by words. But thegesture had to be made. 
"Here is my offer, Duncan, King of Thorbardin," Reghar said,breathing heavily. "Withdraw your men from this fortress. Give PaxTharkas and the lands that surround it to us and our human allies. Give us one-half of the treasure beneath the mountain-the half that is rightfully ours-and allow those of us who might choose todo so to return to the safety of the mountain if the evil grows inthis land. Persuade the elves to lift their trade barriers, andsplit all contracts for masonry work fifty-fifty. 
"In return, we will farm the land around Thorbardin and trade ourcrops to you for less than it's costing you to grow themunderground. We'll help protect your borders and the mountainitself, if need arises." 
Kharas gave his lord a pleading look, begging him to consider-orat least negotiate. But Duncan was beyond reasoning, it seemed. 
"Get out!" he snarled. "Return to your black-robed wizard! Returnto your human friends! Let us see if your wizard is powerful enough to blow down the walls of this fortress, or uproot thestones of our mountain. Let us see how long your human friendsremain friends when the winter winds swirl about the campfires andtheir blood drips on the snow!" 
Reghar gave Duncan a final look, filled with such enmity andhatred it might well have been a blow. Then, turning on his heel,he motioned to his followers. They stalked out of the Hall ofThanes and out of Pax Tharkas. 
Word spread quickly. By the time the hill dwarves were ready toleave, the battlements were lined with mountain dwarves, shoutingand hooting derisively. Reghar and his party rode off, their facesstern and grim, never once looking back. 
Kharas, meanwhile, stood in the Hall of Thanes, alone with hisking (and the forgotten Highgug). The six witnesses had allreturned to their clans, spreading the news. Kegs of ale and thepotent drink known as dwarf spirits were broached that night incelebration. Already, the sounds of singing and raucous laughtercould be heard echoing through the great stone monument to peace. 
"What would it have hurt to negotiate, Thane?" Kharas asked, hisvoice heavy with sorrow. 
Duncan, his sudden anger apparently vanished, looked at the tallerdwarf and shook his head, his graying beard brushing against hisrobes of state. He was well within his rights to refuse to answersuch an impertinent question. Indeed, no one but Kharas would havehad the courage to question Duncan's decision at all. 
"Kharas," Duncan said, putting his hand on his friend's armaffectionately, "tell me-is there treasure beneath the mountain?Have we robbed our kinsmen? Do we raid their lands, or the landsof the humans, for that matter? Are their accusations just?" 
"No," Kharas answered, his eyes meeting those of his sovereignsteadily. 
Duncan sighed. "You have seen the harvest. You know that whatlittle money remains in the treasury we will spend to lay in whatwe can for this winter." 
"Tell them this!" Kharas said earnestly. "Tell them the truth!They are not monsters! They are our kinsmen, they will understand" Duncan smiled sadly, wearily. "No, they are not monsters. But,what is worse, they have become like children." He shrugged. "Oh,we could tell them the truth-show them even. But they would notbelieve us. They would not believe their own eyes. Why? Becausethey want to believe otherwise!" 
Kharas frowned, but Duncan continued patiently. "They want tobelieve, my friend. More than that, they have to believe. It istheir only hope for survival. They have nothing, nothing exceptthat hope. And so they are willing to fight for it. I understandthem." The old king's eyes dimmed for a moment, and Kharas-staringat him in amazement-realized then that his anger had been allfeigned, all show. 
"Now they can return to their wives and their hungry children andthey can say, 'We will fight the usurpers! When we win, you willhave full bellies again.' And that will help them forget theirhunger, for awhile." 
Kharas's face twisted in anguish. "But to go this far! Surely, wecan share what little-" 
"My friend," Duncan said softly, "by Reorx's Hammer, I swear this-if I agree to their terms, we would all perish. Our race wouldcease to exist." 
Kharas stared at him. "As bad as that?" he asked. 
Duncan nodded. "Aye, as bad as that. Few only know this theleaders of the clans, and now you. And I swear you to secrecy. Theharvest was disastrous. Our coffers are nearly empty, and now wemust hoard what we can to pay for this war. Even for our ownpeople, we will be forced to ration food this winter. With what wehave, we calculate that we can make it-barely. Add hundreds ofmore mouths-" He shook his head. 
Kharas stood pondering, then he lifted his head, his dark eyesflashing. "If that is true, then so be it!" he said sternly."Better we all starve to death, than die fighting each other!" 
"Noble words, my friend," Duncan answered. The beating of drumsthrummed through the room and deep voices raised in stirring warchants, older than the rocks of Pax Tharkas, older-perhaps-thanthe bones of the world itself. "You can't eat noble words, though,Kharas. You can't drink them or wrap them around your feet or burnthem in your firepit or give them to children crying in hunger." 
Duncan raised an eyebrow. "They will cry for a month," he saidsimply, "then they will eat his share of the food. And wouldn't hewant it that way?" 
With that, he turned and left the Hall of Thanes, heading for thebattlements once more. 
As Duncan counseled Kharas in the Hall of Thanes, Reghar Fireforgeand his party were guiding their short-statured, shaggy hillponies out of the fortress of Pax Tharkas, the hoots and laughterof their kinsmen ringing in their ears. 
Reghar did not speak a word for long hours, until they were wellout of sight of the huge double towers of the fortress. Then, whenthey came to a crossing in the road, the old dwarf reined in hishorse. 
Turning to the youngest member of the party, he said in a grim,emotionless voice, "Continue north, Darren Ironfist." The olddwarf drew forth a battered, leather pouch. Reaching inside, hepulled out his last gold piece. For a long moment he stood staringat it, then he pressed it into the hands of the dwarf. "Here. Buypassage across the New Sea. Find this Fistandantilus and tell him... tell him-" 
Reghar paused, realizing the enormity of his action. But, he hadno choice. This had been decided before he left. Scowling, hesnarled, "Tell him that, when he gets here, he'll have an armywaiting to fight for him." 
CHAPTER 2 
The night was cold and dark over the lands of Solamnia. The starsabove gleamed with a sparkling, brittle light. The constellationsof the Platinum Dragon, Paladine, and Takhisis, Queen of Darkness,circled each other endlessly around Gilean's Scales of Balance. Itwould be two hundred years or more before these sameconstellations vanished from the skies, as the gods and men wagedwar over Krynn. 
For now, each was content with watching the other. 
If either god had happened to glance down, he or she would,perhaps, have been amused to see what appeared to be mankind'sfeeble attempts to imitate their celestial glory. On the plains ofSolamnia, outside the mountain fortress city of Garnet, campfiresdotted the flat grasslands, lighting the night below as the starslit the night above. 
The Army of Fistandantilus. 
The flames of the campfires were reflected in shield andbreastplate, danced off sword blades and flashed on spear tip. Thefires shone on faces bright with hope and new-Found pride, theyburned in the dark eyes of the camp followers and leaped up tolight the merry play of the children. 
Around the campfires stood or sat groups of men, talking andlaughing, eating and drinking, working over their equipment. Thenight air was filled with jests and oaths and tall tales. Here andthere were groans of pain, as men rubbed shoulders and arms thatached from unaccustomed exercise. Hands calloused from swinginghoes were blistered from wielding spears. But these were acceptedwith good-natured shrugs. They could watch their children playaround the campfires and know that they had eaten, if not well, atleast adequately that night. They could face their wives withpride. For the first time in years, these men had a goal, apurpose in their lives. 
There were some who knew this goal might well be death, but thosewho knew this recognized and understood it and made the choice toremain anyway. 
"After all," said Garic to himself as his replacement came torelieve him of his guard duty, "death comes to all. Better a manmeet it in the blazing sunlight, his sword flashing in his hand,than to have it come creeping up on him in the night unawares, orclutch at him with foul, diseased hands." 
The young man, now that he was off duty, returned to his campfireand retrieved a thick cloak from his bedroll. Hastily gulping downa bowl of rabbit stew, he then walked among the campfires. 
Headed for the outskirts of the camp, he walked with purpose,ignoring many invitations to join friends around their fires.These he waved off genially and continued on his way. Few thoughtanything of this. A great many fled the lights of the fires at Garic did have an appointment in the shadows, but it was not witha lover, though several young women in camp would have been morethan happy to share the night with the handsome young nobleman.Coming to a large boulder, far from camp and far from othercompany, Garic wrapped his cloak about him, sat down, and waited. 
He did not wait long. 
"Garic?" said a hesitant voice. 
"Michael!" Garic cried warmly, rising to his feet. The two menclasped hands and then, overcome, embraced each other warmly. 
"I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you ride into camp today,cousin!" Garic continued, gripping the other young man's hand asthough afraid to let him go, afraid he might disappear into thedarkness. 
"Nor I you," said Michael, holding fast to his kinsmen and tryingto rid his throat of a huskiness it seemed to have developed.Coughing, he sat down on the boulder and Garic joined him. Bothremained silent for a few moments as they cleared their throatsand pretended to be stern and soldierly. 
"I thought it was a ghost," Michael said with a hollow attempt ata laugh. "We heard you were dead...... His voice died and hecoughed again. "Confounded damp weather," he muttered, "gets in aman's windpipes." 
"I escaped," Garic said quietly. "But my father, my mother, and mysister were not so lucky." 
"Anne?" Michael murmured, pain in his voice. 
"She died quickly," Garic said quietly, "as did my mother. Myfather saw to that, before the mob butchered him. It made themmad. They mutilated his body-" 
Garic choked. Michael gripped his arm in sympathy. "A noble man,your father. He died as a true Knight, defending his home. Abetter death than some face," he added grimly, causing Garic tolook at him with a sharp, penetrating glance. "But, what is yourstory? How did you get away from the mob? Where have you been thislast year?" 
"I did not get away from them," Garic said bitterly. "I arrivedwhen it was all over. Where I had been did not matter'-the youngman flushed-"but I should have been with them, to die with them!" 
"No, your father would not have wanted that." Michael shook hishead. "You live. You will carry on the name." 
Garic frowned, his eyes glinted darkly. "Perhaps. Though I havenot lain with a woman since-" He shook his head. "At any rate, Icould only do for them what I could. I set fire to the castle-" 
Michael gasped, but Garic continued, unhearing. 
"-so that the mobs should not take it over. My family's ashesremain there, among the blackened stones of the hall my great-great-grandfather built. Then I rode aimlessly, for a time, notmuch caring what happened to me. Finally, I met up with a group ofother men, many like myself-driven from their homes for variousreasons. 
"They asked no questions. They cared nothing about me except thatI could wield a sword with skill. I joined them and we lived offour wits." 
"Bandits?" Michael asked, trying to keep a startled tone from hisvoice and failing, apparently, for Garic cast him a dark glance. 
"Yes, bandits," the young man answered coldly. "Does that shockyou? That a Knight of Solamnia should so forget the Code and theMeasure that he joins with bandits? I'll ask you this, Michael-where were the Code and the Measure when they murdered my father,your uncle? Where are they anywhere in this wretched land?" 
"Nowhere, perhaps," Michael returned steadily, "except in ourhearts." 
Garic was silent. Then he began to weep, harsh sobs that tore athis body. His cousin put his arms around him, holding him close.Garic gave a shuddering sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of hishand. 
"I have not cried once since I found them," he said in a muffledvoice. "And you are right, cousin. Living with robbers, I had sunkinto a pit from which I might not have escaped, but for thegeneral-" Garic nodded. "We ambushed him and his party one night. And thatopened my eyes. Before, I had always robbed people without muchthought or, sometimes, I even enjoyed it-telling myself it wasdogs like these who had murdered my father. But in this partythere was a woman and the magic-user. The wizard was ill. I hithim, and he crumpled at my touch like a broken doll. And thewoman-I knew what they would do to her and the thought sickenedme. But, I was afraid of the leader Steeltoe, they called him. Hewas a beast! Half-ogre. 
"But the general challenged him. I saw true nobility that night-aman willing to give his life to protect those weaker than himself.And he won." Garic grew calmer. As he talked, his eyes shone withadmiration. "I saw, then, what my life had become. When Caramonasked if we would come with him, I agreed, as did most of theothers. But it wouldn't have mattered about them-I would have gonewith him anywhere." 
"And now you're part of his personal guard?" Michael said,smiling. 
Garic nodded, flushing with pleasure. "I-I told him I was nobetter than the others-a bandit, a thief. But he just looked atme, as though he could see inside my soul, and smiled and saidevery man had to walk through a dark, starless night and, when hefaced the morning, he'd be better for it." 
"Strange," Michael said. "I wonder what he meant?" 
"I think I understand," Garic said. His glance went to the faredge of the camp where Caramon's huge tent stood, smoke from thefires curling around the fluttering, silken flag that was a blackstreak against the stars. "Sometimes, I wonder if he isn't walkingthrough his own 'dark night.' I've seen a look on his face,sometimes-" Garic shook his head. "You know," he said abruptly,"he and the wizard are twin brothers." 
Michael's eyes opened wide. Garic confirmed it with a nod. "It isa strange relationship. There's no love lost between them." 
"One of the Black Robes?" Michael said, snorting. "I should thinknot! I wonder the mage even travels with us. From what I haveheard, these wizards can ride the night winds and summon forcesfrom the graves to do their battles." 
"This one could do that, I've no doubt," Garic replied, giving asmaller tent next to the general's a dark glance. "Though I haveseen him do his magic only once-back at the bandit camp-I know heis powerful. One look from his eyes, and my stomach shrivelsinside of me, my blood turns to water. But, as I said, he was notwell when we first met up with them. Night after night, when hestill slept in his brother's tent, I heard him cough until I didnot think he could draw breath again. How can a man live with suchpain, I asked myself more than once." 
"But he seemed fine when I saw him today." 
"His health has improved greatly. He does nothing to tax it,however. Just spends all day in his tent, studying the spellbookshe carries with him in those great, huge chests. But he's walkinghis 'dark night,' too," Garic added. "A gloom hangs about him, andit's been growing the farther south we travel. He is haunted byterrible dreams. I've heard him cry out in his sleep. Horriblecries-they'd wake the dead." 
Michael shuddered, there., sighing, looked over at Caramon's tent."I had grave misgivings about joining an army led, they say, byone of the Black Robes. And of all the wizards who have ever lived, this Fistandantilus is rumored to be the most powerful. Ihad not fully committed myself to join when I rode in today. Ithought I would look things over, find out if it's true they gosouth to help the oppressed people of Abanasinia in their fightagainst mountain dwarves." 
Sighing again, he made a gesture as if to stroke long mustaches,but his hand stopped. He was clean-shaven, having removed theages-old symbol of the Knights-the symbol that led, these days, todeath. 
"Though my father still lives, Garic," Michael continued, "I thinkhe might well trade his life for your father's death. We weregiven a choice by the lord of Vingaard Keep-we could stay in thecity and die or leave and live. Father would have died. I, too, ifwe'd had only ourselves to think of. But we could not afford theluxury of honor. A bitter day it was when we packed what we couldon a mean cart and left the Hall. I saw them settled in a wretched cottage in Throytl. They'll be all right, for the winter at least.Mother is strong and does the work of a man. My little brothersare good hunters. . . ." 
"Your father?" Garic asked gently when Michael stopped talking. 
Michael suddenly clenched his fist. "Why am I lying to you, Garic?I don't give a damn about oppressed people in Abanasinia! I cameto find the treasure! The treasure beneath the mountain! And glory! Glory to bring back the light in his eyes! If we win, theKnights can lift their heads once more!" 
He, too, gazed at the small tent next to the large one-the smalltent that had the sign of a wizard's residence hung upon it, thesmall tent that everyone in the camp avoided, if possible. "But,to find this glory, led by the man called the Dark One. TheKnights of old would not have done so. Paladine-" 
"Paladine has forgotten us," Garic said bitterly. "We are left onour own. I know nothing of black-robed wizards, I care littleabout that one. I stay here and I follow because of one man thegeneral. If he leads me to my fortune, well and good. If not"-Garic sighed deeply-"then he has at least led me to find peacewithin myself. I could wish the same for him," he said, beneathhis breath. Then, rising, he shook off his gloomy thoughts. 
Michael rose, too. 
"I must return to camp and get some sleep. It is early wakingtomorrow," Garic said. "We're preparing to march within the week,so I hear. Well, cousin, will you stay?" 
Michael looked at Garic. He looked at Caramon's tent, its bright-colored flag with the nine-pointed star fluttering in the chillair. He looked at the wizard's tent. Then, he nodded. Garicgrinned widely. The two clasped hands and walked back to thecampfires, arms around each other's shoulders. 
"Tell me this, though, "Michael said in a hushed voice as theywalked, "is it true this Caramon keeps a witch?" 
CHAPTER 3 
"Where are you going?" Caramon demanded harshly. Stepping into histent, his eyes blinked rapidly to try to get accustomed to theshadowy darkness after the chill glare of the autumn sun. 
"I'm moving out," Crysania said, carefully folding her whiteclerical robes and placing them in the chest that had been storedbeneath her cot. Now it sat open on the floor beside her. 
"We've been through this," Caramon growled in a low voice.Glancing behind him at the guards outside the tent entrance, hecarefully lowered the tent flap. 
Caramon's tent was his pride and joy. Having originally belongedto a wealthy Knight of Solamnia, it had been brought to Caramon asa gift by two young, stern-faced men, who though they claimed tohave "found" it-handled it with such skilled hands and loving carethat it was obvious they had no more "found" it than they hadfound their own arms or legs. 
Made of some fabric none in this day and age could identify, itwas so cunningly woven that not a breath of wind penetrated eventhe seams. Rainwater rolled right off it; Raistlin said it hadbeen treated with some sort of oil. It was large enough forCaramon's cot, several large chests containing maps, the money,and jewels they brought from the Tower of High Sorcery, clothesand armor, plus a cot for Crysania, as well as a chest for herclothing. Still, it did not seem crowded when Caramon receivedvisitors. 
Raistlin slept and studied in a smaller tent made of the samefabric and construction that was pitched near his brother's.Though Caramon had offered to share the larger tent, the mage hadinsisted upon privacy. Knowing his twin's need for solitude andquiet, and not particularly enjoying being around his brotheranyway, Caramon had not argued. Crysania, however, had openlyrebelled when told she must remain in Caramon's tent. 
In vain, Caramon argued that it was safer for her there. Storiesabout her "witchcraft," the strange medallion of a reviled god shewore, and her healing of the big warrior had spread quicklythrough the camp and were eagerly whispered to all newcomers. Thecleric never left her tent but that dark glances followed her.Women grabbed their babies to their breasts when she came near.Small children ran from her in fear that was half mocking and halfreal. 
"I am well aware of your arguments," Crysania remarked, continuingto fold her clothes and pack them away without looking up at thebig man. "And I don't concede them. Oh!" she stopped him as hedrew a breath to speak-"I've heard your stories of witch-burning. 
"Whose tent are you moving to, then?" Caramon asked, his faceflushing. "My brother's?" 
Crysania ceased folding the clothes, holding them for long momentsover her arm, staring straight ahead. Her face did not changecolor. It grew, if possible, a shade more pale. Her lips pressedtightly together. When she answered, her voice was cold and calmas a winter's day. "There is another small tent, similar to his. Iwill live in that one. You may post a guard, if you think itnecessary." 
"Crysania, I'm sorry," Caramon said, moving toward her. She stilldid not look at him. Reaching out his hands, he took hold of herarms, gently, and turned her around, forcing her to face him. "I... I didn't mean that. Please forgive me. And, yes, I think it isnecessary to post a guard! But there is no one I trust, Crysania,unless it is myself. And, even then-" His breathing quickened, thehands on her arms tightened almost imperceptibly. 
"I love you, Crysania," he said softly. "You're not like any otherwoman I've ever known! I didn't mean to. I don't know how it happened. I-I didn't even really much like you when I first metyou. I thought you were cold and uncaring, wrapped up in thatreligion of yours. But when I saw you in the clutches of thathalf-ogre, I saw your courage, and when I thought about what-whatthey might do to you-" 
He felt her shudder involuntarily; she still had dreams about thatnight. She tried to speak, but Caramon took advantage of herreaction to hurry on. 
"I've seen you with my brother. It reminds me of the way I was, inthe old days"-his voice grew wistful-"you care for him sotenderly, so patiently." 
Crysania did not break free of his grasp. She simply stood there,looking up at him with clear, gray eyes, holding the folded whiterobe close against her chest. "This, too, is a reason, Caramon,"she said sadly. "I have sensed your growing" -now she flushed,slightly-"affection for me and, while I know you too well tobelieve you would ever force attentions on me that I wouldconsider unwelcome, I do not feel comfortable sleeping in the sametent alone with you." 
"What you feel for me isn't love, Caramon," Crysania said softly."You are lonely, you miss your wife. It is her you love. I know,I've seen the tenderness in your eyes when you talk about Tika." 
His face darkened at the sound of Tika's name. 
"What would you know of love?" Caramon asked abruptly, releasinghis grasp and looking away. "I love Tika, sure. I've loved lots ofwomen. Tika's loved her share of men, too, I'll wager." He drew inan angry breath. That wasn't true, and he knew it. But it easedhis own guilt, guilt he'd been wrestling with for months. "Tika'shuman!" he continued surlily. "She's flesh and blood-not somepillar of ice!" 
"What do I know of love?" Crysania repeated, her calm slipping,her gray eyes darkening in anger. "I'll tell you what I know oflove. I-" 
"Don't say it!" Caramon cried in a low voice, completely losingcontrol of himself and grabbing her in his arms. "Don't say youlove Raistlin! He doesn't deserve your love! He's using you, justlike he used me! And he'll throw you away when he's finished!" 
"Let go of me!" Crysania demanded, her cheeks stained pink, hereyes a deep gray. 
"Can't you see!" Caramon cried, almost shaking her in hisfrustration. "Are you blind?" 
"Pardon me," said a soft voice, "if I am interrupting. But thereis urgent news." 
At the sound of that soft voice, Crysania's face went white, thenscarlet. Caramon, too, started at the sound, his hands looseningtheir hold. Crysania drew back from him and, in her haste,stumbled over the chest and fell to her knees. Her face well hidden by her long, black, flowing hair, she remained kneelingbeside the chest, pretending to rearrange her things with handsthat shook. 
Scowling, his own face flushed an ugly red, Caramon turned to facehis twin. 
Raistlin coolly regarded his brother with his mirrorlike eyes.There was no expression on his face, as there had been noexpression in his voice when he spoke upon first entering. ButCaramon had seen, for a split second, the eyes crack. The glimpseof the dark and burning jealousy inside appalled him, hitting himan almost physical blow. But the look was gone instantly, leavingCaramon to doubt if he had truly seen it. Only the tight, knottedfeeling in the pit of his stomach and the sudden bitter taste inhis mouth made him believe it had been there. 
"What news?" he growled, clearing his throat. 
"Messengers have arrived from the south," Raistlin said. 
"Yes?" Caramon prompted, as his brother paused. 
Casting off his hood, Raistlin stepped forward, his gaze holdinghis brother's gaze, binding them together, making the resemblancebetween them strong. For an instant, the mage's mask dropped. 
"The dwarves of Thorbardin are preparing for war!" Raistlinhissed, his slender hand clenching into a fist. He spoke with suchintense passion that Caramon blinked at him in astonishment andCrysania raised her head to regard him with concern. 
Confused and uncomfortable, Caramon broke free of his brother'sfeverish stare and turned away, pretending to shuffle some maps onthe map table. The warrior shrugged. "I don't know what else youexpected," he said coolly. "It was your idea, after all. Talkingof hidden wealth. We've made no secret of the fact that's where we're headed. In fact, it's practically become our recruitingslogan! 'Join up with Fistandantilus and raid the mountain!'" 
Caramon tossed this off thoughtlessly, but its effect wasstartling. Raistlin went livid. He seemed to try to speak, but nointelligible sounds came from his lips, only a blood-stainedfroth. His sunken eyes flared, as the moon on an ice-bound lake.His fist still clenched, he took a step toward his brother. 
Crysania sprang to her feet. Caramon-truly alarmed took a stepbackward, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword. But, slowlyand with a visible effort, Raistlin regained control. With avicious snarl, he turned and walked from the tent, his intenseanger still so apparent, however, that the guards shivered as hepassed them. 
Caramon remained standing, lost in confusion and fear, unable tocomprehend why his brother had reacted as he did. Crysania, too,stared after Raistlin in perplexity until the sound of shoutingvoices outside the tent roused both of them from their thoughts.Shaking his head, Caramon walked over to the entrance. Once there,he half-turned but did not look at Crysania as he spoke. 
"If we are truly preparing for war," he said coldly, "I can't taketime to worry about you. As I have stated before, you won't besafe in a tent by yourself. So you'll continue to sleep here. I'llleave you alone, you may be certain of that. You have my word ofhonor." 
With this, he stepped outside the tent and began conferring withhis guards. 
Flushing in shame, yet so angry she could not speak, Crysaniaremained in the tent for a moment to regain her composure. Thenshe, too, walked from the tent. One glance at the guards' facesand she realized at once that, despite the fact that she andCaramon had kept their voices low, part of their conversation hadbeen overheard. 
Ignoring the curious, amused glances, she looked around quicklyand saw the flutter of black robes disappearing into the forest.Returning to the tent, she caught up her cloak and, tossing ithurriedly around her shoulders, headed off in the same direction. 
Caramon saw Crysania enter the woods near the edge of camp. Thoughhe had not seen Raistlin, he had a pretty good idea of whyCrysania was headed in that direction. He started to call to her.Though he did not know of any real danger lurking in the scragglyforest of pine trees that stood at the base of the GarnetMountains, in these unsettled times, it was best not to takechances. 
As her name was on his lips, however, he saw two of his menexchange knowing looks. Caramon had a sudden vivid picture ofhimself calling after the cleric like some love-sick youth, andhis mouth snapped shut. Besides, here was Garic coming up,followed by a weary-looking dwarf and a tall, dark-skinned youngman decked out in the furs and feathers of a barbarian. 
The messengers, Caramon realized. He would have to meet with them.But- His gaze went once more to the forest. Crysania had vanished.A premonition of danger seized Caramon. It was so strong that healmost crashed through the trees after her, then and there. Every Yet, he could not rush off, leaving these emissaries, while hewent chasing after a girl. His men would never respect him again.He could send a guard, but that would make him look almost asfoolish. There was no help for it. Let Paladine look after her, ifthat was what she wanted. Gritting his teeth, Caramon turned togreet the messengers and lead them into his tent. 
Once there, once he had made them comfortable and had exchangedformal and meaningless pleasantries, once food had been broughtand drinks poured, he excused himself and slipped out the back.... 
Footsteps in the sand, leading me on.... 
Looking up, I see the scaffold, the hooded figure with its head onthe block, the hooded figure of the executioner, the sharp bladeof the axe glinting in the burning sun. 
The axe falls, the victim's severed head rolls on the woodenplatform, the hood comes off 
"My head!" Raistlin whispered feverishly, twisting his thin handstogether in anguish. 
The executioner, laughing, removes his hood, revealing 
"My face!" Raistlin murmured, his fear spreading through his bodylike a malign growth, making him sweat and chill by turns.Clutching at his head, he tried to banish the evil visions thathaunted his dreams continually, night after night, and lingered todisturb his waking hours as well, turning all he ate or drank toashes in his mouth. 
But they would not depart. "Master of Past and Present!" Raistlinlaughed hollowly-bitter, mocking laughter. " I am Master ofnothing! All this power, and I am trapped! Trapped! Following inhis footsteps, knowing that every second that passes has passedbefore! I see people I've never seen, yet I know them! I hear theecho of my own words before I speak them! This face!" His handspressed against his cheeks. "This face! His facet Not mine! Notmine! Who am I? I am my own executioner!" 
"Stop! Raistlin, what are you doing? Stop, please!" 
He could barely hear the voice. Firm but gentle hands grasped hiswrists, and he fought them, struggling. But then the madnesspassed. The dark and frightful waters in which he had beendrowning receded, leaving him calm and drained. Once more, hecould see and feel and hear. His face stung. Looking down, he sawblood on his nails. 
"Raistlin!" It was Crysania's voice. Lifting his gaze, he saw herstanding before him, holding his hands away from his face, hereyes wide and filled with concern. 
"I'm all right," Raistlin said coldly. "Leave me alone!" But, evenas he spoke, he sighed and lowered his head again, shuddering asthe horror of the dream washed over him. Pulling a clean clothfrom a pocket, he began to dab at the wounds on his face. 
"No, you're not," Crysania murmured, taking the cloth from hisshaking hand and gently touching the bleeding gouges. "Please, letme do this," she said, as he snarled something unintelligible. "Iknow you won't let me heal you, but there is a clear stream near.Come, drink some water, rest and let me wash these." 
Sharp, bitter words were on Raistlin's lips. He raised a hand tothrust her away. But then he realized that he didn't want her toleave. The darkness of the dream receded when she was with him. The touch of warm, human flesh was comforting after the coldfingers of death. 
And so, he nodded with a weary sigh. 
Her face pale with anguish and concern, Crysania put her armaround him to support his faltering steps, and Raistlin allowedhimself to be led through the forest, acutely conscious of thewarmth and the motion of her body next to his. 
Reaching the bank of the stream, the archmage sat down upon alarge, flat rock, warmed by the autumn sun. Crysania dipped hercloth in the water and, kneeling next to him, cleaned the woundson his face. Dying leaves fell around them, muffling sound,falling into the stream to be whisked away by the water. 
Raistlin did not speak. His gaze followed the path of the leaves,watching as each clung to the branch with its last, feeblestrength, watching as the ruthless wind tore it from its hold,watching as it swirled in the air to fall into the water, watchingas it was carried off into oblivion by the swift-running stream.Looking past the leaves into the water, he saw the reflection ofhis face wavering there. He saw two long, bloody marks down eachcheek, he saw his eyes-no longer mirrorlike, but dark and haunted.He saw fear, and he sneered at himself derisively. 
"Tell me," said Crysania hesitantly, pausing in her ministrationsand placing her hand over his, "tell me what's wrong. I don'tunderstand. You've been brooding ever since we left the Tower. Hasit something to do with the Portal being gone? With what Astinustold you back in Palanthas?" 
Raistlin did not answer. He did not even look at her. The sun was warm on his black robes, her touch was warmer than the sun. But,somewhere, some part of his mind was coldly balancing,calculating-tell her? What will I gain? More than if I keptsilent? 
Yes ... draw her nearer, enfold her, wrap her up, accustom her tothe darkness. . . . 
"I know," he said finally, speaking as if reluctantly, yet-forreason still not looking at her as he spoke but staring into thewater, "that the Portal is in a place near Thorbardin, in themagical fortress called Zhaman. This I discovered from Astinus. 
"Legend tells us that Fistandantilus undertook what some call theDwarfgate Wars so that he could claim the mountain kingdom ofThorbardin for his own. Astinus relates much the same thing in hisChronicles" -Raistlin's voice grew bitter "much the same thing!But, read between the lines, read closely, as I should have readbut, in my arrogance, did not, and you will read the truth!" 
His hands clenched. Crysania sat before him, the damp, bloodstained cloth held fast, forgotten as she listened, enthralled. 
"Fistandantilus came here to do the very same thing I came here todo!" Raistlin's words hissed with a strange, foreboding passion."He cared nothing for Thorbardin! It was all a sham, a ruse! Hewanted one thing-and that was to reach the Portal! The dwarvesstood in his way, as they stand in mine. They controlled thefortress then, they controlled the land for miles around it. Theonly way he could reach it was to start a war so that he could get "For I must do what he did.... I am doing what he did!" 
His expression bitter, he stared silently into the water. 
"From what I have read of Astinus's Chronicles," Crysania began,speaking hesitantly, "the war was bound to come anyway. There haslong been bad blood between the hill dwarves and their cousins.You can't blame yourself-" 
Raistlin snarled impatiently. "I don't give a damn about thedwarves! They can sink into the Sirrion, for all I care." Now helooked at her, coldly, steadily. "You say you have read Astinus'sworks on this. If so, think! What caused the end of the DwarfgateWars?" 
Crysania's eyes grew unfocused as she sought back in her mind,trying to recall. Then her face paled. "The explosion," she saidsoftly. "The explosion that destroyed the Plains of Dergoth.Thousands died and so did-" 
"So did Fistandantilus!" Raistlin said with grim emphasis. 
For long moments, Crysania could only stare at him. Then the fullrealization of what he meant sank in. "Oh, but surely not!" shecried, dropping the blood-stained cloth and clutching Raistlin'shand with her own.. You're not same person The circumstances aredifferent. They must be! You've made a mistake!" 
Raistlin shook his head, smiling cynically. Gently disengaging hishand from hers, he reached out and touched her chin, raising herhead so that she looked directly into his eyes. "No, thecircumstances are not different. I have not made a mistake. I am caught in time, rushing forward to my own doom." 
"How do you know? How can you be certain?" 
"I know because-one other perished with Fistandantilus that day." 
"Who?" Crysania asked, but even before he told her she felt a darkmantle of fear settle upon her shoulders, falling around her witha rustle as soft as the dying leaves. 
"An old friend of yours." Raistlin's smile twisted. "Denubis!" 
"Yes," Raistlin replied, unconsciously letting his fingers tracealong her firm jaw, cup her chin in his hand. "That much I learnedfrom Astinus. If you will recall, your cleric friend was alreadydrawn to Fistandantilus, even though he refused to admit it tohimself. He had his doubts about the church, much the same asyours. I can only assume that during those final, horrifying daysin Istar, Fistandantilus persuaded him to come-" 
"You didn't persuade me," Crysania interrupted firmly. "I chose tocome! It was my decision." 
"Of course," Raistlin said smoothly, letting go of her. He hadn'trealized what he was doing, caressing her soft skin. Now,unbidden, he felt his blood stir. He found his gaze going to hercurving lips, her white neck. He had a sudden vivid image of herin his brother's arms. He remembered the wild surge of jealousy hehad felt. 
This must not happen! he reprimanded himself. It will interferewith my plans.... He started to rise, but Crysania caught hold ofhis hand with both of hers and rested her cheek in his palm. 
"No," she said softly, her gray eyes looking up at him, shining inthe bright sunlight that filtered through the leaves, holding himwith her steadfast gaze, "we will alter time, you and I! You aremore powerful than Fistandantilus. I am stronger in my faith thanDenubis! I heard the Kingpriest's demands of the gods. I know hismistake! Paladine will answer my prayers as he has in the past.Together, we will change the ending ... you and I. . . ." 
Caught up in the passion of her words, Crysania's eyes deepened toblue, her skin, cool on Raistlin's hand, flushed a delicate pink.Beneath his fingers, he could feel the lifeblood pulse in herneck. He felt her tenderness, her softness, her smoothness ... andsuddenly he was down on his knees beside her. She was in his arms.His mouth sought her lips, his lips touched her eyes, her neck.His fingers tangled in her hair. Her fragrance filled hisnostrils, and the sweet ache of desire filled his body. 
She yielded to his fire, as she had yielded to his magic, kissinghim eagerly. Raistlin sank down into the soft carpet of dyingleaves. Lying back, he drew Crysania down with him, holding her inhis arms. The sunlight in the blue autumn sky was brilliant,blinding him. The sun itself beat upon his black robes with aunbearable heat, almost as unbearable as the pain inside his body. 
Crysania's skin was cool to his feverish touch, her lips likesweet water to a man dying of thirst. He gave himself up to thelight, shutting his eyes against it. And then, the shadow of aface appeared in his mind: a goddess-dark-haired, dark-eyed,exultant, victorious, laughing.... 
"No!" Raistlin cried. "No!" he shrieked in half-strangled tones ashe hurled Crysania from him. Trembling and dizzy, he staggered tohis feet. 
His eyes burned in the sunlight. The heat upon his robes wasstifling, and he felt himself gasping for air. Drawing his blackhood over his head, he stood, shaking, trying to regain hiscomposure, his control. 
"Raistlin!" Crysania cried, clinging to his hand. Her voice waswarm with passion. Her touch worsened the pain, even as itpromised to ease it. His resolve began to crumble, the pain toreat him.... 
Furiously, Raistlin snatched his hand free. Then, his face grim,he reached out and grasped the fragile white cloth of her robes.With a jerk, he ripped it from her shoulders, while, with theother hand, he shoved her half-naked body down into the leaves. 
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice taut with anger. "Ifso, wait here for my brother. He's bound to be along soon!" Hepaused, struggling for breath. 
Lying on the leaves, seeing her nakedness reflected starkly inthose mirrorlike eyes, Crysania clutched the torn cloth to herbreast and stared at him wordlessly. 
"Is this what we have come here to attain?" Raistlin continued relentlessly. "I thought your aim was higher, Revered Daughter!You boast of Paladine, you boast of your powers. Did you thinkthat this might be the answer to your prayers? That I would fallvictim to your charms?" 
That shot told! He saw her flinch, her gaze waver. Closing hereyes, she rolled over, sobbing in agony, clasping her torn robe toher body. Her black hair fell across her bare shoulders, the skinof her back was white and soft and smooth.... 
His eyes caught a glimpse of movement, a flash of armor. His smilecurled into a sneer. As he had predicted, there went Caramon,setting out in search of her. Well, they were welcome to eachother. What did it matter to him? 
Reaching his tent, Raistlin entered its cool, dark confines. Thesneer still curled his lips but, recalling his weakness, recallinghow close he'd come to failure, recalling-against his will hersoft, warm lips, it faded. Shaking, he collapsed into a chair andlet his head sink into his hands. 
But the smile was back, half an hour later, when Caramon burstinto his tent. The big man's face was flushed, his eyes dilated,his hand on the hilt of his sword. 
"I should kill you, you damned bastard !" he said in a chokedvoice. 
"What for this time, my brother?" Raistlin asked in irritation,continuing to read the spellbook he was studying. "Have I murderedanother of your pet kender?" 
"You know damn well what for!" Caramon snarled with an oath. Lurching forward, he grabbed the spellbook and slammed it shut.His fingers burned as he touched its nightblue binding, but hedidn't even feel the pain. "I found Lady Crysania in the woods,her clothes ripped off, crying her heart out! Those marks on yourface-" 
"Were made by my hands. Did she tell you what happened?" Raistlininterrupted. 
"Yes, but-" 
"Did she tell you that she offered herself to me?" 
"I don't believe-" 
"And that I turned her down," Raistlin continued coldly, his eyesmeeting his brother's unwaveringly. 
"You arrogant son of a-" "And even now, she probably sits weeping in her tent, thanking thegods that I love her enough to cherish her virtue." Raistlin gavea bitter, mocking laugh that pierced Caramon like a poisoneddagger. 
"I don't believe you!" Caramon said softly. Grabbing hold of hisbrother's robes, he yanked Raistlin from his chair. "I don'tbelieve her! She'd say anything to protect your miserable-" 
"Remove your hands, brother!" Raistlin said in a flat, softwhisper. 
"I'll see you in the Abyss!" 
"I said remove your hands!" There was a flash of blue light, acrackle and sizzling sound, and Caramon screamed in pain,loosening his hold as a jarring, paralyzing shock surged throughhis body. 
"I warned you." Raistlin straightened his robes and resumed hisseat. 

"By the gods, I will kill you this time!" Caramon said throughclenched teeth, drawing his sword with a trembling hand. 
"Then do so," Raistlin snapped, looking up from the spellbook hehad reopened, "and get it over with. This constant threateningbecomes boring!" 
There was an odd gleam in the mage's eyes, an almost eager gleam-agleam of invitation. 
"Try it!" he whispered, staring at his brother. "Try to kill me!You will never get home again... ." 
"That doesn't matter!" Lost in blood-lust, overwhelmed by jealousyand hatred, Caramon took a step toward his brother, who sat,waiting, that strange, eager look upon his thin face. 
"Try it!" Raistlin ordered again. 
Caramon raised his sword. 
"General Caramon!" Alarmed voices shouted outside; there was thesound of running footsteps. With an oath, Caramon checked his "General! Where are you?" The voices sounded closer, and therewere the answering voices of his guard, directing them toRaistlin's tent. 
"Here!" Caramon finally shouted. Turning from his brother, hethrust the sword back into its scabbard and yanked open the tentflap. "What is it?" 
"General, I-Sir, your hands! They're burned. How-?" 
"Never mind. What's the matter?" 
"The witch, sir. She's gone!" 
"Gone?" Caramon repeated in alarm. Casting his brother a viciousglance, the big man hurried out of the tent. Raistlin heard hisbooming voice demanding explanations, the men giving them. 
Raistlin did not listen. He closed his eyes with a sigh. Caramonhad not been allowed to kill him. 
Ahead of him, stretched out before him in a straight, narrow line,the footsteps led inexorably on. 
CHAPTER 4 
Caramon had once complimented her on her riding skill. Untilleaving Palanthas with Tanis Half-Elven to ride south to seek themagical Forest of Wayreth, Crysania had never been nearer a horsethan seated inside one of her fathers elegant carriages. Women ofPalanthas did not ride, not even for pleasure, as did the otherSolamnic women. 
But that had been in her other life. 
Her other life. Crysania smiled grimly to herself as she leanedover her mount's neck and dug her heels into its flanks, urging itforward at a trot. How far away it seemed; long ago and distant. 
She checked a sigh, ducking her head to avoid some lowhangingbranches. She did not look behind her. Pursuit would not be very swift in coming, she hoped. There were the messengers-Caramonwould have to deal with them first and he dared not send any ofhis guards out without him. Not after the witch! 
Suddenly, Crysania laughed. If anyone ever looked like a witch, Ido! She had not bothered to change her torn robes. When Caramonhad found her in the woods, he had fastened them together withclasps from his cloak. The robes had ceased, long ago, to be snowywhite; from travel and wear and being washed in streams, they haddulled to a dove-colored gray. Now, torn and mud-spattered, theyfluttered around her like bedraggled feathers. Her cloak whippedout behind her as she rode. Her black hair was a tangled mass. Shecould scarcely see through it. 
She rode out of the woods. Ahead of her stretched the grasslands,and she reined in the horse for a moment to study the land lyingahead of her. The animal, used to plodding along with the ranks ofthe slow-moving army, was excited by this unaccustomed exercise.It shook its head and danced sideways a few steps, lookinglongingly at the smooth expanse of grass, begging for a run.Crysania patted its neck. 
"Come on, boy," she urged, giving it free rein. 
Nostrils flaring, the horse laid back its ears and sprang forward,galloping across the open grasslands, thrilling in its newfoundfreedom. Clinging to the creature's neck, Crysania gave herself upto the pleasure of her newfound freedom. The warm afternoon sunwas a pleasant contrast to the sharp, biting wind in her face. Therhythm of the animal's gallop, the excitement of the ride, and thefaint edge of fear she always felt on horseback numbed her mind,easing the ache in her heart. 
As she rode, her plans crystallized in her mind, becoming clearerand sharper. Ahead of her, the land darkened with the shadows of apine forest; above her, to her right, the snowcapped peaks of theGarnet Mountains glistened in the bright sunshine. Giving thereins a sharp jerk to remind the animal that she was in control,Crysania slowed the horse's mad gallop and guided it toward thedistant woods. 
Crysania had been gone from camp almost an hour before Caramonmanaged to get matters organized enough to set off in pursuit. AsCrysania had foreseen, he had to explain the emergency to themessengers and make certain they were not offended before he couldleave. This involved some time, because the Plainsman spoke very little Common and no dwarven, and, while the dwarf spoke Commonfairly well (one reason he had been chosen as messenger), hecouldn't understand Caramon's strange accent and was constantlyforcing the big man to repeat himself. 
Caramon had begun trying to explain who Crysania was and what herrelationship was to him, but that proved impossible for either thedwarf or the Plainsman to comprehend. Finally, Caramon gave up andtold them, bluntly, what they were bound to hear in camp anyway-that she was his woman and she had run off. 
The Plainsman nodded in understanding. The women of his tribe,being notably wild, occasionally took it into their heads to dothe same thing. He suggested that when Caramon caught her, he haveall her hair cut off-the sign of a disobedient wife. The dwarf wassomewhat astonished-a dwarven woman would as soon think of runningaway from home and husband as she would of shaving her chinwhiskers. But, he reminded himself dourly, he was among humans andwhat could you expect? 
Both bid Caramon a quick and successful journey and settled downto enjoy the camp's stock of ale. Heaving a sigh of relief,Caramon hurried out of his tent to find that Garic had saddled a horse and was holding it ready for him. 
"We picked up her trail, General," the young man said, pointing."She rode north, following a small animal trail into the woods.She's on a fast horse-" Garic shook his head a moment in admiration. "She stole one of the best, I'll say that for her,sir. But, I wouldn't think she'd get far." 
Caramon mounted. "Thank you, Garic," he began, then stopped as hesaw another horse being led up. "What's this?" he growled. "I saidI was going alone-" 
"I am coming, too, my brother," spoke a voice from the shadows. 
Caramon looked around. The archmage came out of his tent, dressedin his black traveling cloak and boots. Caramon scowled, but Garicwas already respectfully helping Raistlin to mount the thin,nervous black horse the archmage favored. Caramon dared not sayanything in front of the men-and his brother knew it. He saw theamused glint in Raistlin's eyes as he raised his head, thesunlight hitting their mirrored surface. 
"Let's be off, then," Caramon muttered, trying to conceal hisanger. "Garic, you're in command while I'm gone. I don't expect it "Yes, sir," Garic said gravely, giving Caramon the Knight'ssalute. 
A vivid memory of Sturm Brightblade came to Caramon's mind, andwith it days of his youth; days when he and his brother hadtraveled with their friends-Tanis, Flint the dwarven metalsmith,Sturm.. . . Shaking his head, he tried to banish the memories ashe guided his horse out of camp. 
But they returned to him more forcefully when he reached the trailinto the woods and caught a glimpse of his brother riding next tohim, the mage keeping his horse just a little behind thewarrior's, as usual. Though he did not particularly like riding,Raistlin rode well, as he did all things well if he set his mindto it. He did not speak nor even look at his brother, keeping hishood cast over his head, lost in his own thoughts. This was notunusual-the twins had sometimes traveled for days with littleverbal communication. 
But there was a bond between them, nonetheless, a bond of bloodand bone and soul. Caramon felt himself slipping into the old,easy comradeship. His anger began to melt away-it had been partlyat himself, anyhow. 
Half-turning, he spoke over his shoulder. 
"I-I'm sorry ... about ... back there, Raist," he said gruffly asthey rode deeper into the forest, following Crysania's clearlymarked trail. "What you said was true-she did tell me that ...that she-" Caramon floundered, blushing. He twisted around in thesaddle. "That she- Damn it, Raist! Why did you have to be so roughwith her?" 
Raistlin lifted his hooded head, his face now visible to hisbrother. "I had to be rough," he said in his soft voice. "I had tomake her see the chasm yawning at her feet, a chasm that, if wefell into it, would destroy us all!" 
Caramon stared at his twin in wonder. "You're not human!" 
To his astonishment, Raistlin sighed. The mage's harsh, glitteringeyes softened a moment. "I am more human than you realize, my "Then love her, man!" Caramon said, dropping back to ride besidehis brother. "Forget this nonsense about chasms and pits orwhatever! You may be a powerful wizard and she may be a holycleric, but, underneath those robes, you're both flesh and blood!Take her in your arms and . . . and...... 
Caramon was so carried away that he checked his horse, stopping inthe middle of the trail, his face lit with his passion andenthusiasm. Raistlin brought his horse to a stop, too. Leaningforward, he laid his hand on his brother's arm, his burningfingers searing Caramon's skin. His expression was hard, his eyesonce again brittle and cold as glass. 
"Listen to me, Caramon, and try to understand," Raistlin said inan expressionless tone that made his twin shudder. "I am incapableof love. Haven't you realized that, yet? Oh, yes, you are right-beneath these robes I am flesh and blood, more's the pity. Likeany other man, I am capable of lust. That's all it is ... lust." 
He shrugged. "It would probably matter little to me if I gave into it, perhaps weaken me some temporarily, nothing more. It wouldcertainly not affect my magic. But"-his gaze went through Caramonlike a sliver of ice-"it would destroy Crysania when she foundout. And she would find out!" 
"You black-hearted bastard!" Caramon said through clenched teeth. 
Raistlin raised an eyebrow. "Am I?" he asked simply. "If I were,wouldn't I just take my pleasure as I found it? I am capable ofunderstanding and controlling myself-unlike others." 
Caramon blinked. Spurring his horse, he proceeded down the trailagain, lost in confusion. Somehow, his brother had managed, onceagain, to turn everything upside down. Suddenly he, Caramon, feltconsumed with guilt-a prey to animal instincts he wasn't manenough to control, while his brother by admitting he was incapableof love-appeared noble and self-sacrificing. Caramon shook hishead. 
The two followed Crysania's trail deeper into the woods. It waseasy going, she had kept to the path, never veering, neverbothering, even, to cover her tracks. 
"Women!" Caramon muttered after a time. "If she was going to havea sulking fit, why didn't she just do it the easy way and walk!Why did she have to take a blasted horseback ride halfway into thecountryside?" 
"You do not understand her, my brother," Raistlin said, his gazeon the trail. "Such is not her intent. She has a purpose in thisride, believe me." 
"Bah!" Caramon snorted. "This from the expert on women! I've beenmarried! I know! She's ridden off in a huff, knowing we'll comeafter her. We'll find her somewhere along here, her horse riddeninto the ground, probably lame. She'll be cold and haughty. We'llapologize and ... and I'll let her have her damn tent if she wantsit and-see there! What'd I tell you?" Bringing his horse to ahalt, he gestured across the flat grasslands. "There's a trail ablind gully dwarf could follow! Come on." 
Raistlin did not answer, but there was a thoughtful look on histhin face as he galloped after his brother. The two followedCrysania's trail across the grasslands. They found where sheentered the woods again, came to a stream and crossed it. Butthere, on the bank of the stream Caramon brought his horse to ahalt. 
"What the-" He looked left and right, guiding his animal around ina circle. Raistlin stopped, sighing, and leaned over the pommel ofhis saddle. 
"I told you," he said grimly. "She has a purpose. She is clever,my brother. Clever enough to know your mind and how it works ...when it does work!" 
Caramon glowered at his twin but said nothing. 
Crysania's trail had disappeared. 
As Raistlin said, Crysania had a purpose. She was clever andintelligent, she guessed what Caramon would think and shepurposefully misled him. Though certainly not skilled in woodsloreherself, for months now, she had been with those who were. Oftenlonely-few spoke to the "witch"-and often left to her own devicesby Caramon, who had problems of command to deal with, andRaistlin, who was wrapped up in his studies, Crysania had littleto do but ride by herself, listening to the stories of those abouther and learning from them. 
Thus it had been a simple thing to double back on her own trail,riding her horse down the center of the stream, leaving no tracksto follow. Coming to a rocky part of the shore where, again, herhorse would leave no tracks, she left the stream. Entering thewoods, she avoided the main trail, searching instead for one ofthe many, smaller animal trails that led to the stream. Once onit, she covered her tracks as best she could. Although she did itcrudely, she was fairly certain Caramon would not give her creditenough even for that, so she had no fear he would follow her. 
If Crysania had known Raistlin rode with his brother, she mighthave had misgivings, for the mage seemed to know her mind betterthan she did herself. But she didn't, so she continued ahead at aleisurely pace-to rest the horse and to give herself time to goover her plans. 
In her saddlebags, she carried a map, stolen from Caramon's tent.On the map was marked a small village nestled in the mountains. Itwas so small it didn't even have a name-at least not one marked on the map. But this village was her destination. Here she planned toaccomplish a two-fold purpose: she would alter time and she wouldprove-to Caramon and his brother and herself-that she was morethan a piece of useless, even dangerous, baggage. She would proveher own worth. 
Here, in this village, Crysania intended to bring back the worshipof the ancient gods. 
This was not a new thought for her. It was something she had oftenconsidered attempting but had not for a variety of reasons. Thefirst was that both Caramon and Raistlin had absolutely forbiddenher to use any clerical powers while in camp. Both feared for herlife, having seen witch-burnings themselves in their younger days.(Raistlin had, in fact, nearly been a victim himself, untilrescued by Sturm and Caramon.) 
Crysania herself had enough common sense to know that none of themen or their families traveling with the army would listen to her,all of them firmly believing that she was a witch. The thought hadcrossed her mind that if she could get to people who knew nothingof her, tell them her story, give them the message that the godshad not abandoned man, but that man had abandoned the gods, thenthey would follow her as they would follow Goldmoon two hundredyears later. 
But it was not until she had been stung by Raistlin's harsh wordsthat she had gathered the courage to act. Even now, leading thehorse at a walk through the quiet forest in the twilight, shecould still hear his voice and see his flashing eyes as hereprimanded her. 
I deserved it, she admitted to herself. I had abandoned my faith.I was using my "charms" to try to bring him to me, instead of myexample to bring him to Paladine. Sighing, she absently brushedher fingers through her tangled hair. If it had not been for hisstrength of will, I would have fallen. 
Her admiration for the young archmage, already strong, deepened-asRaistlin had foreseen. She determined to restore his faith in her and prove herself worthy, once more, of his trust and regard. For,she feared, blushing, he must have a very low opinion of her now.By returning to camp with a corps of followers, of true believers,she planned not only to show him that he was wrong-that time couldbe altered by bringing clerics into a world where, before, therewere none-but also she hoped to extend her teachings throughoutthe army itself. 
Thinking of this, making her plans, Crysania felt more at peacewith herself than she had in the months since they'd come to thistime period. For once she was doing something on her own. Shewasn't trailing along behind Raistlin or being ordered about byCaramon. Her spirits rose. By her calculations, she should reachthe village just before dark. 
The trail she was on had been steadily climbing up the side of themountain. Now it topped a rise and then dipped down, descendinginto a small valley. Crysania halted the horse. There, nestled inthe valley, she could at last see the village that was herdestination. 
Something struck her as odd about the village, but she was not yeta seasoned enough traveler to have learned to trust her instinctsabout such things. Knowing only that she wanted to reach thevillage before darkness fell, and eager to put her plan intoimmediate action, Crysania mounted her horse once more and rodedown the trail, her hand closing over the medallion of Paladineshe wore around her neck. 
"Well, what do we do now?" Caramon asked, sitting astride hishorse and looking both up and down the stream. 
"All right, I made a mistake," Caramon grumbled. "That doesn'thelp us. It'll be dark soon, and then we'll never find her trail.I haven't heard you come up with any helpful suggestions," hegrumbled, glancing at his brother balefully. "Can't you magic upsomething?" 
"I would have 'magicked up' brains for you long ago, if I couldhave," Raistlin snapped peevishly. "What would you like me to do-make her appear out thin air or look for her in my crystal ball?No, I won't waste my strength. Besides it's not necessary. Haveyou a map, or did you manage to think that far ahead?" 
"I have a map," Caramon said grimly, drawing it out of his beltand handing it to his brother. 
"You might as well water the horses and let them rest," Raistlinsaid, sliding off his. Caramon dismounted as well and led thehorses to the stream while Raistlin studied the map. 
By the time Caramon had tethered the horses to a bush and returnedto his brother, the sun was setting. Raistlin held the map nearlyup to his nose trying to read it in the dusk. Caramon heard himcough and saw him hunch down into his traveling cloak. 
"You shouldn't be out in the night air," Caramon said gruffly. 
Coughing again, Raistlin gave him a bitter glance. "I'll be allright." 
Shrugging, Caramon peered over his brother's shoulder al the map.Raistlin pointed a slender finger at a small spot, half way upthe mountainside. 
"There," he said. 
"Why? What would she go to some out-of-the-way place like thatfor?" Caramon asked, frowning, puzzled. "That doesn't make anysense." 
"Because you have still not seen her purpose!" Raistlin returned.Thoughtfully, he rolled up the map, his eyes staring into thefading light. A dark line appeared between his brows. 
"Well?" Caramon prompted skeptically. "What is this great purposeyou keep mentioning? What's the matter?" 
"What? How do you know? Do you see-" 
"Of course I can't see, you great idiot!" Raistlin snarled overhis shoulder as he walked rapidly to his horse. "I think! I use mybrain! She is going to this village to establish the old religionShe is going there to tell them of the true gods!" 
"Name of the Abyss!" Caramon swore, his eyes wide "You're rightRaist " he said after a moment's thought. "I've heard her talkabout trying that, now I think of it. I never believed she wasserious, though." 
Then, seeing his brother untying his horse and preparing to mount,he hurried forward and laid his hand on his brother's bridle. "Just a minute, Raist! There's nothing we can do now. We'll haveto wait until morning." He gestured into the mountains. "You knowas well as I do that we don't dare ride those wretched trails after dark. We'd be taking a chance on the horses stumbling into ahole and breaking a leg. To say nothing of what lives in thesegod-forsaken woods." 
"I have my staff for light," Raistlin said, motioning to the Staffof Magius, snug in its leather carrier on the side of saddle. Hestarted to pull himself up, but a fit of coughing forced him topause, clinging to the saddle, gasping for breath. 
Caramon waited until the spasm eased. "Look, Raist," he said inmilder tones, "I'm just as worried about her as you are but Ithink you're overreacting. Let's be sensible. It's not as if shewere riding into a den of goblins! That magical light'll draw tous whatever 's lurking out there in the night like moths to acandleflame. The horses are winded. You're in no shape to go on,much less fight if we have to. We'll make camp here for the night.You get some rest, and we'll start fresh in the morning." 
Raistlin paused, his hands on his saddle, staring at his brother.It seemed as if he might argue, then a coughing fit seized him.His hands slipped to his side, he laid his forehead against thehorse's flank as if too exhausted to move. 
"You are right, my brother," he said, when he could speak. 
Startled at this unusual display of weakness, Caramon almost wentto help his twin, but checked himself in time-a show of concernwould only bring a bitter rebuke. Acting as if nothing were at allamiss, he began untying his brothers bedroll, chatting along, notreally thinking about what he was saying. 
"I'll spread this out, and you rest. We can probably risk a smallfire, and you can heat up that potion of yours to help your cough.I've got some meat here and a few vegetables Garic threw togetherfor me." Caramon prattled on, not even realizing what he wassaying. "I'll fix up a stew. It'll be just like the old days. 
"By the gods!" He paused a moment, grinning. "Even though we neverknew where our next steel piece was coming from, we still ate wellin those days! Do you remember? There was a spice you had. You'dtoss it in the pot. What was it?" He gazed off into the distance,as though he could part the mists of time with his eyes. "Do youremember the one I'm talking about? You use it in yourspellcasting. But it made damn good stews, too! The name . . . itwas like ours-marjere, marjorie? Hah!" Caramon laughed-"I'll neverforget the time that old master of yours caught us cooking withhis spell components! I thought he'd turn himself inside out!" 
Sighing, Caramon went back to work, tugging at the knots. "Youknow, Raist," he said softly, after a moment, "I've eaten wondrousfood in wondrous places since then-palaces and elf woods and all.But nothing could quite match that. I'd like to try it again, tosee if it was like I remember it. It'd be like old times-" 
There was a soft rustle of cloth. Caramon stopped, aware that hisbrother had turned his black hooded head and was regarding himintently. Swallowing, Caramon kept his eyes fixedly on the knotshe was trying to untie. He hadn't meant to make himself vulnerableand now he waited grimly for Raistlin's rebuke, the sarcasticgibe. 
There was another soft rustle of cloth, and then Caramon fellsomething soft pressed into his hand-a tiny bag. 
"Marjoram," Raistlin said in a soft whisper. "The name of thespice is marjoram...... 
CHAPTER 5 Caramon, of course, would have noticed it when he first lookeddown at the village from the top of the hill. He would havedetected the absence of smoke from the cooking fires. He wouldhave noted the unnatural silence-no sounds of mothers calling forchildren or the plodding thuds of cattle coming in from the fieldsor neighbors exchanging cheerful greetings after a long day'swork. He would have seen that no smoke rose from the smithy'sforge, wondered uneasily at the absence of candlelight glowingfrom the windows. Glancing up, he would have seen with alarm thelarge number of carrion birds in the sky, circling.... 
All this Caramon or Tanis Half-Elven or Raistlin or any of themwould have noted and, if forced to go on, he would have approachedthe village with hand on sword or a defensive magic spell on thelips. 
But it was only after Crysania cantered into the village and,staring around, wondered where everyone was, that she experiencedher first glimmerings of uneasiness. She became aware of thebirds, then, as their harsh cries and calls of irritation at herpresence intruded on her thoughts. Slowly, they flapped away, inthe gathering darkness, or perched sullenly on trees, melting intothe shadows. 
Dismounting in front of a building whose swinging sign proclaimedit an inn, Crysania tied the horse to a post and approached thefront door. If it was an inn, it was a small one, but well-builtand neat with ruffled curtains in the windows and a general air ofcheery welcome about it that seemed, somehow, sinister in theeerie silence. No light came from the window. Darkness was rapidlyswallowing the little town. Crysania, pushing open the door, couldbarely see inside. 
"Hello?" she called hesitantly. At the sound of her voice, thebirds outside squawked raucously, making her shiver. "Is anyonehere? I'd like a room-" 
But her voice died. She knew, without doubt, that this place wasempty, deserted. Perhaps everyone had left to join the army? Shehad known of entire villages to do so. But, looking around, sherealized that that wasn't true in this case. There would have been nothing left here except furniture; the people would have takentheir possessions with them. 
Stepping farther inside as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, shecould see glasses still filled with wine, the bottles sitting openin 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 somegnawed-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 aboutgoing up it, but her courage failed her. She would look around thetown first. Surely someone was here, someone who could tell herwhat 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. Whathad happened? Where was everyone? It did not look as if the townhad been attacked. There were no signs of fighting no brokenfurniture, no blood, no weapons lying about. No bodies. 
Her uneasiness grew as she walked outside the door of the inn. Herhorse whinnied at the sight of her. Crysania suppressed a wilddesire to leap up on it and ride away as fast as she could. Theanimal was tired; it could go no farther without rest. It neededfood. Thinking of that, Crysania untied it and led it around tothe stable behind the inn. It was empty. Not unusual-horses were aluxury these days. But it was filled with straw and there waswater, so at least the inn was prepared to receive travelers.Placing her lamp on a stand, Crysania unsaddled her exhaustedanimal and rubbed it down, crudely and clumsily she knew, havingnever done it before. 
But the horse seemed satisfied enough and, when she left, wasmunching 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 heartstopped beating for an instant, the lamplight wavered in hershaking hand. She stopped, listening, telling herself it was abird or an animal. 
No, there it was again. And again. It was an odd sound, a kind ofswishing, then a plop. Then a swish again, followed by a plop.Certainly there was nothing sinister or threatening about it. Butstill Crysania stood there, in the center of the street, unwillingto move toward the noise to investigate. 
"What nonsense!" she told herself sternly. Angry at herself,disappointed at the failure-apparently-of her plans, anddetermined to discover what was going on, Crysania boldly walkedforward. But her hand, she noted nervously, seemed of its ownaccord to reach for the medallion of her god. 
The sound grew louder. The row of houses and small shops came toan end. Turning a corner, walking softly, she suddenly realizedshe should have doused her lamplight. But the thought came toolate. At the sight of the light, the figure that had been makingthe odd sound turned abruptly, flung up his arm to shield hiseyes, and stared at her. 
"Who are you?" the mans voice called. "What do you want?" He didnot sound frightened, only desperately tired, as if her presencewere an additional, great burden. 
But instead of answering, Crysania walked closer. For now she hadfigured out what the sound was. He had been shoveling! He held theshovel in his hand. He had no light. He had obviously been workingso hard he was not even aware that night had fallen. 
Raising her lamp to let the light shine on both of them, Crysaniastudied the man curiously. He was young, younger than she-probablyabout twenty or twenty-one. He was human, with a pale, seriousface, and he was dressed in robes that, save for some strange,unrecognizable symbol upon them, she would have taken for clericalgarb. As she drew nearer, Crysania saw the young man stagger. Ifhis 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 wouldsupport him no longer. He fell to his knees, clutching his stomachas if in pain. 
"I'll do no such thing," Crysania said firmly, recognizing thatthe young man was ill or injured. Hurrying forward, she started toput her arm around him to help him up when her gaze fell upon whathe had been doing. 
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 wereall dead; the entire town, she realized numbly. 
And then, turning, she saw the young man's face, she saw sweatpouring from it, she saw the glazed, feverish eyes. And then sheknew. 
"I tried to warn you," he said wearily, choking. "The burningfever!" 
"Come along," said Crysania, her voice trembling with grief.Turning her back firmly on the ghastly sight behind her, she puther 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 thedark sky where the carrion birds circled. "We can't leave thebodies-" 
"Their souls are with Paladine," Crysania said, fighting back herown nausea at the thought of the gruesome feasting that would sooncommence. Already she could hear the cackles of triumph. "Onlytheir shells still lie there. They understand that the living comefirst." 
Sighing, too weak to argue, the young man bowed his head and puthis arm around Crysania's neck. He was, she noted, unbelievablythin-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," hesaid, gesturing feebly to a small cabin on the edge of thevillage. 
Crysania nodded. "Tell me what happened," she said, to keep histhoughts and her own from the sound of flapping birds' wingsbehind them. 
"There's not much to tell," he said, shivering with chills. "Itstrikes quickly, without warning. Yesterday, the children wereplaying in the yards. Last night, they were dying in theirmothers' arms. Tables were laid for dinner that no one was able to eat. This morning, those who were still able to move dug thatgrave, 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!" Hewaved a hand back at the grave. "You see what good prayers havedone!" 
"Hush, save your strength," Crysania said as they arrived at thesmall house. Helping him lie down upon the bed, she shut the doorand, seeing a fire laid, lit it with the flame from her lamp. Soonit 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 coolcloth across his burning forehead. 
"I am a cleric, too," she told him, lightly touching the medallionshe wore around her neck, "and I am going to pray to my god toheal you." 
Setting the bowl of water on a small table beside the bed,Crysania reached out to the young man and placed her hands uponhis shoulders. Then she began to pray. "Paladine-" 
"What?" he interrupted, clutching at her with a hot hand. "Whatare you doing?" 
"I am going to heal you," Crysania said, smiling at him withgentle patience. "I am a cleric of Paladine." 
"Paladine!" The young man grimaced in pain, thencatching hisbreath-looked up at her in disbelief. "That's who I thought you "It's a long story," Crysania replied, drawing the sheets over theyoung 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 andthat he will heal you!" 
"No!" the young man cried, his hand wrapping around hers sotightly it hurt. "I am a cleric, too, a cleric of the Seeker gods.I tried to heal my people'-his voice cracked-"but there ... therewas nothing I could do. They died!" His eyes closed in agony. "Iprayed! The gods ... didn't answer." 
"That's because these gods you pray to are false gods," Crysaniasaid earnestly, reaching out to smooth back the young j man's sweat-soaked hair. Opening his eyes, he regarded her intently. Hewas handsome, Crysania saw, in a serious, scholarly fashion. Hiseyes 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 onthe bed. Staring at her still, he shook his head, then shut hiseyes wearily. 
"You know of Paladine, of the ancient gods?" Crysania askedsoftly. 
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 theland. I know they brought storms and pestilence upon us. I knowevil 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 couldhandle that. But this bitter anger? This was not the confrontationshe had been prepared to face. Expecting superstitious mobs, shehad found instead a mass grave and a dying young cleric. 
"The gods did not abandon us," she said, her voice quivering inher earnestness. "They are here, waiting only for the sound of aprayer. 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 therebyconverting him to the ancient faith came vividly to Crysania, "I am going to help you," she said. "Then there will be time totalk, time for you to understand." 
Kneeling down beside the bed once more, she clasped the medallionshe wore around her neck and again began, "Paladine-" 
A hand grabbed her roughly, hurting her, breaking her hold on themedallion. Startled, she looked up. It was the young cleric. Half-sitting up, weak, shivering with fever, he still stared at herwith a gaze that was intense but calm. 
"No," he said steadily, "you must understand. You don't need toconvince me. I believe you!" He looked up into the shadows abovehim with a grim and bitter smile. "Yes, Paladine is with you. Ican sense his great presence. Perhaps my eyes have been opened thenearer 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'resick, delirious," she said firmly. "You don't know what you'resaying." 
"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 fullyconscious, comprehending." 
"Then, why-?" 
"Because," he said softly, each breath coming from him withobvious pain, "if Paladine is here-and I believe he is, now thenwhy is he ... letting this happen! Why did he let my people die?Why does he permit this suffering? Why did he cause it? Answerme!" He clutched at her angrily. "Answer me!" 
Her own questions! Raistlin's questions! Crysania felt her mindstumbling in confused darkness. How could she answer him, when shewas searching so desperately for these answers herself? 
Lying back down, the young man shook his head wearily and Crysaniaherself fell silent, feeling helpless in the face of such violent,intense anger. I'll heal him anyway, she determined. He is sickand weak in mind and body. He cannot be expected to understand.... 
Then she sighed. No. In other circumstances, Paladine might haveallowed it. The god will not grant my prayers, Crysania knew indespair,. In his divine wisdom, he will gather the young man tohimself and then all will be made clear. 
But it could not be so now. 
Suddenly, Crysania realized bleakly that time could not bealtered, at least not this way, not by her. Goldmoon would restoreman's faith in the ancient gods in a time when terrible anger suchas this had died, when man would be ready to listen and to acceptand believe. Not before. 
Her failure overwhelmed her. Still kneeling by the bed, she bowedher head in her hands and asked to be forgiven for not beingwilling to accept or understand. 
Feeling a hand touch her hair, she looked up. The young man wassmiling wanly at her. 
"I'm sorry," he said gently, his fever-parched lips twitching."Sorry ... to disappoint you." 
"I understand," Crysania said quietly, "and I will respect yourwishes." 
"Thank you," he replied. He was silent. For long moments, the onlysound that could be heard was his labored breathing. Crysaniastarted to stand up, but she felt his hot hand close over hers."Do one thing for me," he whispered. 
"Anything," she said, forcing herself to smile, though she couldbarely see him through her tears. 
"Stay with me tonight ... while I die. . . ." 
Climbing the stairs leading up to the scaffold. Head bowed. Handstied behind my back. I struggle to free myself, even as I mountthe stairs, though I know it is useless-I have spent days, weeks,struggling to free myself, ton o avail. 
The black robes trip me. I stumble. Someone catches me, keeps mefrom falling, but drags me forward, nonetheless. I have reachedthe top. The block, stained dark with blood, is before me.Frantically now I seek to free m y hands! If only I can loosenthem! I can use my magic! Escape! Escape! 
"There is no escape!" laughs my executioner, and I know it ismyself speaking! My laughter! My voice! "Kneel, pathetic wizard!Place your head upon the cold and bloody pillow!" 
No! I shriek with terror and rage and fight desperately, but handsgrab me from behind. Viciously, they force me to my knees. Myshrinking flesh touches the chill and slimy block! Still I wrenchand twist and scream and still they force me down. 
A black hood is drawn over my head ... but I can hear theexecutioner coming closer, I can hear his black robes rustlingaround his ankles, I can hear the blade being lifted . . .lifted.... 
"Raist! Raistlin! Wake up!" 
Raistlin's eyes opened. Staring upward, dazed and wild withterror, he had no idea for a moment where he was or who hadwakened him. 
"Raistlin, what is it?" the voice repeated. 
Strong hands held him firmly, a familiar voice, warm with concern,blotting out the whistling scream of the executioner's falling axeblade.... 
"Caramon!" Raistlin cried, clutching at his brother. "Help me!Stop them! Don't let them murder me! Stop them! Stop them!" 
"Shhhh, I wont let them do anything to you, Raist," Caramonmurmured, holding his brother close, stroking the soft brown hair."Shhh, you're all right. I'm here ... I'm here." 
Laying his head on Caramon's chest, hearing his twin's steady,slow heartbeat, Raistlin gave a deep, shuddering sigh. Then heclosed his eyes against the darkness and sobbed like a child. 
"Ironic, isn't it?" Raistlin muttered bitterly some time later, ashis brother stirred up the fire and set an iron pot filled withwater on it to boil. "The most powerful mage who has ever lived,and I am reduced to a squalling babe by a dream!" 
"So you're human," Caramon grunted, bending over the pot, watchingit closely with the rapt attention all pay to the business offorcing water to boil more quickly. He shrugged. "You said ityourself." 
"Yes ... human!" Raistlin repeated savagely, huddled, shivering,in his black robes and traveling cloak. 
Caramon glanced at him uneasily at this, remembering what Par-Salian and the other mages had told him at the Conclave held inthe Tower of High Sorcery. Your brother intends to challenge thegods! He seeks to become a god himself! 
But even as Caramon looked at his brother, Raistlin drew his kneesup close to his body, rested his hands upon his knees, and laidhis head down upon them wearily. Feeling a strange chokingsensation in his throat, vividly remembering the warm andwonderful feeling he had experienced when his brother had reachedout to him for comfort, Caramon turned his attention back to thewater. 
Raistlin's head snapped up, suddenly. 
"What was that?" he asked at the same time Caramon, hearing thesound as well, rose to his feet. 
"I dunno," Caramon said softly, listening. Padding soft footed,the big man moved with surprising swiftness to his bedroll,grasped his sword, and drew it from its scabbard. 
Acting in the same moment, Raistlin's hand closed over the Staffof Magius that lay beside him. Twisting to his feet like a cat, hedoused the fire, upending the kettle over it. Darkness descendedon them with a soft, hissing sound as the coals sputtered anddied. 
The stream near which they were camped burbled and lapped amongthe rocks, branches creaked and leaves rattled as a sharp breezesprang up, slicing through the autumn night. But what they hadheard was neither wind in the trees nor water. 
"There it is," said Raistlin in a whisper as his brother came tostand beside him. "In the woods, across the stream." 
It was a scrabbling sound, like someone trying unsuccessfully tocreep through unfamiliar territory. It lasted a few moments, thenstopped, then began again. Either some one unfamiliar with theterritory or some thing-clumsy, heavy-booted. 
"Goblins!" hissed Caramon. 
Gripping his sword, he and his brother exchanged glances. Theyears of darkness, of estrangement between them, the jealousy,hatred-everything vanished within that instant. Reacting to theshared danger, they were one, as they had been in their mother'swomb. 
Moving cautiously, Caramon set foot in the stream. The red moon,Lunitari, glimmered through the trees. But it was new tonight.Looking like the wick of a pinched-out candle, it gave littlelight. Fearing to turn his foot upon a stone, Caramon tested eachstep carefully before he put his weight upon it. Raistlinfollowed, holding his darkened staff in one hand, resting hisother lightly upon his brother's shoulder for balance. 
They crossed the stream as silently as the wind whispering acrossthe water and reached the opposite bank. They could still hear thenoise. It was made by something living, though, there was nodoubt. Even when the wind died, they could hear the rustlingsound. 
"Rear guard. Raiding party!" Caramon mouthed, half turning so thathis brother could hear. 
Raistlin nodded. Goblin raiding parties customarily sent scouts tokeep watch upon the trail when they rode in to loot a village.Since it was a boring job and meant that the goblins elected hadno share in the killing or the spoils, it generally fell to thoselowest in rank-the least skilled, most expendable members of theparty. 
"Crysania!" the mage whispered. "The village! We must know wherethe raiding party is!" 
Caramon scowled. "I'll take it alive!" He indicated this with a gesture of his huge hand wrapping itself around an imaginarygoblin neck. 
Raistlin smiled grimly in understanding. "And I will question it,"he hissed, making a gesture of his own. 
Together, the twins crept up the trail, taking care to keep in theshadows so that even the faintest glimmer of moonlight should notbe reflected from buckle or sword. They could still hear thesound. Though it ceased sometimes, it always started again. Itremained in the same location. Whoever or whatever it was appearedto have no idea of their approach. They drew toward it, keeping tothe edges of the trail until they were-as well as they couldjudge-practically opposite it. 
The sound, they could tell now, was in the woods, about twentyfeet off the trail. Glancing swiftly around, Raistlin's sharp eyesspotted a thin trail. Barely visible in the pale light of moon andstars, it branched off from the main one-an animal trail, probablyleading down to the stream. A good place for scouts to lie hidden,giving them quick access to the main trail if they decided toattack, an easy escape route if the opposition proved tooformidable. 
"Wait here!" Caramon signed. 
A rustle of his black hood was Raistlin's response. Reaching outto hold aside a low, overhanging branch, Caramon entered theforest, moving slowly and stealthily about two feet away from thefaint animal trail that led into it. 
Raistlin stood beside a tree, his slender fingers reaching intoone of his many, secret pockets, hastily rolling a pinch of sulfurup in a tiny ball of bat guano. The words to the spell were in hismind. He repeated them to himself. Even as he did this, however,he was acutely conscious of the sound of his brother's movements. 
Though Caramon was trying to be quiet, Raistlin could hear thecreak of the big man's leather armor, the metal buckles jingle, A horrible shriek rang through the, night, followed by a frightfulyelling and thrashing sound, as if a hundred men were crashingthrough the wilderness. 
Raistlin started. 
Then a voice shouted, "Raist! Help! Aiiihh!" 
More thrashing, the sound of tree limbs snapping, a thumpingsound. . . . 
Gathering his robes around him, Raistlin ran swiftly onto theanimal trail, the time for concealment and secrecy past. He couldhear his brother yelling, still. The sound was muffled, but clear,not choked or as if he were in pain. 
Racing through the woods, the archmage ignored the branches thatslapped his face and the brambles that caught at his robes.Breaking suddenly and unexpectedly into a clearing, he stopped,crouching, beside a tree. Ahead of him, he could see movement-agigantic black shadow that seemed to be hovering in the air,floating above the ground. Grappling with the shadowy creature,yelling and cursing horribly, was-by the sound-Caramon! 
"Ast kiranann Soth-aran/Suh kali Jalaran." Raistlin chanted thewords and tossed the small ball of sulphur high above him, intothe leaves of the trees. An instantaneous burst of light in thebranches was accompanied by a low, booming explosion. The treetopsburst into flame, illuminating the scene below. 
Raistlin darted forward, the words of a spell on his lips, magicalfire crackling from his fingertips. 
He stopped, staring in astonishment. 
Before him, hanging upside down by one leg from a rope suspendedover a tree branch, was Caramon. Suspended next to him, scrabblingfrantically in fear of the flames, was a rabbit. 
Raistlin stared, transfixed, at his brother. Shouting for help,Caramon turned slowly in the wind while flaming leaves fell allabout him. 
Caramon's next revolution brought him within sight of hisastounded twin. Flushing, the blood rushing to his head, Caramongave a sheepish grin. "Wolf snare," he said. 
The forest was ablaze with brilliant orange light. The fireflickered on the big man's sword, which lay on the ground wherehe'd dropped it. It sparkled on Caramon's shining armor as herevolved slowly around again. It gleamed in the frantic, panic-stricken eyes of the rabbit. 
Raistlin snickered. 
Now it was Caramon's turn to stare in hurt astonishment at his brother. Revolving back around to face him, Caramon twisted hishead, trying to see Raistlin right side up. He gave a pitiful,pleading look. 
C'mon Raist! Get me down!" 
Raistlin began to laugh silently, his shoulders heaving. 
"Damn it, Raist! This isn't funny!" Caramon blustered, waving hisarms. This gesture, of course, caused the snared warrior to stoprevolving and begin to swing from side to side. The rabbit, on theother end of the snare, started swinging, too, pawing even morefrantically at the air. Soon, the two of them were spinning inopposite directions, circling each other, entangling the ropesthat held them. 
"Get me down!" Caramon roared. The rabbit squealed in terror. 
This was too much. Memories of their youth returned vividly to thearchmage, driving away the darkness and horror that had clutchedat his soul for what seemed like years unending. Once again he wasyoung, hopeful, filled with dreams. Once again, he was with hisbrother, the brother who was closer to him than any other personhad ever been, would ever be. His bumbling, thick-headed, belovedbrother.... Raistlin doubled over. Gasping for air, the magecollapsed upon the grass and laughed wildly, tears running downhis cheeks. 
Caramon glared at him-but this baleful look from a man being heldupside down by his foot simply increased his twin's mirth.Raistlin laughed until he thought he might have hurt somethinginside him. The laughter felt good. For a time, it banished the darkness. Lying on the damp ground of the glade illuminated by thelight of the flaming trees, Raistlin laughed harder, feeling themerriment sparkle through his body like fine wine. And thenCaramon joined in, his booming bellow echoing through the forest. 
Only the falling of blazing bits of tree striking the ground nearhim recalled Raistlin to himself. Wiping his streaming eyes, soweak from laughter he could barely stand, the mage staggered tohis feet. With a flick of his hand, he brought forth the littlesilver dagger he wore concealed upon his wrist. 
Reaching up, stretching his full height, the mage cut the ropewrapped around his brothers ankle. Caramon plunged to the groundwith a curse and thudding crash. 
Still chuckling to himself, the mage walked over and cut the cordthat some hunter had tied around the rabbit's hind leg, catchinghold of the animal in his arms. The creature was half mad with terror, but Raistlin gently stroked its head and murmured softwords. Gradually, the animal grew calm, seeming almost to be in atrance. 
"Well, we took him alive," Raistlin said, his lips twitching. Heheld up the rabbit. "I don't think we'll get much information outof him, however." 
So red in the face he gave the impression of having tumbled into avat of paint, Caramon sat up and began to rub a bruised shoulder. 
"Very funny," he muttered, glancing up at the animal with ashamefaced grin. The flames in the treetops were dying, though theair was filled with smoke and, here and there, the grass wasburning. Fortunately, it had been a damp, rainy autumn, so thesesmall fires died quickly. 
"Nice spell," Caramon commented, looking up into the glowingremains of the surrounding treetops as, swearing and groaning, hehauled himself to his feet. 
"I've always liked it," Raistlin replied wryly. "Fizban taught itto me. You remember?" Looking up into the smoldering trees, hesmiled. "I think that old man would have appreciated this." 
Cradling the rabbit in his arms, absently petting the soft, silkenears, Raistlin walked from the smoke-filled woods. Lulled by themage's caressing fingers and hypnotic words, the rabbit's eyes "Damn snare cut off my circulation." He shook his foot to try toget the blood going. 
Heavy clouds had rolled in, blotting out the stars and snuffingLunitari's flame completely. As the flames in the trees died, thewoods were plunged into darkness so thick that neither brothercould see the trail ahead. 
"I suppose there is no need for secrecy now," Raistlin murmured."Shirak." The crystal on the top of the Staff of Magius began toglow with a bright, magical brilliance. 
The twins returned to their camp in silence, a companionable,comfortable silence, a silence they had not shared in years. Theonly sounds in the night were the restless stirring of theirhorses, the creak and jingle of Caramon's armor, and the softrustle of the mage's black robes as he walked. Behind them, once,they heard a crash-the falling of a charred branch. 
Reaching camp, Caramon ruefully stirred at the remains of theirfire, then glanced up at the rabbit in Raistlin's arms. 
" I don't suppose you'd consider that breakfast." 
"I do not eat goblin flesh," Raistlin answered with a smile,placing the creature down on the trail. At the touch of the coldground beneath its paws, the rabbit started, its eyes flared open.Staring around for an instant to get its bearings, it suddenlybolted for the shelter of the woods. 
Caramon heaved a sigh, then, chuckling to himself, sat downheavily upon the ground near his bedroll. Removing his boot, herubbed his bruised ankle. 
"Dulak," Raistlin whispered and the staff went dark. He laid itbeside his bedroll, then laid down, drawing the blankets up aroundhim. 
With the return of darkness, the dream was there. Waiting. 
Raistlin shuddered, his body suddenly convulsed with chills. Sweatcovered his brow. He could not, dared not close his eyes! Yet, hewas so tired ... so exhausted. How many nights had it been sincehe'd slept?... 
"Yeah," Caramon answered from the darkness. 
"Caramon," Raistlin said after a moment's pause, "do . . . do youremember how, when we were children, I'd have those ... thosehorrible dreams? . . ." His voice failed him for a moment. He coughed. 
There was no sound from his twin. 
Raistlin cleared his throat, then whispered, "And you'd guard mysleep, my brother. You kept them away. . . ." 
"I remember," came a muffled, husky voice. 
"Caramon," Raistlin began, but he could not finish. The pain andweariness were too much. The darkness seemed to close in, thedream crept from its hiding place. 
And then there was the jingle of armor. A big, hulking shadowappeared beside him. Leather creaking, Caramon sat down beside hisbrother, resting his broad back against a tree trunk and layinghis naked sword across his knees. 
"Go to sleep, Raist," Caramon said gently. The mage felt a rough,clumsy hand pat him on the shoulder. "I'll stay up and keep watch.. . ." 
Wrapping himself in his blankets, Raistlin closed his eyes. Sleep,sweet and restful, stole upon him. The last thing he rememberedwas a fleeting fancy of the dream approaching, reaching out itsbony hands to grasp him, only to be driven back by the light fromCaramon s sword. 
CHAPTER 7 
Caramon's horse shifted restlessly beneath him as the big manleaned forward in the saddle, staring down into the valley at thevillage. Frowning darkly, he glanced at his brother. Raistlin sface was hidden behind his black hood. A steady rain had startedabout dawn and now dripped dull and monotonously around them.Heavy gray clouds sagged above them, seemingly upheld by the dark, Raistlin shook his head. Then, speaking gently to his horse, herode forward. Caramon followed, hurrying to catch up, and therewas the sound of steel sliding from a scabbard. 
"You will not need your sword, my brother," Raistlin said withoutturning. 
The horses' hooves clopped through the mud of the road, theirsound thudding too loudly in the thick, rain-soaked air. DespiteRaistlin's words, Caramon kept his hand upon the hilt of his sworduntil they rode into the outskirts of the small village.Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to his brother,then, cautiously, approached the same small inn Crysania had firstseen. 
Peering inside, he saw the table set for dinner, the brokencrockery. A dog came dashing up to him hopefully, licking his handand whimpering. Cats slunk beneath the chairs, vanishing into theshadows with a guilty, furtive air. Absently patting the dog,Caramon was about to walk inside when Raistlin called. 
"I heard a horse. Over there." 
Sword drawn, Caramon walked around the corner of the building.After a few moments, he returned, his weapon sheathed, his browfurrowed. 
"It's hers," he reported. "Unsaddled, fed, and watered." 
Nodding his hooded head as though he had expected thisinformation, Raistlin pulled his cloak more tightly about him. 
Caramon glanced uneasily about the village. Water dripped from theeaves, the door to the inn swung on rusty hinges, making a shrillsqueaking sound. No light came from any of the houses, no soundsof children's laughter or women calling to each other or mencomplaining about the weather as they went to their work. "What isit, Raist?" 
"Plague," said Raistlin. 
Caramon choked and instantly covered his mouth and nose with hiscloak. From within the shadows of the cowl, Raistlin's mouthtwisted in an ironic smile. 
"Do not fear, my brother," he said, dismounting from his horse.Taking the reins, Caramon tied both animals to a post, then cameto stand beside his twin. "We have a true cleric with us, have youforgotten?" 
"Then where is she?" Caramon growled in a muffled voice, stillkeeping his face covered. 
The mage's head turned, staring down the rows of silent, emptyhouses. "There, I should guess," he remarked finally. Caramonfollowed his gaze and saw a single light flickering in the windowof a small house at the other end of the village. 
"I'd rather be walking into a camp of ogres," Caramon muttered ashe and his brother slogged through the muddy, deserted streets.His voice was gruff with a fear he could not hide. He could facewith equanimity the prospect of dying with six inches of coldsteel in his gut. But the thought of dying helplessly, wasted bysomething that could not be fought, that floated unseen upon theair, filled the big man with horror. 
Raistlin did not reply. His face remained hidden. What histhoughts might have been, his brother could not guess. The tworeached the end of the row of houses, the rain spattering allaround them with thudding plops. They were nearing the light whenCaramon happened to glance to his left. 
"Name of the gods!" he whispered as he stopped abruptly andgrasped his brother by the arm. 
He pointed to the mass grave. 
Neither spoke. With croaks of anger at their approach, the carrionbirds rose into the air, black wings flapping. Caramon gagged. Hisface pale, he turned hurriedly away. Raistlin continued to stareat the sight a moment, his thin lips tightening into a straightline. 
"Come, my brother," he said coldly, walking toward the small houseagain. 
Glancing in at the window, hand on the hilt of his sword, Caramonsighed and, nodding his head, gave his brother a sign. Raistlinpushed gently upon the door, and it opened at his touch. 
A young man lay upon a rumpled bed. His eyes were closed, hishands folded across his chest. There was a look of peace upon thestill, ashen face, though the closed eyes were sunken into gauntcheekbones and the lips were blue with the chill of death. Acleric dressed in robes that might once have been white knelt onthe floor beside him, her head bowed on her folded hands. Caramonstarted to say something, but Raistlin checked him with a hand onhis arm, shaking his hooded head, unwilling to interrupt her. 
Silently, the twins stood together in the doorway, the raindripping around them. 
Crysania was with her god. Intent upon her prayers, she wasunaware of the twins' entrance until, finally, the jingle andcreak of Caramon's armor brought her back to reality. Lifting herhead, her dark, tousled hair falling about her shoulders, sheregarded them without surprise. 
Her face, though pale with weariness and sorrow, was composed.Though she had not prayed to Paladine to send them, she knew thegod answered prayers of the heart as well as those spoken openly.Bowing her head once more, giving thanks, she sighed, then rose toher feet and turned to face them. 
Her eyes met Raistlin s eyes, the light of the failing firecausing them to gleam even in the depths of his hood. When shespoke, her voice seemed to her to blend with the sound of thefalling raindrops. 
"I failed," she said. 
Raistlin appeared undisturbed. He glanced at the body of the youngman. "He would not believe?" 
"Oh, he believed." She, too, looked down at the body. "He refusedto let me heal him. His anger was . . . very great." Reachingdown, she drew the sheet up over the still form. "Paladine hastaken him. Now he understands, I am certain." 
"He does," Raistlin remarked. "Do you?" 
Crysania's head bowed, her dark hair fell around her face. Shestood so still for so long that Caramon, not understanding,cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. 
"Uh, Raist-" he began softly. 
Crysania raised her head. She had not even heard Caramon. Her eyeswere a deep gray now, so dark they seemed to reflect thearchmage's black robes. "I understand," she said in a firm voice."For the first time, I understand and I see what I must do. InIstar, I saw belief in the gods lost. Paladine granted my prayerand showed me the Kingpriest's fatal weakness-pride. The god gaveme to know how I might avoid that mistake. He gave me to knowthat, if I asked, he would answer. 
"But Paladine also showed me, in Istar, how weak I was. When Ileft the wretched city and came here with you, I was little morethan a frightened child, clinging to you in the terrible night.Now, I have regained my strength. The vision of this tragic sighthas burned into my soul." 
As Crysania spoke, she drew nearer Raistlin. His eyes held hers inan unblinking gaze. She saw herself in their flat surface. Themedallion of Paladine she wore around her neck shone with a cold,white light. Her voice grew fervent, her hands clasped togethertightly. 
"That sight will be before my eyes," she said softly, coming tostand before the archmage, "as I walk with you through the Portal,armed with my faith, strong in my belief that together you and Iwill banish darkness from the world forever!" 
Reaching out, Raistlin took hold of her hands. They were numb withcold. He enclosed them in his own slender hands, warming them withhis burning touch. 
"We have no need to alter time!" Crysania said. "Fistandantiluswas an evil man. What he did, he did for his own personal glory.But we care, you and I. That alone will be sufficient to changethe ending. I know-my god has spoken to me!" 
Slowly, smiling his thin-lipped smile, Raistlin brought Crysania'shands to his mouth and kissed them, never taking his eyes fromher. 
Crysania felt her cheeks flush, then caught her breath. With achoked, half-strangled sound, Caramon turned abruptly and walkedout the door. 
He seeks to become a god. He seeks to become a god! 
Sick and afraid, Caramon shook his head in anguish. His interestin the army, his fascination with being a "general," hisattraction to Crysania, and all the other, thousand worries haddriven from his mind the real reason he had come back. Now with Crysania's words-it returned to him, hitting him like a wave ofchill sea water. 
Yet all he could think of was Raistlin as he was last night. Howlong had it been since he'd heard his brother laugh like that? Howlong had it been since they'd shared that warmth, that closeness?Vividly, he remembered watching Raistlin s face as he guarded histwin's sleep. He saw the harsh lines of cunning smooth, the bittercreases around the mouth fade. The archmage looked almost youngagain, and Caramon remembered their childhood and young manhoodtogether-those days that had been the happiest of his life. 
But then came, unbidden, a hideous memory, as though his soul weretaking a perverse delight in torturing and confusing him. He sawhimself once more in that dark cell in Istar, seeing clearly, forthe first time, his brothers vast capability for evil. Heremembered his firm determination that his brother must die. He thought of Tasslehoff.. . . 
But Raistlin had explained all that! He had explained things atIstar. Once again, Caramon felt himself foundering. 
What if Par-Salian is wrong, what if they are all wrong? What ifRaist and Crysania could save the world from horror and sufferinglike this? 
"I'm just a jealous, bumbling fool," Caramon mumbled, wiping therainwater from his face with a trembling hand. "Maybe those oldwizards are all like me, all jealous of him." 
The darkness deepened about him, the clouds above grew denser,changing from gray to black. The rain beat down more heavily. 
Raistlin came out the door, Crysania with him, her hand on hisarm. She was wrapped in her thick cloak, her grayish-white hooddrawn up over her head. Caramon cleared his throat. 
"No, my brother," Raistlin said. "No. This sight will not behidden in the ground." He cast back his hood, letting the rainwash over his face as he lifted his gaze to the clouds. "Thissight will flare in the eyes of the gods! The smoke of theirdestruction will rise to heaven! The sound will resound in their ears!" 
Caramon, startled at this unusual outburst, turned to look at histwin. Raistlin's thin face was nearly as gaunt and pale as thecorpse's inside the small house, his voice tense with anger. 
"Come with me," he said, abruptly breaking free of Crysania's holdand striding toward the center of the small village. Crysaniafollowed, holding her hood to keep the slashing wind and rain fromblowing it off. Caramon came after, more slowly. 
Stopping in the middle of the muddy, rain-soaked street, Raistlinturned to face Crysania and his brother as they came up to him. 
"Get the horses, Caramon-ours and Crysania's. Lead them to thosewoods outside of town"-the mage pointed "blindfold them, thenreturn to me." 
Caramon stared at him. 
"Do it!" Raistlin commanded, his voice rasping. 
Caramon did as he was told, leading the horses away. 
"Now, stand there," Raistlin continued when his twin returned. "Donot move from that spot. Do not come close to me, my brother, nomatter what happens." His gaze went to Crysania, who was standingnear him, then back to his brother. "You understand, Caramon." 
Caramon nodded wordlessly and, reaching out, gently tookCrysania's hand. 
"What is it?" she asked, holding back. 
"His magic," Caramon replied. 
He fell silent as Raistlin cast a sharp, imperious glance at him.Alarmed by the strange, fiercely eager expression on Raistlin'sface, Crysania suddenly drew nearer Caramon, shivering. The big Raistlin's eyes closed. Lifting his face to the heavens, he raisedhis arms, palms outward, toward the lowering skies. His lipsmoved, but-for a moment-they could not hear him. Then, though hedid not seem to raise his voice, each could begin to make outwords-the spidery language of magic. He repeated the same wordsover and over, his soft voice rising and falling in a chant. Thewords never changed, but the way he spoke them, the inflection ofeach, varied every time he repeated the phrase. 
A hush settled over the valley. Even the sound of the falling raindied in Caramon's ears. All he could hear was the soft chanting,the strange and eerie music of his brother's voice. Crysaniapressed closer still, her dark eyes wide, and Caramon patted herreassuringly. 
As the chanting continued, a feeling of awe crept over Caramon. Hehad the distinct impression that he was being drawn irresistiblytoward Raistlin, that everything in the world was being drawntoward the archmage, though-in looking fearfully around-Caramonsaw that he hadn't moved from the spot. But, turning back to stareat his brother, the feeling returned even more forcibly. 
Raistlin stood in the center of the world, his hands outstretched,and all sound, all light, even the air itself, seemed to rusheagerly into his grasp. The ground beneath Caramon's feet began topulse in waves that flowed toward the archmage. 
Raistlin lifted his hands higher, his voice rising ever soslightly. He paused, then he spoke each word in the chant slowly,firmly. The winds rose, the ground heaved. Caramon had the wildimpression that the world was rushing in upon his brother, and hebraced his feet, fearful that he, too, would be sucked intoRaistlin's dark vortex. 
Raistlin's fingers stabbed toward the gray, boiling heavens. Theenergy that he had drawn from ground and air surged through him.Silver lightning flashed from his fingers, striking the clouds.Brilliant, jagged light forked down in answer, touching the smallhouse where the body of the young cleric lay. With a shatteringexplosion, a ball of blue-white flame engulfed the building. 
Again Raistlin spoke and again the silver lightning shot from hisfingers. Again another streak of light answered, striking the Crysania screamed. Struggling in Caramon's grasp, she sought tofree herself. But, remembering his brothers words, Caramon heldher fast, preventing her from rushing to Raistlin's side. 
"Look!" he whispered hoarsely, gripping her tightly. "The flamesdo not touch him!" 
Standing amidst the blaze, Raistlin lifted his thin arms higher,and the black robes blew around him as though he were in thecenter of a violent wind storm. He spoke again. Fiery fingers offlame spread out from him, lighting the darkness, racing throughthe wet grass, dancing on top of the water as though it werecovered with oil. Raistlin stood in the center, the hub of a vast,spoked wheel of flame. 
Crysania could not move. Awe and terror such as she had neverbefore experienced paralyzed her. She held onto Caramon, but heoffered her no comfort. The two clung together like frightenedchildren as the flames surged around them. Traveling through thestreets, the fire reached the buildings and ignited them with onebursting explosion after another. 
Purple, red, blue, and green, the magical fire blazed upward,lighting the heavens, taking the place of the cloud-shrouded sun.The carrion birds wheeled in fear as the tree they had occupiedbecame a living torch. 
Raistlin spoke again, one last time. With a burst of pure, whitelight, fire leaped down from the heavens, consuming the bodies inthe mass grave. 
Wind from the flames gusted about Crysania, blowing the hood fromher head. The heat was intense, beating upon her face. The smokechoked her, she could not breathe. Sparks showered around her,flames flickered at her feet until it seemed that she, too, mustend up part of the conflagration. But nothing touched her. She andCaramon stood safely in the midst of the blaze. And then Crysaniabecame aware of Raistlin's gaze upon her. 
From the fiery inferno in which he stood, the mage beckoned. 
Crysania gasped, shrinking back against Caramon. 
Raistlin beckoned again, his black robes flowing about his body,rippling with the wind of the fire storm he had created. Standingwithin the center of the flames, he held out his hands toCrysania. 
"No!" Caramon cried, holding fast to her. But Crysania, nevertaking her eyes from Raistlin, gently loosened the big mans gripand walked forward. 
"Come to me, Revered Daughter!" Raistlin's soft voice touched herthrough the chaos and she knew she was hearing it in her heart."Come to me through the flame. Come taste the power of thegods...... 
The heat of the blazing fire that enveloped the archmage burnedand scorched her soul. It seemed her skin must blacken and shrivel. She heard her hair crackling. Her breath was sucked fromher lungs, searing them painfully. But the fire's light entrancedher, the flames danced, luring her forward, even as Raistlin'ssoft voice urged her toward him. 
"No!" Behind her, she could hear Caramon cry out, but he wasnothing to her, less than the sound of her own heart beating. Shereached the curtain of flame. Raistlin extended his hand, but, foran instant, she faltered, hesitating. 
His hand burned! She saw it withering, the flesh black andcharred. 
"Come to me, Crysania. . . ." whispered his voice. 
Reaching out her hand, trembling, she thrust it into the flame.For an instant, there was searing, heart-stopping pain. She criedout in horror and anguish, then Raistlin's hand closed over hers,drawing her through the blazing curtain. Involuntarily, she closedher eyes. 
Cool wind soothed her. She could breathe sweet air. The only heatshe felt was the warm, familiar heat from the mage s body. Openingher eyes, she saw that she stood close to him. Raising her head,she gazed up into his face ... and felt a swift, sharp ache in herheart. 
Raistlin's thin face glistened with sweat, his eyes reflected thepure, white flame of the burning bodies, his breath came fast andshallow. He seemed lost, unaware of his surroundings. And there "I understand," Crysania said to herself, holding onto his hands."I understand. This is why he cannot love me. He has only one lovein this life and that is his magic. To this love he will giveeverything, for this love he will risk everything!" 
The thought was painful, but it was a pleasant kind of melancholypain. 
"Once again," she said to herself, her eyes dimming with tears,"he is my example. Too long have I let myself be preoccupied withpetty thoughts of this world, of myself. He is right. Now I tastethe power of the gods. I must be worthy-of them and of him!" 
Raistlin closed his eyes. Crysania, holding onto him, felt themagic drain from him as though his life's blood were flowing froma wound. His arms fell to his sides. The ball of flame that had enveloped them flickered and died. 
With a sigh that was little more than a whisper, Raistlin sank tohis knees upon the scorched ground. The rain resumed. Crysaniacould hear it hiss as it struck the charred remains of the still-smoldering village. Steam rose into the air, flitting among theskeletons of the buildings, drifting down the street like ghostsof the former inhabitants. 
Kneeling beside the archmage, Crysania smoothed back his brownhair with her hand. Raistlin opened his eyes, looking at herwithout recognition. And in them she saw deep, undying sorrow-thelook of one who has been permitted to enter a realm of deadly,perilous beauty and who now finds himself, once more, cast downinto the gray, rain-swept world. 
The mage slumped forward, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply.Crysania looked up at Caramon as the big man hurried over. 
"Are you all right?" he asked her. 
"I'm all right," she whispered. "How is he?" 
Together, they helped Raistlin rise to his feet. He seemedcompletely unaware of their very existence. Tottering withexhaustion, he sagged against his brother. 
"He'll be fine. This always happens." Caramon's voice died, thenhe muttered, "Always happens! What I am saying? I've never seenanything like that in my life! Name of the gods"-he stared at histwin in awe-"I've never seen power like that! I didn't know! Ididn't know...... 
Supported by Caramon's strong arm, Raistlin leaned against histwin. He began to cough, gasping for air, choking until he couldbarely stand. Caramon held onto him tightly. Fog and smoke swirledabout their feet, the rain splashed down around them. Here andthere came the crash of burning wood, the hiss of water uponflame. When the coughing fit passed, Raistlin raised his head,life and recognition returning to his eyes. 
"Crysania," he said softly, "I asked you to do that because youmust have implicit faith in me and in my power. If we succeed inour quest, Revered Daughter, then we will enter the Portal and wewill walk with our eyes open into the Abyss-a place of horrorunimaginable." 
Crysania began to shiver uncontrollably as she stood before him,held mesmerized by his glittering eyes. 
"You must be strong, Revered Daughter," he continued intently."And that is the reason I brought you on this journey. I have gonethrough my own trials. You had to go through yours. In Istar, youfaced the trials of wind and water. You came through the trial ofdarkness within the Tower, and now you have withstood the trial byfire. But one more trial awaits you, Crysania! One more, and youmust prepare for it, as must we all." 
His eyes closed wearily, he staggered. Caramon, his face grim andsuddenly haggard, caught hold of his twin and, lifting him,carried him to the waiting horses. 
Crysania hurried after them, her concerned gaze on Raistlin.Despite his weakness, there was a look of sublime peace andexultation on his face. 
"What's wrong?" she asked. 
"He sleeps," Caramon said, his voice deep and gruff, concealingsome emotion she could not guess at. 
Reaching the horses, Crysania stopped a moment, turning to lookbehind her. 
Smoke rose from the charred ruins of the village. The skeletons ofthe buildings had collapsed into heaps of pure white ash, thetrees were nothing but branched smoke drifting up to the heavens.Even as she watched, the rain beat down upon the ash, changing itto mud, washing it away. The fog blew to shreds, the smoke wasswept away on the winds of the storm. 
The village was gone as though it had never been. 
Shivering, Crysania clutched her cloak about her and turned toCaramon, who was placing Raistlin into his saddle, shaking him,forcing him to wake up enough to ride. 
"Caramon," Crysania said as the warrior came over to help her."What did Raistlin mean-'another trial.' I saw the look on yourface when he said it. You know, don't you? You understand?" 
Caramon did not answer immediately. Next to them, Raistlin swayedgroggily in his saddle. Finally, his head bowed, the mage lapsedonce more into sleep. After assisting Crysania, Caramon walkedover to his own horse and mounted. Then, reaching over, he tookthe reins from the limp hands of his slumbering brother. They rodeback up the mountain, through the rain, Caramon never once lookingbehind at the village. 
In silence, he guided the horses up the trail. Next to him,Raistlin slumped over his mount's neck. Caramon steadied hisbrother with a firm, gentle hand. 
"Caramon?" Crysania asked softly as they reached the summit of themountain. 
The warrior turned to look at Crysania. Then, with a sigh, hisgaze went to the south, where, far from them, lay Thorbardin. Thestorm clouds massed thick and dark upon the distant horizon. 
"It is an old legend that, before he faced the Queen of Darkness,Huma was tested by the gods. He went through the trial of wind,the trial of fire, the trial of water. And his last test," Caramonsaid quietly, "was the trial of blood." 
Song of Huma(Reprise) 
Through cinders and blood, the harvest of dragons,
Traveled Huma, cradled by dreams of the Silver Dragon,
The Stag perpetual, a signal before him.
At last the eventual harbor, a temple so far to the east
That it lay where the east was ending.
There Paladine appeared In a pool of stars and glory, announcing
That of all choices, one most terrible had fallen to Huma.
For Paladine knew that the heart is a nest of yearnings,
That we can travel forever toward the light, becoming
What we can never be. 

Book 3 

Footsteps In The Sand . . . 

The Army of Fistandantilus surged southward, reaching Caergoth
just as the last of the leaves were blowing from the tree limbs
and the chill hand of winter was getting a firm grip upon the
land. 

The banks of New Sea brought the army to a halt. But Caramon,
knowing he was going to have to cross it, had long had his
preparations underway. Turning over command of the main part of
the army to his brother and the most trusted of his subordinates,
Caramon led a group of his best-trained men to the shores of New
Sea. Also with him were all the blacksmiths, woodwrights, and
carpenters who had joined the army. 

Caramon made his command post in the city of Caergoth. He had
heard of the famous port city all his life-his former life. Three
hundred years after the Cataclysm would find it a bustling,
thriving harbor town. But now, one hundred years after the fiery
mountain had struck Krynn, Caergoth was a town in confusion. Once
a small farming community in the middle of Solamnic Plain,
Caergoth was still struggling with the sudden appearance of a sea
at it's doorstep. 

Looking down from his quarters where the roads in town ended-
suddenly-in a precarious drop down steep cliffs to the beaches
below, Caramon thought incongruously of Tarsis. The Cataclysm had
robbed that town of its sea, leaving its boats stranded upon the
sands like dying sea birds, while here, in Caergoth, New Sea
lapped on what was once plowed ground. 

Caramon thought with longing of those stranded ships in Tarsis.Here, in Caergoth, there were a few boats but not nearly enoughfor his needs. He sent his men ranging up and down the coast forhundreds of miles, with orders to either purchase or commandeersea-going vessels of any type, their crews with them, if possible.These they sailed to Caergoth, where the smiths and the craftsmenre-outfitted them to carry as great a load as possible for theshort journey across the Straits of Schallsea to Abanasinia. 
Daily, Caramon received reports on the build-up of the dwarvenarmies-how Pax Tharkas was being fortified; how the dwarves hadimported slave labor (gully dwarves) to work the mines and thesteel forges day and night, turning out weapons and armor; howthese were being carted to Thorbardin and taken inside themountain. 
He also received reports from the emissaries of the hill dwarvesand the Plainsmen. He heard about the great gathering of thetribes in Abanasinia, putting aside blood feuds to fight togetherfor survival. He heard about the preparations of the hill dwarves,who were also forging weapons, using the same gully-dwarf slavelabor as their cousins, the mountain dwarves. 
He had even made discreet advances to the elves in Qualinesti.This gave Caramon an eerie feeling, for the man to whom he senthis message was none other than Solostaran, Speaker of the Suns,who had-just weeks ago-died in Caramon's own time. Raistlin hadsneered at hearing of this attempt to draw the elves into the war,knowing full well what their answer would be. The archmage had,however, not been without a secret hope, nurtured in the darkhours of the night, that this time it might prove different.... 
It didn't. 
Caramon's men never even had a chance to speak to Solostaran.Before they could dismount from their horses arrows zinged throughthe air, thudding into the ground, forming a deadly ring aroundeach of them. Looking into the aspen woods, they could seeliterally hundreds of archers, each with an arrow socked andready. No words were spoken. The messengers left, carrying anelven arrow to Caramon in answer. 
The war itself, in fact, was beginning to give Caramon an eeriefeeling. Piecing together what he had heard Raistlin and Crysaniadiscussing, it suddenly occurred to Caramon that everything he wasdoing had all been done before. The thought was almost as "I feel as though that iron ring I wore round my neck in Istar hadbeen bolted back on," Caramon muttered to himself one night as hesat in the inn at Caergoth that he had taken over for his commandpost. "I'm a slave again, same as I was then. Only this time it'sworse, because-even when I was a slave-at least I had freedom tochoose whether I was going to draw breath or not that day. I mean,if I'd wanted to die, I could have fallen on my sword and died!But now I'm not even given that choice, 
It was a strange and horrifying concept for Caramon, one he dwelton and mulled over many nights, one he knew he didn't understand.He would like to have talked it over with his brother, butRaistlin was back at the inland camp with the army and even ifthey had been together, Caramon was certain his twin would haverefused to discuss it. 
Raistlin, during this time, had been gaining in strength almostdaily. Following the use of his magical spells that consumed thedead village in a blazing funeral pyre, the archmage had laidalmost dead to the world for two days. Upon waking from hisfeverish sleep, he had announced that he was hungry. Within thenext few days, he ate more solid food than he had been able totolerate in months. The cough vanished. He rapidly regainedstrength and added flesh to his bones. 
But he was still tormented by nightmares that not even thestrongest of sleeping potions could banish. 
Day and night, Raistlin pondered his problem. If only he couldlearn Fistandantilus's fatal mistake, he might be able to correctit! 
Wild schemes came to mind. The archmage even toyed with the ideaof traveling forward to his own time to research, but abandonedthe^ idea- almost immediately. If -consuming a village in flamehad plunged him into exhaustion for two days, the time-travelspell would prove even more wearing. And, though only a day or twomight pass in the present while he recuperated, eons would flit byin the past. Finally, if he did make it back, he wouldn't have thestrength needed to battle the Dark Queen. 
And then, just when he had almost given up in despair, the answercame to him.... 
Raistlin lifted the tent flap and walked out. The guard on dutystarted and shuffled uncomfortably. The appearance of the archmagewas always unnerving, even to those of his own personal guard. Noone ever heard him coming. He always seemed to materialize out ofthe air. The first indication of his presence was the touch ofburning fingers upon a bare arm, or soft, whispered words, or therustle of black robes. 
The wizard's tent was regarded with wonder and awe, though no onehad ever seen anything strange emanating from it. Many, of course,watched-especially the children, who secretly hoped to see ahorrible monster break free of the archmage's control and gothundering through the camp, devouring everyone in sight untilthey were able to tame it with a bit of gingerbread. 
But nothing of the kind ever happened. The archmage carefullynurtured and conserved his strength. Tonight would be different,Raistlin reflected with a sigh and scowl. But it couldn't behelped. 
"Guard," he murmured. 
"M-my lord?" the guard stammered in some confusion. The archmagerarely spoke to anyone, let alone a mere guard. 
"Where Ts Lady Crysania?" 
The guard could not suppress a curl of his lip as he answered thatthe "witch" was, he believed, in General Caramon's tent, havingretired for the evening. 
"Shall I send someone for her, my lord?" he asked Raistlin withsuch obvious reluctance that the mage could not help but smile,though it was hidden in the shadows of his black hood. 
"No," Raistlin replied, nodding as if pleased at this information."And my brother, have you word of him? When is his returnexpected?" 
"General Caramon sent word that he arrives tomorrow, my lord," theguard continued in a mystified tone, certain that the mage knewthis already. "We are to await his arrival here and let the supply train catch up with us at the same time. The first wagons rolledin this afternoon, my lord." A sudden thought struck the guard."If-if you're thinking of changing these orders, my lord, I shouldcall the Captain of the Watch-" 
"No, no, nothing of the sort," Raistlin replied soothingly. "Imerely wanted to make certain that I would not be disturbed thisnight-for anything or by anyone. Is that clear, uh-what is yourname?" 
"M-michael, lordship," the guard answered. "Certainly, my lord. Ifsuch are your orders, I will carry them out." 
"Good," Raistlin said. The archmage was silent for a moment,staring out into the night which was cold but bright with thelight from Lunitari and the stars. Solinari, waning, was nothingbut a silver scratch across the sky. More important, to Raistlin'seyes, was the moon he alone could see. Nuitari, the Black Moon,was full and round, a hole of darkness amid the stars. 
Raistlin took a step nearer the guard. Casting his hood backslightly from his face, he let the light of the red moon strikehis eyes. The guard, startled, involuntarily stepped backward, buthis strict training as a Knight of Solamnia made him catchhimself. 
Raistlin felt the man's body stiffen. He saw the reaction andsmiled again. Raising a slender hand, he laid it upon the guard'sarmored chest. 
"No one is to enter my tent for any reason," the archmage repeatedin the soft, sibilant whisper he knew how to use so effectively."No matter what happens! No one-Lady Crysania, my brother, youyourself ... no one!" 
"I-I understand, my lord," Michael stammered. 
"You may hear or see strange things this night," Raistlincontinued, his eyes holding the guard's in their entrancing gaze."Ignore them. Any who enters this tent does so at the risk of hisown life ... and mine!" 
"Y-yes, lord!" Michael said, swallowing. A trickle of sweat rolleddown his face, though the night air was exceedingly cool forautumn. 
"You are-or were-a Knight of Solamnia?" Raistlin asked abruptly. 
Michael seemed uncomfortable, his gaze wavered. His mouth opened,but Raistlin shook his head. "Never mind. You do not have to tell me. Though you have shaved your moustaches, I can tell it by yourface. I knew a Knight once, you see. Therefore, swear to me, bythe Code and the Measure, that you will do as I ask." 
"I swear, by the Code and ... the Measure . . ." Michaelwhispered. 
The mage nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to reenter histent. Michael, free of those eyes in which he saw only himselfreflected, returned to his post, shivering beneath his heavy,woolen cloak. At the last moment, however, Raistlin paused, hisrobes rustling softly around him. 
"Sir Knight," he whispered. Michael turned. 
"If anyone enters this tent," the mage said in a gentle, pleasantvoice, "and disturbs my spellcasting and-if I survive-I willexpect to find nothing but your corpse upon the ground. That isthe only excuse I will accept for failure." 
"Yes, my lord," Michael said, more firmly, though he kept hisvoice low. "Est Sularas oth Mithas. My Honor is My Life." 
"Yes." Raistlin shrugged. "So it generally ends." 
The archmage entered his tent, leaving Michael to stand in thedarkness, waiting for the new-gods-knew-what to happen in the tentbehind him. He wished his cousin, Garic, were here to share thisstrange and forbidding duty. But Garic was with Caramon. Michaelhunched his shoulders deeper into his cloak and looked longinglyout into the camp. There were bonfires, warm spiced wine, goodfellowship, the sounds of laughter. Here, all was wrapped inthick, red-tinged, starlit darkness. The only sound Michael couldhear was the sound of his armor jingling as he began to shakeuncontrollably. 
Crossing the tent floor, Raistlin came to a large, wooden chestthat sat upon the floor beside his bed. Carved with magical runes,the chest was the only one of Raistlin's possessions beside theStaff of Magius-that the mage allowed no one but himself to touch.Not that any sought to try. Not after the report of one of theguards, who had mistakenly attempted to lift it. 
The chest was bitterly cold to the touch, the guard reported in ashaken voice to his friends around the fire that night. Not onlythat, but he was overcome by a feeling of horror so great it was awonder he didn't go mad. 
Since that time, only Raistlin himself moved it, though how, noone could say. It was always present in his tent, yet no one couldever recall seeing it on any of the pack horses. 
Lifting the lid of the chest, Raistlin calmly studied thecontents-the nightblue-bound spellbooks, the jars and bottles andpouches of spell components, his own black-bound spellbooks, anassortment of scrolls, and several black robes folded at thebottom. There were no magical rings or pendants, such as mighthave been found in the possession of lesser mages. These Raistlinscorned as being fit only for weaklings. 
His gaze passed quickly over all the items, including one slim,well-worn book that might have made the casual observer pause andstare, wondering that such a mundane item was kept with objects ofarcane value. The title-written in flamboyant letters to attractthe attention of the buyer-was Sleight-of-Hand Techniques Designedto Amaze and Delight! Below that was written Astound Your Friends!Trick the Gullible! There might have been more but the rest hadbeen worn away long ago by young, eager, loving hands. 
Passing over this book that, even now, brought a thin smile ofremembrance to the mage's lips, Raistlin reached down among hisrobes, uncovered a small box, and drew it forth. This, too, wasguarded by runes carved upon its surface. Muttering magical wordsto nullify their effects, the mage opened the box reverently.There was only one thing inside-an ornate, silver stand.Carefully, Raistlin removed the stand and rising to his feet,carried it to the table he had placed in the center of the tent. 
Settling himself into a chair, the mage put his hand into one ofthe secret pockets of his robes and pulled forth a small crystalobject. Swirling with colors, it resembled at first glance nothingmore sinister than a child's marble. Yet, looking at the objectclosely, one saw that the colors trapped within were alive. Theycould be seen constantly moving and shifting, as though seekingescape. 
Raistlin placed the marble upon the stand. It looked ludicrousperched there, much too small. And then, suddenly, as always, itwas perfectly right. The marble had grown, the stand had shrunk... perhaps Raistlin himself had shrunk, for now the mage felthimself to be the one that appeared ludicrous. 
It was a common feeling and he was accustomed to it, knowing thatthe dragon orb-for such was the shimmering, swirling-coloredcrystal globe-sought always to put its user at a disadvantage.But, long ago (no-in time to come!), Raistlin had mastered thedragon orb. He had learned to control the essence of dragonkindthat inhabited it. 
Relaxing his body, Raistlin closed his eyes and gave himself up tohis magic. Reaching out, he placed his fingers upon the coldcrystal of the dragon orb and spoke the ancient words. 
"Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar." 
The chill of the orb began to spread through his fingers, causinghis very bones to ache. Gritting his teeth, Raistlin repeated thewords. 
"Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar." 
The swirling colors within the orb ceased their lazy meanderingand began to spin madly. Raistlin stared within the dazzlingvortex, fighting the dizziness that assailed him, keeping hishands placed firmly upon the orb. 
Slowly, he whispered the words again. 
The colors ceased to swirl and a light glowed in the center.Raistlin blinked, then frowned. The light should have been neitherblack nor white, all colors yet none, symbolizing the mixture ofgood and evil and neutrality that bound the essence of the dragonswithin the orb. Such it had always been, ever since the first timehe had looked within the orb and fought for its control. 
But the light he saw now, though much the same as he had seenbefore, seemed ringed round by dark shadows. He stared at itclosely, coldly, banishing any fanciful flights of imagination.His frown deepened. There were shadows hovering about the edges... shadows of ... wings! 
Out of the light came two hands. Raistlin caught hold of them-andgasped. 
The hands pulled him with such strength that, totally unprepared,Raistlin nearly lost control. It was only when he felt himselfbeing drawn into the orb by the hands within the shadowy lightthat he exerted his own force of will and yanked the hands backtoward him. 
"What is the meaning of this?" Raistlin demanded sternly. "Why doyou challenge me? Long ago, I became your master." 
She calls.... She calls and we must obey! 
"Who calls who is more important than I?" Raistlin asked with asneer, though his blood suddenly ran colder than the touch of theorb. 
Our Queen! We hear her voice, moving in our dreams, disturbing oursleep. Come, master, we will take you! Come, quickly! 
The Queen! Raistlin shuddered involuntarily, unable to stophimself. The hands, sensing him weakening, began to draw him inonce more. Angrily, Raistlin tightened his grip on them and pausedto try to sort his thoughts that swirled as madly as the colorswithin the orb. 
The Queen! Of course, he should have foreseen this. She hadentered the world-partially-and now she moved among the evildragons. Banished from Krynn long ago by the sacrifice of theSolamnic Knight, Huma, the dragons, both good and evil, slept indeep and secret places. 
Leaving the good dragons to sleep on undisturbed, the Dark Queen,Takhisis, the Five-Headed Dragon, was awaking the evil dragons,rallying them to her cause as she fought to gain control of theworld. 
The dragon orb, though composed of the essences of all dragons-good, evil, and neutral-would, of course, react strongly to theQueen's commands, especially as-for the present-its evil side waspredominant, enhanced by the nature of its master. 
Are those shadows I see the wings of dragons, or shadows of my ownsoul? Raistlin wondered, staring into the orb. 
He did not have leisure for reflection, however. All of thesethoughts flitted through his mind so rapidly that between thedrawing of one breath and the releasing of it, the archmage saw "No, my Queen," he murmured, keeping a tight grip upon the handswithin the orb. "No, it will not be so easy as this." To the orbhe spoke softly but firmly, "I am your master still. I was the onewho rescued you from Silvanesti and Lorac, the mad elven king. Iwas the one who carried you safely from the Blood Sea of Istar. Iam Rai-" He hesitated, swallowed the suddenly bitter taste in hismouth, then said through clenched teeth, "I am . . .Fistandantilus-Master of Past and of Present-and I command you toobey me!" 
The orb's light dimmed. Raistlin felt the hands holding his owntremble and start to slip away. Anger and fear shot through him,but he suppressed these emotions instantly and kept his claspfirmly upon the hands. The trembling ceased, the hands relaxed. 
We obey, master. 
Raistlin dared not breathe a sigh of relief. 
"Very well," he said, keeping his voice stern, a parent speakingto a chastened child (but what a dangerous child! he thought).Coldly, he continued, "I must contact my apprentice in the Towerof High Sorcery in Palanthas. Heed my command. Carry my voicethrough the ethers of time. Bring my words to Dalamar." 
Speak the words, master. He shall hear them as he hears thebeating of his own heart, and so shall you hear his response. 
Raistlin nodded.... 
CHAPTER 2 
Dalamar shut the spellbook, clenching his fist in frustration. Hewas certain he was doing everything right, pronouncing the wordswith the proper inflection, repeating the chant the prescribednumber of times. The components were those called for. He had seenRaistlin cast this spell a hundred times. Yet, he could not do it. 
Putting his head wearily in his hands, he closed his eyes andbrought memories of his Shalafi to mind, hearing Raistlin's soft It didn't help. Everything seemed the same! Well, thought Dalamarwith a tired sigh, I must simply wait until he returns. 
Standing up, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and the continuallight spell he had cast upon a crystal globe standing on the deskof Raistlin's library winked out. No fire burned in the grate. Thelate spring night in Palanthas was warm and fine. Dalamar had evendared open the window a crack. 
Raistlin's health at the best of times was fragile. He abhorredfresh air, preferring to sit in his study wrapped in warmth andthe smells of roses and spice and decay. Ordinarily, Dalamar didnot mind. But there were times, particularly in the spring, whenhis elven soul longed for the woodland home he had left forever. 
Standing by the window, smelling the perfume of renewed life thatnot even the horrors of the Shoikan Grove could keep from reachingthe Tower, Dalamar let himself think, just for a moment, ofSilvanesti. 
A dark elf-one who is cast from the light. Such was Dalamar to hispeople. When they'd caught him wearing the Black Robes that no elfcould even look upon without flinching, practicing arcane artsforbidden to one of his low rank and station, the elven lords hadbound Dalamar hand and foot, gagged his mouth, and blindfolded hiseyes. Then he had been thrown in a cart and driven to the bordersof his land. 
Deprived of his sight, Dalamar's last memories of Silvanesti werethe smells of aspen trees, blooming flowers, rich loam. It hadbeen spring then, too, he recalled. 
Would he go back if he could? Would he give up this to return? Didhe feel any sorrow, regret? Without conscious volition, Dalamar'shand went to his breast. Beneath the black robes, he could feelthe wounds in his chest. Though it had been a week sinceRaistlin's hand had touched him, burning five holes into hisflesh, the wounds had not healed. Nor would they ever heal,Dalamar knew with bitter certainty. 
Always, the rest of his life, he would feel their pain. Wheneverhe stood naked, he would see them, festering scabs that no skinwould cover. Such was the penalty he had paid for his treacheryagainst his Shalafi. 
As he had told the great Par-Salian, Head of the Order, master ofthe Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth-and Dalamar's master, too, ofa sort, since the dark elf mage had, in reality, been a spy forthe Order of Mages who feared and distrusted Raistlin as they hadfeared no mortal in their history-"It was no more than Ideserved." 
Would he leave this dangerous place? Go back home, go back toSilvanesti? 
Dalamar stared out the window with a grim, twisted smile,reminiscent of Raistlin, the Shalafi. Almost unwillingly,Dalamar's gaze went from the peaceful, starlit night sky backindoors, to the rows and rows of nightblue-bound spellbooks thatlined the walls of the library. In his memory, he saw thewonderful, awful, beautiful, dreadful sights he had beenprivileged to witness as Raistlin's apprentice. He felt thestirrings of power within his soul, a pleasure that outweighed thepain. 
No, he would never return. Never leave.... 
Dalamar's musings were cut short by the sound of a silver bell. Itrang only once, with a sweet, low sound. But to those living (anddead) within the Tower, it had the effect of a shattering gongsplitting the air. Someone was attempting to enter! Someone hadwon through the perilous Shoikan Grove and was at the gates of theTower itself! 
His mind having already conjured up memories of Par-Salian,Dalamar had sudden unwelcome visions of the powerful, white-robedwizard standing on his doorstep. He could also hear in his mindwhat he had told the Council only nights earlier-"If any of youcame and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would killyou." 
On the words of a spell, Dalamar disappeared from the library toreappear, within the drawing of a breath, at the Tower entrance. 
But it was not a conclave of flashing-eyed wizards he faced. Itwas a figure dressed in blue dragonscale armor, wearing thehideous, horned mask of a Dragon Highlord. In its gloved hand, thefigure held a black jewel-a nightjewel, Dalamar saw-and behind thefigure he could sense, though he could not see, the presence of abeing of awesome power-a death knight. 
The Dragon Highlord was using the jewel to hold at bay several ofthe Tower's Guardians; their pale visages could be seen in thedark light of the nightjewel, thirsting for her living blood.Though Dalamar could not see the Highlord's face beneath the helm,he could feel the heat of her anger. 
"Lord Kitiara," Dalamar said gravely, bowing. "Forgive this rudewelcome. If you had but let us know you were coming-" 
Yanking off the helm, Kitiara glared at Dalamar with cold, browneyes that reminded the apprentice forcibly of her kinship to theShalafi. 
"-you would have had an even more interesting reception plannedfor me, no doubt!" she snarled with an angry toss of her dark,curly hair. "I come and go where I please, especially to pay avisit to my brother!" Her voice literally shook with rage. "I mademy way through those god-cursed trees of yours out there,, thenI'm attacked at his front door!" Her hand drew her sword. She took a step forward. "By the gods, I should teach you a lesson, elvenslime--" 
"I repeat my apologies," Dalamar said calmly, but there was aglint in his slanted eyes that made Kit hesitate in her recklessact. 
Like most warriors, Kitiara tended to regard magic-users asweaklings who spent time reading books that could be put to betteruse wielding cold steel. Oh, they could produce some flashyresults, no doubt, but when put to the test, she would much ratherrely on her sword and her skill than weird words and bat dung. 
Thus she pictured Raistlin, her half-brother, in her mind, andthis was how she pictured his apprentice-with the added markagainst Dalamar that he was only an elf-a race noted for itsweakness. 
But Kitiara was, in another respect, different from most warriors-the main reason she had outlived all who opposed her. She wasskilled at assessing her opponents. One look at Dalamar's cooleyes and composed stature-in the face of her anger-and Kitiarawondered if she might not have encountered a foe worthy of her. 
She didn't understand him, not yet-not by any means. But she sawand recognized the danger in this man and, even as she made a noteto be wary of it and to use it, if possible, she found herselfattracted to it. The fact that it went with such handsome features (he didn't look at all elvish, now that she thought of it) andsuch a strong, muscular body (whose frame admirably filled out theblack robes), made it suddenly occur to her that she mightaccomplish more by being friendly than intimidating. Certainly,she thought, her eyes lingering on the elf's chest, where theblack robes had parted slightly and she could see bronze skinbeneath, it might be much more entertaining. 
Thrusting her sword back in its sheath, Kitiara continued her stepforward, only now the light that had flashed on the blade flashedin her eyes. 
"Forgive me, Dalamar-that's your name, isn't it?" Her scowl meltedinto the crooked, charming smile that had won so many. "Thatdamned Grove unnerves me. You are right. I should have notified mybrother I was coming, but I acted on impulse." She stood close toDalamar now, very close. Looking up into his face, hidden as itwas by the shadows of his hood, she added, " I ... often act onimpulse." 
With a gesture, Dalamar dismissed the Guardians. Then the youngelf regarded the woman before him with a smile of charm thatrivaled her own. 
Seeing his smile, Kitiara held out her gloved hand. "Forgiven?" 
Dalamar's smile deepened, but he only said, "Remove your glove,lord." 
Kitiara started and, for an instant, the brown eyes dilateddangerously. But Dalamar continued to smile at her. Shrugging,Kitiara jerked one by one at the fingers of the leather glove,baring her hand. 
"There," she said, her voice tinged with scorn, "you see that Ihold no concealed weapon." 
"Oh, I already knew that," Dalamar replied, now taking the hand inhis own. His eyes still on hers, the dark elf drew her hand up tohis lips and kissed it lingeringly. "Would you have had me denymyself this pleasure?" 
His lips were warm, his hands strong, and Kitiara felt the bloodsurge through her body at his touch. But she saw in his eyes thathe knew her game and she saw, too, that it was one he playedhimself. Her respect rose, as did her guard. Truly a foe worthy ofher attention-her undivided attention. 
Slipping her hand from his grasp, Kitiara put it behind her backwith a playful female gesture that contrasted oddly with her armorand her manlike, warrior stance. It was a gesture designed toattract and confuse, and she saw from the elf's slightly flushedfeatures that it had succeeded. 
"Perhaps I have concealed weapons beneath my armor you shouldsearch for sometime," she said with a mocking grin. 
"On the contrary," Dalamar returned, folding his hands in hisblack robes, "your weapons seem to me to be in plain sight. Were Ito search you, lord, I would seek out that which the armor guardsand which, though many men have penetrated, none has yet touched."The elven eyes laughed. 
Kitiara caught her breath. Tantalized by his words, rememberingstill the feel of those warm lips upon her skin, she took anotherstep forward, tilting her face to the man's. 
Coolly, without seeming aware of his action, Dalamar made agraceful move to one side, slightly turning away from Kitiara.Expecting to be caught up in the man's arms, Kit was, instead,thrown off balance. Awkwardly, she stumbled. 
Recovering her balance with feline skill, she whirled to face him,her face flushed with embarrassment and fury. Kitiara had killedmen for less than mocking her like this. But she was disconcertedto see that he was, apparently, totally unaware of what he haddone. Or was he? His face was carefully devoid of all expression.He was talking about her brother. No, he had done that on purpose.He would pay.... 
Kit knew her opponent now, conceded his skill. Characteristically,she did not waste time berating herself for her mistake. She hadleft herself open, she had taken a wound. Now, she was prepared. 
"-I deeply regret that the Shalafi is not here," Dalamar wassaying. "I am certain that your brother will be sorry to learn hehas missed you." 
"Not here?" Kit demanded, her attention caught instantly. "Why,where is he? Where would he go?" 
"I am certain he told you," Dalamar said with feigned surprise."He has gone back to the past to seek the wisdom of Fistandantilusand from thence to discover the Portal through which he will-" "You mean-he went anyway! Without the cleric?" Suddenly Kitremembered that no one was supposed to have known that she hadsent Lord Soth to kill Crysania in order to stop her brother'sinsane notion of challenging the Dark Queen. Biting her lip, sheglanced behind her at the death knight. 
Dalamar followed her gaze, smiling, seeing every thought beneaththat lovely, curling hair. "Oh, you knew about the attack on LadyCrysania?" he asked innocently. 
Kit scowled. "You know damn well I knew about the attack! And so does my brother. He's not an idiot, if he is a fool." 
She spun around on her heel. "You told me the woman was dead!" 
"She was," intoned Lord Soth, the death knight, materializing outof the shadows to stand before her, his orange eyes flaring intheir invisible sockets. "No human could survive my assault." Theorange eyes turned their undying gaze to the dark elf. "And yourmaster could not have saved her." 
"No," Dalamar agreed, "but her master could and did. Paladine casta counter-spell upon his cleric, drawing her soul to him, thoughhe left the shell of her body behind. The Shalafi's twin, yourhalf-brother, Caramon, lord"-Dalamar bowed to the infuriatedKitiara-"took the woman to the Tower of High Sorcery where themages sent her back to the only cleric powerful enough to saveher-the Kingpriest of Istar." 
"Imbeciles!" Kitiara snarled, her face going livid. "They sent herback to him! That's just what Raistlin wanted!" 
"They knew that," Dalamar said softly. " I told them-" 
"You told them?" Kitiara gasped. 
"There are matters I should explain to you," Dalamar said. "Thismay take some time. At least let us be comfortable. Will you cometo my chambers?" 
He extended his arm. Kitiara hesitated, then laid her hand uponhis forearm. Catching hold of her around her waist, he pulled herclose to his body. Startled, Kitiara tried to pull away, but shedidn't try very hard. Dalamar held her with a grip both strong andfirm. 
"I'm quite capable of walking," Kit returned. "I have little usefor magic!" 
But, even as she spoke, her eyes looked into his, her body pressedagainst his hard, well-muscled body with sensuous abandon. 
"Very well." Dalamar shrugged and suddenly vanished. 
Looking around, startled, Kit heard his voice. "Up the spiralstaircase, lord. After the five hundred and thirty-ninth step,turn left." 
"And so you see," Dalamar said, "I have as great a stake in thisas do you. I have been sent, by the Conclave of all three Orders-the Black, the White, and the Red-to stop this appalling thingfrom happening." 
The two relaxed in the dark elf's private, sumptuously appointedquarters within the Tower. The remains of an elegant repast hadbeen whisked away by a graceful gesture of the elf's hand. Now,they sat before a fire that had been lit more for the sake of itslight than its warmth on this spring night. The dancing flamesseemed more conducive to conversation.... 
"Then why didn't you stop him?" Kit demanded angrily, setting hergolden goblet down with a sharp clinking sound. "What's sodifficult about that?" Making a gesture with her hand, she addedwords to suit her action. "A knife in the back. Quick, simple."Giving Dalamar a look of scorn, she sneered. "Or are you abovethat, you mages?" 
"Not, above it," Dalamar said, regarding Kitiara intently. "Thereare subtler means we of the Black Robes generally use to ridourselves of our enemies. But not against him, lord. Not yourbrother." 
Dalamar shivered slightly and drank his wine with undue haste. 
"Bah!" Kitiara snorted. 
"No, listen to me and understand, Kitiara," Dalamar said softly."You do not know your brother. You do not know him and, what isworse, you do not fear him! That will lead to your doom." 
"Fear him? That skinny, hacking wretch? You're not serious-"Kitiara began, laughing. But her laughter died. She leanedforward. "You are serious. I can see it in your eyes!" 
Dalamar smiled grimly. "I fear him as I fear nothing in thisworld-including death." Reaching up, the dark elf grasped the seamof his black robes and ripped it open, revealing the wounds on hischest. 
Kitiara, mystified, looked at the wounds, then looked up at thedark elf's pale face. 'What weapon made those? I don't recog-" 
"His hand," Dalamar said without emotion. "The mark of his fivefingers. This was his message to Par-Salian and the Conclave whenhe commanded me to give them his regards." 
Kit had seen many terrible sights-men disemboweled before hereyes, heads hacked off, torture sessions in the dungeons beneaththe mountains known as the Lords of Doom. But, seeing those oozingsores and seeing, in her mind, her brother's slender fingersburning into the dark elf's flesh, she could not repress ashudder. 
Sinking back in her chair, Kit went over carefully in her mindeverything Dalamar had told her, and she began to think that,perhaps, she had underestimated Raistlin. Her face grave, shesipped her wine. 
"And so he plans to enter the Portal," she said to Dalamar slowly,trying to readjust her thinking along these new and startlinglines. "He will enter the Portal with the cleric. He will find himself in the Abyss. Then what? Surely he knows he cannot fightthe Dark Queen on her own plane!" 
"Of course he knows," Dalamar said. "He is strong, butt here-sheis stronger. And so he intends to lure her out, to force her toenter this world. Here, he believes, he can destroy her." 
"Mad!" Kitiara whispered with barely enough breath to say theword. "He is mad!" She hastily set her wine goblet down, seeingthe liquid slopping over her shaking hand. "He has seen her inthis plane when she was but a shadow, when she was blocked fromentering completely. He cannot imagine what she would be like-!" 
Rising to her feet, Kit nervously crossed the soft carpet with itsmuted images of trees and flowers so beloved of the elves. Feeling suddenly chilled, she stood before the fire. Dalamar came to standbeside her, his black robes rustling. Even as Kit spoke, absorbedin her own thoughts and fears, she was conscious of the elf's warmbody near hers. 
"What do your mages think will happen?" she asked abruptly. "Whowill win, if he succeeds in this insane plan? Does he have achance?" 
Dalamar shrugged and, moving a step nearer, put his hands onKitiara's slender neck. His fingers softly caressed her smoothskin. The sensation was delicious. Kitiara closed her eyes,drawing a deep, shivering breath. 
"The mages do not know," Dalamar said softly, bending down to kissKitiara just below her ear. Stretching like a cat, she arched herbody back against his. 
"Here he would be in his element," Dalamar continued, "the Queenwould be weakened. But she certainly would not be easily defeated.Some think the magical battle between the two could well destroythe world." 
Lifting her hand, Kitiara ran it through the elf's thick, silkenhair, drawing his eager lips to her throat. "But ... does he havea chance?" she persisted in a husky whisper. 
Dalamar paused, then drew back away from her. His hands still onher shoulders, he turned Kitiara around to face him. Looking intoher eyes, he saw what she was thinking. "Of course. There's alwaysa chance." 
"And what is it you will do, if he succeeds in entering thePortal?" Kitiara's hands rested lightly on Dalamar's chest, whereher half-brother had left his terrible mark. Her eyes, lookinginto the elf's, were luminous with passion that almost, but notquite, hid her calculating mind. 
"I am to stop him from returning to this world," Dalamar said. "Iam to block the Portal so that he cannot come through." His handtraced her crooked, curving lips. 
"What will be your reward for so dangerous an assignment?" Shepressed closer, biting playfully at his fingertips. 
"I will be Master of the Tower, then," he answered. "And the nexthead of the Order of Black Robes. Why?" 
"I could help you," Kitiara said with a sigh, moving her fingersover Dalamar s chest and up over his shoulders, kneading her handsinto his flesh like a cat's paws. Almost convulsively, Dalamar shands tightened around her, drawing her nearer still. 
"I could help," Kitiara repeated in a fierce whisper. "You cannotfight him alone." 
"Ah, my dear "-Dalamar regarded her with a wry, sardonic smile-"who would you help-me or him?" 
"Now that," said Kitiara, slipping her hands beneath the tear inthe fabric of the dark elf's black robes, "would depend entirelyupon who's winning!" 
Dalamar's smile broadened, his lips brushed her chin. He whisperedinto her ear, "Just so we understand each, lord." 
"Oh, we understand each other," Kitiara said, sighing withpleasure. "And now, enough of my brother. There is something Iwould ask. Something I have long been curious about. What domagic-users wear beneath their robes, dark elf?" 
"Very little," Dalamar murmured. "And what do warrior women wearbeneath their armor?" 
"Nothing." 
Kitiara was gone. 
Dalamar lay, half-awake and half-asleep, in his bed. Upon hispillow, he could still smell the fragrance of her hair perfume andsteel-a strange, intoxicating mixture not unlike Kitiara herself. 
The dark elf stretched luxuriously, grinning. She would betrayhim, he had no doubt about that. And she knew he would destroy herin a second, if necessary, to succeed in his purpose. Neitherfound the knowledge bitter. Indeed, it added an odd spice to theirlovemaking. 
Closing his eyes, letting sleep drift over him, Dalamar heard,through his open window, the sound of dragonwings spreading forflight. He imagined her, seated upon her blue dragon, thedragonhelm glinting in the moonlight.... 
The dark elf started and sat up. He was wide awake. Fear coursedthrough his body. Trembling at the sound of that familiar voice,he glanced about the room. 
"Shalafi?" He spoke hesitantly. There was no one there. Dalamarput his hand to his head. "A dream," he muttered. 
Dalamar! 
The voice again, this time unmistakable. Dalamar looked aroundhelplessly, his fear increasing. It was completely unlike Raistlinto play games. The archmage had cast the time-travel spell. He hadjourneyed back in time. He had been gone a week and was notexpected to return for many more. Yet Dalamar knew that voice ashe knew the sound of his own heartbeat! 
"Shalafi, I hear you," Dalamar said, trying to keep his tone firm."Yet I cannot see you. Where-
"I am, as you surmise, back in time, apprentice. I speak to youthrough the dragon orb. I have an assignment for you. Listen to mecarefully and follow my instructions exactly. Act at once. No timemust be lost. Every second is precious.... 
Closing his eyes that he might concentrate, Dalamar heard thevoice clearly, yet he also heard sounds of laughter floating inthrough the open window. A festival of some sort, designed tohonor spring, was beginning. Outside the gates of Old City,bonfires burned, young people exchanged flowers in the light andkisses in the dark. The air was sweet with rejoicing and love andthe smell of spring blooming roses. 
But then Raistlin began speaking and Dalamar heeded none of these.He forgot Kitiara. He forgot love. He forgot springtime.Listening, questioning, understanding, his entire body tingledwith the voice of his Shalafi. 
CHAPTER 3 
Bertrem padded softly through the halls of the Great Library ofPalanthas. His Aesthetics' robes whispered about his ankles, theirrustle keeping time to the tune Bertrem hummed as he went along. 
He had been watching the spring festival from the windows of theGreat Library and now, as he returned to his work among thethousands and thousands of books and scrolls housed within the Library, the melody of one of the songs lingered in his head. 
"Ta-tum, ta-tum," Bertrem sang in a thin, off-key voice, pitchedlow so as not to disturb the echoes of the vast, vaulted halls ofthe Great Library. 
The echoes were all that could be disturbed by Bertrem's singing,the Library itself being closed and locked for the night. Most ofthe other Aesthetics-members of the order whose lives were spentin study and maintenance of the Great Library's collection ofknowledge gathered from the beginning of Krynn s time-were eithersleeping or absorbed in their own works. 
"Ta-tum, to-tum. My lover's eyes are the eyes of the doe. Tatum,to-tum. And I am the hunter, closing in. . . ." Bertrem even indulged in an impromptu dance step. 
"Ta-tum, to-tum. I lift my bow and draw my arrow-" Bertrem skippedaround a corner. "I loose the shaft. It flies to my lover's heartand- Ho, there! Who are you?" 
Bertrem's own heart leaped into his throat, very nearly stranglingthe Aesthetic as he was suddenly confronted with a tall, black-robed and hooded figure standing in the center of the dimly litmarble hall. 
The figure did not answer. It simply stared at him in silence. 
Gathering his wits and his courage and his robes about him,Bertrem glared at the intruder. 
"What business have you here? The Library's closed! Yes, even tothose of the Black Robes." The Aesthetic frowned and waved a pudgyhand. "Be gone. Return in the morning, and use the front door,like everyone else." 
"Ah, but I am not everyone else," said the figure, and Bertremstarted, for he detected an elvish accent though the words wereSolamnic. "As for doors, they are for those without the power topass through walls. I have that power, as I have the power to doother things, many not so pleasant." 
Bertrem shuddered. This smooth, cool elven voice did not make idlethreats. 
"You are a dark elf," Bertrem said accusingly, his brainscrambling about, trying to think what to do. Should he raise thealarm? Yell for help? 
"Yes." The figure removed his black hood so that the magical lightimprisoned in the globes hanging from the ceiling-a gift from themagic-users to Astinus given during the Age of Dreams-fell uponhis elven features. "My name is Dalamar. I serve-" 
"Raistlin Majere!" Bertrem gasped. He glanced about uneasily,expecting the black-robed archmage to leap out at him any moment. 
Dalamar smiled. The elven features were delicate, handsome. Butthere was a cold, single-minded purposefulness about them thatchilled Bertrem. All thoughts of calling for help vanished fromthe Aesthetic's mind. 
"Wha-what do you want?" he stammered. 
"It is what my master wants," Dalamar corrected. "Do not befrightened. I am here seeking knowledge, nothing more. If you aidme, I will be gone as swiftly and silently as I have come." 
If I don't aid him.... Bertrem shivered from head to toe. "I will do what I can, magus," the Aesthetic faltered, 'but you shouldreally talk to..... 
"Me," came a voice out of the shadows. 
Bertrem nearly fainted in relief. 
"Astinus!" he babbled, pointing at Dalamar, "this. . . he ... Ididn't let him ... appeared ... Raistlin Majere . . ." 
"Yes, Bertrem," Astinus said soothingly. Coming forward, he pattedthe Aesthetic on the arm. "I know everything that has transpired."Dalamar had not moved, nor even indicated that he was aware ofAstinus's presence. "Return to your studies, Bertrem," Astinuscontinued, his deep baritone echoing through the quiet hallways."I will handle this matter." 
"Yes, Master!" Bertrem backed thankfully down the hall, his robesfluttering about him, his gaze on the dark elf, who had stillneither moved nor spoken. Reaching the corner, Bertrem vanishedaround it precipitously, and Astinus could hear, by the sounds ofhis flapping sandals, that he was running down the hallway. 
The head of the Great Library of Palanthas smiled, but onlyinwardly. To the eyes of the dark elf watching him, the man'scalm, ageless face reflected no more emotion than the marble wallsabout them. 
"Come this way, young mage," Astinus said, turning abruptly andstarting off down the hall with a quick, strong stride that beliedhis middle-aged appearance. 
Caught by surprise, Dalamar hesitated, then-seeing he was beingleft behind-hurried to catch up. 
"How do you know what I seek?" the dark elf demanded. 
"I am a chronicler of history," Astinus replied imperturbably."Even as we speak and walk, events transpire around us and I amaware of them. I hear every word spoken, I see every deedcommitted, no matter how mundane, how good, how evil. Thus I havewatched throughout history. As I was the first, so shall I be thelast. Now, this way." 
Astinus made a sharp turn to his left. As he did so, he lifted aglowing globe of light from its stand and carried it with him inhis hand. By the light, Dalamar could see long rows of booksstanding on wooden shelves. He could tell by their smooth leatherbinding that they were old. But they were in excellent condition.The Aesthetics kept them dusted and, when necessary, rebound thoseparticularly worn. 
"Here is what you want"-Astinus gestured-"the Dwarfgate Wars." 
Dalamar stared. "All these?" He gazed down a seemingly endless rowof books, a feeling of despair slowly creeping over him. 
"Yes," Astinus replied coldly, "and the next row of books aswell." 
"I-I . . ." Dalamar was completely at a loss. Surely Raistlin hadnot guessed the enormity of this task. Surely he couldn't expecthim to devour the contents of these hundreds of volumes within the specified time limit. Dalamar had never felt so powerless andhelpless before in his life. Flushing angrily, he sensed Astinus'sice-like gaze upon him. 
"Perhaps I can help," the historian said placidly. Reaching up,without even reading the spine, Astinus removed one volume from the shelf. Opening it, he flipped quickly through the thin,brittle pages, his eyes scanning the row after row of neat,precisely written, black-inked letters. 
"Ah, here it is." Drawing an ivory marker from a pocket of hisrobes, Astinus laid it across a page in the book, shut itcarefully, then handed the book to Dalamar. "Take this with you.Give him the information he seeks. And tell him this-'The wind blows. The footsteps in the sand will be erased, but only after hehas trod them: " 
The historian bowed gravely to the dark elf, then walked past him,down the row of books to reach the corridor again. Once there, hestopped and turned to face Dalamar, who was standing, staring,clutching the book Astinus had thrust into his hands. 
"Oh, young mage. You needn't come back here again. The book willreturn of its own accord when you are finished. I cannot have youfrightening the Aesthetics. Poor Bertrem will have undoubtedlytaken to his bed. Give your Shalafi my greetings." 
Astinus bowed again and disappeared into the shadows. Dalamarremained standing, pondering, listening to the historian's slow,firm step fade down the hallway. Shrugging, the dark elf spoke aword of magic and returned to the Tower of High Sorcery. 
"What Astinus gave me is his own commentary on the Dwarfgate Wars,Shalafi. It is drawn from the ancient texts he wrote-" 
Astinus would know what I need. Proceed. 
"Yes, Shalafi. This begins the marked passage 
'And the great archmage, Fistandantilus, used the dragon orb tocall forward in time to his apprentice, instructing him to go theGreat Library at Palanthas and read in the books of history thereto see if the result of his great undertaking would provesuccessful."Dalamar's voice faltered as he read this and eventually died completely as he re-read this amazing statement. 
Continue! came his Shalafi's voice, and though it resounded morein his mind than his ears, Dalamar did not miss the note of bitteranger. Hurriedly tearing his gaze from the paragraph, writtenhundreds of years previously, yet accurately reflecting themission he had just undertaken, Dalamar continued. 
"That part is underscored, Shalafi," Dalamar interrupted himself. 
What part? 
"'-at that point in time' is underscored." 
Raistlin did not reply, and Dalamar, momentarily losing his place,found it and hastened on. 
"-'indicated that the undertaking would have been successful.Fistandantilus, along with the cleric, Denubis, should have beenable, from all indications that the great archmage saw, to safelyenter the Portal. What might have happened in the Abyss, ofcourse, is unknown, since the actual historical events transpireddifferently. 
"'Thus, believing firmly that his ultimate goal of entering thePortal and challenging the Queen of Darkness was within his reach,Fistandantilus pursued the Dwarfgate Wars with renewed vigor. PaxTharkas fell to the armies of the hill dwarves and the Plainsmen. (See Chronicles Volume 126, Book 6, pages 589-700.) Led byFistandantilus's great general, Pheregas-the former slave fromNorthern Ergoth whom the wizard had purchased and trained as agladiator in the Games at Istar-the Army of Fistandantilus droveback the forces of King Duncan, forcing the dwarves to retreat tothe mountain fastness of Thorbardin. 
"'Little did Fistandantilus care for this war. It simply served tofurther his own ends. Finding the Portal beneath the toweringmountain fortress known as Zhaman, he established his headquartersthere and began the final preparations that would give him thepower to enter the forbidden gates, leaving his general to fightthe war. 
" 'What happened at this point is beyond even me to relate withaccuracy, since the magical forces at work here were so powerfulit obscured my vision. 
" 'General Pheregas was killed fighting the Dewar, the darkdwarves of Thorbardin. At his death, the Army of Fistandantiluscrumbled. The mountain dwarves swarmed out of Thorbardin toward the fortress of Zhaman. 
" 'At the same instant, a gnome, being held prisoner by thedwarves of Thorbardin, activated a time-traveling device he hadconstructed in an effort to escape his confinement. Contrary toevery recorded instance in the history of Krynn, this gnomishdevice actually worked. It worked quite well, in fact. 
"'I can only speculate from this point on, but it seems probablethat the gnome's device interacted somehow with the delicate andpowerful magical spells being woven by Fistandantilus. The resultwe know all too clearly. 
" 'A blast occurred of such magnitude that the Plains of Dergothwere utterly destroyed. Both armies were almost completely wipedout. The towering mountain fortress of Zhaman shattered and fellin upon itself, creating the hill now called Skullcap. 
" 'The unfortunate Denubis died in the blast. Fistandantilus should have died as well, but his magic was so great that he wasable to cling to some portion of life, though his spirit wasforced to exist upon another plane until it found the body of ayoung magic-user named Raistlin Majere. . . : " 
Enough! 
"Yes, Shalafi," Dalamar murmured. 
And then Raistlin's voice was gone. 
Dalamar, sitting in the study, knew he was alone. Shiveringviolently, he was completely overawed and amazed by what he hadjust read. Seeking to make some meaning of it, the dark elf sat inthe chair behind the desk-Raistlin's desk-lost in thought untilnight's shadows withdrew and gray dawn lit the sky. 
A tremor of excitement made Raistlin's thin body quiver. Histhoughts were confused, he would need a period of cool study andreflection to make absolutely certain of what he had discovered.One phrase shone with dazzling brilliance in his mind-theundertaking would have been successful! 
The undertaking would have been successful! 
Raistlin sucked in his breath with a gasp, realizing at that pointonly that he had ceased breathing. His hands upon the dragon orb'scold surface shook. Exultation swept over him. He laughed thestrange, rare laughter of his, for the footsteps he saw in hisdream. led to a scaffold no longer, but to a door of platinum,decorated with the symbols of the Five-Headed Dragon. At hiscommand, it would open. He had simply to find and destroy thisgnome 
Raistlin felt a sharp tug on his hands. 
"Stop!" he ordered, cursing himself for losing control. 
But the orb did not obey his command. Too late, Raistlin realizedhe was being drawn inside.... 
The hands had undergone a change, he saw as they pulled him closerand closer. They had been unrecognizable before neither human norelven, young nor old. But now they were the hands of a female,soft, supple, with smooth white skin and the grip of death. 
Sweating, fighting down the hot surge of panic that threatened todestroy him, Raistlin summoned all his strength-both physical andmental-and fought the will behind the hands. 
Closer they drew him, nearer and nearer. He could see the facenow-a woman's face, beautiful, dark-eyed; speaking words ofseduction that his body reacted to with passion even as his soulrecoiled in loathing. 
Nearer and nearer.... 
Desperately, Raistlin struggled to pull away, to break the gripthat seemed so gentle yet was stronger than the bonds of his lifeforce. Deep he delved into his soul, searching the hidden parts-but for what, he little knew. Some part of him, somewhere, existedthat would save him.... 
An image of a lovely, white-robed cleric wearing the medallion ofPaladine emerged. She shone in the darkness and, for a moment, thehands' grasp loosened-but only for a moment. Raistlin heard awoman's sultry laughter. The vision shattered. 
"My brother!" Raistlin called through parched lips, and an imageof Caramon came forward. Dressed in golden armor, his swordflashing in his hands, he stood in front of his twin, guarding Nearer and nearer.... 
Raistlin's head slumped forward, he was rapidly losing strengthand consciousness. And then, unbidden, from the innermost recessesof his soul, came a lone figure. It was not robed in white, itcarried no gleaming sword. It was small and grubby and its facewas streaked with tears. 
In its hand, it held only a dead ... very dead ... rat. 
Caramon arrived back in camp just as the first rays of dawn werespreading through the sky. He had ridden all night and was stiff,tired, and unbelievably hungry. 
Fond thoughts of his breakfast and his bed had been comforting himfor the last hour, and his face broke into a grin as the camp cameinto sight. He was about to put the spurs to his weary horse when,looking ahead into the camp itself, the big man reined in hishorse and brought his escort to a halt with an upraised hand. 
"What's going on?" he asked in alarm, all thoughts of foodvanishing. 
Garic, riding up beside him, shook his head, mystified. 
Where there should have been lines of smoke rising from morningcooking fires and the disgruntled snorts of men being roused froma night's sleep, the camp resembled a beehive after a bear'sfeast. No cooking fires were lit, people ran about in apparentaimlessness or stood clustered together in groups that buzzed withexcitement. 
Then someone caught sight of Caramon and let out a yell. The crowdcame together and surged forward. Instantly, Garic shouted and,within moments, he and his men had galloped up to form aprotective shield of armor-clad bodies around their general. 
It was the first time Caramon had seen such a display of loyaltyand affection from his men and, for a moment, he was so overcomehe could not speak. Then, gruffly clearing his throat, he orderedthem aside. 
"It's not a mutiny," he growled, riding forward as his menreluctantly parted to let him pass. "Look! No one's armed. Half of'em are women and children. But-" he grinned at them "thanks forthe thought." 
His gaze went particularly to the young knight, Garic, who flushedwith pleasure even as he kept his hand on his sword hilt. 
By this time, the outer fringes of the crowd had reached Caramon.Hands grasped his bridle, startling his horse, who thinking thiswas battle-pricked its ears dangerously, ready to lash out withits hooves as it had been trained. 
"Stand back!" Caramon roared, barely holding the animal in check."Stand back! Have you all gone mad? You look like just what youare-a bunch of farmers! Stand back, I say! Did your chickens allget loose? What's the meaning of this? Where are my officers?" 
"Here, sir," came a voice of one of the captains. Red-faced,embarrassed, and angry, the man shoved his way through the crowd.Chagrined at the reprimand from their commander, the men calmeddown and the shouting died to a few mutterings as a group ofguards, arriving with the captain, began to try to break up themob. 
"Begging the general's pardon for all this, sir," the captain saidas Caramon dismounted and patted his horse's neck soothingly. Theanimal stood still under Caramon's touch, though its eyes rolledand its ears still twitched. 
The captain was an older man, not a Knight but a mercenary ofthirty years' experience. His face was seamed with scars, he wasmissing part of his left hand from a slashing sword blow, and hewalked with a pronounced limp. This morning, the scarred face wasflushed with shame as he faced his young general's stern gaze. 
"The scouts sent word of yer comin', sir, but afore I could get toyou, this pack o' wild dogs'-he glowered at the retreating men-"lit out for you like you was a bitch in heat. Beggin' thegeneral's pardon," he muttered again, "and meanin no disrespect." 
Caramon kept his face carefully composed. "What's happened?" heasked, leading his tired horse into camp at a walk. The captaindid not answer right away but cast a significant glance atCaramon's escort. 
When he and the captain were alone-or as alone as possible in thecrowded camp where everyone was staring at them in eagercuriosity-Caramon turned to question the man with a glance. 
The old mercenary said just two words: 'The wizard." 
Reaching Raistlin's tent, Caramon saw with a sinking heart thering of armed guards surrounding it, keeping back onlookers. Therewere audible sighs of relief at the sight of Caramon, and manyremarks of "General's here now. He'll take care of things," muchnodding of heads, and some scattered applause. 
Encouraged by a few oaths from the captain, the crowd opened up anaisle for Caramon to walk through. The armed guards stepped asideas he passed, then quickly closed ranks again. Pushing andshoving, the crowd peered over the guards, straining to see. Thecaptain having refused to tell him what was going on, Caramonwould not have been surprised to find anything from a dragonsitting atop his brother's tent to the whole thing surrounded bygreen and purple flame. 
Instead, he saw one young man standing guard and Lady Crysaniapacing in front of the closed tent flap. Caramon stared at theyoung man curiously, thinking he recognized him. 
"Garic's cousin," he said hesitantly, trying to remember the name."Michael, isn't it?" 
"Yes, general," the young Knight said. Drawing himself upstraight, he attempted a salute. But it was a feeble attempt. Theyoung man's face was pale and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He wasclearly about to drop from exhaustion, but he held his spearbefore him, grimly barring the way into the tent. 
Hearing Caramon's voice, Crysania looked up. 
"Thank Paladine!" she said fervently. 
One look at her pale face and sunken gray eyes, and Caramonshivered in the bright morning sunlight. 
"Get rid of them!" he ordered the captain, who immediately beganto issue orders to his men. Soon, with much swearing and "Caramon, listen to me!" Crysania laid her hand on his arm. "This" 
But Caramon shrugged off Crysania's hand. Ignoring her attempts tospeak, he started to push past Michael. The young knight raisedhis spear, blocking his path. 
"Out of my way!" Caramon ordered, startled. 
"I am sorry, sir," Michael said in firm tones, though his lipstrembled, "but Fistandantilus told me no one was to pass." 
"You see," said Crysania in exasperation as Caramon fell back apace, staring at Michael in perplexed anger. "I tried to tell you,if you'd only listened! It's been like this all night, and I knowsomething dreadful's happened inside! But Raistlin made him takean oath-by the Code and the Rules or some such thing-" 
"Measure," Caramon muttered, shaking his head. "The Code and theMeasure." He frowned, thinking of Sturm. "A code no knight, willbreak on pain of death." 
"But this is insane!" Crysania cried. Her voice broke. She coveredher face with her hand a moment. Caramon put his arm around herhesitantly, fearing a reprimand, but she leaned against himgratefully. 
"Oh, Caramon, I've been so frightened!" she murmured. "It wasawful. I woke out of a sound sleep, hearing Raistlin screaming myname. I ran over here- There were flashes of light inside histent. He was shrieking incoherent words, then I heard him callyour name ... and then he began to moan in despair. I tried to getin but . . ." She made a weak gesture toward Michael, who stoodstaring straight ahead. "And then his voice began to ... to fade.It was awful, as though he were being sucked away somehow!" 
"Then what happened?" 
Crysania paused. Then, hesitantly, "He ... he said something else.I could barely hear it. The lights went out. There was a sharpcrack and ... everything was still, horribly still!" She closedher eyes, shuddering. 

"What did he say? Could you understand?" 
"Bupu!" Caramon repeated in astonishment. "Are you sure?" 
She nodded. 
"Why would he call out the name of a gully dwarf?" Caramondemanded. 
°I haven't any idea." Crysania sighed wearily, brushing her hairback out of her eyes. "I've wondered the same thing. Except-wasn'tthat the gully dwarf who told Par-Salian how kind Raistlin hadbeen to her?" 
Caramon shook his head. he would worry about gully dwarves later.Now, his immediate problem was Michael. Vivid memories of Sturmcame back to him. How many times had he seen that look on theknight's face? An oath by the Code and the Measure 
Damn Raistlin! 
Michael would stand at his post now until he dropped and then,when he awoke to find he had failed, he'd kill himself. There hadto be some way around this-around him! Caramon glanced atCrysania. She could use her clerical powers to spellbind the youngman.... 
Caramon shook his head. That would have the entire camp ready toburn her at the stake! Damn Raistlin! Damn clerics! Damn the Knights of Solamnia and damn their Code and their Measure! 
Heaving a sigh, he walked up to Michael. The young man raised hisspear threateningly, but Caramon only lifted his hands high, toshow they were empty. 
He cleared his throat, knowing what he wanted to say, yetuncertain how to begin. And then as he thought about Sturm,suddenly he could see the Knight's face once again, so clearlythat he marveled. But it was not as he had seen it in life-stern,noble, cold. And then Caramon knew-he was seeing Sturm's face indeath! Marks of terrible suffering and pain had smoothed away theharsh lines of pride and inflexibility. There was compassion andunderstanding in the dark, haunted eyes and-it seemed to Caramonthat the Knight smiled on him sadly. 
For a moment, Caramon was so startled by this vision that he couldsay nothing, only stare. But the image vanished, leaving in itsplace only the face of a young Knight, grim, frightened,exhausted-determined.... 
"Michael," Caramon said, keeping his hands raised, "I had a friendonce, a Knight of Solamnia. He-he's dead now. He died in a war farfrom here when- But that doesn't matter. Stur- my friend was likeyou. He believed in the Code and ... and the Measure. He was readyto give his life for them. But, at the end, he found out there wassomething more important than the Code and the Measure, somethingthat the Code and the Measure had forgotten." 
Michael's face hardened stubbornly. He gripped his spear tighter. 
"Life itself," Caramon said softly. 
He saw a flicker in the Knight's red-rimmed eyes, a flicker thatwas drowned by a shimmer of tears. Angrily, Michael blinked themaway, the look of firm resolution returning, though-it seemed toCaramon-it was now mingled with a look of desperation. 
Caramon caught hold of that desperation, driving his words home asif they were the point of a sword seeking his enemy's heart."Life, Michael. That's all there is. That's all we have. Not justour lives, but the lives of everyone on this world. It's what theCode and the Measure were designed to protect, but some- wherealong the line that got all twisted around and the Code and theMeasure became more important than life." 
Slowly, still keeping his hands raised, he took a step toward theyoung man. 
"I'm not asking you to leave your post for any treacherous reason.And you and I both know you're not leaving it from cowardice."Caramon shook his head. "The gods know what you must have seen andheard tonight. I'm asking you to leave it out of compassion. Mybrother's inside there, maybe dying, maybe dead. When he made youswear that oath, he couldn't have foreseen this happening. I mustgo to him. Let me pass, Michael. There is nothing dishonorable inthat." 
Michael stood stiffly, his eyes straight ahead. And then, his facecrumpled. His shoulders slumped, and the spear fell from hisnerveless hand. Reaching out, Caramon caught the young man in hisbig arms and held him close. A shuddering sob tore through theyoung man's body. Caramon patted his shoulder awkwardly. 
"Here, one of you'-he looked around-"find Garic- Ah, there youare," he said in relief as the young Knight came running over."Take your cousin back to the fire. Get some hot food inside him,then see that he sleeps. You there-" he motioned to another guard-"take over here." 
As Garic led his cousin away, Crysania started to enter the tent,but Caramon stopped her. "Better let me go first, lady," he said. 
Expecting an argument, he was surprised to see her meekly stepaside. Caramon had his hand on the tent flap when he felt her handupon his arm. 
Startled, he turned. 
"You are as wise as Elistan, Caramon," she said, regarding himintently. "I could have said those words to the young man. Whydidn't I?" 
Caramon flushed. I-I just understood him, that's all," hemuttered. 
"I didn't want to understand him." Crysania, her face pale, bither lip. "I just wanted him to obey me." 
"Look, lady," Caramon said grimly, "you can do your soul-searchinglater. Right now, I need your help!" 
"Yes, of course." The firm, self-confident look returned toCrysania's face. Without hesitation, she followed Caramon intoRaistlin's tent. 
Mindful of the guard outside, and any other curious eyes, Caramonshut the tent flap quickly. It was dark and still inside; so darkthat at first neither could make out anything in the shadows.Standing near the entrance, waiting until their eyes grewaccustomed to the dimness, Crysania clutched at Caramon suddenly. 
"I can hear him breathing!" she said in relief. 
Caramon nodded and moved forward slowly. The brightening day wasdriving night from the tent, and he could see more clearly witheach step he took. 
"There," he said. He hurriedly kicked aside a camp stool thatblocked his way. "Raist!" he called softly as he knelt down. 
The archmage was lying on the floor. His face was ashen, his thinlips blue. His breathing was shallow and irregular, but he wasbreathing. Lifting his twin carefully, Caramon carried him to hisbed. In the dim light, he could see a faint smile on Raistlin'slips, as though he were lost in a pleasant dream. 
"I think he's just sleeping now," Caramon said in a mystifiedvoice to Crysania, who was covering Raistlin with a blanket. "Butsomething's happened. That's obvious." He looked around the tentin the brightening light. "I wonder- Name of the gods!" 
Crysania looked up, glancing over her shoulder. 
The poles of the tent were scorched and blackened, the materialitself was charred and, in some places, appeared to have melted.It looked as though it had been swept by fire, yet incongruously,it remained standing and did not appear to have been seriouslydamaged. It was the object on the table, however, that had broughtthe exclamation from Caramon. 
"The dragon orb!" he whispered in awe. 
Made by the mages of all three Robes long ago, filled with theessence of good, evil, and neutral dragons, powerful enough tospan the banks of time, the crystal orb still stood upon thetable, resting on the silver stand Raistlin had made for it. 
Once it had been an object of magical, enchanting light. 
Now it was a thing of darkness, lifeless, a crack running down itscenter. 
Now 
"It's broken," Caramon said in a quiet voice. 
CHAPTER 4 
The Army of Fistandantilus sailed across the Straits of Schallseain a ramshackle fleet made up of many fishing boats, row boats,crude rafts, and gaudily decorated pleasure boats. Though thedistance was not great, it took over a week to get the people, theanimals, and the supplies transported. 
By the time Caramon was ready to make the crossing, the army hadgrown to such an extent that there were not enough boats to ferryeveryone across at once. Many craft had to make several trips backand forth. The largest boats were used to carry livestock.Converted into floating barns, they had stalls for the horses andthe scrawny cattle and pens for the pigs. 
Things went smoothly, for the most part, though Caramon got onlyabout three hours of sleep each night, so busy was he with theproblems that everyone was sure only he could solve everythingfrom seasick cattle to a chest-load of swords that was accidentally dropped overboard and had to be retrieved. Then, justwhen the end was in sight and nearly everyone was across, a stormcame up. Whipping the seas to froth, it wrecked two boats thatslipped from their moorings and prevented anyone from crossing fortwo days. But, eventually, everyone made it in relatively goodshape, with only a few cases of seasickness, one child tumblingoverboard (rescued), and a horse that broke its leg kicking downits stall in a panic (killed and butchered). 
Upon landing on the shores of Abanasinia, the army was met by thechief of the Plainsmen-the tribes of barbarians inhabiting thenorthern plains of Abanasinia who were eager to gain the fabledgold of Thorbardin-and also by representatives from the hilldwarves. When he met with the representative of the hill dwarves,Caramon experienced a profound shock that unnerved him for days. 
"Reghar Fireforge and party," announced Garic from the entrance tothe tent. Standing aside, the knight allowed a group of threedwarves to enter. 
That name ringing in his ears, Caramon stared at the first dwarfin disbelief. Raistlin's thin fingers closed painfully over hisarm. 
"Not a word!" breathed the archmage. 
"But he-he looks ... and the name!" Caramon stammered in a low voice. 
"Of course," Raistlin said matter-of-factly, "this is Flint'sgrandfather." 
Flint's grandfather! Flint Fireforge-his old friend. The old dwarfwho had died in Tanis's arms at Godshome, the old dwarf-so gruffand irascible, yet so tender-hearted, the dwarf who had seemed Suddenly the full scope of where he was and what he was doingstruck Caramon a physical blow. Before this, he might have beenadventuring in his own time. He knew then that he hadn't reallybeen taking any of this seriously. Even Raistlin "sending" himhome had seemed as simple as the archmage putting him on a boatand bidding him farewell. Talk of "altering" time he'd put out ofhis mind. It confused him, seeming to go round in a closed,endless circle. 
Caramon felt hot, then cold. Flint hadn't been born yet. Tanisdidn't exist, Tika didn't exist. He, himself, didn't exist! No! Itwas too implausible! It couldn't be! 
The tent tilted before Caramon's eyes. He was more than halfafraid he might be sick. Fortunately, Raistlin saw the pallor ofhis brother's face. Knowing intuitively what his twin's brain wastrying to assimilate, the mage rose to his feet and, movinggracefully in front of his momentarily befuddled brother, spokesuitable words of welcome to the dwarves. But, as Raistlin did so,he shot a dark, penetrating glance at Caramon, reminding himsternly of his duty. 
Pulling himself together, Caramon was able to thrust thedisturbing and confusing thoughts from his mind, telling himselfhe would deal with them later in peace and quiet. He'd been doingthat a lot lately. Unfortunately, the peace and quiet time neverseemed to come about.... 
Getting to his feet, Caramon was even able to shake hands calmlywith the sturdy, gray-bearded dwarf. 
"Little did I ever think," Reghar said bluntly, sitting down inthe chair offered him and accepting a mug of ale, which he quaffedat one gulp, "that I'd be making deals with humans and wizards,especially against my own flesh and blood." He scowled into theempty mug. Caramon, with a gesture, had the lad who attended himrefill it. 
Reghar, still with the same scowl, waited for the foam to settle.Then, sighing, he raised it to Caramon, who had returned to hischair. "Durth Zamish och Durth Tabor. Strange times makes strangebrothers." 
"You can say that again," Caramon muttered with a glance atRaistlin. The general lifted his glass of water and drank it.Raistlin-out of politeness-moistened his lips from a glass ofwine, then set it down. 
"We will meet in the morning to discuss our plans," Caramon said."The chief of the Plainsmen will be here then, too." Reghar'sscowl deepened, and Caramon sighed inwardly, foreseeing trouble.But he continued in a hearty, cheerful tone. "Let's dine togethertonight, to seal our alliance." 
At this, Reghar rose to his feet. "I may have to fight with thebarbarians," he growled. "But, by Reorx's beard, I don't have toeat with them-or you either!" 
Caramon stood up again. Dressed in his best ceremonial armor (moregifts from the knights), he was an imposing sight. The dwarfsquinted up at the warrior. 
"You're a big one, ain't you?" he said. Snorting, he shook hishead dubiously. "I mistrust there's more muscle in your head thanbrain." 
Caramon could not help smiling, though his heart ached. It soundedso much like Flint talking! 
But Raistlin did not smile. 
"My brother has an excellent mind for military matters," the magesaid coldly and unexpectedly. "When we left Palanthas, there werebut three of us. It is due to General Caramon's skill and quickthinking that we are able to bring this mighty army to yourshores. I think you would find it well to accept his leadership." 
Reghar snorted again, peering at Raistlin keenly from beneath hisbushy gray, overhanging eyebrows. His heavy armor clanging andrattling about him, the dwarf turned and started to stump out ofthe tent, then he paused. 
"Three of you, from Palanthas? And now-this?" His piercing, dark-eyed gaze went to Caramon, his hand made a sweeping gesture,encompassing the tent, the knights in the shining armor who stoodguard outdoors, the hundreds of men he had seen working togetherto unload supplies from the ships, other men practicing theirfighting techniques, the row after row of cooking fires.... 
The dwarf snorted again, but there was a glint of grudgingadmiration in his eyes as he clanked and rattled his way out ofthe tent. 
Reghar suddenly poked his head back inside. "I'll be at yerdinner," he snarled ungraciously, then stomped off. 
"I, too, must be leaving, my brother," Raistlin said absently ashe rose to his feet and walked toward the tent entrance. His hands folded in his black robes, he was lost in thought when he felt atouch on his arm. Irritated at the disturbance, he glanced at hisbrother. 
"Well?" 
"I-I just want to say ... thank you." Caramon swallowed, thencontinued huskily. "For what you said. You-you never said ...anything like that about me ... before." 
Raistlin smiled. There was no light in his eyes from that thin-lipped smile, but Caramon was too flushed and pleased to notice. 
"It is only the simple truth, my brother," Raistlin replied,shrugging. "And it helped accomplish our objective, since we needthese dwarves as our allies. I have often told you that you havehidden resources if you would only take the time and trouble todevelop them. We are twins after all," the mage addedsardonically. "I did not think we could be so unlike as you hadconvinced yourself." 
The mage started to leave again but once more felt his brother'shand on his arm. Checking an impatient sigh, Raistlin turned. 
"I wanted to kill you back in Istar, Raistlin-" Caramon paused,licking his lips-"and ... and I think I had cause. At least, fromwhat I knew then. Now, I'm not so certain." He sighed, lookingdown at his feet, then raising his flushed face. "I-I'd like tothink that you did this-that you put the mages in a position wherethey had to send me back in time-to help me learn this lesson.That may not be the reason," Caramon hastened to add, seeing hisbrother's lips compress and the cold eyes grow colder, "and I'msure it isn't-at least all of it. You are doing this for yourself,I know that. But-I think, somewhere, some part of you cares, just Raistlin regarded his brother with amusement. Then he shruggedagain. "Very well, Caramon: If this romantic notion of yours willhelp you fight better, if it will help you plan your strategiesbetter, if it will aid your thinking, and-above all-if it will letme get out of this tent and back to my work, then-by all means-cradle it to your breast! It matters little to me." 
Withdrawing his arm from his brothers grasp, the mage stalked tothe entrance to the tent. Here he hesitated. Halfturning hishooded head, he spoke in a low voice, his words exasperated, yettinged with a certain sadness. 
"You never did understand me, Caramon." 
Then he left, his black robes rustling around his ankles as hewalked. 
The banquet that evening was held outdoors. Its beginnings wereless than propitious. 
The food was set on long tables of wood, hastily constructed fromthe rafts that had been used to cross the straits. Reghar arrivedwith a large escort, about forty dwarves. Darknight, Chief of thePlainsmen, who-with his grim face and tall, proud stance, remindedCaramon forcibly of Riverwind brought with him forty warriors. Inturn, Caramon chose forty of his men whom he knew (or at leasthoped) could be trusted and could hold their liquor. 
Caramon had figured that, when the groups filed in, the dwarveswould sit by themselves, the Plainsmen by themselves, and soforth. No amount of talking would get them to mingle. Sure enough,after each group had arrived, all stood staring at each other ingrim silence, the dwarves gathered around their leader, thePlainsmen around theirs, while Caramon's men looked onuncertainly. 
Caramon came to stand before them. He had dressed with care,wearing his golden armor and helmet from the gladiatorial games,plus some new armor he'd had made to match. With his bronze skin,his matchless physique, his strong, handsome face, he was acommanding presence and even the dour dwarves exchanged looks ofreluctant approval. 
"Greetings to my guests!" he called in his loud, booming baritone."Welcome. This is a dinner of fellowship, to mark alliance andnew-found friendship among our races-" 
At this there were muttered, scoffing words and snorts ofderision. One of the dwarves even spat upon the ground, causingseveral Plainsmen to grip their bows and take a step forward-thisbeing considered a dreadful insult among Plainspeople. Their chiefstopped them, and, coolly ignoring the interruption, Caramoncontinued. 
"We are going to be fighting together, perhaps dying together.Therefore, let us start our meeting this first night by sittingtogether and sharing bread and drink like brothers. I know thatyou are reluctant to be parted from your kinsmen and friends, butI want you to make new friends. And so, to help us get acquainted,I have decided we should play a little game." 
At this, the dwarves' eyes opened wide, beards wagged, and lowmutterings rumbled through the air like thunder. No grown dwarfever played games! (Certain recreational activities such as "StoneStrike" and "Hammer Throw" were considered sports.) Darknight andhis men brightened, however; the Plainsmen lived for games andcontests, these being considered almost as much fun as making waron neighboring tribes. 
Waving his arm, Caramon gestured to a new, huge, cone shaped tentthat stood behind the tables and had been the object of manycurious, suspicious stares from dwarves and Plainsmen alike.Standing over twenty feet tall, it was topped by Caramon's banner.The silken flag with the nine-pointed star fluttered in theevening wind, illuminated by the great bonfire burning nearby. 
As all stared at the tent, Caramon reached out and, with a yank ofhis strong hand, pulled on a rope. Instantly, the canvas sides ofthe tent fell to the ground and, at a signal from Caramon, weredragged away by several grinning young boys. 
"What nonsense is this?" Reghar growled, fingering his axe. Asingle heavy post stood in a sea of black, oozing mud. The post'sshaft had been planed smooth and gleamed in the firelight. Nearthe top of the post was a round platform made of solid wood,except for several irregularly shaped holes that had been cut intoit. 
But it was not the sight of the pole or the platform or the mudthat brought forth sudden exclamations of wonder and excitementfrom dwarves and humans alike. It was the sight of what wasembedded in the wood at the very top of the post. Shining in thefirelight, their crossed handles flashing, were a sword and abattle-axe. But these were not the crude iron weapons manycarried. These were of the finest wrought steel, their exquisiteworkmanship apparent to those who stood twenty feet below, staringup at them. 
"Reorx's beard!" Reghar drew a deep, quivering breath. "Yon axe isworth the price of our village! I'd trade fifty years of my lifefor a weapon such as that!" 
Darknight, staring at the sword, blinked his eyes rapidly as swifttears of longing caused the weapon to blur in his vision. 
Caramon smiled. "These weapons are yours!" he announced. 
Darknight and Reghar both stared at him, their faces registeringblank astonishment. 
"If-" Caramon continued, "you can get them down!" 
A vast hubbub of voices broke out among both dwarves and men.Immediately, everyone broke into a run for the pit, forcingCaramon to shout over the turmoil. 
"Reghar and Darknight-each of you may choose nine warriors to helpyou! The first to gain the prizes wins them for his own!" 
Darknight needed no urging. Without bothering to get help, heleaped into the mud and began to wade toward the post. But witheach step, he sank farther and farther, the mud growing deeper anddeeper as he neared his objective. By the time he reached thepost, he had sunk past his knees in the sticky substance. 
Reghar-more cautious-took time to observe his opponent. Calling onnine of his stoutest men to help, the dwarven leader and his menstepped into the mud. The entire contingent promptly vanished,their heavy armor causing them to sink almost immediately. Theirfellows helped drag them out. Last to emerge was Reghar. 
Swearing an oath to every god he could think of, the dwarf wrungmud out of his beard, then, scowling, proceeded to strip off hisarmor. Holding his axe high over his head, he waded back into themud, not even waiting for his escort. 
Darknight had reached the pole. Right at the base, the mud wasn'tso deep-there was firm ground below it. Grasping the pole with hisarms, the chieftain dragged himself up out of the mud and wrappedhis legs around it. He moved up about three feet, grinning broadlyat his tribesmen who cheered him on. Then, suddenly, he began toslide back down. Gritting his teeth, he strove desperately to hangon, but it was useless. At last, the great chieftain slid slowlydown to the base, amid howls of dwarven derision. Sitting in themud, he glared grimly at the pole. It had been greased with animalfat. 
More swimming that walking, Reghar at last reached the base of thepole. He was waist-deep in mud by that time, but the dwarf's greatstrength kept him going. 
"Stand aside," he growled to the frustrated Plainsman. "Use yourbrains! If we can't go up, we'll bring the prize down to us!" Agrin of triumph on his mud-splattered, bearded face, Reghar drewback his axe and aimed a mighty blow at the pole. 
Grinning to himself, Caramon winced in anticipation. 
There was a tremendous ringing sound. The dwarf's axe reboundedoff the pole as if it had struck the side of a mountain the polehad been hewn from the thick trunk of an ironwood tree. As the reverberating axe flew from the dwarf's stinging hands, the forceof the blow sent Reghar sprawling on his back in the mud. Now itwas the Plainsmen's turn to laugh-none louder than their mud-covered chief. 
Glaring at each other, dwarf and human tensed. The laughter died,replaced by angry mutterings. Caramon held his breath. ThenReghar's eyes went to the notched axe that was slowly sinking intothe ooze. He glanced up at the beautiful axe, its steel flashingin the firelight, and-with a growl, turned to face his men. 
Reghar's escort, now stripped of their armor, had waded out to himby now. Shouting and gesturing, Reghar motioned them to line up atthe base of the slick pole. Then the dwarves began to form apyramid. Three stood at the bottom, two climbed upon their backs,then another. The bottom row sank into mud past their waists but,eventually finding the firm ground at the bottom, stood fast. 
Darknight watched for a moment in grim silence, then he called tonine of his warriors. Within moments, the humans were formingtheir own pyramid. Being shorter, the dwarves were forced to make their pyramid smaller at the base and extend it up by singledwarves to reach the top. Reghar himself made the final ascent.Teetering on the pinnacle as the dwarves swayed and groanedbeneath him, his arms strained to reach the platform-but he wasn'ttall enough. 
Darknight, climbing over the backs of his own men, easily reachedthe underside of the platform. Then, laughing at the scowl onReghar's mud-covered face, the chieftain tried to pull himselfthrough one of the odd-shaped openings. 
He couldn't fit. 
Squeezing, swearing, holding his breath was no help. The humancould not force even his wiry-framed body through the small hole.At that moment, Reghar made a leap for the platform.... 
And missed. 
The dwarf sailed through the air, landing with a splat in the mudbelow, while the force of his jump caused the entire dwarvenpyramid to topple, sending dwarves everywhere. 
This time, though, the humans didn't laugh. Staring down atReghar, Darknight suddenly jumped down into the mud himself.Landing next to the dwarf, he grabbed hold of him and dragged himto the surface of the ooze. 
Both were, by this time, almost indistinguishable, covered head tofoot with the black goop. They stood, staring at each other. 
"You know," said Reghar, wiping mud from his eyes, "that I'm theonly one who can fit through that hole." 
"And you know," said Darknight through clenched teeth, "that I'mthe only who can get you up there." 
The dwarf grabbed the Plainsman's hand. The two moved quickly overto the human pyramid. Darknight climbed first, providing the lastlink to the top. Everyone cheered as Reghar climbed up onto thehuman's shoulders and easily squirmed through the hole. 
Scrambling up onto the platform, the dwarf grasped the hilt of thesword and the handle of the axe and raised them triumphantly overhis head. The crowd fell silent. Once again, human and dwarf eyedeach other suspiciously. 
Reghar looked down through the hole at the stern face of thePlainsman. "This axe, which must have been forged by Reorxhimself, I owe to you, Plainsman. I will be honored to fight byyour side. And, if you're going to fight with me, you need adecent weapon!" 
Amid cheers from the entire camp, he handed the great, gleamingsword down through the hole to Darknight. 
CHAPTER 5 
The banquet lasted well into the night. The field rang withlaughter and shouts and good-natured oaths sworn in dwarven andtribal tongues as well as Solamnic and Common. 
It was easy for Raistlin to slip away. In the excitement, no onemissed the silent, cynical archmage. 
Walking back to his tent, which Caramon had refurbished for him,Raistlin kept to the shadows. In his black robes, he was nothingmore than a glimpse of movement seen from the corner of the eye. 
He avoided Crysania's tent. She was standing in the entryway,watching the fun with a wistful expression on her face. She darednot join them, knowing that the presence of the "witch" would harmCaramon immensely. 
How ironic, thought Raistlin, that a black-robed wizard istolerated in this time, while a cleric of Paladine is scorned andreviled. 
Treading softly in his leather boots across the field where thearmy camped, barely even leaving footprints in the damp grass,Raistlin found a grim sort of amusement in this. Glancing up atthe constellations in the sky, he regarded both the PlatinumDragon and the Five-Headed Dragon opposite with a slight sneer. 
The knowledge that Fistandantilus might have succeeded if it hadnot been for the unforeseen intervention of some wretched gnomehad brought dark joy to Raistlin's being. By all his calculations, the gnome was the key factor. The gnome had altered time,apparently, though just how he had done that was unclear. Still,Raistlin figured that all he had to do was to get to the mountainfortress of Zhaman, then, from there, it would be simple indeed tomake his way into Thorbardin, discover this gnome, and render himharmless. 
Time-which had been altered previously-would return to its properflow. Where Fistandantilus had failed, he would succeed. 
Therefore, even as Fistandantilus had done before him, Raistlinnow gave the war effort his undivided interest and attention tomake certain that he would be able to reach Zhaman. He and Caramon spent long hours poring over old maps, studying thefortifications, comparing what they remembered from their journeysin these lands in a time yet to come and trying to guess whatchanges might have occurred. 
The key to winning the battle was the taking of Pax Tharkas. 
And that, Caramon had said more than once with a heavy sigh,seemed well-nigh impossible. 
"Duncan's bound to have it heavily manned," Caramon argued, hisfinger resting on the spot on the map that marked the great fort."You remember what it's like, Raist. You remember how it's built,between those two sky-high mountain peaks! Those blasted dwarvescan hold out there for years! Close the gates, drop the rocks fromthat mechanism, and we're stuck. It took silver dragons to liftthose rocks, as I recall," the big man added gloomily. 
"Go around it," Raistlin suggested. 
Caramon shook his head. "Where?" His finger moved west."Qualinesti on one side. The elves'd cut us to meat and hang us upto dry." He moved east. "This way's either sea or mountain. Wedon't have boats enough to go by sea and, look"-he moved hisfinger down-"if we land here, to the south, in that desert, we'restuck right in the middle-both flanks exposed Pax Tharkas to thenorth, Thorbardin to the south." 
The big man paced the room, pausing occasionally to glare at themap in irritation. 
Raistlin yawned, then stood up, resting his hand lightly onCaramon's arm. "Remember this, my brother," he said softly, "PaxTharkas did fall!" 
Caramon's face darkened. "Yeah," he muttered, angry at beingreminded of the fact that this was all just some vast game heseemed to be playing. "I don't suppose you remember how?" 
"No." Raistlin shook his head. "But it will fall. . . ." 
He paused, then repeated quietly, "It will fall!" 
Out of the forest, wary of the lights of lodge and campfire andeven moon and stars, crept three dark, squat figures. Theyhesitated on the outskirts of the camp, as though uncertain oftheir destination. Finally, one pointed, muttering something. Theother two nodded and, now moving rapidly, they hurried through thedarkness. 
Quickly they moved, but not quietly. No dwarf could ever movequietly, and these seemed noisier than usual. They creaked andrattled and stepped on every brittle twig, muttering curses asthey blundered along. 
Raistlin, awaiting them in the darkness of his tent, heard themcoming from far off and shook his head. But he had reckoned onthis in his plans, thus he had arranged this meeting when thenoise and hilarity of the banquet would provide suitable cover. 
"Enter," he said wryly as the clumping and stomping of ironshodfeet halted just outside the tent flap. 
There was a pause, accompanied by heavy breathing and a mutteredexclamation, no one wanting to be the first to touch the tent.This was answered by a snarling oath. The tent flap was yankedopen with a violence that nearly tore the strong fabric and adwarf entered, apparently the leader, for he advanced with a boldswagger while the other two, who came after him, were nervous andcringing. 
The lead dwarf advanced toward the table in the center of the tent, moving swiftly though it was pitch dark. After years ofliving underground, the Dewar had developed excellent nightvision. Some, it was rumored, even had the gift of elvensight thatallowed them to see the glow of living beings in the darkness. 
But, good though the dwarf's eyes were, he could make out nothingat all about the black-robed figure that sat facing him across thedesk. It was as though, looking into deepest night, he saw something darker-like a vast chasm suddenly yawning at his feet.This Dewar was strong and fearless, reckless even; his father haddied a raving lunatic. But the dark dwarf found he could notrepress a slight shiver that started at the back of his neck andtingled down the length of his spine. 
He sat down. "You two," he said in dwarven to those with him,"watch the entrance." 
They nodded and retreated quickly, only too glad to leave thevicinity of the black-robed figure and crouch beside the opening,peering out into the shadows. A sudden flare of light made themstart up in alarm, however. Their leader raised his arm with avicious oath, shielding his eyes. 
"No light ... no light!" he cried in crude Common. Then his tongueclove to the roof of his mouth and for a moment all he could make were garbled noises. For the light came, not from torch or candle,but from a flame that burned in the palm of the mage's cuppedhand. 
All dwarves are, by nature, suspicious and distrustful of magic.Uneducated, given to superstition, the Dewar were terrified of itand thus even this simple trick that nearly any street illusionistcould perform caused the dwarf to suck in his breath in fear. 
"I see those I deal with," Raistlin said in a soft, whisperingvoice. "Do not fear, this light will not be detected from outsideor, if it is, anyone passing will assume I am studying." 
Slowly, the Dewar lowered his arm, blinking his eyes painfully inthe brightness of the light. His two associates seated themselvesagain, even nearer the entrance this time. This Dewar leader wasthe same one who had attended Duncan's council meeting. Though hisface was stamped with the half-mad, half-calculating cruelty thatmarked most of his race, there was a glimmer of rationalintelligence in his dark eyes that made him particularlydangerous. 
These eyes were now assessing the mage across from him, even asthe mage assessed him. The Dewar was impressed. He had about asmuch use for humans as most dwarves. A human magic-user was doublysuspect. But the Dewar was a shrewd judge of character, and he sawin the mage's thin lips, gaunt face, and cold eyes a ruthlessdesire for power that he could both trust and understand. 
"You ... Fistandantilus?" the Dewar growled roughly. 
"I am." The mage closed his hand and the flame vanished, leavingthem once more in the darkness-for which the dwarf, at least, wasrelieved. "And I speak dwarven, so we may converse in yourlanguage. I would prefer that, in fact, so that there can be nochance of misunderstanding." 
"Well and good." The Dewar leaned forward. "I am Argat, thane ofmy clan. I receive your message. We are interested. But we mustknow more." 
"Meaning 'what's in it for us?' " Raistlin said in a mockingvoice. Extending his slender hand, he pointed to a corner of histent. 
Looking in the direction indicated, Argat saw nothing. Then anobject in one corner of the tent began to glow, softly at first,then with increasing brilliance. Argat once again sucked in hisbreath, but this time in wonder and disbelief rather than fear. 
Suddenly, he cast Raistlin a sharp, suspicious glance. 
"By all means, go examine it for yourself," Raistlin said with ashrug. "You may take it with you tonight, in fact ... if we cometo terms." 
But Argat was already out of his chair, stumbling over to thecorner of the tent. Falling to his knees, he plunged his handsinto the coffer of steel coins that shone with a bright, magicalgleam. For long moments, he could do nothing but stare at thewealth with glittering eyes, letting the coins run through hisfingers. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he stood up and came backto his seat. 
"You have plan?" 
Raistlin nodded. The magical glow of the coins faded, but therewas still a faint glimmer that continually drew the dwarf's gaze. 
"Spies tell us," said Raistlin, "that Duncan plans to meet ourarmy on the plains in front of Pax Tharkas, intending to defeat usthere or, if unable to do so, at least inflict heavy casualties.If we are winning, he will withdraw his forces back into thefortress, close the gates and operate the mechanism that dropsthousands of tons of rocks down to block those gates. 
"With the stores of food and weapons he has cached there, he canwait until we either give up and retreat or until his ownreinforcements arrive from Thorbardin to pen us up in the valley.Am I correct?" 
Argat ran his fingers through his black beard. Drawing out hisknife, he flipped it into the air and caught it deftly. Glancingat the mage, he stopped suddenly, spreading his hands wide. 
"I sorry. A nervous habit," he said, grinning wickedly. "I hope Inot alarm you. If it make you uneasy, I can-" 
"If it makes me uneasy, I can deal with it," Raistlin observedmildly. "Go ahead." He gestured. "Try it." 
Shrugging, but feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of thosestrange eyes that he could sense but could not see within theshadows of the black hood, Argat tossed the knife into the air 
A slender, white hand snaked out of the darkness, snatched theknife by the hilt, and deftly plunged the sharp blade into thetable between them. 
Argat's eyes glinted. "Magic," he growled. 
"Skill," said Raistlin coldly. "Now, are we going to continue thisdiscussion or play games that I excelled at in my childhood?" 
"Your information accurate," muttered Argat, sheathing his knife."That Duncan's plan." 
"Good. My plan is quite simple. Duncan will be inside the fortressitself. He will not take the field. He will give the command toshut the gates." 
Raistlin sank back into his chair, the tips of his long fingerscame together. when that command comes, the gates win not shut." 
"That easy?" Argat sneered. 
"That easy." Raistlin spread his hands. "Those who would shut themdie. All you must do is hold the gates open for minutes only,until we have time to storm them. Pax Tharkas will fall. Your people lay down their arms and offer to join up with us." 
"Easy, but for one flaw," Argat said, eyeing Raistlin shrewdly."Our homes, families, in Thorbardin. What become of them if weturn traitor?" 
"Nothing," Raistlin said. Reaching into a pouch at his side, themage pulled forth a rolled scroll tied with black ribbon. "Youwill have this delivered to Duncan." Handing it to Argat, hemotioned. "Read it." 
Frowning, still regarding Raistlin with suspicion, the dwarf tookthe roll, untied it, and-carrying it over near the chest of coins-read it by their faint, magical glow. 
He looked up at Raistlin, astonished. "This ... this in languageof my people!" 
Raistlin nodded, somewhat impatiently. "Of course, what did youexpect? Duncan would not believe it otherwise." 
"But"-Argat gaped-"that language is secret, known only to theDewar and a few others, such as Duncan, king-" 
"Read!" Raistlin gestured irritably. "I haven't got all night." 
Muttering an oath to Reorx, the dwarf read the scroll. It took himlong moments, though the words were few. Stroking his thick,tangled beard, he pondered. Then, rising, he rolled the scrollback up and held it in his hand, tapping it slowly in his palm. 
"You're right. This solve everything." He sat back down, his darkeyes, fixed on the mage, narrowing. "But I want something elsegive to Duncan. Not just scroll. Something ... impressive." 
"What does your kind consider 'impressive'?" Raistlin asked, hislip curling. "A few dozen hacked-up bodies-" 
Argat grinned. "The head of your general." 
There was a long silence. Not a rustle, not a whisper of clothbetrayed Raistlin's thoughts. He even seemed to stop breathing.The silence lasted until it seemed to Argat to become a livingentity itself, so powerful was it. 
The dwarf shivered, then scowled. No, he would stick to thisdemand. Duncan would be forced to proclaim him a hero, like thatbastard Kharas. 
"Agreed." Raistlin's voice was level, without tone or emotion.But, as he spoke, he leaned over the table. Sensing the archmagegliding closer, Argat pulled back. He could see the glitteringeyes now, and their deep, black chilling depths pierced him to thevery core of his being. 
"Agreed," the mage repeated. "See that you keep your part of thebargain." 
Gulping, Argat gave a sickly smile. "You not called the Dark Onewithout reason, are you, my friend?" he said, attempting a laughas he rose to his feet, thrusting the scroll in his belt. 
Raistlin did not answer, indicating he had heard only by a rustleof his hood. Shrugging, Argat turned and motioned to hiscompanions, making a commanding gesture at the chest in thecorner. Hurrying over, the two shut it and locked it with a keyRaistlin drew out of the folds of his robes and silently handed tothem. Though dwarves are accustomed to carrying heavy burdens withease, the two grunted slightly as they lifted the chest. Argat'seyes shone with pleasure. 
The two dwarves preceded their leader from the tent. Bearing theirburden between them, they hurried off to the safe shadows of theforest. Argat watched them, then turned back to face the mage, whowas, once more, a pool of blackness within blackness. 
"Do not worry, friend. We not fail you." 
"No, friend," said Raistlin softly. "You won't." 
Argat started, not liking the mage's tone. 
"You see, Argat, that money has been cursed. If you doublecrossme, you and anyone else who has touched that money will see theskin of your hands turn black and begin to rot away. And when yourhands are a bleeding mass of stinking flesh, the skin of your armsand your legs will blacken. And, slowly, as you watch helplessly,the curse will spread over your entire body. When you can nolonger stand on your decaying feet, you will drop over dead." 
Argat made a strangled, inarticulate sound. "You-you're lying!" hemanaged to snarl. 
Raistlin said nothing. He might very well have disappeared fromthe tent for all Argat knew. The dwarf couldn't see the mage oreven sense his presence. What he did hear were shouts of laughter Cursing under his breath, Argat hurried off. 
But, as he ran, he wiped his hands frantically upon his trousers. 
CHAPTER 6 
Dawn. Krynn's sun crept up from behind the mountains slowly,almost as if it knew what ghastly sights it would shed its lightupon this day. But time could not be stopped. Finally appearingover the mountains peaks, the sun was greeted with cheers and theclashing of sword against shield by those who were, perhaps,looking upon dawn for the last time in their lives. 
Among those who cheered was Duncan, King of the Mountain Dwarves.Standing atop the battlements of the great fortress of PaxTharkas, surrounded by his generals, Duncan heard the deep, hoarsevoices of his men swelling up around him and he smiled withsatisfaction. This would be a glorious day. 
Only one dwarf was not cheering. Duncan didn't even have to lookat him to be aware of the silence that thundered in his heart as loudly as the cheers thundered in his ears. 
Standing apart from the others was Kharas, hero of the dwarves.Tall, splendid in his shining armor, his great hammer clasped inhis large hands, he stood staring at the sunrise and, if anyonehad looked, they would have seen tears trickling down his face. 
But no one looked. Everyone's gaze carefully avoided Kharas. Notbecause he wept, though tears are considered a childish weaknessby dwarves. No, it was not because Kharas wept that everyone keeptheir eyes averted from him. It was because, when his tears fell,they trickled unimpeded, down a bare face. 
Kharas had shaved his beard. 
Even as Duncan's eyes swept the plains before Pax Tharkas, even ashis mind took in the disposition of the enemy, spreading out uponthe barren plains, their spear tips glittering in the light of thesun, the Thane could still feel the boundless shock that hadoverwhelmed his soul that morning when he had seen Kharas take his A beard is a dwarf's birthright, his pride, his family's pride. Indeep grief, a dwarf will go through the mourning time withoutcombing his beard, but there is only one thing that will cause adwarf to shave his beard. And that is shame. It is the mark of disgrace-the punishment for murder, the punishment for stealing,the punishment for cowardice, the punishment for desertion. 
"Why?" was all that the stunned Duncan could think of to ask. 
Staring out over the mountains, Kharas answered in a voice thatsplit and cracked like rock. "I fight this battle because youorder me to fight, Thane. I pledged you my loyalty and I am honor-bound to obey that pledge. But, as I fight, I want all to knowthat I find no honor in killing my kinsmen, nor even humans whohave, more than once, fought at my side. Let all know, Kharas goesforward this day in shame." 
"A fine figure you will look to those you lead!" Duncan respondedbitterly. 
But Kharas shut his mouth and would say no more. 
"Thane!" Several men called at once, diverting Duncan's attentionback to the plains. But he, too, had seen the four figures, tinyas toys from this distance, detach themselves from the army andride toward Pax Tharkas. Three of the figures carried flutteringflags. The fourth carried only a staff from which beamed a clear,bright light that could be seen in the growing daylight, even atthis distance. 
Two of the standards Duncan recognized, of course. The banner ofthe hill dwarves, with its all-too-familiar symbol of anvil andhammer, was repeated in different colors on Duncan's own banner.The banner of the Plainsmen he had never seen before, but he knewit at once. It suited them-the symbol of the wind sweeping overprairie grass. The third banner, he presumed, must belong to thisupstart general who had ridden out of nowhere. 
"Humpf!" Duncan snorted, eyeing the banner with its symbol of thenine-pointed star with scorn. "From all we've heard, he should becarrying a banner with the sign of the Thieves' Guild upon it,coupled with a mooing cow!" 
"Or dead roses," suggested one. "I hear many renegade Knights ofSolamnia ride among his thieves and farmers." The four figuresgalloped across the plain, their standards fluttering behind,their horses' hooves puffing up clouds of dust. 
"The fourth one, in black robes, would be the wizard,Fistandantilus?" Duncan asked gruffly, his heavy brows nearlyobliterating his eyes in a frown. Dwarves have no talent for magicand therefore despise and distrust it above all things. 
"Yes, Thane," responded a general. 
"Of all of them, I fear him the most," Duncan muttered in darktones. 
"Bah!" An old general stroked his long beard complacently. "Youneed not fear this wizard. Our spies tell us his health is poor.He uses his magic rarely, if at all, spending most of his timeskulking in his tent. Besides, it would take an army of wizards aspowerful as he to take this fortress by magic." 
"I suppose you're right," Duncan said, reaching up to stroke hisown beard. Catching a glimpse of Kharas out of the corner of hiseye, he halted his hand, suddenly uncomfortable, and abruptlyclasped his hands behind his back. "Still, keep your eyes on him."He raised his voice. "You sharpshooters-a bag of gold to the onewhose arrow lodges in the wizard's ribs!" 
There was a resounding cheer that hushed immediately as the fourcame to a halt before the fortress. The leader, the general,raised his hand palm outward in the ancient gesture of parley.Striding across the battlements and clambering up onto a block ofstone that had been placed there for this very purpose, Duncanplaced his hands on his hips, spread his legs, and 
"We would talk!" General Caramon shouted from below. His voice boomed and echoed among the walls of the steep mountains thatflanked the fortress. 
"All has been said!" Duncan returned, the dwarf's voice soundingnearly as powerful, though he was about one-fourth the size of thebig human. 
"We give you one last chance! Restore to your kinsmen what youknow to be rightfully theirs! Return to these humans what you have "No, but you living would find a way, wouldn't you?" Duncan boomedback, sneering. "What we have, we earned by honest toil, workingin our homes beneath the mountains, not roaming the land in thecompany of savage barbarians. Here is our answer!" 
Duncan raised his hand. Sharpshooters, ready and waiting, drewback the strings of their bows. Duncan's hand fell, and a hundredarrows whizzed through the air. The dwarves on the battlementsbegan to laugh, hoping to see the four turn their horses and ridemadly for their lives. 
But the laughter died on their lips. The figures did not move asthe arrows arced toward them. The black-robed wizard raised his hand. Simultaneously, the tip of each arrow burst into flame, theshaft became smoke and, within moments, all dwindled away tonothing in the bright morning air. 
"And there is our answer!" The general's stern, cold voice driftedupwards. Turning his horse, he galloped back to his armies,flanked by the black-robed wizard, the hill dwarf, and thePlainsman. 
Hearing his men muttering among themselves and seeing them castdour, dubious looks at each other, Duncan firmly squelched his ownmomentary doubt and turned to face them, his beard quivering withrage. 
"What is this?" he demanded angrily. "Are you frightened by thetricks of some street illusionist? What am I leading, an army ofmen-or of children?" 
Seeing heads lower and faces flush in embarrassment, Duncanclimbed down from his vantage point. Striding across to the otherside of the battlements, he looked down into the vast courtyard ofthe mighty fortress that was formed, not by manmade walls, but bythe natural walls of the mountains them of metal being mined andforged into steel would have poured forth from their gapingmouths. But the mines were shut down today, as were the forges. 
This morning, the courtyard teemed with dwarves. Dressed in theirheavy armor, they bore shields and axes and hammers, favoredweapons of the infantry. All heads raised when Duncan appeared andthe cheering that had momentarily died began again. 
The cheering increased, then stopped. After a moment's silence,
the deep dwarven voices raised in song. 

Under the hills the heart of the axe 
Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
The soldier's heart sires and brothers 
The battlefield. 
Come back in glory
Or on your shield. 

Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
The axes are dreaming; dreaming of rock,
Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
Stone on metal; metal on stone.
The soldier's heart contains and dreams 
The battlefield. 
Come back in glory
Or on your shield. 

Red of iron imagined from the vein,
Green of brass green of copper
Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
The soldier's heart lies down, completes
The battlefield. 
Come back in glory
Or on your shield. 

His blood stirred by the song, Duncan felt his doubts vanish as
the arrows had vanished in the still air. His generals were
already descending from the battlements, hurrying to take up their
positions. Only one remained, Argat, general of the Dewar. Kharas
remained, too. Duncan looked over at Kharas now, and opened his
mouth to speak. 

But the hero of the dwarves simply regarded his king with a dark,
haunted gaze, then, bowing toward his thane, turned and followed
after the others to take his place as one of the leaders of the
infantry. 

Duncan glared at him angrily. "May Reorx send his beard up in
flames!" he muttered as he started to follow. He would be present
when the great gates swung open and his army marched out into the 

Grumbling to himself, Duncan was nearly to the stairs leadingdownward when he felt a hand upon his arm. Looking up, he sawArgat. 
"I ask you, King," said the dwarf in his crude language, "to thinkagain. Our plan is good one. Abandon worthless hunk of rock. Letthem have it." He gestured toward the armies out in the plains."They not fortify it. When we retreat back to Thorbardin, theychase after us into the plains. Then we retake Pax Tharkas and-Gam"-the dark dwarf clapped his hands shut "we have them! Caughtbetween Pax Tharkas on north and Thorbardin on south." 
Duncan stared coldly at the Dewar. Argat had presented thisstrategy at the War Council, and Duncan had wondered at the timehow he had come up with it. The Dewar generally took littleinterest in military matters, caring about only one thing theirshare of the spoils. Was it Kharas, trying once again to get outof fighting? 
Duncan angrily shook off the Dewar's arm. "Pax Tharkas will neverfall!" he said. "Your strategy is the strategy of the coward. Iwill give up nothing to these rabble, not one copper piece, notone pebble of ground! I'd sooner die here!" 
Stomping away, Duncan clattered down the stairs, his beardbristling in his wrath. 
Watching him go, Argat's lip twisted in a sneer. "Perhaps youwould die upon this wretched rock, Duncan King. But not Argat "Turning to two Dewar who had been standing in the shadows of arecessed corner, the dark dwarf nodded his head twice. The dwarvesnodded in return, then quickly hurried away. 
Standing upon the battlements, Argat watched as the sun climbedhigher in the sky. Preoccupied, he began to absentmindedly rub hishands upon his leather armor as though trying to clean them. 
The Highgug was not certain, but he had the feeling something waswrong. 
Though not terribly perceptive, and understanding little of thecomplex tactics and strategies of warfare, it occurred to the One or two, he might have considered the fortunes of war, but thenumber of dwarves doing this sort of thing seemed to be increasingat a truly alarming rate. The Highgug decided to see if he couldfind out what was going on. 
He took two steps forward, then, hearing the most dreadfulcommotion behind him, came to a sudden halt. Heaving a heavy sigh,the Highgug turned around. He had forgotten his company. 
"No, no, no!" the Highgug shouted angrily, waving his arms in theair. "How many time I tell you?-Stay Here! Stay Here! King tellHighgug-'You gugs Stay Here. That mean Stay Here! You got that?" 
The Highgug fixed his company with a stern eye, causing thosestill on their feet and able to meet the gaze of that eye (theother was missing) to tremble in shame. Those gully dwarves in thecompany who had stumbled over their pikes, those who had droppedtheir pikes, those who had, in the confusion, accidentally stabbeda neighbor with a pike, those who were lying prone on the ground,and those who had gotten turned around completely and were nowstalwartly facing the rear, heard their commander's voice andquailed. 
"Look, gulphfunger slimers," snarled the Highgug, breathingnoisily, "I go find out what go on. It not seem right, everyonecoming back into fort like this. No singing-only bleeding. Thisnot the way king tell Highgug things work out. So I Go. You StayHere. Got that? Repeat." 
"I Go," echoed his troops obediently. "You Stay Here." 
The Highgug tore at his beard. "No! I Go! You- Oh, never mind!"Stalking off in a rage, he heard behind him-once again-theclattering of falling pikes hitting the ground. 
Perhaps fortunately, the Highgug did not have far to go.Otherwise, when he returned, he would have found about half of hiscommand dead, skewered on the ends of their own pikes. As it was,he was able to discover what he needed to know and return to his troops before they had inadvertently killed more than half a dozenor so. 
The Highgug had taken only about twenty steps when he rounded acorner and very nearly ran into Duncan, his king. Duncan did notnotice him, his back being turned. The king was engrossed in aconversation with Kharas and several commanding officers. Taking ahasty step backwards, the Highgug looked and listened anxiously. 
Unlike many of the dwarves who had returned from the field ofbattle, whose heavy plate mail was so dented it looked like theyhad tumbled down a rocky mountainside, Kharas's armor was dentedonly here and there. The hero's hands and arms were bloodied tothe elbows, but it was the enemy's blood, not his own that hewore. Few there were who could withstand the mighty swings of thehammer he carried. Countless were the dead that fell by Kharas'shand, though many wondered, in their last moments, why the talldwarf sobbed bitterly as he dealt the killing blow. 
Kharas was not crying now, however. His tears were gone,completely dry. He was arguing with his king. 
"We are beaten on the field, Thane," he said sternly. "GeneralIronhand was right to order the retreat. If you would hold PaxTharkas, we must fall back and shut the gates as we had planned.Remember, this was not a moment that was unforeseen, Thane." 
"But a moment of shame, nonetheless," Duncan growled with a bitteroath. "Beaten by a pack of thieves and farmers!" 
"That pack of thieves and farmers has been well-trained, Thane,"Kharas said solemnly, the generals nodding grudging agreement tohis words. "The Plainsmen glory in battle and our own kinsmenfight with the courage with which they are born. And then comessweeping down from the hills the Knights of Solamnia on theirhorses." 
"You must give the command, Thane!" one of the generals said. "Orprepare to die where we stand." 
"Close the god-cursed gates, then!" Duncan shouted in a rage. "Butdo not drop the mechanism. Not until the last possible moment.There may be no need. It will cost them dearly to try to breachthe gates, and I want to be able to get out again without havingto clear away tons of rock." 
"Close the gates, close the gates!" rang out many voices. 
Everyone in the courtyard, the living, the wounded, even thedying, turned their heads to see the massive gates swing shut. The Highgug was among these, staring in awe. He had heard of thesegreat gates-how they moved silently on gigantic, oiled hinges thatworked so smoothly only two dwarves on each side were needed topull them shut. The Highgug was somewhat disappointed to hear thatthe mechanism was not going to be operated. The sight of tons ofrock tumbling down to block the gates was one he was sorry tomiss. 
Still, this should be quite entertaining.... 
The Highgug caught his breath at the next sight, very nearlystrangling himself. Looking at the gate, he could see beyond it,and what he saw was paralyzing. 
A vast army was racing toward him. And it was not his army! 
Which meant it must be the enemy, he decided after a moment's deepthought, there being-as far as he knew-only two sides to thisconflict-his and theirs. 
The noonday sun shone brightly upon the armor of the Knights ofSolamnia, it flashed upon their shields and glittered upon theirdrawn swords. Farther behind them came the infantry at a run. TheArmy of Fistandantilus was dashing for the fortress, hoping toreach it before the gates could be closed and blocked. Those fewmountain dwarves brave enough to stand in their way were cut downby flashing steel and trampling hoof. 
The enemy was getting closer and closer. The Highgug swallowednervously. He didn't know much about military maneuvers, but itdid seem to him that this would be an excellent time for the gatesto shut. It seemed that the generals thought so too, for they werenow all running in that direction, yelling and screaming. 
"In the name of Reorx, what's taking them-" Duncan began. 
Suddenly, Kharas's face grew pale. 
"Duncan," he said quietly, "we have been betrayed. You must leaveat once." 
"Wh-what?" Duncan stammered in bewilderment. Standing on his toes,he tried in vain to see over the crowd milling about in thecourtyard. "Betrayed! How-" "Slay them!" Duncan's mouth frothed in his anger, saliva dribbleddown his beard. "Slay every one of them!" The dwarven king drewhis own sword and leaped forward. "I'll personally-" 
"No, Thane!" Kharas caught hold of him, dragging him back. "It istoo late! Come, we must get to the griffons! You must go back toThorbardin, my king!" 
But Duncan was beyond all reason. He fought Kharas viciously.Finally, the younger dwarf, with a grim face, doubled his greatfist and punched his king squarely on the jaw. Duncan stumbledbackward, reeling from the blow but not down. 
"I'll have your head for this!" the king swore, grasping feeblyfor his sword hilt. One more blow from Kharas finished the job,however. Duncan sprawled onto the ground and lay there quietly. 
With a grieving face, Kharas bent down, lifted his king, plate-mail armor and all, and-with a grunt-heaved the stout dwarf overhis shoulder. Calling for some of those still able to stand andfight to cover him, Kharas hurried off toward where the griffonswaited, the comatose king hanging, arms dangling, over hisshoulder. 
The Highgug stared at the approaching army in horrifiedfascination. Over and over echoed in his mind Duncan's last command to him-"You Stay Here." 
Turning around, running back to his troop, that was exactly whatthe Highgug intended to do. 
Although gully dwarves have a well-deserved reputation for beingthe most cowardly race living upon Krynn, they can when driveninto a corner-fight with a ferocity that generally ,amazes anenemy. 
Most armies, however, use gully dwarves only in support positions,keeping them as far to the rear as possible since it is almosteven odds that a regiment of gully dwarves will, inflict as muchdamage to its own side as it will ever succeed in doing to anenemy. 
Thus Duncan had posted the only detachment of gully dwarvescurrently residing in Pax Tharkas-they were former mine workers-inthe center of the courtyard and told them to stay there, figuringthis would be the best way to keep them out of mischief. He hadgiven them pikes, in the unlikely event that the enemy would crashthrough the gates with a cavalry charge. 
But that was what was happening. Seeing the Army of Fistandantilusclosing in upon them, knowing that they were trapped and defeated,all the dwarves in Pax Tharkas were thrown into confusion. 
A few kept their heads. The sharpshooters on the battlements wereraining arrows into the advancing foe, slowing them somewhat.Several commanders were gathering their regiments, preparing tofight as they retreated to the mountains. But most were justfleeing, running for their lives to the safety of the surroundinghills. 
And soon only one group stood in the path of the approaching army-the gully dwarves. 
"This is it," the Highgug called hastily to his men as he camehuffing and puffing back. His face was white beneath the dirt, buthe was calm and composed. He had been told to Stay Here and, byReorx's beard, he was going to Stay Here. 
However, seeing that most of his men were starting to edge away,their eyes wide at the sight of the thundering horses which couldnow be seen approaching the open gates, the Highgug decided thiscalled for a little morale boost. 
Having drilled them for just such an occasion, the Highgug hadalso taught his troops a war chant and was quite proud of it.Unfortunately, they'd never yet got it right. 
"Now," he shouted, "what you give me?" 
"Death!" his men all shouted cheerfully with one voice. 
The Highgug cringed. "No, no, no!" he yelled in exasperation,stomping on the ground. His men looked at each other, chagrined. 
"I tell you, gulphbludders-it's-" 
"Undying loyalty!" cried one suddenly in triumph. 
The others scowled at him, muttering "brown nose." One jealousneighbor even poked him in the back with a pike. Fortunately, itwas the butt end (he was holding it upside down) or serious damagemight have been incurred. 
"That's it," said the Highgug, trying not to notice that the soundof hoofbeats was getting louder and louder behind him. "Now, wetry again. What you give me?" 
"Un-undy ... dying loy ... loy ... alty." This was ratherstraggled-sounding, many stumbling over the difficult words. Itcertainly seemed to lack the ring (or the enthusiasm) of thefirst. 
A hand shot up in the back. 
"Well, what is it, Gug Snug?" snarled the Highgug. 
"Us got to give ... undying ... loyal ... ty when dead?" 
The Highgug glared at him with his one good eye. 
"No, you phungerwhoop," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "Death orundying loyalty. Whichever come first." 
The gully dwarves grinned, immensely cheered by this. 
The Highgug, shaking his head and muttering, turned around to facethe enemy. "Set pikes!" he shouted. 
That was a mistake and he knew it as soon as he said it, hearingthe vast turmoil and confusion and swearing (and a few groans ofpain) behind him. 
But, by that time, it didn't matter.... 
The sun set in a blood-red haze, sinking down into the silentforests of Qualinesti. 
All was quiet in Pax Tharkas, the mighty, impregnable fortresshaving fallen shortly after midday. The afternoon had been spentin skirmishes with pockets of dwarves, who were retreating,fighting, back into the mountains. Many had escaped, the charge ofthe knights having been effectively held up by a small group ofpikesmen, who had stood their ground when the gates were breached,stubbornly refusing to budge. 
Kharas, carrying the unconscious king in his arms, flew by griffonback to Thorbardin, accompanied by those of Duncan's officersstill alive. 
The remainder of the army of the mountain dwarves, at home in thecaves and rocks of the snow-covered passes, were making their wayback to Thorbardin. The Dewar who had betrayed their kinsmen weredrinking Duncan's captured ale and boasting of their deeds, whilemost of Caramon's army regarded them with disgust. 
Tonight, as the sun set, the courtyard was filled with dwarves andhumans celebrating their victory, and by officers trying in vainto stem the tide of drunkenness that was threatening to washeveryone under. Shouting, bullying, and smashing a few headstogether, they managed to drag off enough to post the watch andform burial squads. 
Crysania had passed her trial by blood. Though she had been keptwell away from the battle by a watchful Caramon, she had-once theyentered the fort-managed to elude him. Now, cloaked and hooded,she moved among the wounded, surreptitiously healing those shecould without drawing unwanted attention to herself. And, in lateryears, those who survived would tell stories to theirgrandchildren, claiming that they had seen a white-robed figurebearing a shining light around her neck, who laid her gentle handsupon them and took away their pain. 
Caramon was, meanwhile, meeting with officers in a room in PaxTharkas, planning their strategy, though the big man was soexhausted he could barely think straight. 
Thus, few saw the single, black-robed figure entering the opengates of Pax Tharkas. It rode upon a restive black horse thatshied at the smell of blood. Pausing, the figure spoke a few wordsto his mount, seeming to soothe the animal. Those that did see thefigure paused for a moment in terror, many having the fevered (ordrunken) impression that it was Death in person, come to collectthe unburied. 
Then someone muttered, "the wizard," and they turned away,laughing shakily or breathing a sigh of relief. 
His eyes obscured by the depths of his black hood, yet intentlyobserving all around him, Raistlin rode forward until he came tothe most remarkable sight on the entire field of battle-the bodiesof a hundred or more gully dwarves, lying (for the most part) in even rows, rank upon rank. Most still held their pikes (manyupside down) clutched tightly in their dead hands. There were alsolying among them, though, a few horses that had been injured(generally accidentally) by the wild stabs and slashings of thedesperate gully dwarves. More than one animal, when hauled off,was noted to have teeth marks sunk into its forelegs. At the end,the gully dwarves had dropped the useless pikes to fight as theyknew best-with tooth and nail. 
"This wasn't in the histories," Raistlin murmured to himself,staring down at the wretched little bodies, his brow furrowed. Hiseyes flashed. "Perhaps," he breathed, "this means time has alreadybeen altered?" 
For long moments he sat there, pondering. Then suddenly heunderstood. 
None saw Raistlin's face, hidden as it was by his hood, or theywould have noted a swift, sudden spasm of sorrow and anger passacross it. 
"No," he said to himself bitterly, "the pitiful sacrifice of thesepoor creatures was left out of the histories not because it didnot happen. It was left out simply because-" 
He paused, staring grimly down at the small broken bodies. "No onecared...... 
CHAPTER 7 
"I must see the general!" 
The voice pierced through the soft, warm cloud of sleep thatwrapped Caramon like the down-filled comforter on the bed thefirst real bed he'd slept in for months. 
"Go 'way," mumbled Caramon and heard Garic say the same thing, orclose enough.... 
"Impossible. The general is sleeping. He's not to be disturbed." 
"I must see him. It's urgent!" 
"He hasn't slept in almost forty-eight hours-" The voices dropped. Good, Caramon thought, now I can go back tosleep. But he found, unfortunately, that the lowered voices onlymade him more wakeful. Something was wrong, he knew it. With agroan, he rolled over, dragging the pillow on top his head. Everymuscle in his body ached; he had been on horseback almost eighteenhours without rest. Surely Garic could handle it.... 
The door to his room opened softly. 
Caramon squeezed his eyes shut, burrowing farther down into thefeather bed. It occurred to him as he did so that, a couple ofhundred years from now, Verminaard, the evil Dragon Highlord,would sleep in this very same bed. Had someone wakened him likethis, that morning the Heroes had freed the slaves of Pax Tharkas? ... 
"General," said Garic's soft voice. "Caramon " 
There was a muttered oath from the pillow. 
Perhaps, when I leave, I'll put a frog in the bed, Caramon thoughtviciously. It would be nice and stiff in two hundred years.... 
"General," Garic persisted, "I'm sorry to wake you, sir, butyou're needed in the courtyard at once." 
"What for?" growled Caramon, throwing off the blankets and sittingup, wincing at the soreness in his thighs and back. Rubbing hiseyes, he glared at Garic. 
"The army, sir. It's leaving." 
Caramon stared at him. "What? You're crazy." 
"No, s-sir," said a young soldier, who had crept in after Garicand now stood behind him, his eyes wide with awe at being in thepresence of his commanding officer-despite the fact that theofficer was naked and only half-awake. "They-they're gathering inthe courtyard, n-now, sir.... The dwarves and the Plainsmen and... and some of ours." 
"Not the Knights," Garic added quickly. 
"Well ... well . . ." Caramon stammered, then waved his hand."Tell them to disperse, damn it! This is nonsense." He swore."Name of the gods, three-fourths of them were dead drunk lastnight!" 
"They're sober enough this morning, sir. And I think you shouldcome," Garic said softly. "Your brother is leading them." 
"What's the meaning of this?" Caramon demanded, his breath puffingwhite in the chill air. It was the coldest morning of the fall. Athin coat of frost covered the stones of Pax Tharkas, mercifullyobliterating the red stains of battle. Wrapped in a thick cloak,dressed only in leather breeches and boots that he had hastilythrown on, Caramon glanced about the courtyard. It was crowdedwith dwarves and men, all standing quietly, grimly, in ranks,waiting for the order to march. 
Caramon's stern gaze fixed itself on Reghar Fireforge, thenshifted to Darknight, chief of the Plainsmen. 
"We went over this yesterday," Caramon said. His voice taut withbarely contained anger, he came to stand in front of Reghar."It'll take another two days for our supply wagons to catch up.There's not enough food left here for the march, you told me thatyourself last night. And you won't find so much as a rabbit on thePlains of Dergoth-" 
"We don't mind missing a few meals," grunted Reghar, the emphasison the "we" leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Caramon's love ofhis dinner was well-known. 
This did nothing to improve the general's humor. Caramon's faceflushed. "What about weapons, you long-bearded fool?" he snapped."What about fresh water, shelter, food for the horses?" 
"We won't be in the Plains that long," Reghar returned, his eyesflashing. "The mountain dwarves, Reorx curse their stone hearts,are in confusion. We must strike now, before they can get theirforces back together." 
"We went over this last night!" Caramon shouted in exasperation."This was just a part of their force we faced here. Duncan's gotanother whole damn army waiting for you beneath the mountain!" 
Caramon glanced at Darknight, who had remained silent throughoutthis conversation. The chief of the Plainsmen only nodded, once:His men, standing behind him, were stern and quiet, though-hereand there-Caramon saw a few green tinged faces and knew that manyhad not fully recovered from last night's celebration. 
Finally, Caramon's gaze shifted to a black-robed figure seated ona black horse. Though the figure's eyes were shadowed by his blackhood, Caramon had felt their intense, amused gaze ever since hewalked out of the door of the gigantic fortress. 
Turning abruptly away from the dwarf, Caramon stalked over toRaistlin. He was not surprised to find Lady Crysania on her horse,muffled in a thick cloak. As he drew nearer, he noticed that thebottom of the cleric's cloak was stained dark with blood. Her face, barely visible above a scarf she had wound around her neckand chin, was pale but composed. He wondered briefly where she hadbeen and what she had been doing during the long night. Histhoughts were centered, however, on his twin. 
"This is your doing," he said in a low voice, approaching Raistlinand laying his hand upon the horse's neck. 
Raistlin nodded complacently, leaning forward over the pommel ofthe saddle to talk to his brother. Caramon could see his face,cold and white as the frost on the pavement beneath their feet. 
"What's the idea?" Caramon demanded, still in the same low voice."What's this all about? You know we can't march without supplies!" 
"You're playing this much too safely, my brother," said Raistlin.He shrugged and added, "The supply trains will catch up with us.As for weapons, the men have picked up extra ones here after thebattle. Reghar is right-we must strike quickly, before Duncan canget organized." 
"You should have discussed this with me!" Caramon growled,clenching his fist. "I am in command!" 
Raistlin looked away, shifting slightly in his saddle. Caramon,standing near him, felt his brother's body shiver beneath theblack robes. "There wasn't time," the archmage said after amoment. "I had a dream last night, my brother. She came to me-my Caramon gazed at his brother in silent, sudden understanding."They mean nothing to you!" he said softly, gesturing to the menand dwarves standing, waiting behind him. "You're interested inone thing only, reaching your precious Portal!" His bitter gazeshifted to Crysania, who regarded him calmly, though her gray eyeswere dark and shadowed from a sleepless, horror-filled night spentamong the wounded and dying. "You, too? You support him in this?" 
"The trial of blood, Caramon," she said softly. "It must bestopped-forever. I have seen the ultimate evil mankind can inflictupon itself." 
"I wonder!" Caramon muttered, glancing at his twin. 
Reaching up with his slender hands, Raistlin slowly drew back thefolds of his hood, leaving his eyes visible. Caramon recoiled,seeing himself reflected in the flat surface, seeing his face-haggard, unshaven, his hair uncombed, fluttering raggedly in thewind. And then, as Raistlin stared at him, holding him in anintense gaze as a snake charms a bird, words came into Caramon'smind. 
You know me well, my brother. The blood that flows in our veinsspeaks louder than words sometimes. Yes, you are right. I carenothing for this war. I have fought it for one purpose only, andthat is to reach the Portal. These fools will carry me that far.Beyond that, what does it matter to me whether we win or lose? 
I have allowed you to play general, Caramon, since you seemed toenjoy your little game. You are, in fact, surprisingly good at it.You have served my purpose adequately. You will serve me still.You will lead the army to Zhaman. When Lady Crysania and I aresafely there, I will send you home. Remember this, my brother-thebattle on the Plains of Dergoth was lost! You cannot change that! 
"I don't believe you!" Caramon said thickly, staring at Raistlinwith wild eyes. "You wouldn't ride to your own death! You mustknow something! You-" 
Caramon choked, half-strangled. Raistlin drew nearer to him,seeming to suck the words out of his throat. 
My counsel is my own to keep! What I know or do not know does notconcern you, so do not tax your brain with fruitless speculation. 
Tell them what? That you have seen the future? That they aredoomed? Seeing the struggle in Caramon's anguish-filled face,Raistlin smiled. I think not, my brother. And now, if you everwant to return to your home again, I suggest you go upstairs, puton your armor, and lead your army. 
The archmage lifted his hands and pulled his hood down low overhis eyes again. Caramon drew in his breath with a gasp, as thoughsomeone had dashed cold water in his face. For a moment, he couldonly stand staring at his twin, shivering with a rage that nearlyoverpowered him. 
All he could think of, at that moment, was Raistlin . . laughingwith him by the tree ... Raistlin holding the rabbit. . . Thatcamaraderie between them had been real. He would swear it! And yet, this, too, was real. Real and cold and sharp as the blade ofa knife shining in the clear light of morning. 
And, slowly, the light from that knife blade began to penetratethe clouds of confusion in Caramon's mind, severing another of theties that bound him to his brother. 
The knife moved slowly. There were many ties to cut. 
The first gave in the blood-soaked arena at Istar, Caramonrealized. And he felt another part as he stared at his brother inthe frost-rimed courtyard of Pax Tharkas. 
"It seems I have no choice," he said, tears of anger and painblurring the image of his brother in his sight. 
"None," Raistlin replied. Grasping the reins, he made ready toride off. "There are things I must attend to. Lady Crysania willride with you, of course, in the vanguard. Do not wait for me. Iwill ride behind for a time." 
And so I'm dismissed, Caramon said to himself. Watching hisbrother ride away, he felt no anger anymore, just a dull, gnawingache. An amputated limb left behind such phantom pain, so he hadheard once.... 
When Caramon returned, dressed in his familiar golden armor, hiscape fluttering in the wind, the dwarves and Plainsmen and the menof his own army raised their voices in a resounding cheer. 
Not only did they truly admire and respect the big man, but allcredited him with the brilliant strategy that had brought themvictory the day before. General Caramon was lucky, it was said,blessed by some god. After all, wasn't it luck that had kept thedwarves from closing the gates? 
Most had felt uncomfortable when it was rumored they might beriding off without him. There had been many dark glances cast atthe black-robed wizard, but who dared voice disapproval? 
The cheers were immensely comforting to Caramon and, for a moment,he could say nothing. Then, finding his voice, he gruffly issuedorders as he made ready to ride. 
With a gesture, Caramon called one of the young Knights forward. 
"Michael, I'm leaving you here in Pax Tharkas, in command," hesaid, pulling on a pair of gloves. The young Knight flushed withpleasure at this unexpected honor, even as he glanced behind atthe hole his leaving made in the ranks. 
"Sir, I'm only a low-ranking- Surely, someone more qualified-" 
Smiling at him sadly, Caramon shook his head. "I know yourqualifications, Michael. Remember? You were ready to die tofulfill a command, and you found the compassion to disobey. Itwon't be easy, but do the best you can. The women and childrenwill stay here, of course. And I'll send back any wounded. Whenthe supply trains arrive, see that they're sent on as quickly aspossible." He shook his head. "Not that it is likely to be soonenough," he muttered. Sighing, he added, "You can probably holdout the winter here, if you have to. No matter what happens tous... ." 
Seeing the Knights glance at each other, their faces puzzled andworried, Caramon abruptly bit off his words. No, his bitterforeknowledge must not be allowed to show. Feigning cheerfulness, The yells increased as the standard-bearer raised the army'sstandard. Caramon's banner with its nine-pointed star gleamedbrightly in the sun. His Knights formed ranks behind him. Crysaniacame up to ride with them, the Knights parting, with their usualchivalry, to let her take her place. Though the Knights had nomore use for the witch than anyone else in camp, she was a woman,after all, and the Code required them to protect and defend herwith their lives. 
"Open the gates!" Caramon shouted. 
Pushed by eager hands, the gates swung open. Casting a finalglance around to see that all was in readiness, Caramon's eyessuddenly encountered those of his twin. 
Raistlin sat upon his black horse within the shadows of the greatgates. He did not move nor speak. He simply sat, watching,waiting. 
For as long as it took to draw a shared, simultaneous breath, thetwins regarded each other intently, then Caramon turned his faceaway. 
Reaching over, he grabbed his standard from his bearer. Holding ithigh over his head, he cried out one word, "Thorbardin!" Themorning sun, just rising above the peaks, burned golden onCaramon's armor. It sparkled golden on the threads of the banner'sstar, glittered golden on the spear tips of the long ranks behindhim. 
"Thorbardin!" he cried once again and, spurring his horse, hegalloped out of the gates. 
"Thorbardin!" His cry was echoed by thunderous yells and theclashing of sword against shield. The dwarves began theirfamiliar, eerie, deep-throated chant, "Stone and metal, metal andstone, stone and metal, metal and stone," stomping their iron-shodfeet to it in stirring rhythm as they marched out of the fort inrigid lines. 
They were followed by the Plainsmen, who moved in less orderlyfashion. Wrapped in their fur cloaks against the chill, theywalked in leisurely fashion, sharpening weapons, tying feathers intheir hair, or painting strange symbols on their faces. Soon, growing tired of the rigid order, they would drift off the road totravel in their accustomed hunting packs. After the barbarianscame Caramon's troop of farmers and thieves, more than a few ofthem staggering from the after-effects of last night's victoryparty. And finally, bringing up the rear, were their new allies,the Dewar. 
Argat tried to catch Raistlin's eye as he and his men trooped out,but the wizard sat wrapped in black upon his black horse, his facehidden in darkness. The only flesh and blood part of him visiblewere the slender, white hands, holding the horse's reins. 
Raistlin's eyes were not on the Dewar, nor on the army marchingpast him. They were on the gleaming golden figure riding at thearmy's head. And it would have taken a sharper eye than theDewar's to note that the wizard's hands gripped the reins with anunnatural tightness or that the black robes shivered, for just amoment, as if with a soft sigh. 
The Dewar marched out, and the courtyard was empty except for thecamp followers. The women wiped away their tears and, chattingamong themselves, returned to their tasks. The children clamberedup onto the walls to cheer the army as long as it was in sight.The gates to Pax Tharkas swung shut at last, sliding smoothly andsilently upon their oiled hinges. 
Standing on the battlements alone, Michael watched the great armysurge southward, their spear tips shining in the morning sun,their warm breath sending up puffs of mist, the chanting of thedwarves echoing through the mountains. 
Behind them rode a single, solitary figure, cloaked in black.Looking at the figure, Michael felt cheered. It seemed a goodomen. Death now rode behind the army, instead of in front. 
The sun shone upon the opening of the gates of Pax Tharkas; it setupon the closing of the gates of the great mountain fastness ofThorbardin. As the water-controlled mechanism that operated thegates groaned and wheezed, part of the mountain itself appeared toslide into place upon command. When shut and sealed, in fact, thegates were impossible to tell from the face of the rock of themountain itself, so cunning was the craftsmanship of the dwarveswho had spent years constructing them. 
The shutting of the gates meant war. News of the marching of theArmy of Fistandantilus had been reported, carried by spies uponthe swift wings of griffons. Now the mountain fastness was alive with activity. Sparks flew in the weapons makers' shops. Armorersfell asleep, hammers in their hands. The taverns doubled theirbusiness overnight as everyone came to boast of the great deedsthey would accomplish on the field of battle. 
Only one part of the huge kingdom beneath the ground was quiet,and it was to this place that the hero of the dwarves turned hisheavy footsteps two days after Caramon's army had left PaxTharkas. 
Entering the great Hall of Audience of the King of the MountainDwarves, Kharas heard his boots ring hollowly in the bowl-shapedchamber that was carved of the stone of the mountain itself. The chamber was empty now, save for several dwarves seated at thefront on a stone dais. 
Kharas passed the long rows of stone benches where, last night,thousands of dwarves had roared approval as their king declaredwar upon their kinsmen. 
Today was a War Meeting of the Council of Thanes. As such, it didnot require the presence of the citizenry, so Kharas was somewhatstartled to find himself invited. The hero was in disgrace-everyone knew it. There was speculation, even, that Duncan mighthave Kharas exiled. 
Kharas noted, as he drew near, that Duncan was regarding him withan unfriendly eye, but this may have had something to do with thefact that the king's eye and left cheekbone above his beard wereundeniably black and swollen-a result of the blow Kharas hadinflicted. 
"Oh, get up, Kharas," Duncan snapped as the tall, beardless dwarfbowed low before him. 
"Not until you have forgiven me, Thane," Kharas said, retaininghis position. 
"Forgiven you for what-knocking some sense into a foolish olddwarf?" Duncan smiled wryly. "No, you're not forgiven for that.You are thanked." The king rubbed his jaw. " 'Duty is painful;goes the proverb. Now I understand. But enough of that." 
Seeing Kharas straighten, Duncan held out a scroll of parchment."I asked you here for another reason. Read this." 
Puzzled, Kharas examined the scroll. It was tied with black ribbonbut was not sealed. Glancing at the other thanes, who were allassembled, each in his own stone chair sitting somewhat lower thanthe king's, Kharas's gaze went to one chair in particular-a vacantchair, the chair of Argat, Thane of the Dewar. Frowning, Kharasunrolled the scroll and read aloud, stumbling over the crudelanguage of the Dewar. 
Duncan, of the Dwarves of Thorbardin, King. 
Greetings from those you now call traitor. 
This scroll is deliver to you from us who know that you willpunish Dewar under the mountain for what we did at Pax Tharkas. Ifthis scroll is deliver to you at all, it mean that we succeed inkeeping the gates open. 
You scorn our plan in Council. Perhaps now you see wisdom. Theenemy is led by the wizard now. Wizard is friend of ours. He makearmy march for the Plains of Dergoth. We march with them, friendwith them. When the hour to come, those you call traitor willstrike. We will attack the enemy from within and drive them underyour axe-blades. 
If you to have doubt of our loyalty, hold our people hostagebeneath the mountain until such time we return. We promise greatgift we deliver to you as proof loyalty. 
Argat, of the Dewar, Thane 
Kharas read the scroll through twice, and his frown did not ease.If anything, it grew darker. 
"Well?" demanded Duncan. 
"I have nothing to do with traitors," Kharas said, rolling up thescroll and handing it back in disgust. 
"But if they are sincere," Duncan pursued, "this could give us agreat victory!" 
Kharas raised his eyes to meet those of his king, who sat on thedais above him. "If, at this moment, Thane, I could talk to ourenemy's general, this Caramon Majere, who-by all accounts-is a The other thanes snorted or grumbled. 
"You should have been a Knight of Solamnia!" one muttered, astatement not intended as a compliment. 
Duncan cast them all a stern glance, and they fell into a sulkingsilence. 
"Kharas," Duncan said patiently, "we know how you feel abouthonor, and we applaud you for that. But honor will not feed thechildren of those who may die in this battle, nor will it keep ourkinsmen from picking clean our bones if we ourselves fall. No,"Duncan continued, his voice growing stern and deep, "there is atime for honor and a time when one must do what he must." Once again, he rubbed his jaw. "You yourself showed me that." 
Kharas's face grew grim. Absent-mindedly raising a hand to strokethe flowing beard that was no longer there, he dropped his handuncomfortably and, flushing, stared down at his feet. 
"Our scouts have verified this report," Duncan continued. "Thearmy has marched." 
Kharas looked up, scowling. "I don't believe it!" he said. "Ididn't believe it when I heard it! They have left Pax Tharkas?Before their supply wagons got through? It must be true then, thewizard must be in charge. No general would make that mistake-" 
"They will be on the Plains within the next two days. Theirobjective is, according to our spies, the fortress of Zhaman,where they plan to set up headquarters. We have a small garrisonthere that will make a token defense and then retreat, hopefullydrawing them out into the open." 
"Zhaman," Kharas muttered, scratching his jaw since he could nolonger tug at his beard. Abruptly, he took a step forward, hisface now eager. "Thane, if I can present a plan that will end thiswar with a minimum of bloodshed, will you listen to it and allowme to try?" 
"I'll listen," said Duncan dubiously, his face setting into rigidlines. 
"Give me a hand-picked squadron of men, Thane, and I willundertake to kill this wizard, this Fistandantilus. When he isdead, I will show this scroll to his general and to our kinsmen.They will see that they have been betrayed. They will see themight of our army lined up against them. They must surelysurrender!" 
"And what are we to do with them if they do surrender?" Duncansnapped irritably, though he was going over the plan in his mindeven as he spoke. The other thanes had ceased muttering into theirbeards and were looking at each other, heavy brows knotting overtheir eyes. 
"Give them Pax Tharkas, Thane," Kharas said, his eagernessgrowing. "Those who want to live there, of course. Our kinsmenwill, undoubtedly, return to their homes. We could make a fewconcessions to them-very few," he added hastily, seeing Duncan'sface darken. "That would be arranged with the surrender terms. Butthere would be shelter and protection for the humans and ourkinsmen during the winter-they could work in the mines. . . ." 
"The plan has possibilities," Duncan muttered thoughtfully. "Onceyou're in the desert, you could hide in the Mounds-" 
He fell silent, pondering. Then he slowly shook his head. "But itis a dangerous course, Kharas. And all may be for nought. Even ifyou succeed in killing the Dark One-and I remind you that he issaid to be a wizard of great power-there is every possibility youwill be killed before you can talk to this General Majere. Rumorhas it he is the wizard's twin brother!" 
Kharas smiled wearily, his hand still on his smooth-shaven jaw."That is a risk I will take gladly, Thane, if means that no moreof my kinsmen will die at my hands." 
Duncan glared at him, then, rubbing his swollen jaw, he heaved asigh. "Very well," he said. "You have our leave. Choose your menwith care. When will you go?" 
"Tonight, Thane, with your permission." 
"The gates of the mountain will open to you, then they will close.Whether they open again to admit you victorious or to disgorge thearmed might of the mountain dwarves will be dependent upon you,Kharas. May Reorx's flame shine on your hammer." 
"There goes one we can ill afford to lose," said one of thethanes, his eyes on the retreating figure of the tall, beardlessdwarf. 
"He was lost to us from the beginning," Duncan snapped harshly.But his face was haggard and lined with grief as he muttered,"Now, we must plan for war." 
CHAPTER 8 
"No water again," Caramon said quietly. 
Reghar scowled. Though the general's voice was carefullyexpressionless, the dwarf knew that he was being held accountable.Realizing that he was, in large part, to blame, didn't helpmatters. The only feeling more wretched and unbearable than guiltis the feeling of well-deserved guilt. 
"There'll be another water hole within half a day's march," Reghargrowled, his face setting into granite. "They were all over theplace in the old days, like pock marks." 
The dwarf waved an arm. Caramon glanced around. As far as the eyecould see there was nothing-not tree, not bird, not even scrubbybushes. Nothing but endless miles o£ sand, dotted here and therewith strange, domed mounds. Far off in the distance, the darkshadows of the mountains of Thorbardin hovered before his eyeslike the lingering remembrance of a bad dream. 
The Army of Fistandantilus was losing before the battle evenstarted. 
After days of forced marching, they had finally come out of themountain pass from Pax Tharkas and were now upon the Plains ofDergoth. Their supplies had not caught up with them and, becauseof the rapid pace at which they were moving, it looked as if itmight be more than a week before the lumbering wagons found them. 
Raistlin pressed the need for haste upon the commanders of thearmies and, though Caramon opposed his brother openly, Regharsupported the archmage and managed to sway the Plainsmen to their side as well. Once again, Caramon had little choice but to goalong. And so the army rose before dawn, marched with only a briefrest at midday, and continued until twilight when they stopped tomake camp while there was still light enough to see. 
It did not seem like an army of victors. Gone were thecomradeship, the jokes, the laughter, the games of evening. Gonewas the singing by day; even the dwarves ceased their stirringchant, preferring to keep their breath for breathing as theymarched mile after weary mile. At night, the men slumped downpractically where they stood, ate their meagre rations, and thenfell immediately into exhausted sleep until kicked and prodded bythe sergeants to begin another day. 
Spirits were low. There were grumblings and complaints, especiallyas the food dwindled. This had not been a problem in themountains. Game had been plentiful. But once on the Plains, asCaramon had foretold, the only living things they saw were eachother. They lived on hard-baked, unleavened bread and strips ofdried meat rationed out twice per day morning and night. AndCaramon knew that if the supply wagons didn't catch up with themsoon, even this small amount would be cut in half. 
But the general had other concerns besides food, both of whichwere more critical. One was a lack of fresh water. Though Regharhad told him confidently that there were water holes in thePlains, the first two they discovered were dry. Then-and onlythen-had the old dwarf dourly admitted that the last time he'd seteyes on these Plains was in the days before the Cataclysm.Caramon's other problem was the rapidly deterioratingrelationships between the allies. 
Always threadbare at best, the alliance was now splitting apart atthe seams. The humans from the north blamed their current problemson the dwarves and the Plainsmen since they had supported thewizard. 
The Plainsmen, for their part, had never been in the mountainsbefore. They discovered that fighting and living in mountainousterrain was cold and snowy and, as the chief put it crudely toCaramon, "it is either too up or too down!" 
Now, seeing the gigantic mountains of Thorbardin looming on thesouthern horizon, the Plainsmen were beginning to think that allthe gold and steel in the world wasn't as beautiful as the golden,flat grasslands of their home. More than once Caramon saw their The dwarves, for their part, viewed the humans as cowardlyweaklings who ran crying home to mama the minute things got alittle tough. Thus they treated the lack of food and water as apetty annoyance. The dwarf who even dared hint he was thirsty wasimmediately set upon by his fellows. 
Caramon thought of this and he thought of his numerous otherproblems as he stood in the middle of the desert that evening,kicking at the sand with the toe of his boot. 
Then, raising his eyes, Caramon's gaze rested on Reghar. ThinkingCaramon was not watching him, the old dwarf lost his rockysternness-his shoulders slumped, and he sighed wearily. Hisresemblance to Flint was painful in its intensity. Ashamed of hisanger, knowing it was directed more at himself than anyone else,Caramon did what he could to make amends. 
"Don't worry. We've enough water to last the night. Surely we'llcome on a water hole tomorrow, don't you think?" he said, pattingReghar clumsily on the back. The old dwarf glanced up at Caramon,startled and instantly suspicious, fearing he might be the butt ofsome joke. 
But, seeing Caramon's tired face smiling at him cheerfully, Regharrelaxed. "Aye," the dwarf said with a grudging smile in return."Tomorrow for sure." 
Turning from the dry water hole, the two made their way back tocamp. 
Night came early to the Plains of Dergoth. The sun dropped behindthe mountains rapidly, as though sick of the sight of the vast,barren desert wasteland. Few campfires glowed; most of the menwere too tired to bother lighting them, and there wasn't any foodto cook anyway. Huddling together in their separate groups, thehill dwarves, the northerners, and the Plainsmen regarded eachother suspiciously. Everyone, of course, shunned the Dewar. 
Caramon, glancing up, saw his own tent, sitting apart from themall, as though he had simply written them off. 
An old Krynnish legend told of a man who had once committed a deedso heinous that the gods themselves gathered to inflict hispunishment. When they announced that, henceforth, the man was to But now he understood, and his soul ached. Truly, no greaterpunishment could be inflicted upon any mortal. For, by seeing intothe future and knowing what the outcome will be, man's greatestgift-hope-is taken away. 
Up until now, Caramon had hoped. He had believed Raistlin wouldcome up with a plan. He had believed his brother wouldn't let thishappen. Raistlin couldn't let this happen. But now, knowing thatRaistlin truly didn't care what became of these men and dwarvesand the families they had left behind, Caramon's hope died. Theywere doomed. There was nothing he could do to prevent what hadhappened before from happening again. 
Knowing this and knowing the pain that this must inevitably costhim, Caramon began to unconsciously distance himself from those hehad come to care about. He began to think about home. 
Home! Almost forgotten, even purposefully shoved to the back ofhis mind, memories of his home now flooded over him with suchvivid clarity-once he let them-that sometimes, in the long, lonelyevenings, he stared into a fire he could not see for his tears. 
It was the one thought that kept Caramon going. As he led his armycloser and closer to their defeat, each step led him closer toTika, closer to home.... 
"Look out there!" Reghar grabbed hold of him, shaking him from hisreverie. Caramon blinked and looked up just before he stumbledinto one of the strange mounds that dotted the Plains. 
"What are these confounded contrivances anyway?" Caramon grumbled,glaring at it. "Some type of animal dwelling? I've heard tell ofsquirrels without tails who live in homes like these upon thegreat flatlands of Estwilde." He eyed the structure that wasnearly three feet tall and just as wide, and shook his head. "ButI'd hate to meet up with the squirrel who built this!" 
"Bah! Squirrel indeed!" Reghar scoffed. "Dwarves built these!Can't you tell? Look at the workmanship." He ran his hand lovinglyover the smooth-sided dome. "Since when did Nature do such a perfect job?" 
"Observation posts," Reghar said succinctly. 
"Observation?" Caramon grinned. "What do they observe? Snakes?" 
"The land, the sky, armies-like ours." Reghar stamped his foot,raising a cloud of dust. "Hear that?" 
"Hear what?" 
"That." Reghar stamped again. "Hollow." 
Caramon's brow cleared. "Tunnels!" His eyes opened wide. Lookingaround the desert at mound after mound rising up out of theflatlands, he whistled softly. 
"Miles of 'em!" Reghar said, nodding his head. "Built so long agothat they were old to my great-grandfather. Of course" the dwarfsighed-"most of them haven't been used in that long either. Legendhad it that there were once fortresses between here and Pax Tharkas, connecting up with the Kharolis Mountains. A dwarf couldwalk from Pax Tharkas to Thorbardin without ever once seeing thesun, if the old tales be true. 
"The fortresses are gone now. And many of the tunnels, in alllikelihood. The Cataclysm wrecked most of 'em. Still," Regharcontinued cheerfully, as he and Caramon resumed walking, "Iwouldn't be surprised if Duncan hadn't a few spies down there,skulking about like rats." 
"Above or below, they'll see us coming from a long way off,"Caramon muttered, his gaze scanning the flat, empty land. 
"Aye," Reghar said stoutly, "and much good it will do them." 
Caramon did not answer, and the two kept going, the big manreturning alone to his tent and the dwarf returning to theencampment of his people. 
In one of the mounds, not far from Caramon's tent, eyes werewatching the army, watching its every move. But those eyes weren'tinterested in the army itself. They were interested in threepeople, three people only.... 
"Not long now," Kharas said. He was peering out through slits socunningly carved into the rock that they allowed those in themound to look out but prevented anyone looking at the outside ofthe mound from seeing in. "How far do you make the distance?" 
This to a dwarf of ancient, scruffy appearance, who glanced outthe slits once in a bored fashion, then glanced down the length ofthe tunnel. "Two hundred, fifty-three steps. Bring you smack up inthe center," he said without hesitation. 
Kharas looked back out onto the Plains to where the general'slarge tent sat apart from the campfires of his men. It seemedmarvelous to Kharas that the old dwarf could judge the distance soaccurately. The hero might have expressed doubts, had it beenanyone but Smasher. But the elderly thief who had been brought outof retirement expressly for this mission had too great areputation for performing remarkable feats-a reputation thatalmost equaled Kharas's own. 
"The sun is setting," Kharas reported, rather unnecessarily sincethe lengthening shadows could be seen slanting against the rockwalls of the tunnel behind him. "The general returns. He isentering his tent." Kharas frowned. "By Reorx's beard, I hope hedoesn't decide to change his habits tonight." 
"He won't," Smasher said. Crouched comfortably in a corner, hespoke with the calm certainty of one who had (in former days)earned a living by watching the comings and-more particularly-thegoings of his fellows. "First two things you learn when yerbreakin' house-everyone has a routine and no one likes change.Weather's fine, there've been no startlements, nothin out there'cept sand an' more sand. No, he won't change." 
Kharas frowned, not liking this reminder of the dwarf's lawlesspast. Well aware of his own limitations, Kharas had chosen Smasherfor this mission because they needed someone skilled in stealth,skilled in moving swiftly and silently, skilled in attacking bynight, and escaping into the darkness. 
But Kharas, who had been admired by the Knights of Solamnia forhis honor, suffered pangs of conscience nonetheless. He soothedhis soul by reminding himself that Smasher had, long ago, paid forhis misdeeds and had even performed several services for his kingthat made him, if not a completely reputable character, at least aminor hero. 
Even as he thought this, he breathed a sigh of relief. "You areright, Smasher. Here comes the wizard from his tent and here comesthe witch from hers." 
Grasping the handle of his hammer strapped securely to his beltwith one hand, Kharas used the other hand to shift a short swordhe had tucked into his belt into a slightly more comfortableposition. Finally, he reached into a pouch, drew out a piece ofrolled parchment, and with a thoughtful, solemn expression on hisbeardless face, tucked it into a safe pocket in his leather armor. 
Turning to the four dwarves who stood behind him, he said,"Remember, do not harm the woman or the general any more than isnecessary to subdue them. But-the wizard must die, and he must diequickly, for he is the most dangerous." 
Smasher grinned and settled back more comfortably. He would not begoing along. Too old. That would have insulted him once, but hewas of an age now where it came as a compliment. Besides, hisknees creaked alarmingly. 
"Let them settle in," the old thief advised. "Let them start theirevening meal, relax. Then"-drawing his hand across his throat, hechortled-"two hundred and fifty-three steps...... 
Standing guard duty outside the general's tent, Garic listened tothe silence within. It was more disturbing and seemed to echolouder than the most violent quarrel. 
Glancing inside through the tent flap opening, he saw the threesitting together as they did every night, quiet, muttering onlyoccasionally, each one apparently wrapped in his or her ownconcerns. 
The wizard was deeply involved in his studies. Rumor had it thathe was planning some great, powerful spells that would blow thegates of Thorbardin wide open. As for the witch, who knew what shewas thinking? Garic was thankful, at least, that Caramon waskeeping an eye on her. 
There had been some weird rumors about the witch among the men.Rumors of miracles performed at Pax Tharkas, of the dead returningto life at her touch, of limbs growing back onto bloody stumps.Garic discounted these, of course. Still, there was something Garic shifted restlessly in the cold wind that swept over thedesert. Of the three in the tent, he worried most about hisgeneral. Over the past months, the young knight had come to revereand idolize Caramon. Observing him closely, trying to be as muchlike him as possible, Garic noticed Caramon's obvious depressionand unhappiness which the big man thought he was doing quite wellat hiding. For Garic, Caramon had taken the place of the family hehad lost, and now the young Knight brooded over Caramon's sorrowas he would have brooded about an older brother. 
"It's those blasted dark dwarves," Garic muttered out loud,stomping his feet to keep them from going numb. "I don't trust'em, that's for certain. I'd send them packing, and I'll bet thegeneral would, too, if it weren't for his bro-" 
Garic stopped, holding his breath, listening. 
Nothing. But he could have sworn.... 
Hand on the hilt of his sword, the young Knight stared out intothe desert. Though hot by day, it was a cold and forbidding placeat night. Off in the distance, he saw the campfires. Here andthere, he could see the shadows of men passing by. 
Then he heard it again. A sound behind him. Directly behind him.The sound of heavy, iron-shod boots.... 
"What was that?" Caramon asked, lifting his head. 
"The wind," Crysania muttered, glancing at the tent and shivering,watching as the fabric rippled and breathed like a living thing."It blows incessantly in this horrid place." 
Caramon half-rose, hand on his sword hilt. "It wasn't the wind." 
Raistlin glanced up at his brother. "Oh, sit down !" he snarledsoftly in irritation, "and finish your dinner so that we can endthis. I must return to my studies." 
The archmage was going over a particularly difficult spell chantin his mind. He had been wrestling with it for days, trying todiscover the correct voice inflection and pronunciation needed to Shoving his still-full plate aside, Raistlin started to stand 
-when the world literally gave way beneath his feet. 
As though he were on the deck of a ship sliding down a steep wave,the sandy ground canted away from under foot. Staring down inamazement, the archmage saw a vast hole opening up before him. Oneof the poles that held up the tent slipped and toppled into it,causing the tent to sag. A lantern hanging from the supports swungwildly, shadows pitching and leaping around like demons. 
Instinctively, Raistlin caught hold of the table and managed tosave himself from falling into the rapidly widening hole. But,even as he did so, he saw figures crawling up through the holesquat, bearded figures. For an instant, the wildly dancing lightflashed off steel blades, shone in dark, grim eyes. Then thefigures were plunged in shadows. 
"Caramon!" Raistlin shouted, but he could tell by the soundsbehind him-a vicious oath and the rattle of a steel sword slidingfrom its scabbard-that Caramon was well aware of the danger. 
Raistlin heard, too, a strong, feminine voice calling on the nameof Paladine, and saw the glimmering outline of pure, white light,but he had no time to worry about Crysania. A huge dwarvenwarhammer, seemingly wielded by the darkness itself, flashed inthe lantern light, aiming right at the mage's head. 
Speaking the first spell that came to his mind, Raistlin saw withsatisfaction an invisible force pluck the hammer from the dwarf'shand. By his command, the magical force carried the hammer throughthe darkness to drop it with a thud in the corner of the tent. 
At first numbed by the unexpectedness of the attack, Raistlin'smind was now active and working. Once the initial shock hadpassed, the mage saw this as simply another irritatinginterruption to his studies. Planning to end it quickly, thearchmage turned his attention to his enemy, who stood before him,regarding him with eyes that were unafraid. 
Feeling no fear himself, calm in the knowledge that nothing couldkill him since he was protected by time, Raistlin called upon hismagic in cool, unhurried fashion. 
He felt it coiling and gathering within his body, felt the ecstasycourse through him with a sensual pleasure. This would be apleasant diversion from his studies, he decided. An interestingexercise ... Stretching out his hands, he began to pronounce thewords that would send bolts of blue lightning sizzling through hisenemy's writhing body. Then he was interrupted. 
With the suddenness of a thunder clap, two figures appeared beforehim, leaping out of the darkness at him as though they had droppedfrom a star. 
Tumbling at the mage's feet, one of the figures stared up at himin wild excitement. 
"Oh, look! It's Raistlin! We made it, Gnimsh! We made it! Hey,Raistlin! Bet you're surprised to see me, huh? And, oh, have I gotthe most wonderful story to tell you! You see, I was dead. Well, Iwasn't actually, but-" 
"Tasslehoff!" Raistlin gasped. 
Thoughts sizzled in Raistlin's mind as the lightning might havesizzled from his fingertips. 
The first-a kender! Time could be altered! 
The second-Time can be altered.... 
The third-I can die! 
The shock of these thoughts jolted through Raistlin's body,burning away the coolness and calmness so necessary to the magic-user for casting his complex spells. 
As both the unlooked-for solution to his problem and the frightfulrealization of what it might cost him penetrated his brain,Raistlin lost control. The words of the spell slipped from hismind. But his enemy still advanced. 
Reacting instinctively, his hand shaking, Raistlin jerked hiswrist, bringing into his palm the small silver dagger he carriedwith him. 
But it was too late ... and too little. 
Kharas's concentration was completely centered on the man he hadvowed to kill. Reacting with the trained single-mindedness of themilitary mindset, he paid no attention to the startling appearanceof the two apparitions, thinking them, perhaps, nothing more thanbeings conjured up by the archmage. 
Kharas saw, at the same time, the wizard's glittering eyes goblank. He saw Raistlin's mouth-opened to recite deadly words-hangflaccid. and loose, and the dwarf knew that for a few seconds atleast, his enemy was at his mercy. 
Lunging forward, Kharas drove his short sword through the black,flowing robes and had the satisfaction of feeling it hit home. 
Closing with the stricken mage, he drove the blade deeper anddeeper into the human's slender body. The mans strange, burningheat enveloped him like a blazing inferno. A hatred and an angerso intense struck Kharas a physical blow, knocking him backwardand slamming him into the ground. 
But the wizard was wounded-mortally. That much Kharas knew:Staring up from where he lay, looking into those searing, balefuleyes, Kharas saw them burn with fury, but he saw them fill withpain as well. And he saw-by the leaping, swaying light of thelantern-the hilt of his short sword sticking out of the mage'sgut. He saw the wizard's slender hands curl around it, he heardhim scream in terrible agony. He knew he had no reason to fear.The wizard could harm him no longer. 
Stumbling to his feet, Kharas reached out his hand and jerked thesword free. Crying out in bitter anguish, his hands deluged in hisown blood, the wizard pitched forward onto the ground and laystill. 
Kharas had time to look around then. His men were fighting apitched battle with the general who, hearing his brother scream,was livid with fear and anger. The witch was nowhere to be seen,the eerie white light that had shone from her was gone, lost inthe darkness. 
Hearing a strangled sound from his left, Kharas turned to see thetwo apparitions the archmage had summoned staring down in stunnedhorror at the wizard's body. Getting a good look at them, Kharaswas startled to see that these demons conjured from the nether Kharas didn't have time to ponder this phenomenon. He hadaccomplished what he came for, at least he had almost. He knew hecould never talk to the general, not now. His main concern wasgetting his men out safely. Running across the tent, Kharas pickedup his warhammer and, yelling to his men in dwarven to get out ofhis way, flung it straight at Caramon. 
The hammer struck the man a glancing blow on the head, knockinghim out but not killing him. Caramon dropped like a felled ox and,suddenly, the tent was deathly silent. 
It had all taken just a few short minutes. 
Glancing through the tent flap, Kharas saw the young Knight whostood guard lying senseless upon the ground. There was no signthat anyone sitting around those far-off fires had heard or seenanything unusual. 
Reaching up, the dwarf stopped the lantern from swinging andlooked around. The wizard lay in a pool of his own blood. Thegeneral lay near him, his hand reaching out for his brother asthough that had been his last thought before he lostconsciousness. In a corner lay the witch, on her back, her eyesclosed. 
Seeing blood on her robes, Kharas glared sternly at his men. Oneof them shook his head. 
"I'm sorry, Kharas," the dwarf said, looking down at her andshivering. "But-the light from her was so bright! It split my headopen. All I could think of was to stop it. I-I wouldn't have beenable to, but then the wizard screamed and she cried out, and herlight wavered. I hit her, then, but not very hard. She's not hurtbadly." 
"All right." Kharas nodded. "Let's go." Retrieving his hammer, thedwarf looked down at the general lying at his feet. "I'm sorry,"he said, fishing out the little bit of parchment and tucking itinto the man's outstretched hand. "Maybe, sometime, I can explainit to you." Rising, he looked around. "Everyone all right? Thenlet's get out of here." 
His men hurried to the tunnel entrance. 
"Take them," Kharas said sharply. "We cant leave them here,they'll raise the alarm." 
For the first time, the kender seemed to come to life. 
"Not" he cried, looking at Kharas with pleading, horrified eyes."You can't take us! We just got here! We've found Caramon and nowwe can go home! No, please !" 
"Take them !" Kharas ordered sternly. 
"No!" the kender wailed, struggling in his captor's arms. "No,please, you don't understand. We were in the Abyss and we escaped" 
"Gag him," Kharas growled, peering down into the tunnel beneaththe tent to see that all was well. Motioning for them to hurry, heknelt beside the hole in the ground. 
His men descended into the tunnel, dragging the gagged kender, whowas still putting up such a fight-kicking with his legs andclawing at them-that they were finally forced to stop and trusshim up like a chicken before they could haul him away. They hadnothing to worry about with their other captive, however. The poorgnome was so horrified that he had lapsed into a state of shock.Staring around helplessly, his mouth gaping wide open, he quietlydid whatever he was told. 
Kharas was the last to leave. Before jumping down into the tunnel,he took a final glance about the tent. 
The lantern hung quite still now, shedding its soft, glowing lightupon a scene from a nightmare. Tables were smashed, chairs wereoverturned, food was scattered everywhere. A thin trail of bloodran from beneath the body of the black-robed magic-user. Forming apool at the lip of the hole, the blood began to drip, slowly, downinto the tunnel. 
Leaping into the hole, Kharas ran a safe distance down the tunnel,then stopped. Grabbing up the end of a length of rope lying on thetunnel floor, he gave the rope a sharp yank. The opposite end ofthe rope was tied to one of the support beams right beneath thegeneral's tent. The jerk on the rope brought the beam tumblingdown. There was a low rumble. Then, in the distance, he could see The tunnel now safely blocked behind him, Kharas turned andhurried after his men. 
"General-" 
Caramon was on his feet, his big hands reaching out for the throatof his enemy, a snarl contorting his face. 
Startled, Garic stumbled backward. 
"General!" he cried. "Caramon! It's met" 
Sudden, stabbing pain and the sound of Garic's familiar voicepenetrated Caramon s brain. With a moan, he clasped his head inhis hands and staggered. Garic caught him as he fell, lowering himsafely into a chair. 
"My brother?" Caramon said thickly. 
"Caramon- I-" Garic swallowed. 
"My brother!" Caramon rasped, clenching his fist. 
"We took him to his tent," Garic replied softly. "The wound is-" 
"What? The wound is what?" Caramon snarled impatiently, raisinghis head and staring at Garic with blood-shot, pain filled eyes. 
Garic opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. "M-myfather told me about wounds like it," he mumbled. "Men lingeringfor days in dreadful agony...... 
"You mean it's a belly wound," Caramon said. 
Garic nodded and then covered his face with his hand. Caramon,looking at him closely, saw that the young man was deathly white.Sighing, closing his eyes, Caramon braced himself for thedizziness and nausea he knew would assail him when he stood upagain. Then, grimly, he rose to his feet. The darkness whirled andheaved around him. He made himself stand steadily and, when it hadsettled, opened his eyes. 
"I'm all right," Garic answered, and his face flushed with shame."Th-they took me ... from behind." 
"Yeah." Caramon saw the matted blood in the young man's hair. "Ithappens. Don't worry about it." The big warrior smiled withoutmirth. "They took me from the front." 
Garic nodded again, but it was obvious from the expression on hisface that this defeat preyed on his mind. 
He'll get over it, Caramon thought wearily. We all have to face itsooner or later. 
"I'll see my brother now," he said, starting out of the tent withuneven steps. Then he stopped. "Lady Crysania?" 
"Asleep. Knife wound glanced off her ... uh ... ribs. I- Wedressed it ... as well as we could. We had to ... rip open herrobes." Garic's flush deepened. "And we gave her some brandy todrink...... 
"Does she know about Raist-Fistandantilus?" 
"The wizard forbade it." 
Caramon raised his eyebrows, then frowned. Glancing around at thewrecked tent, he saw the trail of blood on the trampled dirtfloor. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the tent flap and walkedunsteadily outside, Garic following. 
"The army?" 
"They know. The word spread." Garic spread his hands helplessly."There was so much to do. We tried to go after the dwarves-" 
"Bah!" Caramon snorted, wincing as pain shot through his head."They would have collapsed the tunnel." 
"Yes. We tried digging, but you might as well dig up the wholedamn desert," Garic said bitterly. 
"What about the army?" Caramon persisted, pausing outsideRaistlin's tent. Inside, he could hear a low moaning sound. 
Caramon understood. He glanced into the darkness of his brother'stent. "I'll go in alone. Thank you for all you've done, Garic," headded gently. "Now, go get some rest before you pass out. I'mgoing to need you later on, and you'll be no help to me sick." 
"Yes, sir;" Garic said. He started to stagger off, then stopped,turning back. Reaching beneath the breastplate of his armor, hewithdrew a blood-soaked bit of parchment. "We-we found this. . .in your hand, sir. The handwriting's dwarven. . . ." 
Caramon looked at it, opened it, read it, then rolled it back upwithout comment, tucking it into his belt. 
Guards surrounded the tents now. Gesturing to one, Caramon waiteduntil he saw Garic being helped to his bed. Then, bracing himself,he stepped into Raistlin's tent. 
A candle burned on a table, near a spellbook that had been leftopen-the archmage had obviously been expecting to return to hisstudies soon after dinner. A middle-aged, battle scarred dwarf-Caramon recognized him as one of Reghar's staff-crouched in theshadows near the bed. A guard beside the entrance saluted whenCaramon entered. 
"Wait outside," Caramon ordered, and the guard left. 
"He won't let us touch 'im," the dwarf said laconically, noddingtoward Raistlin. "Wound's gotta be dressed. Wont help much, ofcourse. But it might hold some of 'im inside for a bit." 
"I'll tend to him," Caramon said harshly. 
Hands on his knees, the dwarf shoved himself up. Hesitating, hecleared his throat as if wondering whether or not to speak.Decision made, he squinted up at Caramon with shrewd, bright eyes. 
"Reghar said I was to tell you. If you want me to do it ... youknow-end it quick, I've done it afore. Sort of a knack I've got.I'm a butcher by trade, you see-" 
"Get out." 
The dwarf shrugged. "As you say. Up to you. If it was my brother,though-" "Get out!" Caramon repeated softly. He did not look at the dwarfas he left, nor even hear the sounds of his heavy boots. All hissenses were concentrated on his twin. 
Raistlin lay on his bed, still dressed, his hands clenched overthe horrible wound. Stained black with blood, the mage's robes andflesh were gummed together in a ghastly mass. And he was in agony.Rolling involuntarily back and forth upon the bed, every breaththe mage exhaled was a low, incoherent moan of pain. Every breathhe drew in was bubbling torture. 
But to Caramon, the most awful sight of all was his brother'sglittering eyes, staring at him, aware of him, as he moved nearerthe bed. Raistlin was conscious. 
Kneeling down beside his brother's bed, Caramon laid a hand uponhis twin's feverish head. "Why didn't you let them send forCrysania?" he asked softly. 
Raistlin grimaced. Gritting his teeth, he forced the words outthrough blood-stained lips. "Paladine ... will ... not ... heal... me!" The last was a gasp, ending in a strangled scream. 
Caramon stared at him, confused. "But-you're dying! You can't die!You said-" 
Raistlin's eyes rolled, his head tossed. Blood trickled from hismouth. "Time ... altered.... All ... changed!" 
"But-" 
"Leave me! Let me die!" Raistlin shrieked in anger and pain, hisbody writhing. 
Caramon shuddered. He tried to look upon his brother with pity,but the face, gaunt and twisted in suffering, was not a face heknew. 
The mask of wisdom and intelligence had been stripped away,revealing the splintered lines of pride, ambition, avarice, andunfeeling cruelty beneath. It was as if Caramon, seeing a face hehad known always, were seeing his twin for the first time. 
Perhaps, Caramon thought, Dalamar saw this face in the Tower ofHigh Sorcery as Raistlin burned holes in his flesh with his barehands. Perhaps Fistandantilus, too, saw the face as he died.... 
Repulsed, his very soul shaken with horror, Caramon tore his gazefrom that hideous, skull-like visage and, hardening his ownexpression, reached out his hand. "At least let me dress thewound." 
Raistlin shook his head vehemently. A blood-covered hand wrencheditself free from holding his very life inside him to clutch atCaramon's arm. "No l End it! I have failed. The gods are laughing.I can't . . . bear. . ." 
Caramon stared at him. Suddenly, irrationally, anger took hold ofthe big man-anger that rose from years of sarcastic gibes andthankless servitude. Anger that had seen friends die because ofthis man. Anger that had seen himself nearly destroyed. Anger thathad seen love devoured, love denied. Reaching out his hand,Caramon grasped hold of the black robes and jerked his brothershead up off the pillow. 
"No, by the gods," Caramon shouted with a voice that literallyshook with rage. "No, you will not diet Do you hear me?" His eyesnarrowed. "You will not die, m y brother! All your life, you havelived only for yourself. Now, even in your death, you seek theeasy way out-for you! You'd leave me trapped here without asecond's thought. You'd leave Crysania! No, brother! You willlive, damn you! You'll live to send me back home. What you do withyourself after that is your concerti." 
Raistlin looked at .Caramon and, despite his pain, a gruesomeparody of a smile touched his lips. It almost seemed he might havelaughed, but a bubble of blood burst in his mouth instead. Caramonloosened his hold of his brother's robes, almost but not quite,hurling him backward. Raistlin collapsed back upon the pillow. Hisburning eyes devoured Caramon. At that moment the only life inthem was bitter hatred and rage. 
"I'm going to tell Crysania," Caramon said grimly, rising to hisfeet, ignoring Raistlin's glare of fury. "At least she must havethe chance to try to heal you. Yes, if looks could kill, I knowI'd be dead right now. But, listen to me, Raistlin orFistandantilus or whoever you are-if it is Paladine's will thatyou die before you can commit greater harm in this world, then sobe it. I'll accept that fate and so will Crysania. But if it ishis will that you live, we'll accept that, too-and so will you!" 
Firmly, his lips pressed together, Caramon detached his brothershand. Rising to his feet, he left his brothers bedside, hearing,behind him, a ragged moan of agonized torment. Caramon hesitated,that moan going straight to his heart. Then he thought of Tika, hethought of home.... 
Caramon kept walking. Stepping outside into the night, headingquickly for Crysania's tent, the big warrior glanced to one sideand saw the dwarf, standing nonchalantly in the shadows, whittlinga piece of wood with a sharp knife. 
Reaching into his armor, Caramon withdrew the piece of parchment.He had no need to reread it. The words were few and simple. 
The wizard has betrayed you and the army. Send a messenger toThorbardin to learn the truth. 
Caramon tossed the parchment upon the ground. What a cruel joke! 
What a cruel joke! 
What a cruel and twisted joke! 
Through the hideous torment of his pain, Raistlin could hear thelaughter of the gods. To offer him salvation with one hand andsnatch it away with the other! How they must revel in his defeat! 
Raistlin's tortured body twisted in spasms and so did his soul,writhing in impotent rage, burning with the knowledge that he hadfailed. 
Weak and puny human! he heard the voices of the gods shout. Thusdo we remind you of your mortality! 
He would not face Paladine's triumph. To see the god sneering athim, glorying in his downfall-no! Better to die swiftly, let hissoul seek what dark refuge it could find. But that bastard brotherof his, that other half of him, the half he envied and despised,the half he should have been-by rights. To deny him this ... thislast blessed solace.... 
Pain convulsed his body. "Caramon!" Raistlin cried alone into thedarkness. "Caramon, I need you! Caramon, don't leave me!" Hesobbed, clutching his stomach, curling up in a tight ball. "Don'tleave me ... to face this ... alone!" 
And then his mind lost the thread of its consciousness. Visions came to the mage as his life spilled out from between his fingers.Dark dragon wings, a broken dragon orb ... Tasslehoff . . a gnome ... 
My salvation ... 
My death ... 
Bright, white light, pure and cold and sharp as a sword, piercedthe mage's mind. Cringing, he tried to escape, tried to submergehimself in warm and soothing darkness. He could hear himselfbegging with Caramon to kill him and end the pain, end the brightand stabbing light. 
Raistlin heard himself say those words, but he had no knowledge ofhimself speaking. He knew he spoke only because, in the reflectionof the bright, pure light, he saw his brother turn away from him. 
The light shone more brightly and it became a face of light, abeautiful, calm, pure face with dark, cool, gray eyes. Cold handstouched his burning skin. 
"Let me heal you." 
The light hurt, worse than the pain of steel. Screaming, twisting,Raistlin tried to escape, but the hands held him firmly. 
"Let me heal you." 
"Get ... away! . . . " 
"Let me heal you!" 
Weariness, a vast weariness, came over Raistlin. He was tired offighting-fighting the pain, fighting the ridicule, fighting thetorment he'd lived with all his life. 
Very well. Let the god laugh. He's earned it, after all, Raistlinthought bitterly. Let him refuse to heal me. And then I'll rest inthe darkness.... the soothing darkness.... 
-and saw, suddenly, the face of the god. 
Caramon stood outside in the shadows of his brother's tent, hisaching head in his hands. Raistlin s tortured pleas for death cutthrough him. Finally, he could stand it no longer. The cleric hadobviously failed. Grasping the hilt of his sword, Caramon enteredthe tent and walked toward the bed. 
At that moment, Raistlin's cries ceased. 
Lady Crysania slumped forward over his body, her head falling ontothe mage's chest. 
He's dead! Caramon thought. Raistlin's dead. 
Staring at his brothers face, he did not feel grief. Instead, hefelt a kind of horror stealing over him at the sight, thinking,What a grotesque mask for death to wear! 
Raistlin's face was rigid as a corpse's, his mouth gaped open, nosound came from it. The skin was livid. The sightless eyes, fixedin the sunken cheeks, stared straight before him. 
Taking a step nearer, so numb he was unable to feel grief orsorrow or relief, Caramon looked closer at that strange expressionon the dead man's face and then realized, with a riveting shock,that Raistlin was not dead! The wide, fixed eyes stared at thisworld sightlessly, but that was only because they were seeinganother. 
A whimpering cry shook the mage's body, more dreadful to hear thanhis screams of agony. His head moved slightly, his lips parted,his throat worked but made no sound. 
And then Raistlin's eyes closed. His head lolled to one side, thewrithing muscles relaxed. The look of pain faded, leaving his facedrawn, pallid. He drew a deep breath, let it out with a sigh, drewanother.... 
Jolted by what he had seen, uncertain whether he should feelthankful or only more deeply grieved to know his brother lived,Caramon watched life return to his twin's torn and bleeding body. 
Slowly shaking off the paralyzed feeling that comes sometimes toone awakened suddenly from a deep sleep, Caramon knelt besideCrysania and, grasping her gently, helped her stand. She stared athim, blinking, without recognition. Then her gaze shiftedimmediately to Raistlin. A smile crossed her face. Closing hereyes, she murmured a prayer of thankfulness. Then, pressing herhand to her side, she sagged against Caramon. There was freshblood visible on her white robes. 
"You should heal yourself," Caramon said, helping her from thetent, his strong arm supporting her faltering footsteps. 
She looked up at him and, though weak, her face was beautiful inits calm triumph. 
"Perhaps tomorrow," she answered softly. "This night, a greatervictory is mine. Don't you see? This is the answer to my prayers." 
Looking at her peaceful, serene beauty, Caramon felt tears come tohis eyes. 
"So this is your answer?" he asked gruffly, glancing out over thecamp. The fires had burned down to heaps of ash and coal. Out ofthe corner of his eye, Caramon saw someone go running off, and heknew that the news would be quickly spread that the wizard and thewitch, between them, had somehow managed to restore the dead tolife. 
Caramon felt bile rise in his mouth. He could picture the talk,the excitement, the questions, the speculations, the dark looksand shaking heads, and his soul shrank from it. He wanted only togo to bed and sleep and forget everything. 
But Crysania was talking. "This is your answer, too, Caramon," shesaid fervently. "This is the sign from the gods we have bothsought." Stopping, she turned to face him, looking up at himearnestly. "Are you still as blind as you were in the Tower? Don'tyou yet believe? We placed the matter in Paladine's hands and thegod has spoken. Raistlin was meant to live. He was meant to dothis great deed. Together, he and I and you, if you will join us,will fight and overcome evil as I have fought and overcome deaththis night!" 
Caramon stared at her. Then his head bowed, his shoulders slumped.I don't want to fight evil, he thought wearily. I just want to gohome. Is that too much to ask? 
Lifting his hand, he began to rub his throbbing temple. And thenhe stopped, seeing in the slowly brightening light of dawn themarks of his brothers bloody fingers still upon his arm. "I'mposting a guard inside your tent," he said harshly. "Get somesleep. . . . 
He turned away. 
"Caramon," Crysania called. 
"What?" He stopped with a sigh. 
"You will feel better in the morning. I will pray for you tonight.Good night, my friend. Remember to thank Paladine for his grace ingranting your brother his life." 
"Yeah, sure," Caramon mumbled. Feeling uncomfortable, his headachegrowing worse, and knowing that he was soon going to be violentlysick, he left Crysania and stumbled back to his tent. 
Here, by himself, in the darkness, he was sick, retching in acorner until he no longer had anything left to bring up. Then,falling down upon his bed, he gave himself up at last to pain andto exhaustion. 
But as the darkness closed mercifully over him, he rememberedCrysania's words-"thank Paladine for your brother's life." 
The memory of Raistlin's stricken face floated before Caramon, andthe prayer stuck in his throat. 
CHAPTER 10 
Tapping lightly on the guest stone that stood outside Duncan'sdwelling, Kharas waited nervously for the answer. It came soon.The door opened, and there stood his king. 
"Enter and welcome, Kharas," Duncan said, reaching out and pullingthe dwarf. 
Flushing in embarrassment, Kharas stepped inside his king'sdwelling place. Smiling at him kindly, to put him at ease, Duncanled the way through his house to his private study. 
Built far underground, in the heart of the mountain kingdom,Duncan's home was a complex maze of rooms and tunnels filled withthe heavy, dark, solid wood furniture that dwarves admire. Thoughlarger and roomier than most homes in Thorbardin, in all otherrespects Duncan's dwelling was almost exactly like the dwelling ofevery other dwarf. It would have been considered the height of badtaste had it been otherwise. Just because Duncan was king didn'tgive him the right to put on airs. So, though he kept a staff ofservants, he answered his own door and served his guests with hisown hands. A widower, he lived in the house with his two sons, whowere still unmarried, both being young (only eighty or so). 
The study Kharas entered was obviously Duncan s favorite room.Battle-axes and shields decorated the walls, along with a fineassortment of captured hobgoblin swords with their curved blades,a minotaur trident won by some distant ancestor, and, of course,hammers and chisels and stone-working tools. 
Duncan made his guest comfortable with true dwarvish hospitality,offering him the best chair, pouring out the ale, and stirring upthe fire. Kharas had been here before, of course; many times, infact. But now he felt uncomfortable and ill at ease, as though hehad entered the house of a stranger. Perhaps it was becauseDuncan, though he treated his friend with his usual courtesy,occasionally regarded the beardless dwarf with an odd, penetratinggaze. 
Noticing this unusual look in Duncan's eyes, Kharas found itimpossible to relax and sat fidgeting in his chair, nervouslywiping the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand whilewaiting for the formalities to end. 
They did, quickly. Pouring himself a mug of ale, Duncan drained itat a sitting. Then, placing the mug on the table by his arm, hestroked his beard, staring at Kharas with a dark, somberexpression. 
"Kharas," he said finally, "you told us the wizard was dead." 
"Yes, Thane," Kharas replied, startled. "It was a mortal blow Istruck him. No man could have survived-" 
"He did," Duncan replied shortly. 

Kharas scowled. "Are you accusing me-" Now it was Duncan who flushed. "No, my friend! Far be it. I amcertain that, whatever may have happened, you truly believed youkilled him." Duncan sighed heavily. "But our scouts report seeinghim in camp. He was wounded, apparently. At least, he could nolonger ride. The army moved on to Zhaman, however, carrying thewizard with them in a cart." 
"Thane!" Kharas protested, his face flushing in anger. "I swear toyou! His blood washed over my hands! I yanked the sword from hisbody. By Reorx!" The dwarf shuddered. "I saw the death look in hiseyes!" 
"I don't doubt you, son!" Duncan said earnestly, reaching out topat the young hero's shoulder. "I never heard of anyone survivinga wound such as you described-except in the old days, of course,when clerics still walked the land." 
Like all other true clerics, dwarven clerics had also vanishedright before the Cataclysm. Unlike other races on Krynn, thedwarves, however, never abandoned their belief in their ancientgod, Reorx, the Forger of the World. Although the dwarves wereupset with Reorx for causing the Cataclysm, their belief in theirgod was too deeply ingrained and too much a part of their culturesimply to toss out after one minor infraction on the god's part.Still, they were angered enough to no longer worship him openly. 
"Have you any idea how this might have happened?" Duncan asked,frowning. 
"No, Thane," Kharas said heavily. "But I did wonder why we hadn'treceived a reply from General Caramon." He pondered. "Has anyonequestioned those two prisoners we brought back? They might knowsomething." 
"A kender and a gnome?" Duncan snorted. "Bah! What could either ofthose two possibly know? Besides, there is no need to questionthem. I am not particularly interested in the wizard anyway. Infact, the reason I called you here to tell you this news, Kharas,was to insist that now you forget this talk of peace andconcentrate on the war." 
"There is more to those two than beards, Thane," Kharas muttered,quoting an old expression. It was obvious he hadn't heard a word."I think you should-" 
"I know what you think," Duncan said grimly. "Apparitions,conjured up by the wizard. And I tell you that's ridiculous! What "I'm not sure," Kharas replied, his voice soft. "If you had seenthe mage's face when he looked at them! It was the face of one whowalks the plains and suddenly sees a coffer of gold and jewelslying in the sand at his feet. Give me leave, Thane," Kharas saideagerly. "Let me bring them before you. Talk to them, that's all Iask!" 
Duncan heaved a vast sigh, glaring at Kharas gloomily. "Verywell," he snapped. "I don't suppose it can hurt. But"-Duncanstudied Kharas shrewdly-"if this proves to be nothing, will youpromise me to give up this wild notion and concentrate on thebusiness of war? It will be a hard fight, son," Duncan added moregently, seeing the look of true grief on his young hero'sbeardless face. "We need you, Kharas." 
"Aye, Thane," Kharas said steadily. "I'll agree. If this proves tobe nothing." 
With a gruff nod, Duncan yelled for his guards and stumped out ofthe house, followed more slowly by a thoughtful Kharas. 
Traversing the vast underground dwarven kingdom, winding downstreets here and up streets there, crossing the Urkhan Sea byboat, they eventually came to the first level of the dungeons.Here were held prisoners who had committed minor crimes andinfractions-debtors, a young dwarf who had spoken disrespectfullyto an elder, poachers, and several drunks, sleeping off overnightrevels. Here, too, were held the kender and the gnome. 
At least, they had been-last night. 
"It all comes," said Tasslehoff Burrfoot as the dwarven guardprodded him along, "of not having a map." 
"I thought you said you'd been here before," Gnimsh grumbledpeevishly. 
"Not before," Tas corrected. "After. Or maybe later would be abetter word. About two hundred years later, as near as I canfigure. It's quite a fascinating story, actually. I came here withsome friends of mine. Let's see ... that was right after Goldmoonand Riverwind were married and before we went to Tarsis. Or was it "I'veheardthatstory!" Gnimsh snapped. 
"What?" Tas blinked. 
"I've ... heard ... it!" Gnimsh shouted loudly. His thin, gnomishvoice echoed in the underground chamber, causing several passersbyto glare at him sternly. Their faces grim, the dwarven guardshurried their recaptured prisoners along. 
"Oh," Tas said, crestfallen. Then the kender cheered up. "But theking hasn't and we're being taken to see him. He'll probably bequite interested...... 
"You said we weren't supposed to say anything about coming fromthe future," Gnimsh said in a loud whisper, his long leather apronflapping about his feet. "We're supposed to act like we belonghere, remember?" 
"That was when I thought everything would go right," Tas said witha sigh. "And everything was going right. The device worked, weescaped from the Abyss-" 
"They let us escape-" Gnimsh pointed out. 
"Well, whatever," Tas said, irritated at the reminder. "Anyway, wegot out, which is all that counts. And the magical device worked,just like you said"-Gnimsh smiled happily and nodded-"and we foundCaramon. Just like you said-the device was cali-cala-whatever toreturn to him-" 
"Calibrated," Gnimsh interrupted. 
"-but then"-Tas chewed nervously on the end of his topknot ofhair-"everything went all wrong, somehow. Raistlin stabbed, maybedead. The dwarves hauling us off without ever giving me a chanceto tell them they were making a serious mistake." 
The kender trudged along, pondering deeply. Finally, he shook hishead. "I've thought it over, Gnimsh. I know it's a desperate actand one I wouldn't ordinarily resort to, but I don't think we haveany choice. The situation has gotten completely out of hand." Tasheaved a solemn sigh. "I think we should tell the truth." 
Gnimsh appeared extremely alarmed at this drastic action, soalarmed, in fact, that he tripped over his apron and fell flat onthe ground. The guards, neither of whom spoke Common, hauled himto his feet and dragged the gnome the rest of way, coming at lastto a halt before a great, wooden door. Here other guards, eyeingthe kender and the gnome with disgust, shoved on the doors, slowlypushing them open. 
"Oh, I've been here!" Tas said suddenly. "Now I know where weare." 
"That's a big help," Gnimsh muttered. 
"The Hall of Audience," Tas continued. "The last time we werehere, Tanis got sick. He's an elf, you know. Well, half an elf,anyway, and he hated living underground." The kender sighed again."I wish Tanis was here now. He'd know what to do. I wish someone wise was here now." 
The guards shoved them inside the great hall. "At least," Tas saidto Gnimsh softly, "we're not alone. At least we've got eachother." 
"Tasslehoff Burrfoot," said the kender, bowing before the king ofthe dwarves, then bowing again to each of the thanes seated in thestone seats behind and on a lower level than Duncan's throne. "And this is-" 
The gnome pushed forward eagerly. "Gnimshmari-" 
"Gnimsh!" Tas said loudly, stepping on the gnome's foot as Gnimshpaused for breath. "Let me do the talking!" the kender scolded inan audible whisper. 
Scowling, Gnimsh lapsed into hurt silence as Tas looked around thehall brightly. 
"Gee, you're not planning a lot in the way of renovation the nexttwo hundred years, are you? It's going to look just about thesame. Except I seem to remember that crack there-no, over there.Yes, that one. It's going to get quite a bit bigger in the future.You might want to-" 
"Where do you come from, kender?" Duncan growled. 
"Solace," said Tas, remembering he was telling the truth. "Oh,don't worry if you've never heard of it. It doesn't exist yet.They hadn't heard of it in Istar, either, but that didn't matterso much because no one cared about anything in Istar that wasn'tthere. In Istar, I mean. Solace is north of Haven, which isn'tthere either but will be sooner than Solace, if you take mymeaning." 
Duncan, leaning forward, glowered at Tas alarmingly from beneathhis thick eyebrows. "You're lying." 
"I am not!" Tas said indignantly. "We came here using a magicaldevice that I had borrowed-sort of-from a friend. It worked fine when I had it, but then I accidentally broke it. Well, actuallythat wasn't my fault. But that's another story. At any rate, Isurvived the Cataclysm and ended up in the Abyss. Not a niceplace. Anyway, I met Gnimsh in the Abyss and he fixed it. Thedevice, I mean, not the Abyss. He's really a wonderful fellow,"Tas continued confidentially, patting Gnimsh on the shoulder."He's a gnome, all right, but his inventions work." 
"So-you are from the Abyss!" Kharas said sternly. "You admit it!Apparitions from the Realms of Darkness! The blackrobed wizardconjured you, and you came at his bidding." 
This startling accusation actually rendered the kender speechless. 
"Wh-wh"-Tas sputtered for a moment incoherently, then found hisvoice-"I've never been so insulted! Except perhaps when the guardin Istar referred to me as a-a cut-cutpur-well, never mind. To saynothing of the fact that if Raistlin was going to conjure upanything, I certainly don't think it would be us. Which reminds me!" Tas glared back sternly at Kharas. "Why did you go and kill himlike that? I mean, maybe he wasn't what you might call a reallynice person. And maybe he did try to kill me by making me breakthe magical device and then leaving me behind in Istar for thegods to drop a fiery mountain on. But"-Tas sighed wistfully-"hewas certainly one of the most interesting people I've ever known." 
"Your wizard isn't dead, as you well know, apparition!" Duncangrowled. 
"Look, I'm not an appari- Not dead?" Tas's face lit up. "Truly?Even after you stabbed him like that and all the blood andeverything and- Oh! I know how! Crysania! Of courses LadyCrysania!" 
"Well, she is kind of cold and impersonal sometimes," Tas said,shocked, "but I certainly don't think that gives you any right tocall her names! She's a cleric of Paladine, after all." 
"Cleric!" The thanes began to laugh. 
"There's your answer," Duncan said to Kharas, ignoring the kender."Witchcraft." 
"You are right, of course, Thane," Kharas said, frowning, "but-" 
"Look," Tas begged, "if you'd just let me go! I keep trying totell you dwarves. This is all a dreadful mistake! I've got to getto Caramon!" 
That caused a reaction. The thanes immediately hushed. 
"You know General Caramon?" Kharas asked dubiously. "General?" Tasrepeated. "Wow! Won't Tanis be surprised to hear that? GeneralCaramon! Tika would laugh. . . . Uh, of course I know Cara-GeneralCaramon," Tas continued hurriedly, seeing Duncan's eyebrows comingtogether again. "He's my best friend. And if you'll only listen towhat I'm trying to tell you, Gnimsh and I came here with themagical device to find Caramon and take him home. He doesn't wantto be here, I'm sure. You see, Gnimsh fixed the device so that itwill take more than one person-" 
"Take him home where?" Duncan growled. "The Abyss? Perhaps thewizard conjured him up, too!" 
"No!" Tas snapped, beginning to lose patience. "Take him home toSolace, of course. And Raistlin, too, if he wants to go. I can'timagine what they're doing here, in fact. Raistlin couldn't standThorbardin the last time we were here, which will be in about twohundred years. He spent the whole time coughing and complainingabout the damp. Flint said-Flint Fireforge, that is, an old friendof mine-" 
"Fireforge!" Duncan actually jumped up from his throne, glaring atthe kender. "You're a friend of Fireforge?" 
"Well, you needn't get so worked up," Tas said, somewhat startled."Flint had his faults, of course-always grumbling and accusing "Fireforge," Duncan said grimly, "is the leader of our enemies. Ordidn't you know that?" 
"No," said Tas with interest, "I didn't. Oh, but I'm sure itcouldn't be the same Fireforge," he added after some thought."Flint wont be born for at least another fifty years. Maybe it'shis father. Raistlin says-" 
"Raistlin? Who is this Raistlin?" Duncan demanded. 
Tasslehoff fixed the dwarf with a stern eye. "You're not payingattention. Raistlin is the wizard. The one you killed- Er, the oneyou didn't kill. The one you thought you killed but didn't." 
"His name isn't Raistlin. It's Fistandantilus!" Duncan snorted. Then, his face grim, the dwarven king resumed his seat. "So," hesaid, looking at the kender from beneath his bushy eyebrows,"you're planning to take this wizard who was healed by a clericwhen there are no clerics in this world and a general you claim isyour best friend back to a place that doesn't exist to meet ourenemy who hasn't been born yet using a device, built by a gnome,which actually works?" 
"Right!" cried Tas triumphantly. "You see there! Look what you canlearn when you just listen!" 
Gnimsh nodded emphatically. 
"Guards! Take them away!" Duncan snarled. Spinning around on hisheel, he looked at Kharas coldly. "You gave me your word. I'llexpect to see you in the War Council room in ten minutes." 
"But, Thane! If he truly knows General Caramon-" 
"Enough!" Duncan was in a rage. "War is coming, Kharas. All yourhonor and all your noble yammering about slaying kinsmen can'tstop it l And you will be out there on the field of battle or youcan take your face that shames us all and hide it in the dungeonsalong with the rest of the traitors to our people the Dewar! Whichwill it be?" 
"I serve you, of course, Thane," Kharas said, his face rigid. "Ihave pledged my life." 
"See you remember that!" Duncan snapped. "And to keep yourthoughts from wandering, I am ordering that you be confined toyour quarters except to attend the War Council meetings and that,further, these two"-he waved at Tas and Gnimsh-"are to beimprisoned and their whereabouts kept secret until after the warhas ended. Death come upon the head of any who defy this command." 
The thanes glanced at each other, nodding approvingly, though onemuttered that it was too late. The guards grabbed hold of Gnimshand Tas, the kender still protesting volubly as they led him away. 
"I was telling the truth," he wailed. "You've got to believe me! Iknow it sounds funny, but, you see, I-I'm not quite used to-uh-telling the truth! But give me a while. I'm sure I'll get the hangof it someday. . . ." 
Tasslehoff wouldn't have believed it was possible to go down sofar beneath the surface of the world as the guards were takingthem if his own feet hadn't walked it. He remembered once Flint telling him once that Reorx lived down here, forging the worldwith his great hammer. 
"A nice, cheerful sort of person he must be," Tas grumbled,shivering in the cold until his teeth chattered. "At least ifReorx was forging the world, you'd think it'd be warmer." 
"Trustdwarves," muttered Gnimsh. 
"What?" It seemed to the kender that he'd spent the last half ofhis life beginning every sentence he spoke to the gnome with"what?" 
"I said trust dwarves!" Gnimsh returned loudly. "Instead ofbuilding their homes in active volcanoes, which, though slightlyunstable, provide an excellent source of heat, they build theirsin old dead mountains." He shook his wispy-haired head. "Hard tobelieve we're cousins." 
Tas didn't answer, being preoccupied with other matters like howdo we get out of this one, where do we go if we do get out, andwhen are they likely to serve dinner? There seeming to be noimmediate answers to any of these (including dinner), the kenderlapsed into a gloomy silence. 
Oh, there was one rather exciting moment-when they were lowereddown a narrow rocky tunnel that had been bored straight down into the mountain. The device they used to lower people down thistunnel was called a "lift" by the gnomes, according to Gnimsh.("Isn't 'lift' an inappropriate name for it when it's going down?"Tas pointed out, but the gnome ignored him.) 
Since no immediate solution to his problems appeared forthcoming,Tas decided not to waste his time in this interesting place mopingabout. He therefore enjoyed the journey in the lift thoroughly,though it was rather uncomfortable in spots when the rickety,wooden device-operated by muscular dwarves pulling on huge lengthsof rope-bumped against the side of the rocky tunnel as it wasbeing lowered, jouncing the occupants about and inflictingnumerous cuts and bruises on those inside. 
This proved highly entertaining, especially as the dwarven guardsaccompanying Tas and Gnimsh shook their fists, swearing roundly indwarven at the operators up above them. 
As for the gnome, Gnimsh was plunged into a state of excitementimpossible to believe. Whipping out a stub of charcoal andborrowing one of Tas's handkerchiefs, he plopped himself down onthe floor of the lift and immediately began to draw plans for aNew Improved Lift. 
"Pulleyscablessteam," he yammered to himself happily, busilysketching what looked to Tas like a giant lobster trap on wheels."Updownupdown. Whatfloor? Steptotherear. Capacity:thirtytwo.Stuck? Alarms! Bellswhistleshorns." 
When they eventually reached ground level, Tas tried to watchcarefully to see where they were going (so that they could leave,even if he didn't have a map), but Gnimsh was hanging onto him,pointing to his sketch and explaining it to him in detail. 
"Yes, Gnimsh. Isn't that interesting?" Tas said, only halflistening to the gnome as his heart sank even lower than wherethey were standing. "Soothing music by a piper in the corner? Yes,Gnimsh, that's a great idea." 
Gazing around as their guards prodded them forward, Tas sighed.Not only did this place look as boring as the Abyss, it had theadded disadvantage of smelling even worse. Row after row of large,crude prison cells lined the rocky walls. Lit by torches thatsmoked in the foul, thin air, the cells were filled to capacitywith dwarves. 
Tas gazed at them in growing confusion as they walked down thenarrow aisle between cellblocks. These dwarves didn't look like criminals. There were males, females, even children crammed insidethe cells. Crouched on filthy blankets, huddled on batteredstools, they stared glumly out from behind the bars. 
"Hey!" Tas said, tugging at the sleeve of a guard. The kenderspoke some dwarven, having picked it up from Flint. "What is allthis?" he asked, waving his hand. "Why are all these people inhere?" (At least that's what he hoped he said. There was everypossibility he might have inadvertently asked the way to thenearest alehouse.) 
But the guard, glowering at him, only said, "Dewar." 
CHAPTER 11 
"Dewar?" Tas repeated blankly. 
The guard, however, refused to elaborate but prodded Tas on aheadwith a vicious shove. Tas stumbled, then kept walking, glancingabout, trying to figure out what was going on. Gnimsh, meanwhile,apparently seized by another fit of inspiration, was going onabout "hydraulics." 
Tas pondered. Dewar, he thought, trying to remember where he'dheard that word. Suddenly, he came up with the answer. "The darkdwarves!" he said. "Of course! I remember! They fought for theDragon Highlord. But, they didn't live down here the last time-orI suppose it will be the next time-we were here. Or will comehere. Drat, what a muddle. Surely they don't live in prison cells,though. Hey"-Tas tapped the dwarf again-"what did they do? I mean,to get thrown in jail?" 
"Traitors!" the dwarf snapped. Reaching a cell at the far end ofthe aisle, he drew out a key, inserted it into the lock, and swungthe door open. 
Peering inside, Tas saw about twenty or thirty Dewar crowded intothe cell. Some lay lethargically on the floor, others sat againstthe wall, sleeping. One group, crouched together off in a corner,were talking in low voices when the guard arrived. They quitimmediately as soon as the cell door opened. There were no women Tas grabbed Gnimsh just as the gnome-still yammering about peoplegetting stuck between floors-was just about to walk absentmindedly into the cell. 
"Well, well;" Tas said to the dwarven guard as he dragged Gnimshback to stand beside him, "this tour was quite-er entertaining.Now, if you'll just take us back to our cells, which were, I mustsay, very nice cells-so light and airy and roomy-I think I cansafely promise that my partner and I won't be taking any moreunauthorized excursions into your city, though it is an extremelyinteresting place and I'd like to see more of it. I-" 
But the dwarf, with a rough shove of his hand, pushed the kenderinto the cell, sending him sprawling. 
"I wish you'd make up your mind;" Gnimsh snapped irritably,stumbling inside after Tas. "Are we going in or out?" 
"I guess we're in," Tas said ruefully, sitting up and lookingdoubtfully at the Dewar, who were staring back in silence. Theguards' heavy boots could be heard, stumping back up the corridor,accompanied by shouted obscenities and threats from thesurrounding cells. 
"Hello," Tas said, smiling in friendly fashion, but not offeringto shake hands. "I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot and this is my friend,Gnimsh, and it looks like we're going to be cellmates, doesn't itnow? So, what's your names? Er, now, I say, that isn't very nice.. . :" 
Tas drew himself up, glaring sternly at one of the Dewar, who hadrisen to his feet and was approaching them. 
A tall dwarf, his face was nearly invisible beneath a thickmatting of tangled hair and beard. He grinned suddenly. There wasa flash of steel and a large knife appeared in his hand. Shufflingforward, he advanced upon the kender, who retreated as far aspossible into a corner, dragging Gnimsh with him. 
"Whoarethesepeople?" Gnimsh squeaked in alarm, having finallytaken note of their dismal surroundings. 
Before Tas could answer, the Dewar had the kender by the neck andwas holding the knife to his throat. 
But the dark dwarf's knife inched right past Tas's face. Reachinghis shoulder, the dark dwarf expertly cut through the straps ofTas's pouches, sending them and their contents tumbling to thefloor. 
Instantly, chaos broke out in the cell as the Dewar leaped forthem. The dwarf with the knife grabbed as many as he could,slashing and hacking at his fellows, trying to drive them back.Everything vanished within seconds. 
Clutching the kender's belongings, the Dewar immediately sat downand began rummaging through them. The dark dwarf with the knifehad managed to make the richest haul. Clutching his booty to hischest, he returned to a place against the back of the cell, wherehe and his friends immediately began to shake the contents of thepouches onto the floor. 
Gasping in relief, Tas sank down to the cold, stone floor. But itwas a worried sigh of relief, nonetheless, for Tas figured thatwhen the pouches had lost their appeal, the Dewar would get thebright idea of searching them next. 
"And we'll certainly be a lot easier to search if we're corpses,"he muttered to himself. That led, however, to a sudden thought. 
"Gnimsh!" he whispered urgently. "The magical device! Where isit?" 
Gnimsh, blinking, patted one pocket in his leather apron and shookhis head. Patting another, he pulled out a T-square and a bit ofcharcoal. He examined these carefully for a moment then, seeingthat neither was the magical device, stuffed them back into hispockets. Tas was seriously considering throttling him when, with atriumphant smile, the gnome reached into his boot and pulled outthe magical device. 
During their last incarceration, Gnimsh had managed to make thedevice collapse again. Now it had resumed the size and shape of arather ordinary, nondescript pendant instead of the intricate andbeautiful sceptre that it resembled when fully extended. 
"Keep it hidden!" Tas warned. Glancing at the Dewar, he saw thatthey were absorbed in fighting over what they'd found in his pouches. "Gnimsh," he whispered, "this thing worked to get us outof the Abyss and you said it was cali-calo-caliwhatever'd to gostraight to Caramon, since he was the one Par-Salian gave it to.Now, I really don't want it to take us anywhere in time again, butdo you think it would work for, say, just a short hop? If Caramonis general of that army, he can't be far from here." 
"That's a great idea!" Gnimsh's eyes began to shine. "Just aminute, let me think...... 
But they were too late. Tas felt a touch on his shoulder. Hisheart leaping into his throat, the kender whirled around with whathe hoped was the Grim Expression of a Hardened Killer on his face.Apparently it was, for the Dewar who had touched him stumbled backin terror, hurriedly flinging his hands up for protection. 
Noting that this was a youngish-appearing dwarf with a halfwaysane look in his eye, Tasslehoff sighed and relaxed, while theDewar, seeing that the kender wasn't going to eat him alive, quitshaking and looked at him hopefully. 
"What is it?" Tas asked in dwarven. "What do you want?" 
"Come. You come." The Dewar made a beckoning gesture. Then, seeingTas frown, he pointed, then beckoned again, hedging back fartherinto the cell. 
Tas rose cautiously to his feet. "Stay here, Gnimsh," he said. Butthe gnome wasn't listening. Muttering happily to himself, Gnimshwas occupied with twisting and turning little something's on thedevice. 
Curious, Tas crept after the Dewar. Maybe this fellow haddiscovered the way out. Maybe he'd been digging a tunnel.... 
The Dewar, still motioning, led the kender to the center of thecell. Here, he stopped and pointed. "Help?" he said hopefully. 
Tas, looking down, didn't see a tunnel. What he saw was a Dewarlying on a blanket. The dwarf's face was covered with sweat, hishair and beard were soaking wet. His eyes were closed and his bodyjerked and twitched spasmodically. At the sight, Tas began toshiver. He glanced around the cell. Then, his gaze coming back tothe young Dewar, he regretfully shook his head. 
"No," Tas said gently, "I'm sorry. There's ... nothing I can do.I-I'm sorry." He shrugged helplessly. 
Tas crept back to where Gnimsh was sitting, feeling all numbinside. Slumping down into the corner, he stared into the darkcell, seeing and hearing what he should have seen and heard rightaway-the wild, incoherent ramblings, cries of pain, cries forwater and, here and there, the awful silence of those who layvery, very still. 
"Gnimsh," Tas said quietly, "these dwarves are sick. Really sick.I've seen it before in days to come. These dwarves have theplague." 
Gnimsh's eyes widened. He almost dropped the magical device. 
"Gnimsh," said Tas, trying to speak calmly, "we've got to get outof here fast! The way I see it, the only choices we have down hereare dying by knifepoint-which, while undoubtedly interesting, doeshave its drawbacks, or dying rather slowly and boringly of theplague." 
"I think it will work," Gnimsh said, dubiously eyeing the magicaldevice. "Of course, it might take us right back to the Abyss-" 
"Not really a bad place," Tas said, slowly rising to his feet andhelping Gnimsh to his. "Takes a bit getting used to, and I don'tsuppose they'd be wildly happy to see us again, but I think it'sdefinitely worth a try." 
"Very well, just let me make an adjustment-" 
"Do not touch it!" 
The familiar voice came from the shadows and was so stern and commanding that Gnimsh froze in his tracks, his hand clutching thedevice. 
"Raistlin!" cried Tas, staring about wildly. "Raistlin! We'rehere! We're here!" 
"I know where you are," the archmage said coldly, materializingout of the smoky air to stand before them in the cell. 
"Raistlin, look ou-" Tas shrieked. 
Raistlin turned. He did not speak. He did not raise his hand. Hesimply stared at the dark dwarf. The Dewar s face went ashen.Dropping the knife from nerveless fingers, he shrank back andattempted to hide himself in the shadows. Before turning back tothe kender, Raistlin cast a glance around the cell. Silence fellinstantly. Even those who were delirious hushed. 
Satisfied, Raistlin turned back to Tas. 
"-out," Tas finished lamely. Then the kender's face brightened. Heclapped his hands. "Oh, Raistlin! It's so good to see you! You'relooking really well, too. Especially for having a er-sword stuckin your-uh-Well, never mind that. And you came to rescue us,didn't you? That's splendid! I-" 
"Enough driveling!" Raistlin said coolly. Reaching out a hand, hegrabbed Tas and jerked him close. "Now, tell me where did you comefrom?" 
Tas faltered, staring up into Raistlin s eyes. "I-I'm not sureyou're going to believe this. No one else does. But it's thetruth, I swear it!" 
"Just tell met" Raistlin snarled, his hand deftly twistingTasslehoff's collar. 
"Right!" Tas gulped and squirmed. "Uh, remember-it helps if youlet me breathe occasionally. Now, let's see. I tried to stop theCataclysm and the device broke. I-I'm sure you didn't mean to,"Tas stammered, "but you-uh-seem to have given me the wronginstructions. . . ." 
"I did. Mean to, that is," Raistlin said grimly. "Go on." 
"I'd like to, but it's ... hard to talk without air...... " 
Raistlin loosened his hold on the kender slightly. Tas drew a deepbreath. "Good! Where was I? Oh, yes. I followed Lady Crysaniadown, down, down into the very bottom part of the Temple in Istar,when it was falling apart, you know? And I saw her go into this "Be quick!" 
"R-right." Speeding up as much as possible, Tas became nearlyincomprehensible. "And then there was a thud behind me and it wasCaramon, only he didn't see me, and everything went dark, and whenI woke up, you were gone, and I looked up in time to see the godsthrow the fiery mountain-" Tas drew a breath. "Now that wassomething. Would you like to hear about- No? Well, some othertime. 
"I-I guess I must have gone back to sleep again, because I woke upand everything was quiet. I thought I must be dead, only I wasn't.I was in the Abyss, where the Temple went after the Cataclysm." 
"The Abyss!" Raistlin breathed. His hand trembled. 
"Not a nice place," Tas said solemnly. "Despite what I saidearlier. I met the Queen-" The kender shivered. "I-I don't think Iwant to talk about that now, if you don't mind." He held out atrembling hand. "But there's her mark, those five little whitespots ... anyway, she said I had to stay down there forever, be-because now she could change history and win the war. And I didn'tmean to'-Tas stared pleadingly at Raistlin-"I just wanted to helpCaramon. But then, while I was down in the Abyss, I found Gnimsh-" 
"The gnome," Raistlin said softly, his eyes on Gnimsh, who wasstaring at the magic-user in amazement, not daring to move. 
"Yes." Tas twisted his head to smile at his friend. "He'd built a time-traveling device that worked-actually worked, think of that!And, whoosh! Here we are!" 
"You escaped the Abyss?" Raistlin turned his mirrorlike gaze onthe kender. 
Tas squirmed uncomfortably. Those last few moments haunted hisdreams at night, and kender rarely dreamed. "Uh, sure," he said,smiling up at the archmage in what he hoped was a disarmingmanner. 
It was apparently wasted, however. Raistlin, preoccupied, wasregarding the gnome with an expression that suddenly made Tas gocold all over. 
"Yes." Tas swallowed. Feeling Raistlin's hold on him slacken,seeing the mage lost in thought, Tas wriggled slightly,endeavoring to free himself from the mage's grasp. To hissurprise, Raistlin let him go, releasing his grip so suddenly thatTas nearly tumbled over backward. 
"The device was broken," Raistlin murmured. Suddenly, he stared atTas intently. "Then-who fixed it?" The archmage's voice was littlemore than a whisper. 
Edging away from Raistlin, Tas hedged. "I-I hope the mages won'tbe angry. Gnimsh didn't actually fix it. You'll tell Par-Salian,wont you, Raistlin? I wouldn't want to get into trouble-well, anymore trouble with him than I'm in already. We didn't do anythingto the device, not really. Gnimsh just uh-sort of put it backtogether-the way it was, so that it worked." 
"He reassembled it?" Raistlin persisted, that same, strangeexpression in his eyes. 
"Y-yes ." With a weak grin, Tas scrambled back to poke Gnimsh inthe ribs just as the gnome was about to speak. "Re ... assembled.That's the word, all right. Reassembled." 
"But, Tas-" Gnimsh began loudly. "Don't you remember whathappened? I-" 
"Just shut up!" Tas whispered. "And let me do the talking. We'rein a lot of trouble here! Mages don't like having their devicesmessed with, even if you did make it better! I'm sure I can makePar-Salian understand that, when I see him. He'll undoubtedly bepleased that you fixed it. After all, it must have been ratherbothersome for them, what with the device only transporting oneperson at a time and all that. I'm sure Par-Salian will see itthat way, but I'd rather be the one to tell him if you take mymeaning. Raistlin's kind of . . . well, jumpy about things likethat. I don't think he'd understand and, believe me"-with a glanceat the mage and a gulp-"this isn't the time to try to explain." 
Gnimsh, glancing dubiously at Raistlin, shivered and crowdedcloser to Tas. 
"He's looking at me like he's going to turn me inside out!" thegnome muttered nervously. 
No one spoke. In the crowded cell, one of the sick dwarves moanedand cried out in delirium. Tas glanced over at them uneasily, thenlooked at Raistlin. The magic-user was once again staring at thegnome, that strange, grim, preoccupied look on his pale face. 
"Uh, that's really all I can tell you now, Raistlin" Tas saidloudly, with another nervous glance at the sick dwarves. "Could wego now? Will you swoosh us out of here the way you used to inIstar? That was great fun and-" 
"Give me the device," Raistlin said, holding out his hand. 
For some reason-perhaps it was that look in the mage's eye, orperhaps it was the cold dampness of the underground dungeons-Tasbegan to shiver. Gnimsh, holding the device in his hand, looked atTas questioningly. 
"Uh, would you mind if we just sort of kept it awhile?" Tas began."I wont lose it-" 
"Give me the device." Raistlin's voice was soft. 
Tas swallowed again. There was a funny taste in his mouth. "Youyou better give it to him, Gnimsh." 
The gnome, blinking in a befuddled manner and obviously trying tofigure out what was going on, only stared at Tas questioningly. 
"It-it'll be all right," Tas said, trying to smile, though hisface had suddenly gone all stiff. "Raist-Raistlin's a friend ofmine, you see. He'll keep it safe. . . ." 
Shrugging, Gnimsh turned and, taking a few shuffling stepsforward, held out the device in his palm. The pendant looked plainand uninteresting in the dim torchlight. Stretching forth hishand, Raistlin slowly and carefully took hold of the device. Hestudied it closely, then slipped it into one of the secret pocketsin his black robes. 
"Come to me, Tas," Raistlin said in a gentle voice, beckoning tohim. 
Gnimsh was still standing in front of Raistlin, staringdisconsolately at the pocket into which the device had "We're ready, Raistlin," he said brightly. "Whoosh away! Gee,won't Caramon be surprised-" 
"I said-come here, Tas," Raistlin repeated in that soft,expressionless voice. His eyes were on the gnome. 
"Oh, Raistlin, you're not going to leave him here, are you?" Taswailed. Dropping Gnimsh's hand, he took a step forward. "Because,if you are, I'd just as soon stay. I mean, he'll never get out ofthis by himself. And he's got this wonderful idea for a mechanicallift-" 
Raistlin's hand snaked out, caught hold of Tas by the arm, andyanked him over to stand beside him. "No, I'm not going to leavehim here, Tas." 
"You see? He's going to whoosh us back to Caramon. The magic'sgreat fun," Tas began, twisting around to face Gnimsh and tryingto grin, though the mage's strong fingers were hurting him mostdreadfully. But at the sight of Gnimsh's face, Tas's grinvanished. He started to go back to his friend, but Raistlin heldhim fast. 
The gnome was standing all by himself, looking thoroughly confusedand pathetic, still clutching Tas's handkerchief in his hand. 
Tas squirmed. "Oh, Gnimsh, please. It'll be all right. I told you,Raistlin's my fri-" 
Raising one hand, holding Tas by the collar with the other, thearchmage pointed a finger at the gnome. Raistlin's soft voicebegan to chant, "Ast kiranann kair-" 
Horror broke over Tas. He had heard those words of magic before. .. . 
"No!" he shrieked in anguish. Whirling, he looked up intoRaistlin's eyes. "No!" he screamed again, hurling himself bodilyat the mage, beating at him with his small hands. 
"-Gardurm Soth-arn/Suh kali Jalaran!" Raistlin finished calmly. 
Tas, his hands still grasping Raistlin's black robes, heard theair begin to crackle and sizzle. Turning with an incoherent cry,the kender watched bolts of flame shoot from the mage's fingersstraight into the gnome. The magical lightning struck Gnimsh inthe chest. The terrible energy lifted the gnome's small body andflung it backward, slamming it into the stone wall behind. 
Gnimsh crumpled to the floor without so much as a cry. Smoke rosefrom his leather apron. There was the sweet, sickening smell ofburning flesh. The hand holding the kender's handkerchieftwitched, and then was still. 
Tas couldn't move. His hands still entangled in Raistlin's robes,he stood, staring. 
"Come along, Tas," Raistlin said. 
Turning, Tas looked up at Raistlin. "No," he whispered, trembling,trying to free himself from Raistlin's strong grip. Then he criedout in agony. "You murdered him! Why? He was my friend!" 
"My reasons are my own," Raistlin said, holding onto the writhingkender firmly. "Now you are coming with me." 
"No, I'm not!" Tas cried, struggling frantically. "You're notinteresting or exciting-you're evil-like the Abyss! You'rehorrible and ugly, and I won't go anywhere with you! Ever! Let mego! Let me go!" 
Blinded by tears, kicking and screaming and flailing out with hisclenched fists, Tas struck at Raistlin in a frenzy. 
Coming out of their terror, the Dewar in the cell began shoutingin panic, arousing the attention of dwarves in the other cells.Shrieking and yelling, other Dewar crowded close against the bars,trying to see what was going on. 
Pandemonium broke out. Above the cries and shouts could be heard the deep voices of the guards, yelling something in dwarven. 
His face cold and grim, Raistlin laid a hand on Tasslehoff'sforehead and spoke swift, soft words. The kender's body relaxedinstantly. Catching him before he fell to the floor, Raistlinspoke again, and the two of them disappeared, leaving the stunnedDewar to stand, gaping, staring at the vacant space on the floorand the body of the dead gnome, lying huddled in the corner. 
An hour later Kharas, having escaped his own confinement withease, made his way to the cellblock where the Dewar clans werebeing held captive. 
Grimly, Kharas stalked down the aisles. 
"What's going on?" he asked a guard. "It seems awfully quiet." 
"Ah, some sort of riot a while back," the guard muttered. "Wenever could figure out what the matter was." 
Kharas glanced around sharply. The Dewar stared back at him notwith hatred but with suspicion, even fear. 
Growing more worried as he went along, sensing that somethingfrightful had occurred, the dwarf quickened his pace. Reaching thelast cell, he looked inside. 
At the sight of Kharas, those Dewar who could move leaped to theirfeet and backed into the farthest corner possible. There theyhuddled together, muttering and pointing at the front corner ofthe cell. 
Looking over, Kharas frowned. The body of the gnome lay limply onthe floor. 
Casting a furious glance at the stunned guard, Kharas turned hisgaze upon the Dewar. 
"Who did this?" he demanded. "And where's the kender?" 
To Kharas's amazement, the Dewar-instead of sullenly denying thecrime-immediately surged forward, all of them babbling at once.With an angry, slashing hand motion, Kharas silenced them. "You,there'-he pointed at one of the Dewar, who was still holding ontoTas's pouches-"where did you get that pouch? What happened? Whodid this? Where is the kender?" 
As the Dewar shambled forward, Kharas looked into the dark dwarf'seyes. And he saw, to his horror, that any sanity the dark dwarfmight once have possessed was now completely gone. 
"I saw 'im," the Dewar said, grinning. "I saw 'im. In 'is blackrobes and all. He come for the gnome. An' 'e come for the kender.An' e's comin' fer us nex'!" 
"Who?" Kharas asked sternly. "Saw who? Who came for the kender?" 
"Why, hisself!" whispered the Dewar, turning to gaze upon thegnome with wild, staring eyes. "Death . . ." 
CHAPTER 12 
No one had set foot inside the magical fortress of Zhaman forcenturies. The dwarves viewed it with suspicion and distrust forseveral reasons. One, it had belonged to wizards. Two, itsstonework was not dwarven, nor was it even natural. The fortresshad been raised-so legend told-up out of the ground by magic, andit was magic that still held it together. 
"Has to be magic," Reghar grumbled to Caramon, giving the tallthin spires of the fortress a scathing glance. "Otherwise, itwould have toppled over long ago." 
The hill dwarves, refusing to a dwarf to stick so much as the tipof their beards inside the fortress, set up camp outside, on theplains. The Plainsmen did likewise. Not so much from fear of themagical building-though they looked at it askance and whisperedabout it in their own language-but from the fact that they feltuneasy in any building. 
The humans, scoffing at these superstitions, entered the ancientfortress, laughing loudly about spooks and haunts. They stayed onenight. The next morning found them setting up camp in the open,muttering about fresh air and sleeping better beneath the stars. 
"What went on here?" Caramon asked his brother uneasily as theywalked through the fortress on their arrival. "You said it wasn'ta Tower of High Sorcery, yet it's obviously magical. Wizards builtit. And"-the big man shivered-"there's a strange feeling about it-not eerie, like the Towers. But a feeling of ... of-" Hefloundered. 
"Of violence," Raistlin murmured, his darting, penetrating gazeencompassing all the objects around him, "of violence and ofdeath, my brother. For this was a place of experimentation. Themages built this fortress far away from civilized lands for onereason-and that was that they knew the magic conjured here might "Why was it abandoned?" Lady Crysania asked, drawing her fur cloakaround her shoulders more tightly. The air that flowed through thenarrow stone hallways was chill and smelled of dust and stone. 
Raistlin was silent for long moments, frowning. Slowly, quietly,they made their way through the twisting halls. Lady Crysania'ssoft leather boots made no sound as she walked, Caramon's heavybooted footsteps echoed through the empty chambers, Raistlin'srustling robes whispered through the corridors, the Staff ofMagius upon which he leaned thumping softly on the floor. As quietas they were, they could almost have been the ghosts ofthemselves, moving through the hallways. When Raistlin spoke, hisvoice made both Caramon and Crysania start. 
"Though there have always been the three Robes-good, neutral, andevil-among the magic-users, we have, unfortunately, not alwaysmaintained the balance," Raistlin said. "As people turned againstus, the White Robes withdrew into their Towers, advocating peace.The Black Robes, however, sought-at first-to strike back. Theytook over this fortress and used it in experiments to createarmies." He paused. "Experiments that were not successful at thattime, but which led to the creation of draconians in our own age. 
"With this failure, the mages realized the hopelessness of theirsituation. They abandoned Zhaman, joining with their fellows inwhat became known as the Lost Battles." 
"You seem to know your way around here," Caramon observed. 
Raistlin glanced sharply at his brother, but Caramon's face wassmooth, guileless-though there was, perhaps, a strange, shadowedlook in his brown eyes. 
"Do you not yet understand, my brother?" Raistlin said harshly,coming to a stop in a drafty, dark corridor. "I have never beenhere, yet I have walked these halls. The room I sleep in I haveslept in many nights before, though I have yet to spend a night inthis fortress. I am a stranger here, yet I know the location ofevery room, from those rooms of meditation and study at the top tothe banquet halls on the first level." 
Caramon stopped, too. Slowly he looked around him, staring up atthe dusty ceiling, gazing down the empty hallways where sunlight "Then, Fistandantilus," he said, his voice heavy, "you know thatthis is also going to be your tomb." 
For an instant, Caramon saw a tiny crack in the glass ofRaistlin's eyes, he saw-not anger-but amusement, triumph. Then thebright mirrors returned. Caramon saw only himself reflected there,standing in a patch of weak, winter sunlight. 
Crysania moved next to Raistlin. She put her hands over his arm ashe leaned upon his staff and regarded Caramon with cold, grayeyes. "The gods are with us," she said. "They were not withFistandantilus. Your brother is strong in his art, I am strong inmy faith. We will not fail!" 
Still looking at Caramon, still keeping his twin's reflection inthe glistening orbs of his eyes, Raistlin smiled. "Yes," hewhispered, and there was a slight hiss to his words, "truly, thegods are with us!" 
Upon the first level of the great, magical fortress of Zhaman werehuge, stone-carved halls that had-in past days-been places ofmeeting and celebration. There were also, on the first level,rooms that had once been filled with books, designed for quietstudy and meditation. At the back end were kitchens and storagerooms, long unused and covered by the dust of years. 
On the upper levels were large bedrooms filled with quaint, old-fashioned furniture, the beds covered with linens preservedthrough the years by the dryness of the desert air. Caramon, LadyCrysania, and the officers of Caramon's staff slept in theserooms. If they did not sleep soundly, if they woke up sometimesduring the night thinking they had heard voices chanting strangewords or glimpsing wisps of ghostly figures fluttering through themoonlit darkness, no one mentioned these in the daylight. 
But after a few nights, these things were forgotten, swallowed upin larger worries about supplies, fights breaking out betweenhumans and dwarves, reports from spies that the dwarves ofThorbardin were massing a huge, well-armed force. 
There was also in Zhaman, on the first level, a corridor thatappeared to be a mistake. Anyone venturing into it discovered thatit wandered off from a short hallway and ended abruptly in a blank But the corridor was not a mistake. When the proper hands werelaid upon that blank wall, when the proper words were spoken, whenthe proper runes were traced in the dust of the wall itself, thena door appeared, leading to a great staircase cut from the granitefoundation of Zhaman. 
Down, down the staircase, down into darkness, down-it seemed-intothe very core of the world, the proper person could descend. Downinto the dungeons of Zhaman.. . . 
"One more time." The voice was soft, patient, and it dove andtwisted at Tasslehoff like a snake. Writhing around him, it sankits curved teeth into his flesh, sucking out his life. 
"We will go over it again. Tell me about the Abyss," said thevoice. "Everything you remember. How you entered. What thelandscape is like. Who and what you saw. The Queen herself, howshe looked, her words...... 
"I'm trying, Raistlin, truly!" Tasslehoff whimpered. "But ...we've gone over it and over it these last couple of days. I cantthink of anything else! And, my head's hot and my feet and myhands are cold and ... the room's spinning 'round and 'round. If-if you'd make it stop spinning, Raistlin, I think I might be ableto recall . . ." 
Feeling Raistlin s hand on his chest, Tas shrank down into thebed. "No!" he moaned, trying desperately to wriggle away. "I'll begood, Raistlin! I'll remember. Don't hurt me, not like poorGnimsh!" 
But the archmage's hand only rested lightly on the kender's chestfor an instant, then went to his forehead. Tas's skin burned, butthe touch of that hand burned worse. 
"Lie still," Raistlin commanded. Then, lifting Tas up by the arms,Raistlin stared intently into the kender's sunken eyes. 
Finally, Raistlin dropped Tas back down into the bed and,muttering a bitter curse, rose to his feet. 
Lying upon a sweat-soaked pillow, Tas saw the black-robed figurehover over him an instant, then, with a flutter and swirl of Why am I so weak? he wondered. What's wrong? I want to sleep.Maybe I'll quit hurting then. Tas closed his eyes. But they flewopen again as if he had wires attached to his hair. No, I cantsleep! he thought fearfully. There are things out there in thedarkness, horrible things, just waiting for me to sleep! I've seenthem, they're out there! They're going to leap out and 
As if from a great distance, he heard Raistlin's voice, talking tosomeone. Peering around, trying desperately to keep sleep awayfrom him, Tas decided to concentrate on Raistlin. Maybe I'll findout something, he thought drearily. Maybe I'll find out what's thematter with me. 
Looking over, he saw the black-robed figure talking to a squat,dark figure. Sure enough, they were discussing him. Tas tried tolisten, but his mind kept doing strange things-going off to playsomewhere without inviting his body along. So Tas couldn't becertain if he was hearing what he was hearing or dreaming it. 
"Give him some more of the potion. That should keep him quiet," avoice that sounded like Raistlin's said to the short, dark figure."There's little chance anyone will hear him down here, but I can'trisk it." 
The short, dark figure said something. Tas closed his eyes and letthe cool waters of a blue, blue lake-Crystalmir Lake lap over hisburning skin. Maybe his mind had decided to take his body alongafter all. 
"When I am gone," Raistlin's voice came up out of the water, "lockthe door after me and extinguish the light. My brother has grownsuspicious of late. Should he discover the magical door, he willundoubtedly come down here. He must find nothing. All these cellsshould appear empty." 
The figure muttered, and the door squeaked on its hinges. 
The water of Crystalmir suddenly began to boil around Tas.Tentacles snaked up out of it, grasping for him. His eyes flewopen. "Raistlin!" he begged. "Don't leave me. Help me!" 
"Flint?" he murmured through parched, cracked lips. "No! Arack!"He tried to run, but the tentacles in the water were reaching outfor his feet. 
"Raistlin!" he screamed, frantically trying to scramble backward.But his feet wouldn't move. Something grabbed hold of him! Thetentacles! Tas fought, shrieking in panic. 
"Shut up, you bastard. Drink this." The tentacles gripped him bythe topknot and shoved a cup to his lips. "Drink, or I'll pullyour hair out by the roots!" 
Choking, staring at the figure wildly, Tas took a sip. The liquidwas bitter but cool and soothing. He was thirsty, so thirsty!Sobbing, Tas grabbed the cup away from the dwarf and gulped itdown. Then he lay back on his pillow. Within moments, thetentacles slipped away, the pain in his limbs left him, and theclear, sweet waters of Crystalmir closed over his head. 
Crysania came out of a dream with the distinct impression thatsomeone had called her name. Though she could not remember hearinga sound, the feeling was so strong and intense that she wasimmediately wide awake, sitting up in bed, before she was trulyaware of what it was that had awakened her. Had it been a part ofthe dream? No. The impression remained and grew stronger. 
Someone was in the room with her! She glanced about swiftly.Solinari's light, coming through a small corner at the far end ofthe room, did little to illuminate it. She could see nothing, butshe heard movement. Crysania opened her mouth to call theguard.... 
And felt a hand upon her lips. Then Raistlin materialized out ofnight's darkness, sitting on her bed. 
"Forgive me for frightening you, Revered Daughter," he said in asoft whisper, barely above a breath. "I need your help and I donot wish to attract the attention of the guards." Slowly, heremoved his hand. 
"I wasn't frightened," Crysania protested. He smiled, and sheflushed. He was so near her that he could feel her trembling. "You "To be sure," Raistlin replied quietly. "The Portal is here, andthus we are very near the gods." 
It isn't the nearness of the gods that is making me tremble,Crysania thought with a quivering sigh, feeling the burning warmthof the body beside hers, smelling his mysterious, intoxicatingfragrance. Angrily, she moved away from him, firmly suppressingher desires and longings. He is above such things. Would she showherself weaker? 
She returned to the subject abruptly. "You said you needed myhelp. Why?" Sudden fear gripped her. Reaching out impulsively, shegrasped his hand. "You are well, aren't you? Your wound-?" 
A swift spasm of pain crossed Raistlin's face, then his expressiongrew bitter and hard. "No, I am well," he said curtly. 
"Thanks be to Paladine," Crysania said, smiling, letting her handlinger in his. 
Raistlin's eyes grew narrow. "The god has no thanks of mine!" hemuttered. The hand holding hers clenched, hurting her. 
Crysania shivered. It seemed for an instant as if the burning heatof the mage's body so near hers was drawing out her own, leavingher chilled. She tried to remove her hand from his, but Raistlin,brought out of his bitter reverie by her movement, turned to lookat her. 
"Forgive me, Revered Daughter," he said, releasing her. "The painwas unendurable. I prayed for death. It was denied me." 
"You know the reason," Crysania said, her fear lost in hercompassion. Her hand hesitated a moment, then dropped to thecoverlet near his trembling hand, yet not touching him. 
"Yes, and I accept it. Still, I cannot forgive him. But that isbetween your god and myself," Raistlin said reprovingly. 
Crysania bit her lip. "I accept my rebuke. It was deserved." Shewas silent a moment. Raistlin, too, was not inclined to speak, thelines in his face deepening. 
"Of course," Raistlin smiled his twisted smile. "Does thatsurprise you?" 
Crysania sighed. Her head drooped, the dark hair falling aroundher shoulders.-The faint moonlight in the room made her black hairglimmer with a soft, blue radiance, made her skin gleam purestwhite. Her perfume filled the room, filled the night. She felt atouch upon her hair. Lifting her head, she saw Raistlin s eyesburn with a passion that came from a source deep within, a sourcethat had nothing to do with magic. Crysania caught her breath, butat that moment Raistlin stood up and walked away. 
Crysania sighed. "So, you have communed with both the gods, then?"she asked wistfully. 
Raistlin half-turned. "I have communed with all three," he repliedoffhandedly. 
"Three?" She was startled. "Gilean?" 
"Who is Astinus but Gilean's mouthpiece?" Raistlin saidscornfully. "If, indeed, he is not Gilean himself, as some havespeculated. But, this must be nothing new to you-" 
"I have never talked to the Dark Queen," Crysania said. 
"Haven't you?" Raistlin asked with a penetrating look that shookthe cleric to the core of her soul. "Does she not know of yourheart's desire? Hasn't she offered it to you?" 
Looking into his eyes, aware of his nearness, feeling desire sweepover her, Crysania could not reply. Then, as he continued to watchher, she swallowed and shook her head. "If she has," she answeredin almost inaudible tones, "she has given it with one hand anddenied it to me with the other." 
Crysania heard the black robes rustle as if the mage had started.His face, visible in the moonlight, was, for an instant, worriedand thoughtful. Then it smoothed. 
"I did not come here to discuss theology," Raistlin said with aslight sneer. "I have another, more immediate worry." 
"Tasslehoff is here." 
"Tasslehoff?" Crysania repeated in blank amazement. 
"Yes, and he is very ill. Near death, in fact. I need your healingskills." 
"But, I don't understand. Why- How did he come to be here?"Crysania stammered, bewildered. "You said he had returned to ourown time." 
"So I believed," Raistlin replied gravely. "But, apparently, I wasmistaken. The magical device brought him here, to this time. Hehas been wandering the world in the manner of kender, enjoyinghimself thoroughly. Eventually, hearing of the war, he arrivedhere to share in the adventure. Unfortunately, he has, in hiswanderings, contracted the plague:" 
"This is terrible! Of course I'll come." Catching up her fur cloakfrom the end of her bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders,noticing, as she did so, that Raistlin turned away from her.Staring out the window, into the silver moonlight, she saw themuscles of his jaw tighten, as if with some inner struggle. 
"I am ready," Crysania said in smooth, businesslike tones,fastening her cloak. Raistlin turned back and extended his hand toher. Crysania looked at him, puzzled. 
"We must travel the pathways of the night," he said quietly. "As Itold you, I do not want to alert the guards." 
"But why not?" she said. "What difference-" 
"What will I tell my brother?" 
Crysania paused. "I see..... 
"You understand my dilemma?" Raistlin asked, regarding herintently. "If I tell him, it will be a worry to him, at a time hecan ill afford to add burdens to those he already carries. Tas hasbroken the magical device. That will upset Caramon, too, eventhough he is aware I plan to send him home. But-I should tell himthe kender is here." 
"The war is not going well," Raistlin informed her bluntly. "Thearmy is crumbling around him. The Plainsmen talk every day ofleaving. They may be gone now, for all we know. The dwarves underFireforge are an untrustworthy lot, pressuring Caramon intostriking before he is ready. The supply wagons have vanished, noone knows what has become of them. His own army is restless,upset. On top of all this, to have a kender roaming about,chattering aimlessly, distracting him . . ." 
Raistlin sighed. "Still, I cannot-in honor-keep this from him." 
Crysania's lips tightened. "No, Raistlin. I do not think it wouldbe wise to tell him." Seeing Raistlin look dubious, she continuedearnestly. "There is nothing Caramon can do. If the kender istruly ill, as you suspect, I can heal him, but he will be weak forseveral days. It would only be an added worry to your brother.Caramon plans to march in a few days' time. We will tend thekender, then have him completely recovered, ready to meet hisfriend on the field if such is his desire." 
The archmage sighed again, in reluctance and doubt. Then, heshrugged. "Very well, Revered Daughter," he said. "I will beguided by you in this. Your words are wise. We will not tellCaramon that the kender has returned." 
He moved close to her, and Crysania, looking up at him, caught astrange smile upon his face, a smile that-for just this once-wasreflected in his glittering eyes. Startled, upset without quiteknowing why, she drew back, but he put his arm around her,enveloping her in the soft folds of his black sleeves, holding herclose. 
Closing her eyes, she forgot that smile. Nestling close, wrappedin his warmth, she listened to his rapid heartbeat.... 
Murmuring the words of magic, he transformed them both intonothingness. Their shadows seemed to hover for an instant in themoonlight, then these, too, vanished with a whisper. 
"You are keeping him here? In the dungeons?" Crysania asked,shivering in the chill, dank air. 
A crude bed stood up against one wall. Giving Raistlin areproachful glance, Crysania hurried to the bedside. As the clericknelt beside the kender and laid her hand on his feverish forehead, Tas cried out. His eyes flared open, but he stared ather unseeing. Raistlin, following more slowly, gestured to a darkdwarf who was crouched in a corner. "Leave us," the mage motioned,then came to stand by the bedside. Behind him, he heard the doorto the cell close. 
"How can you keep him locked up in the darkness like this?"Crysania demanded. 
"Have you ever treated plague victims before, Lady Crysania?"Raistlin asked in an odd tone. 
Startled, she looked up at him, then flushed and averted her eyes. 
Smiling bitterly, Raistlin answered his own question. "No, ofcourse not. The plague never came to Palanthas. It never struckthe beautiful, the wealthy...... He made no effort to hide hiscontempt, and Crysania felt her skin burn as though she were theone with the fever. 
"Well, it came to us," Raistlin continued. "It swept through thepoorer sections of Haven. Of course, there were no healers. Norwere there even many who would stay to care for those who wereafflicted. Even their own family members fled them. Poor, patheticsouls. I did what I could, tending them with the herb skill I hadacquired. If I could not cure them, at least I could ease theirpain. My Master disapproved." Raistlin spoke in an undertone, andCrysania realized that he had forgotten her presence. "So didCaramon-fearing for my health, he said. Bah!" Raistlin laughedwithout mirth. "He feared for himself. The thought of the plaguefrightens him more than an army of goblins. But how could I turnmy back on them? They had no one ... no one. Wretched, dying ...dying alone." 
Staring at him dumbly, Crysania felt tears sting her eyes.Raistlin did not see her. In his mind, he was back in thosestinking little hovels that huddled on the outskirts of town asthough they had run there to hide. He saw himself moving among thesick in his red robes, forcing the bitter medicine down theirthroats, holding the dying in his arms, easing their last moments. 
He worked among the sick grimly, asking for no thanks, expectingnone. His face-the last human face many would see-expressedneither compassion nor caring. Yet the dying found comfort. Herewas one who understood, here was one who lived with pain daily,here was one who had looked upon death and was not afraid.... 
Raistlin tended the plague victims. He did what he felt he had todo at the risk of his own life, but why? For a reason he had yetto understand. A reason, perhaps, forgotten.... 
"At any rate"-Raistlin returned to the present-"I discovered thatlight hurt their eyes. Those who recovered were occasionallystricken blind by-" 
A terrified shriek from the kender interrupted him. 
Tasslehoff was staring at him wildly. "Please, Raistlin! I'mtrying to remember! Don't take me back to the Dark Queen-" 
"Hush, Tas," Crysania said softly, gripping the kender with bothhands as Tas seemed to be trying, literally, to climb into thewall behind him. "Calm down, Tas. It is Lady Crysania. Do you knowme? I'm going to help you." 
Tas transferred his wide-eyed, feverish gaze to the cleric,regarding her blankly for a moment. Then, with a sob, he clutchedat her. "Don't let him take me back to the Abyss, Crysania! Don'tlet him take you! It's horrible, horrible. We'll all die, die likepoor Gnimsh. The Dark Queen told me!" 
"He's raving," Crysania murmured, trying to disengage Tas'sclinging hands and force him to lie back down. "What strangedelusions. Is this common with plague victims?" 
"Yes," Raistlin replied. Regarding Tas intently, the mage knelt bythe bedside. "Sometimes it's best to humor them. It may calm him.Tasslehoff-" 
Raistlin laid his hand upon the kender's chest. Instantly, Tascollapsed back onto the bed, shrinking away from the mage,shivering and staring at him in horror. "I'll be good, Raistlin."He whimpered. "Don't hurt me, not like poor Gnimsh. Lightning,lightning!" 
"Tas," said Raistlin firmly, with a hint of anger and exasperationin his voice that caused Crysania to glance over at himreprovingly. 
But, seeing only a look of cool concern on his face, she supposedshe must have mistaken his tone. Closing her eyes, she touched themedallion of Paladine she wore around her neck and began to murmura healing prayer. 
"I'm not going to hurt you, Tas. Shhh, lie still." Seeing Crysanialost in her communion with her god, Raistlin hissed, "Tell me,Tas. Tell me what the Dark Queen said." 
The kender's face lost its bright, feverish flush as Crysania'ssoft words flowed over him, sweeter and cooler than the waters ofhis delirious imaginings. The diminishing fever left Tas's face aghastly, ashen color. A faint glimmering of sense returned to hiseye-. But he never took his gaze from Raistlin. 
"She told me ... before we left......" Tas choked. 
"Left?" Raistlin leaned forward. "I thought you said you escaped!" 
Tas blanched, licking his dry, cracked lips. He tried to tear hisgaze away from the mage, but Raistlin's eyes, glittering in thelight of the staff, held the kender fast, draining the truth fromhim. Tas swallowed. His throat hurt. 
"Water," he pleaded. 
"When you've told me!" Raistlin snarled with a glance at Crysania,who was still kneeling, her head in her hands, praying toPaladine. 
Tas gulped painfully. "I ... I thought we were ... escaping. Weused th-the device and began . . . to rise. I saw . . . the Abyss,the plane, flat, empty, fall away beneath m-my feet. And"-Tasshuddered-"it wasn't empty anymore! There ... there were shadowsand-" He tossed his head, moaning. "Oh, Raistlin, don't make meremember! Don't make me go back there!" 
"Hush!" Raistlin whispered, covering Tas's mouth with his hand.Crysania glanced up in concern, only to see Raistlin tenderlystroking the kender's cheek. Seeing Tas's terrified expression andpale face, Crysania frowned and shook her head. 
"He is better," she said. "He will not die. But dark shadows hoveraround him, preventing Paladine's healing light from restoring himfully. They are the shadows of these feverish ramblings. Can youmake anything from them?" Her feathery brows came together. 
"Perhaps, lady, if you left, he would feel more comfortabletalking to me," Raistlin suggested mildly. "We are such oldfriends." 
"True," Crysania smiled, starting to rise to her feet. To heramazement, Tas grabbed her hands. 
"Don't leave me with him, lady!" He gasped. "He killed Gnimsh!Poor Gnimsh. I saw him di-die!" Tas began to weep. "Burninglightning. . ." 
"There, there, Tas," Crysania said soothingly, gently but firmlyforcing the kender to lie back down. "No one's going to hurt you.Whoever killed this-uh-Gnimsh can't harm you now. You're with yourfriends. Isn't he, Raistlin?" 
"My magic is powerful," Raistlin said softly. "Remember that,Tasslehoff. Remember the power of my magic." 
"Yes, Raistlin," Tas replied, lying quite still, pinned by themage's fixed and staring gaze. 
"I think it would be wise if you remained behind to talk to him,"Crysania said in an undertone. "These dark fears will prey on himand hinder the healing process. I will return to my room on myown, with Paladine's help." 
"So we agree not to tell Caramon?" Raistlin glanced at Crysaniaout of the corner of his eye. 
"Yes," Crysania said firmly. "This would only worry himunnecessarily." She looked back at her patient. "I will return inthe morning, Tasslehoff. Talk to Raistlin. Unburden your soul.Then sleep." Laying her cool hand upon Tas's sweat-coveredforehead, she added, "May Paladine be with you." 
"Caramon?" Tas said hopefully. "Did you say Caramon? Is he here?" 
"Yes, and when you've slept and eaten and rested, I'll take you tohim." 
"Couldn't I see him now!" Tas cried eagerly, then he cast afearful sideways glance at Raistlin. "If-if it wouldn't be toomuch trouble, that is. . . ." 
"He's very busy." Raistlin said coldly. "He is a general now,Tasslehoff. He has armies to command, a war to fight. He has notime for kenders." 
"No, I-I suppose not," Tas said with a small sigh, lying back onhis pillow, his eyes still on Raistlin. 
With a final, soft pat on his head, Crysania stood up. Holding themedallion of Paladine in her hand, she whispered a prayer and wasgone, vanishing into the night. 
"And now, Tasslehoff," Raistlin said in a soft voice that made Tastremble, "we are alone." With his strong hands, the mage pulledthe blankets up over the kender's body and straightened the pillowbeneath his head. "There, are you comfortable?" 
Tas couldn't speak. He could only stare at the archmage in growinghorror. 
Raistlin sat down on the bed beside him. Putting one slender handupon Tas's forehead, he idly caressed the kender's skin andsmoothed back his damp hair. 
"Do you remember Dalamar, my apprentice, Tas?" Raistlin askedconversationally. "You saw him, I believe at the Tower of HighSorcery, am I correct?" Raistlin's fingers were light as the feetof spiders upon Tas's face. "Do you recall, at one point, Dalamartore open his black robes, exhibiting five wounds upon his chest?Yes, I see you recall that. It was his punishment, Tas. Punishmentfor hiding things from me." Raistlin's fingers stopped crawlingabout the kender's skin and remained in one place, exerting aslight pressure on Tas's forehead. 
Tas shivered, biting his tongue to keep from crying out. "I-Iremember, Raistlin." 
"An interesting experience, don't you think?" Raistlin saidoffhandedly. "I can burn through your flesh with a touch, as Imight burn through, say"-he shrugged-"butter with a hot knife.Kender are fond of interesting experiences, I believe." 
"Not-not quite that interesting," Tas whispered miserably. "I'lltell you, Raistlin! I'll tell you everything that-that happened.,"He closed his eyes a moment, then began to talk, his entire bodyquivering with the remembered terror. "We-we seemed not to rise upout of the Abyss so much as ... as the Abyss dropped away beneath us! And then, like I said, I saw it wasn't empty. I could seeshadows and I thought ... I thought they were valleys andmountains. . . ." 
Tas's eyes flared open. He stared at the mage in awe. "It wasn't!Those shadows were her eyes, Raistlin! And the hills and valleyswere her nose and mouth. We were rising up out of her face! Shelooked at me with eyes that were bright and gleamed with fire, andshe opened her mouth and I-I thought she was going to swallow us!But we only rose higher and higher and she fell away beneath us,swirling, and then she looked at me and she said ... she said. . .." 
"What did she say?" Raistlin demanded. "The message was to me! Itmust have been! That was why she sent you! What did the Queensay?" 
Tas's voice grew hushed. "She said, 'Come home. . .' " 
CHAPTER 13 
The effect of his words upon Raistlin startled Tasslehoff justabout as much as anything had ever startled him in his entirelife. Tas had seen Raistlin angry before. He had seen him pleased,he had seen him commit murder, he had seen the mage's face whenKharas, the dwarven hero, drove his sword blade into the mage'sflesh. 
But he had never seen an expression on it like this. 
Raistlin's face went ashen, so white Tas thought for a wild momentthat the mage had died, perhaps been struck dead on the spot. Themirrorlike eyes seemed to shatter; Tas saw himself reflected intiny, splintered shards of the mage's vision. Then he saw the eyeslose all recognition, go completely blank, staring aheadsightlessly. 
The hand that rested upon Tas's head began to tremble violently.And, as the kender watched in astonishment, he saw Raistlin seemto shrivel up before him. His face aged perceptively. When he roseto his feet, still staring unseeing around him, the mage's entirebody shook. 
"Raistlin?" Tas asked nervously, glad to have the mage's attentionoff him but bewildered by his strange appearance. The kender satup weakly. The terrible dizziness had gone, along with the weird,unfamiliar feeling of fear. He felt almost like himself again. 
"Raistlin ... I didn't mean anything. Are you going to be sicknow? You look awfully queer-" 
But the archmage didn't answer. Staggering backward, Raistlin fellagainst the stone wall and just stood there, his breathing rapidand shallow. Covering his face with his hand, he foughtdesperately to regain control of himself, a fight with some unseenopponent that was yet as visible to Tas as if the mage had beenfighting a spectre. 
Then, with a low, hollow cry of rage and anguish, Raistlin lurchedforward. Gripping the Staff of Magius, his black robes whippingaround him, he fled through the open door. 
Staring after Raistlin in astonishment, Tas saw him hurtle pastthe dark dwarf standing guard in the doorway. The dwarf took onelook at the mage's cadaverous face as Raistlin ran blindly pasthim, and, with a wild shriek, whirled around and dashed off in theopposite direction. 
So amazing was all this that it took Tas a few moments to realizehe wasn't a prisoner anymore. 
"You know," the kender said to himself, putting his hand on hisforehead, "Crysania was right. I do feel better now that I'vegotten that off my mind. It didn't do much for Raistlin,unfortunately, but then I don't care about that. Well, much." Tassighed. "I'll never understand why he killed poor Gnimsh. MaybeI'll have a chance to ask him someday. 
"But, now"-the kender glanced around-"the first thing to do isfind Caramon and tell him I've got the magical device and we cango home. I never thought I'd say this," Tas said wistfully,swinging his feet to the floor, "but home sounds awfully niceright now!" 
He was going to stand up, but his legs apparently preferred to beback in bed because Tas suddenly found himself sitting down again. 
"This won't do!" Tas said, glaring at the offending parts of hisbody. "You're nowhere without me! Just remember that! I'm boss and This speech had some effect. His legs behaved a bit better thistime and the kender, though still somewhat wobbly, managed to makehis way across the dark room toward the torch lit corridor hecould see beyond the door. 
Reaching it, he peeped cautiously up and down the hall, but no onewas in sight. Creeping out into corridor, he saw nothing but dark,closed-up cells-like the one he'd been in-and a staircase at oneend, leading up. Looking down the other end, he saw nothing butdark shadows. 
"I wonder where I am?" Tas made his way down the corridor towardthe staircase-that being, as far as he could tell, the only wayup. "Oh, well"-the kender reflected philosophically-"I don'tsuppose it matters. One good thing about having been in the Abyssis that every place else, no matter how dismal, looks congenial bycomparison." 
He had to stop a moment for a brief argument with his legs theystill seemed much inclined to return to bed-but this momentaryweakness passed, and the kender reached the bottom of thestaircase. Listening, he could hear voices. 
"Drat," he muttered, coming to a halt and ducking back into theshadows. "Someone's up there. Guards, I suppose. Sounds likedwarves. Those whatcha'ma call-ems-Dewar." Tas stood, quietly,trying to make out what the deep voices were saying. "You'd thinkthey could speak a civilized language," he snapped irritably. "Onea fellow could understand. They sound excited, though." 
Curiosity finally getting the better of him, Tas crept up thefirst flight of stone steps and peered around the corner. Heducked back quickly with a sigh. "Two of 'em. Both blocking thestair. And there's no way around them." 
His pouches with his tools and weapons were gone, left behind inthe mountain dungeon of Thorbardin. But he still had his knife."Not that it will do much good against those!" Tas reflected,envisioning once again the huge battle-axes he'd seen the dwarvesholding. 
He waited a few more moments, hoping the dwarves would leave. Theycertainly seemed worked up, but they also appeared rooted to thespot. 
"I can't stay here all night or day, whichever it is," the kendergrumbled. "Well, as dad said, 'always try talk before the lockpick.' The very worst they could do to me, I suppose-not countingkilling me, of course-would be to lock me back up. And, if I'm anyjudge of locks, I could probably be out again in about half-an-hour." He began to climb the stairs. "Was it dad who said that,"he pondered as he climbed, "or Uncle Trapspringer?" 
Rounding the corner, he confronted two Dewar, who appearedconsiderably startled to see him. "Hello!" the kender saidcheerfully. "My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot." He extended a hand."And your names are? Oh, you're not going to tell me. Well, that'sall right. I probably couldn't pronounce them anyway. Say, I'm aprisoner and I'm looking for the fellow who was keeping me lockedup in that cell back there. You probably know him-a black-robedmagic-user. He was interrogating me, when something I said tookhim by surprise, I think, because he had a sort of a fit and ranout of the room. And he forgot to lock the door behind him. Dideither of you see which way he- Well!" Tas blinked. "How rude." 
This in response to the actions of the Dewar who, after regardingthe kender with growing looks of alarm on their faces, shouted oneword, turned, and bolted. 
"Antarax, "Tas repeated, looking after them, puzzled. "Let's see.That sounds like dwarven for ... for ... Oh, of course! Burningdeath. Ah-they think I've still got the plague! Mmmmm, that'shandy. Or is it?" 
The kender found himself alone in another long corridor, every bitas bleak and dismal as the one he'd just left. "I still don't knowwhere I am, and no one seems inclined to tell me. The only way outis that staircase down there and those two are heading for it so Iguess the best thing to do is just tag along. Caramon's bound tobe around here somewhere." 
But Tas's legs, which had already registered a protest againstwalking, informed the kender in no uncertain terms that runningwas out of the question. He stumbled along as fast as possibleafter the dwarves, but they had dashed up the stairs and were outof sight by the time he had made it half-way down the corridor.Puffing along, feeling a bit dizzy but determined to find Caramon,Tas climbed the stairs after them. As he rounded a corner, he cameto a sudden halt. 
It certainly seemed like it. The two he had been following had metup with about twenty other dwarves. Crouching in the shadows, Tascould hear them yelping excitedly, and he expected them to cometromping down after him any moment... . But nothing happened. 
He waited, listening to the conversation, then, risking a peep, hesaw that some of the dwarves present didn't look like Dewar. Theywere clean, their beards were brushed, and they were dressed inbright armor. And they didn't appear pleased. They glared grimlyat one of the Dewar, as though they'd just as soon skin him asnot. 
"Mountain dwarves!" Tas muttered to himself in astonishment,recognizing the armor. "And, from what Raistlin said, they're theenemy. Which means they're supposed to be in their mountain, notin ours. Provided we're in a mountain, of course, which I'mbeginning to think likely from the looks of it. But, I wonder-" 
As one of the mountain dwarves began speaking, Tas brightened."Finally, someone who knows how to talk!" The kender sighed inrelief. Because of the mixture of races, the dwarf was speaking acrude version of Common and dwarven. 
The gist of the conversation, as near as Tas could follow, wasthat the mountain dwarf didn't give a cracked stone about a crazedwizard or a wandering, plague-ridden kender. 
"We came here to get the head of this General Caramon," themountain dwarf growled. "You said that the wizard promised itwould be arranged. If it is, we can dispense with the wizard. I'djust as soon not deal with a Black Robe anyway. And now answer methis, Argat. Are your people ready to attack the army from within?Are you prepared to kill this general? Or was this just a trick?If so, you will find it will go hard with your people back inThorbardin!" 
"It no trick!" Argat growled, his fist clenching. "We ready tomove. The general is in the War Room. The wizard said he make surehim alone with just bodyguard. Our people get the hill dwarves toattack. When you keep your part bargain, when scouts give signalthat great gates to Thorbardin are open-" "The signal is sounding, even as we speak," the mountain dwarfsnapped. "If we were above ground level, you could hear thetrumpets. The army rides forth!" 
"Then we go!" Argat said. Bowing, he added with a sneer, "If yourlordship dares, come with us-we take General Caramon's head rightnow!" 
"I will join you," the mountain dwarf said coldly, "if only tomake certain you plot no further treachery!" 
What else the two said was lost on Tas, who leaned back againstthe wall. His legs had gone all prickly-feeling, and there was abuzzing noise in his ears. 
"Caramon!" he whispered, clutching at his head, trying to think."They're going to kill him! And Raistlin's done this!" Tasshuddered. "Poor Caramon. His own twin. If he knew that, it wouldprobably just kill him dead on the spot. The dwarves wouldn't needaxes." 
Suddenly, the kender's head snapped up. "Tasslehoff Burrfoot!" hesaid angrily. "What are you doing-standing around like a gullydwarf with one foot in the mud! You've got to save him! Youpromised Tika you'd take care of him, after all." 
"Save him? How, you doorknob?" boomed a voice inside of him thatsounded suspiciously like Flint's. "There must be twenty dwarves!And you armed with that rabbit-killer!" 
"I'll think of something," Tas retorted. "So just keep sittingunder your tree!" 
There was a snorting sound. Resolutely ignoring it, the kenderstood up tall and straight, pulled out his little knife, and creptquietly-as only kender can-down the corridor. 
CHAPTER 14 
She had the dark, curly hair and the crooked smile that men wouldlater find so charming in her daughter. She had the simple,guileless honesty that would characterize one of her sons and shehad a gift-a rare and wonderful power-that she would pass on tothe other. 
She had magic in her blood, as did her son. But she was weak-weak-willed, weak-spirited. Thus she let the magic control her, andthus, finally, she died. 
Neither the strong-souled Kitiara nor the physically strongCaramon was much affected by their mother's death. Kitiara hatedher mother with bitter jealousy, while Caramon, though he caredabout his mother, was far closer to his frail twin. Besides, hismother's weird ramblings and mystical trances made her a completeenigma to the young warrior. 
But her death devastated Raistlin. The only one of her childrenwho truly understood her, he pitied her for her weakness, even ashe despised her for it. And he was furious at her for dying,furious at her for leaving him alone in this world, alone with thegift. He was angry and, deep within, he was filled with fear, forRaistlin saw in her his own doom. 
Following the death of her father, his mother had gone into agrief-stricken trance from which she never emerged. Raistlin hadbeen helpless. He could do nothing but watch her dwindle away.Refusing food she drifted, lost. onto magical planes only shecould see. And the mage-her son-was shaken to his very core. 
He sat up with her on that last night. Holding her wasted hand inhis, he watched as her sunken, feverish eyes stared at wondersconjured up by magic gone berserk. 
That night, Raistlin vowed deep within his soul that no one andnothing would ever have the power to manipulate him like this-nothis twin brother, not his sister, not the magic, not the gods. Heand he alone would be the guiding force of his life. 
He vowed this, swearing it with a bitter, binding oath. But he wasa boy still-a boy left alone in darkness as he sat there with hismother the night she died. He watched her draw her last,shuddering breath. Holding her thin hand with its delicate fingers(so like his own!), he pleaded softly through his tears, "Mother,come home.... Come home!" 
Now at Zhaman he heard these words again, challenging him, mockinghim, daring him. They rang in his ears, reverberated in his brainwith wild, discordant clangings. His head bursting with pain, hestumbled into a wall. 
Raistlin had once seen Lord Ariakas torture a captured knight bylocking the man inside a bell tower. The dark clerics rang thebells of praise to their Queen that night-all night. The nextmorning, the man had been found dead-a look of horror upon hisface so profound and awful that even those steeped in cruelty werequick to dispose of the corpse. 
Raistlin felt as if he were imprisoned within his own bell tower,his own words ringing his doom in his skull. Reeling, clutchinghis head, he tried desperately to blot out the sound. 
"Come home ... come home......" 
Dizzy and blinded by the pain, the mage sought to outrun it. Hestaggered about with no clear idea of where he was, searching onlyfor escape. His numb feet lost their footing. Tripping over thehem of his black robe, he fell to his knees. 
An object leaped from a pocket in his robes and rolled out ontothe stone floor. Seeing it, Raistlin gasped in fear and anger. Itwas another mark of his failure-the dragon orb, cracked, darkened,useless. Frantically he grabbed for it, but it skittered like amarble across the flagstone, eluding his clawing grasp. Desperate,he crawled after it and, finally, it rolled to a stop. With asnarl, Raistlin started to take hold of it, then halted. Liftinghis head, his eyes opened wide. He saw where he was, and he shrankback, trembling. 
Before him loomed the Great Portal. 
It was exactly like the one in the Tower of High Sorcery inPalanthas. A huge oval door standing upon a raised dais, it wasornamented and guarded by the heads of five dragons. Their sinuousnecks snaking up from the floor, the five heads faced inward, fivemouths open, screaming silent tribute to their Queen. 
In the Tower at Palanthas, the door to the Portal was closed. Nonecould open it except from within the Abyss itself, coming theopposite direction-an egress from a place none ever left. Thisdoor, too, was closed, but there were two who could enter-a White-Robed Cleric of Infinite Goodness and a Black Robed Archmage ofInfinite Evil. It was an unlikely combination. Thus the greatwizards hoped to seal forever this terrible entrance onto animmortal plane. 
An ordinary mortal, looking into that Portal, could see nothingbut stark, chill darkness. 
But Raistlin was no longer ordinary. Drawing nearer and nearer hisgoddess, bending his energies and his studies toward this oneobject, the archmage was now in a state suspended between bothworlds. Looking into the closed door, he could almost penetratethat darkness! It wavered in his vision. Wrenching his gaze fromit, he turned his attention back to retrieving the dragon orb. 
How did it escape me? he wondered angrily. He kept the orb in abag hidden deep within a secret pocket of his robes. But then hesneered at himself, for he knew the answer. Each dragon orb wasendowed with a strong sense of self-preservation. The one at Istarhad escaped the Cataclysm by tricking the elven king, Lorac, intostealing it and taking it into Silvanesti. When the orb could nolonger use the insane Lorac, it had attached itself to Raistlin.It had sustained Raistlin's life when he was dying in Astinus'slibrary. It had conspired with Fistandantilus to take the youngman to the Queen of Darkness. Now, sensing the greatest danger ofits existence, it was trying to flee him. 
He would not allow it! Reaching out, his hand closed firmly overthe dragon orb. 
There was a shriek.... 
The Portal opened. 
Raistlin looked up. It had not opened to admit him. No, it hadopened to warn him-to show him the penalty of failure. 
Prostrate upon his knees, clutching the orb to his chest, Raistlinfelt the presence and the majesty of Takhisis, Queen of Darknessrise up before hire. Awe-stricken, he cowered, trembling, at theDark Queen's feet. 
This is your doom! Her words hissed in his mind. Your mother'sfate will be your own. Swallowed by your magic, you will be heldforever spellbound without even the sweet consolation of death toend your suffering! 
Raistlin collapsed. He felt his body shrivel. Thus he had seen thewithered body of Fistandantilus shrivel at the touch of thebloodstone. 
His head resting on the stone floor as it rested upon theexecutioner's block of his nightmare, the mage was about to admitdefeat.... 
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 bythe gods. They needed a magic-user strong enough to help defeatthe growing evil of the Queen of Darkness. Par-Salian had searchedlong and had at last chosen Raistlin. For he had seen within theyoung mage this inner core of strength. It had been a cold,shapeless mass of iron when Raistlin was young. But Par-Salianhoped that the white-hot fire of suffering, pain, war, andambition 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 fromhis body. He could not breathe as fire seared his lungs. Shetormented him, mocked him with his own words, his own visions. Shelaughed at him, as so many had laughed at him before. And yet,even as his body shivered with a fear unlike any he had everknown, 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 theringing sounds of his mother's voice from his ears. He closed hiseyes 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 inthunderclouds. He could look directly into the Portal now. Hiseyes narrowed. He regarded the dread door with a grim, twistedsmile. Then, lifting his hand, Raistlin hurled the dragon orb intothe Portal. 
Hitting that invisible wall, the orb shattered. There was analmost imperceptible scream. Dark, shadowy wings fluttered aroundthe mage's head, then, with a wail, the wings dissolved into smokeand were blown away. 
Strength coursed through Raistlin's body, strength such as he hadnever known. The knowledge of his enemy's weakness affected himlike an intoxicating liquor. He felt the magic flow from his mindinto his heart and from there to his veins. The accumulated, And then he heard it, the clear, clarion call of a trumpet, itsmusic cold as the air from the snow-covered mountains of the dwarven homelands in the distance. Pure and crisp, the trumpetcall 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 nowwould do, if necessary. The kender's arrival meant time _l2 L f be no interference from the magical device-the interference thathad proved the death of Fistandantilus. 
The time had come. 
Raistlin gave the Portal a last, lingering glance. Then, with abow to his Queen, he turned and strode purposefully away up thecorridor. 
Crysania knelt in prayer in her room. 
She had started to go back to bed after her return from thekender, but a strange feeling of foreboding filled her. There wasa breathlessness in the air. A sense of waiting made her pause.Sleep would not come. She was alert, awake, more awake than shehad ever been in her entire life. 
The sky was filled with light-the cold fire of the stars burningin 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 theconstellations-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, rangedabout 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 asshe rested them upon the chill stone. She realized she was 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 piercedher 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 beenexpecting his arrival, and she turned, calmly, to face him. 
Raistlin stood silhouetted in the doorway, outlined against thelight of torches blazing in the corridor and outlined as well byhis own light which welled darkly from beneath his robes, anunholy light that came from within. 
Drawn by some strange force, Crysania looked back into the heavensand saw, gleaming with that same dark light, Nuitari-the BlackMoon. 
For a moment, she closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the dizzyingrush of blood, the beating of her heart. Then, feeling herselfgrow strong, she opened them again to find Raistlin standingbefore her. 
She caught her breath. She had seen him in the ecstasy of hismagic, she had seen him battling defeat and death. Now she saw himin the fullness of his strength, in the majesty of his dark power.Ancient wisdom and intelligence were etched into his face, a facethat 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 touchburned them. "I am afraid," she whispered. 
He drew her near. 
"You have no need to be afraid," he said. "Your god is with you. Isee that clearly. It is my goddess who is afraid, Crysania. Isense her fear! Together, you and I will cross the borders of timeand enter the realm of death. Together, we will battle theDarkness. Together, we will bring Takhisis to her knees!" 
Crysania closed her eyes and let the magical fire, the fire thatconsumed the bodies of the dead, consume her body, consume thecold, frightened, white-robed shell she had been hiding in allthese years. 
He drew back, tracing her mouth with his hand, raising her chin sothat she could look into his eyes. And there, reflected in themirror of his soul, she saw herself, glowing with a flaming auraof radiant, pure, white light. She saw herself beautiful, beloved,worshipped. She saw herself bringing truth and justice to theworld, 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 guardedwhen 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 bodyand seared her heart. She flinched but did not cry out. He smiledat her. 
"Come." 
On the whispered words of a winged spell, they left the room tothe night, just as the red rays of Lunitari spilled into thedarkness-blood drawn from Solinari's glittering knife. 
CHAPTER 15 
"The supply wagons?" Caramon asked in even, measured tones-thetones 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 valianteffort to sound cheerful, which failed miserably. Keeping his gazefixed on the map spread on the table before him, he nervously drewa small circle around a tiny green dot on the parchment. 
Caramon snorted. "A hole that is emptied by midday. Oh, sure, itfills again at night, but my own sweat tastes better. Blastedstuff must be tainted by sea water." 
"Still, it's drinkable. We're rationing, of course, and I've setguards 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 worryabout it after a while," Caramon said, running his hand throughhis curly hair with a sigh. It was hot in the room, hot andstuffy. Some overzealous servant had tossed wood onto the firebefore Caramon, accustomed to living outdoors, could stop him. Thebig man had thrown open a window to let the fresh, crisp airinside, but the blaze roaring at his back was toasting him nicelynonetheless. "What's the desertion count today?" 
Garic cleared his throat. "About-about one hundred, sir;" he saidreluctantly. 
"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 thismoment, that lying was not against every code of honor he helddear. As he would have given his life to spare this man pain, sohe would almost have lied. He hesitated, then looking at Caramonhe 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 thesmall wooden figures that had been spread out on the map to represent the placement and disposition of his troops. Rolling itaround in his fingers, he grew thoughtful. Then, suddenly, with abitter 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 andhis men, even now. The mountain dwarves undoubtedly hold themountain passes behind us-that's what happened to the supplywagons. He'll have to fight his way home. May the gods go withhim'' 
Caramon was silent a moment, then his fists clenched. "Damn mybrother!" he cursed. "Damn him!" 
Garic shifted nervously. His gaze darted about the room, fearfulthat the black-robed figure might materialize from the shadows. 
"Well," Caramon said, straightening and studying the maps onceagain, "this isn't getting us anywhere. Now, our only hope-as Isee 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 openso we can utilize our cavalry. We'll never win our way into themountain," he added, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice,"but at least we can retreat with a hope of winning back to PaxTharkas with our forces still intact. Once there, we can fortifyit and-" 
"General." One of the guards at the door entered the room,flushing at having to interrupt. "Begging your pardon, sir, but amessenger's arrived." 
"Send him in '" 
A young man entered the room. Covered with dust, his cheeks redfrom the cold, he cast the blazing fire a longing glance butstepped forward first to deliver his message. 
"No, go on, warm yourself," Caramon said, waving the man over tothe fireplace. "I'm glad someone can appreciate it. I have afeeling your news is going to be foul to the taste anyway." 
"Thank you, sir;" the man said gratefully. Standing near theblaze, he spread his hands out to the warmth. "My news is this-thehill dwarves have gone." 
"Gone?" Caramon repeated in blank astonishment, rising to hisfeet. "Gone where? Surely not back-" "That's insane!" Caramon's fist crashed down upon the table,sending the wooden markers flying through the air, the mapsrolling off the edges. His face grew grim. "My brother," 
"No, sir. It was apparently the Dewar. I was instructed to giveyou this." Drawing a scroll from his pouch, he handed it toCaramon, who quickly opened it. 
General Caramon, 
I have just learned from Dewar spies that the gates to themountain will open when the trumpet sounds. We plan to steal amarch on them. Rising at dawn, we will reach there by nightfall. Iam 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 youarrive late. Reorx's light shine on your axes. 
Reghar Fireforge. 
Caramon's mind went back to the piece of blood-stained parchmenthe'd held in his hand not long ago. The wizard has betrayedyou.... 
"Dewar!" Caramon scowled. "Dewar spies. Spies all right, but notfor us! Traitors all right, but not to their own people!" 
"A trap!" Garic said, rising to his feet as well. 
"And we fell into it like a bunch of damn rabbits," Caramonmuttered, thinking of another rabbit in a trap; seeing, in hismind's eyes, his brother setting it free. "Pax Tharkas falls. Nogreat loss. It can always be retaken-especially if the defendersare dead. Our people deserting in droves, the Plainsmen leaving.And now the hill dwarves marching to Thorbardin, the Dewarmarching with them. And, when the trumpet sounds-" 
The clear, clarion call of a trumpet rang out. Caramon started.Was he hearing it or was it a dream, borne on the wings of aterrible vision? He could almost see it being played out beforehis eyes-the Dewar, slowly, imperceptibly spreading out among the Most of Reghar's people would never know what hit them, wouldnever have a chance to strike. 
Caramon could hear the shouts, the thudding of iron-shod boots,the clash of weapons, and the harsh, discordant cries of deepvoices. It was real, so very real.... 
Lost in his vision, Caramon only dimly became aware of the suddenpallor of Garic's face. Drawing his sword, the young Knight sprangtoward the door with a shout that jolted Caramon back to reality.Whirling, he saw a black tide of dark dwarves surging outside thedoor. There was a flash of steel. 
"Ambush!" Garic yelled. 
"Fall back!" Caramon thundered. "Don't go out there! The Knightsare gone-we're the only ones here! Stay inside the room. Bolt thedoor!" Leaping after Garic, he grabbed the Knight and hurled himback. "You guards, retreat l" he yelled to the two who were stillstanding outside the door and who were now battling for theirlives. 
Caramon gripped the arm of one of the guards to drag him into theroom, bringing his sword down upon the head of an attacking Dewarat the same time. The dwarf's helm shattered. Blood spattered overCaramon, but he paid no attention. Shoving the guard behind him,Caramon hurled himself bodily at the horde of dark dwarves packedinto the corridor, his sword slashing a bloody swath through them. 
"Fall back, you fool!" he shouted over his shoulder at the sec andguard, who hesitated only a moment, then did as ordered. Caramon'sferocious charge had the intended effect of catching the Dewaroff-balance-they stumbled backward in momentary panic at the sightof his battle-rage. But, that was all the panic was-momentary.Already Caramon could see them starting to recover their wits andtheir courage. 
"General! Look out!" shouted Garic, standing in the doorway, hissword still in hand. Turning, Caramon headed back for the safetyof the map room. But his foot slipped on the blood-covered stonesand the big man fell, wrenching his knee painfully. 
With a wild howl, the Dewar leaped on him. 
"Caramon!" 
Sick at heart, cursing himself for hanging back, Garic jumped intothe fray. A hammer blow crashed into his arm, and he heard thebone crunch. His left hand went oddly limp. Well, he thought,oblivious to the pain, at least it wasn't my sword arm. His bladeswung, a dark dwarf fell headless. An axe blade whined, but itswielder missed his mark. The dwarf was cut down from behind by oneof the guards at the door. 
Though unable to stand, Caramon still fought. A kick from hisuninjured leg sent two dwarves reeling backward to crash intotheir fellows. Twisting onto his side, the big man smashed thehilt of his sword through the face of another dwarf, splashingblood up to his elbows. Then, in the return stroke, he thrust theblade through the guts of another. Garic's charge spared his lifefor an instant, but it seemed it was an instant only. 
"Caramon! Above you!" shrieked Garic, battling viciously. 
Rolling onto his back, Caramon looked up to see Argat standingover him, his axe raised. Caramon lifted his sword, but at thatmoment four dark dwarves leaped on him, pinning him to the floor. 
Almost weeping in rage, heedless of the weapons flashing aroundhim, Garic tried desperately to save Caramon. But there were toomany dwarves between him and his general. Already, the Dewar's axeblade was falling.... 
The axe fell-but it fell from nerveless hands. Garic saw Argat'seyes open wide in profound astonishment. The dwarf's axe fell tothe blood-slick stones with a ringing clatter as the dark dwarfhimself toppled over on top of Caramon. Staring at Argat's corpse,Garic saw a small knife sticking out of the back of the dwarf'sneck. 
He looked up to see the dark dwarf's killer and gasped inastonishment. 
Standing over the body of the dead traitor was, of all things, akender. 
Garic blinked, thinking perhaps the fear and pain had donesomething strange to his mind, causing him to see phantoms. But there wasn't time to try to figure out this astounding occurrence.The young Knight had finally managed to reach his general's side.Behind him, he could hear the guards shouting and driving back theDewar who, seeing their leader fall, had suddenly lost a greatdeal of their enthusiasm for a fight that was supposed to havebeen an easy slaughter. 
The four dwarves who were holding Caramon stumbled back hastily asthe big man struggled out from beneath Argat's body. Reachingdown, Garic jerked the dead dwarf up by the back of his armor andtossed the body to one side, then hauled Caramon to his feet. Thebig man staggered, groaning, as his crippled knee gave way underhis weight. 
"Help us!" Garic cried unnecessarily to the guards, who werealready by his side. Half-dragging and half-carrying Caramon, theyassisted the limping man into the map room. 
Turning to follow, Garic cast a quick glance around the corridor.The dark dwarves were eyeing him uncertainly. He caught a glimpseof other dwarves behind them-mountain dwarves, his mindregistered. 
And there, seemingly rooted to the spot, was the strange kenderwho had come out of nowhere, apparently, to save Caramon's life.The kender's face ashen, there was a green look about his lips.Not knowing what else to do, Garic wrapped his good arm around thekender's waist and, lifting him off his feet, hauled him back intothe map room. As soon as he was inside, the guards slammed andbolted the door. 
Caramon's face was covered with blood and sweat, but he grinned atGaric. Then he assumed a stern look. 
"You damn fool knight," he growled. "I gave you a direct order andyou disobeyed! I ought to-" 
But his voice broke off as the kender, wriggling in Garic's grasp,raised his head. 
"Tas!" whispered Caramon, stunned. 
"Hello, Caramon," Tas said weakly. "I-I'm awfully glad to see youagain. I've got lots to tell you and it's very important and Ireally should tell you now but I ... I think ... I'm going ... tofaint." 
"And so that's it," Tas said softly, his eyes dim with tears as helooked into Caramon's pale, expressionless face. "He lied to meabout how to work the magical device. When I tried, it came apartin my hands. I did get to see the fiery mountain fall," he added,"and that was almost worth all the trouble. It might have evenbeen worth dying to see. I'm not sure, since I haven't died yet,although I thought for a while I had. It certainly wouldn't beworth it, though, if I had to spend the Afterlife in wants to gothere:" 
Tas sighed. "But, anyway, I could forgive him for that"-thekender's voice hardened and his small jaw set firmly-"but not forwhat he did to poor Gnimsh and what he tried to do to you-" 
Tasslehoff bit his tongue. He hadn't meant to say that. 
Caramon looked at him. "Go on, Tas," he said. "Tried to do to me?" 
"N-nothing," Tas stammered, giving Caramon a sickly smile. "Justmy rambling. You know me." 
"What did he try to do?" Caramon smiled bitterly. "I didn'tsuppose there was anything left he could do to me.' 
"Have you killed," Tas muttered. 
"Ah, yes." Caramon's expression did not change. "Of course. Sothat's what the dwarfs message meant." 
"He gave you to-to the Dewar;" Tas said miserably. "They weregoing to take your head back to King Duncan. Raistlin sent awayall the Knights in the castle, telling them you'd ordered them offto Thorbardin.' Tas waved his hand at Garic and the two guards."He told the Dewar you'd have only your bodyguards.' 
Caramon said nothing. He felt nothing-neither pain, nor anger, norsurprise. He was empty. Then a great surge of longing for hishome, for Tika, for his friends, for Tanis, Laurana, for Riverwindand Goldmoon, rushed in to fill up that vast emptiness. 
As if reading his thoughts, Tas rested his small head on Caramon'sshoulder. "Can we go back to our own time now?" he said, lookingup at Caramon wistfully. "I'm awfully tired. Say, do you think Icould stay with you and Tika for a while? Just until I'm better. Iwouldn't be a bother-I promise... ." 
His eyes dim with tears, Caramon put his arm around the kender andheld him close. "As long as you want, Tas," he said. Smilingsadly, he stared into the flames. "I'll finish the house. It won'ttake more than a couple of months. Then we'll go visit Tanis andLaurana. I promised Tika we'd do that. I promised her a long timeago, but I never seemed to get there. Tika always wanted to seePalanthas, you know. And maybe all of us could go to Sturm's tomb.I never did get a chance to tell him good-bye." 
"And we can visit Elistan, and- Oh!" Tas's face grew alarmed."Crysania! Lady Crysania! I tried to tell her about Raistlin, butshe doesn't believe me! We can't leave her!" He leaped to hisfeet, wringing his hands. "We can't let him take her to thathorrible place!" 
Caramon shook his head. "We'll try to talk to her again, Tas. Idon't think she'll listen, but at least we can try." He heavedhimself up painfully. "They'll be at the Portal now. Raistlin cantwait much longer. The fortress will fall to the mountain dwarvessoon. 
"Garic," he said, limping over to where the Knight sat. "How's itgoing?" 
One of the other Knights had just finished setting Garic's brokenarm. They were tying it up in a rude sling, binding it to his sideso that it was immobile. The young man looked up at Caramon,gritting his teeth with the pain but managing a smile nonetheless. 
"I'll be fine, sir;" he said weakly. "Don't worry." 
Smiling, Caramon drew up a chair next to him. "Feel liketraveling?" 
"Of course, sir." 
"Good. Actually, I guess you don't have much choice. This placewill be overrun soon. You've got to try to get out now." Caramonrubbed his chin. "Reghar told me there were tunnels runningbeneath the plains, tunnels that lead from Pax Tharkas toThorbardin. My advice is to find these. That shouldn't be toodifficult. Those mounds out there lead down to them. You should be able to use the tunnels to at least get out of here safely." 
Garic did not answer. Glancing at the other two guards, he saidquietly, "You say 'your advice; sir. What about you? Aren't youcoming with us?" 
Caramon cleared his throat and started to answer, but he couldn'ttalk. He stared down at his feet. This was a moment he had been dreading and, now that it was here, the speech he had carefullyprepared blew out of his head like a leaf in the wind. 
"No, Garic," he said finally, "I'm not." Seeing the Knight's eyesflash and guessing what he was thinking, the big man raised hishand. "No, I'm not going to do anything so foolish as to throw mylife away on some noble, stupid cause-like rescuing my commandingofficer!" 
Garic flushed in embarrassment as Caramon grinned at him. 
"No," the big man continued more somberly, "I'm not a Knight,thank the gods. I have enough sense to run when I'm beaten. Andright now"-he couldn't help but sigh-"I'm beaten." He ran his handthrough his hair. "I can't explain this so that you'll understandit. I'm not sure I understand, not fully. But-let's just say thatthe kender and I have a magical way home." 
Garic glanced from one to the other. "Not your brother!" he said,frowning darkly. 
"No," Caramon answered, "not my brother. Here, he and I partcompany. He has his own life to live and-I finally see-I havemine." He put his hand on Garic's shoulder. "Go to Pax Tharkas.You and Michael do what you can to help those who make it theresafely survive the winter." 
"But-" 
"That's an order, Sir Knight," Caramon said harshly. 
"Yes, sir." Garic averted his face, his hand brushing quicklyacross his eyes. 
Caramon, his own face growing gentle, put his arm around the youngman. "Paladine be with you, Garic," he said, clasping him close.He looked at the others. "May he be with all of you." 
Garic looked up at him in astonishment, tears glistening on hischeeks. "Paladine?" he said bitterly. "The god who deserted us?" 
"Don't lose your faith, Garic," Caramon admonished, rising to hisfeet with a pain-filled grimace. "Even if you cant believe in the "Yes, sir," Garic murmured. "And ... may whatever gods you believein be with you, too, sir." 
"I guess they have been," Caramon said, smiling ruefully, "all mylife. I've just been too damn thick-headed to listen. Now, youbetter be off." 
One by one, he bade the other young Knights farewell, feigning toignore their manful attempts to hide their tears. He was trulytouched by their sorrow at parting-a sorrow he shared to such anextent that he could have broken down and wept like a childhimself. 
Cautiously, the Knights opened the door and peered out into thecorridor. It was empty, except for the corpses. The Dewar weregone. But Caramon had no doubt this lull would last only longenough for them to regroup. Perhaps they were waiting untilreinforcements arrived. Then they would attack the map room andfinish off these humans. 
Sword in hand, Garic led his Knights out into the blood spatteredcorridor, planning to follow Tas's somewhat confused directions onhow to reach the lower levels of the magical fortress. (Tas hadoffered to draw them a map, but Caramon said there wasn't time.) 
When the Knights were gone, and the last echoes of their footfallshad died away, Tas and Caramon set off in the opposite direction.Before they went, Tas retrieved his knife from Argat's body. 
"And you said once that a knife like this would be good only forkilling vicious rabbits," Tas said proudly, wiping the blood fromthe blade before thrusting it into his belt. 
"Don't mention rabbits;" Caramon said in such an odd, tight voicethat Tas looked at him and was startled to see his face go deathlypale. 
CHAPTER 16 
This was his moment. The moment he had been born to face. The moment for which he had endured the pain, the humiliation, the He savored it, letting the power flow over him and through him,letting it surround him, lift him. No other sounds, no otherobjects, nothing in this world existed for him this moment nowsave the Portal and the magic. 
But even as he exulted in the moment, his mind was intent upon hiswork. His eyes studied the Portal, studied every detail intently-although it was not really necessary. He had seen it myriad timesin dreams both sleeping and waking. The spells to open it weresimple, nothing elaborate or complex. Each of the five dragonheads surrounding and guarding the Portal must be propitiated withthe correct phrase. Each must be spoken to in the proper order.But, once that was done and the White-Robed Cleric had exhortedPaladine to intercede and hold the Portal open, they would enter.It would close behind them. 
And he would face his greatest challenge. 
The thought excited him. His rapidly beating heart sent bloodsurging through his veins, throbbing in his temples, pulsing inhis throat. Looking at Crysania, he nodded. It was time. 
The cleric, her own face flushed with heightened excitement, hereyes already shimmering with the luster of the ecstasy of herprayers, took her place directly inside the Portal, facingRaistlin. This move required that she place utter, complete,unwavering confidence in him. For one wrong syllable spoken, thewrong breath drawn at the wrong moment, the slightest slip of thetongue or hand gesture would be fatal to her, to himself. 
Thus had the ancients-devising ways to guard this dread gate thatthey, because of their folly, could not shut-sought to protect it.For a wizard of the Black Robes-who had committed the heinous deeds they knew must be committed to arrive at this point, and aCleric of Paladine-pure of faith and soul-to put implicit trust ineach other was a ludicrous supposition. 
Yet, it had happened once: bound by the false charm of the one andthe loss of faith of the other, Fistandantilus and Denubis hadreached this point. And it would happen again, it seemed, with twobound by something that the ancients, for all their wisdom, hadnot foreseen-a strange, unhallowed love. 
Crysania raised her arms. Her eyes stared beyond Raistlin now,stared into the brilliant, beautiful realms where dwelt her god.She had heard the last words of the Kingpriest, she knew themistake he had made-a mistake of pride, demanding of the god inhis arrogance what he should have requested in humility. 
At that moment Crysania had come to understand why the gods had-intheir righteous anger-inflicted destruction upon the world. Andshe had known in her heart that Paladine would answer her prayers,as he had not answered those of the Kingpriest. This wasRaistlin's moment of greatness. It was also her own. 
Like the holy Knight, Huma, she had been through her trials.Trials of fire, darkness, death, and blood. She was ready. She wasprepared. 
"Paladine, Platinum Dragon, your faithful servant comes before youand begs that you shed your blessing upon her. Her eyes are opento your light. At last, she understands what you have, in yourwisdom, been trying to teach her. Hear her prayer, Radiant One. Bewith her. Open this Portal so that she may cater and go forwardbearing your torch. Walk with her as she strives to banish thedarkness forever!" 
Raistlin held his breath. All depended on this! Had he been rightabout her? Did she possess the strength, the wisdom, the faith?Was she truly Paladine's chosen? ... 
A pure and holy light began to glimmer from Crysania. Her darkhair shimmered; her white robes shone like sunlit clouds, her eyesgleamed like the silver moon. Her beauty at this moment wassublime. 
"Thank you for granting my prayer, God of Light," Crysaniamurmured, bowing her head. Tears sparkled like stars upon her paleface. "I will be worthy of you!" 
Watching her, enchanted by her beauty, Raistlin forgot his greatgoal. He could only stare at her, entranced. Even the thoughts ofhis magic-for a heartbeat-fled. 
Then he exulted. Nothing! Nothing could stop him now.... 
"We're too late," Caramon said. 
The two, having made their way through the dungeons to the verybottom level of the magical fortress, came to a sudden halt-theireyes on Crysania. Enveloped in a halo of silver light, she stoodin the center of the Portal, her arms outstretched, her facelifted to the heavens. Her unearthly beauty pierced Caramon'sheart. 
"Too late? No!" Tas cried in anguish. "We can't be!" 
"Look, Tas," Caramon said sadly. "Look at her eyes. She's blind.Blind! Just as blind as I was in the Tower of High Sorcery. Shecannot see through the light. . . ." 
"We've got to try to talk to her, Caramon!" Tas clutched at himfrantically. "We can't let her go. It-it's my fault! I'm the onewho told her about Bupu! She might not have come if it hadn't beenfor me! I'll talk to her!" 
The kender leaped forward, waving his arms. But he was jerked backsuddenly by Caramon, who caught hold of him by his tassel of hair.Tas yelped in pain and protest, and-at the sound-Raistlin turned. 
The archmage stared over at his twin and the kender for an instantwithout seeming to recognize them. Then recognition dawned in hiseyes. It was not pleasant. 
"Hush, Tas," Caramon whispered. "It's not your fault. Now, stayput!" Caramon thrust the kender behind a thick, granite pillar."Stay there," the big man ordered. "Keep the pendant safe-andyourself, too." 
Tas's mouth opened to argue. Then he saw Caramon's face and,looking down the corridor, he saw Raistlin. Something came overthe kender. He felt as he had in the Abyss-wretched andfrightened. "Yes, Caramon," he said softly. "I'll stay here. I-Ipromise. . . ." 
Leaning against the pillar, shivering, Tas could see in his mindpoor Gnimsh lying crumpled on the cell floor. 
Giving the kender a final, warning glance, Caramon turned andlimped down the corridor toward where his brother stood. 
"Thanks to the gods, not you," Caramon replied. 
"Thanks to one god, my dear brother," Raistlin said with a slight,twisted smile. "The Queen of Darkness. She sent the kender backhere, and it was he, I presume, who altered time, allowing yourlife to be spared. Does it gall you, Caramon, to know you owe yourlife to the Dark Queen?" 
"Does it gall you to know you owe her your soul?" 
Raistlin's eyes flashed, their mirrorlike surface cracking forjust an instant. Then, with a sardonic smile, he turned away.Facing the Portal, he lifted his right hand and held it palm out,his gaze upon the dragon's head at the lower right of the ovalshaped entrance. 
"Black Dragon." His voice was soft, caressing. "From darkness todarkness/My voice echoes in the emptiness." 
As Raistlin spoke these words, an aura of darkness began to formaround Crysania, an aura of light as black as the nightjewel, asblack as the light of the dark moon.... 
Raistlin felt Caramon's hand close over his arm. Angrily, he triedto shake off his brother's grasp, but Caramon's grip was strong. 
"Take us home, Raistlin...... 
Raistlin turned and stared, his anger forgotten in hisastonishment. "What?" His voice cracked. 
"Take us home," Caramon repeated steadily. 
Raistlin laughed contemptuously. 
"You are such a weak, sniveling fool, Caramon !" he snarled.Irritably he tried to shake off his twin's grip. He might as wellhave tried to shake off death. "Surely you must know by now what Ihave done! The kender must have told you about the gnome. You knowI betrayed you. I would have left you for dead in this wretchedplace. And still you cling to me!" 
His gaze went down to his own, strong, sun-burned hand holding hisbrother's thin wrist, its bones as fragile as the bones of a bird,its skin white, almost transparent. Caramon fancied he could seethe blood pulse in the blue veins. 
"My hand upon your arm. That's all we have." Caramon paused anddrew a deep breath. Then, his voice deep with sorrow, hecontinued, "Nothing can erase what you have done, Raist. It cannever be the same between us. My eyes have been opened. I now seeyou for what you are." 
"And yet you beg me to come with you!" Raistlin sneered. 
"I could learn to live with the knowledge of what you are and whatyou have done." Looking intently into his brother's eyes, Caramonsaid softly, "But you have to live with yourself, Raistlin. Andthere are times in the night when that must be damn nearunbearable." 
Raistlin did not respond. His face was a mask, impenetrable,unreadable. 
Caramon swallowed a huskiness in his throat. His grip on histwin's arm tightened. "Think of this, though. You have done goodin your life, Raistlin-maybe better than most of us. Oh, I'vehelped people. It's easy to help someone when that help isappreciated: But you helped those who only threw it back in yourface. You helped those who didn't deserve it. You helped even whenyou knew it was hopeless, thankless." Caramon's hand trembled."There's still good you could do ... to make up for the evil.Leave this. Come home." 
Come home...come home.... 
Raistlin closed his eyes, the ache in his heart almostunendurable. His left hand stirred, lifted. Its delicate fingershovered near his brother's hand, touching it for an instant with atouch as soft as the feet of a spider. On the edges of reality, hecould hear Crysania's soft voice, praying to Paladine. The lovelywhite light flickered upon his eyelids. 
Come home.... 
When Raistlin spoke next, his voice was soft as his touch. "Thedark crimes that stain my soul, brother, you cannot begin toimagine. If you knew, you would turn from me in horror and inloathing." He sighed, shivering slightly. "And, you are right.Sometimes, in the night, even I turn from myself." 
Opening his eyes, Raistlin stared fixedly into his brother's."But, know this, Caramon-I committed those crimes intentionally,willingly. Know this, too-there are darker crimes before me, and Iwill commit them, intentionally, willingly. . . ." His gaze wentto Crysania, standing unseeing in the Portal, lost in her prayers,shimmering with beauty and power. 
Caramon looked at her and his face grew grim. 
Raistlin, watching, smiled. "Yes, my brother. She will enter theAbyss with me. She will go before me and fight my battles. Shewill face dark clerics, dark magic-users, spirits of the deaddoomed to wander in that cursed land, plus the unbelievabletorments that my Queen can devise. All these will wound her inbody, devour her mind, and shred her soul. Finally, when she canendure no more, she will slump to the ground to lie at my feet ...bleeding, wretched, dying. 
"She will, with her last strength, hold out her hand to me forcomfort. She will not ask me to save her. She is too strong forthat. She will give her life for me willingly, gladly. All shewill ask is that I stay with her as she dies." 
Raistlin drew a deep breath, then shrugged. "But I will walk pasther, Caramon. I will walk past her without a look, without a word.Why? Because I will need her no longer. I will continue forwardtoward my goal, and my strength will grow even as the blood flowsfrom her pierced heart." 
Half-turning, once again he raised his left hand, palm outward.Looking at the head of the dragon upon the top of the Portal, hesoftly said the second chant. "White Dragon. From this world tothe next/My voice cries with life. " 
Caramon's gaze was on the Portal, on Crysania, his mind swamped byhorror and revulsion. Still he held onto his brother. Still he thought to make one last plea. Then he felt the thin arm beneathhis hand make a sharp, twisting motion. There was a flash, a swiftmovement, and the gleaming blade of a silver dagger pressedagainst the flesh of his throat, right where his life's bloodpulsed in his neck. 
And though he did not strike with the dagger, it drew bloodanyway; drew blood not from flesh but from soul. Quickly andcleanly, it sliced through the last spiritual tie between thetwins. Caramon winced slightly at the swift, sharp pain in hisheart. But the pain did not endure. The tie was severed. Free atlast, Caramon released his twin's arm without a word. 
Turning, he started to limp back to where Tas waited, still hiddenbehind the pillar. 
"One final hint of caution, my brother," Raistlin said coldly,returning the dagger to the thong he wore on his wrist. 
Caramon did not respond, he neither stopped walking nor turnedaround. 
"Be wary of that magical time device," Raistlin continued with asneer. "Her Dark Majesty repaired it. It was she who sent thekender back. If you use it, you could find yourselves in a mostunpleasant place!" 
"Oh, but she didn't fix it!" Tas cried, popping out from behindthe pillar. "Gnimsh did. Gnimsh fixed it! Gnimsh, my friend. Thegnome that you murdered! I-" 
"Use it then," Raistlin said coldly. "Take him and yourself out ofhere, Caramon. But remember I warned you." 
Caramon caught hold of the angry kender. "Easy, Tas. That'senough. It doesn't matter now." 
Turning around, Caramon faced his twin. Though the warrior's facewas drawn with pain and weariness, his expression was one of peaceand calm, one who knows himself at last. Stroking Tas's topknot ofhair soothingly with his hand, he said, "Come on, Tas. Let's gohome. Farewell, my brother." 
Raistlin didn't hear. Facing the Portal, he was once again lost inhis magic. But, out of the corner of his eye, even as he began thethird chant, Raistlin saw his twin take the pendant from Tas andbegan the manipulations that would transfer its shape from pendantto the magical time-travel device. 
Looking back at the Portal, Raistlin smiled. A circle of coldlight, like the harsh glare of the sun upon snow, surroundedCrysania. The archmage's behest to the White Dragon had beenheard. 
Raising his hand, facing the third dragon's head in the lower leftpart of the Portal, Raistlin recited its chant. 
"Red Dragon. From darkness to darkness I shout/Beneath my feet,all is made firm." 
Red lines shot from Crysania's body through the white light,through the black aura. Red and burning as blood, they spanned thegap from Raistlin to the Portal-a bridge to beyond. 
Raistlin raised his voice. Turning to the right, he called to thefourth dragon. "Blue Dragon. Time that flows/Hold in your course." 
Blue streams of light flowed over Crysania, then began to swirl.As though floating in water, she leaned her head back, her armsextended, her robes drifting about her in the whirling flashes oflight, her hair drifting black upon the currents of time. 
Raistlin felt the Portal shiver. The magical field was starting toactivate and respond to his commands! His soul quivered in a joythat Crysania shared. Her eyes glistened with rapturous tears, herlips parted in a sweet sigh. Her hands spread and, at her touch,the Portal opened! 
Raistlin's breath caught in his throat. The surge of power andecstasy that coursed through his body nearly choked him. He couldsee through the Portal now. He could see glimpses of the planebeyond, the plane forbidden to mortal men. 
From somewhere, dimly heard, came his brother's voice activatingthe magical device-"Thy time is thy own, though across it youtravel ... Grasp firmly the beginning and the end. . . destiny beover your head...... 
Home. Come home. . . . 
Raistlin began the fifth chant. "Green Dragon. Because by fateeven the gods are cast down/Weep ye all with me. " Raistlin's voice cracked, faltered. Something was wrong! The magicpulsing through his body slowed, turned sluggish. He stammered outthe last few words, but each breath was an effort. His heartceased to beat for an instant, then started again with a greatleap that shook his frail frame. 
Shocked and confused, Raistlin stared frantically at the Portal.Had the final spell worked? No! The light around Crysania wasbeginning to waver. The field was shifting! 
Desperately, Raistlin cried the words of the last chant again. Buthis voice cracked, snapping back on him like a whip, stinging him.What was happening? He could feel the magic slither from hisgrasp. He was losing control.... 
Come home.... 
His Queen's voice laughing, mocking. His brothers voice, pleading,sorrowful.... And then, another voice-a shrill, kender voice-onlyhalf-heard, lost in his greater affairs. Now it flashed throughhis brain with a blinding light. 
Gnimsh fixed it.... The gnome, my friend . . . -
As the dwarf's blade had penetrated Raistlin's shrinking flesh, sonow the remembered words of Astinus's Chronicles stabbed his soul: 
At the same instant a gnome, being held prisoner by the dwarves ofThorbardin, activated a time-traveling device.... The gnome'sdevice interacted somehow with the delicate and powerful magicalspells being woven by Fistandantilus.. . . A blast occurred ofsuch magnitude that the Plains of Dergoth were utterlydestroyed.... 
Raistlin clenched his fists in anger. Killing the gnome had beenuseless! The wretched creature had tampered with the device beforehis death. History would repeat itself! Footsteps in the sand.... 
Looking into the Portal, Raistlin saw the executioner step outfrom it. He saw his own hand lift his own black hood, he saw theflash of the axe blade descending, his own hands bringing it downupon his own neck! 
The magical field began to shift violently. The dragon headssurrounding the Portal shrieked in triumph. A spasm of pain andterror twisted Crysania's face. Looking into her eyes, Raistlin Come home.... 
Within the Portal itself, the swirling lights began to whirlmadly. Spinning out of control, they rose up around the limp bodyof the cleric as the magical flames had risen around her in theplague town. Crysania cried out in pain. Her flesh began to witherin the beautiful, deadly fire of uncontrolled magic. 
Half-blinded by the brilliance, tears ran from Raistlin's eyes ashe stared into the swirling vortex. And then he saw-the Portal wasclosing. 
Hurling his magical staff to the floor, Raistlin unleashed hisrage in a bitter, incoherent scream of fury. 
Out of the Portal, in answer, came lilting, mocking laughter. 
Come home.... 
A feeling of calmness stole over Raistlin-the cold calm ofdespair. He had failed. But She would never see him grovel. If hemust die, he would die within his magic.... 
He lifted his head. He rose to his feet. Using all of his greatpowers-powers of the ancients, powers of his own, powers he had noidea he possessed, powers that rose from somewhere dark and hiddeneven from himself- Raistlin raised his arms and his voice screamed out once again. But this time it was not an incoherent shriek offrustrated helplessness. This time, his words were clear. Thistime he shouted words of command that had never been uttered uponthis world before. 
This time his words were heard and understood. 
The field held. He held it! He could feel himself holding onto it.At his command, the Portal shivered and ceased to close. 
Raistlin drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then, out of the cornerof his eye, somewhere to his right, he saw a flash. The magicaltime-travel device had been activated! 
The field jumped and surged wildly. As the device's magic grew andspread, its powerful vibrations caused the very rocks of thefortress to begin to sing. In a devastating wave their songs surged around Raistlin. The dragons' shrieking answered in anger.The ageless voices of the rocks and their timeless voices of thedragons fought, flowed together, and finally combined in adiscordant, mind-shattering cacophony. 
The sound was deafening, ear splitting. The force of the twopowerful spells sundered the ground. The earth beneath Raistlin'sfeet shuddered. The singing rocks split wide open. The metallicdragons' heads cracked.... 
The Portal itself began to crumble. 
Raistlin fell to his knees. The magical field was tearing loose,splitting apart like the bones of the world itself. It wasbreaking, splintering and, because Raistlin still held onto it, itbegan to tear him apart as well. 
Pain shot through his head. His body convulsed. He writhed inagony. 
It was a terrible choice he faced. Let go, and he would fall, fallto his doom, fall into a nothingness to which the most abjectdarkness was preferable. And yet, if he held it, he knew he wouldbe ripped apart, his body dismembered by the forces of magic hecould no longer control. 
His muscles ripped from his bones, sinews shredding, tendonssnapping. 
"Caramon!" Raistlin moaned, but Caramon and Tas had vanished. Themagical device, repaired by the one gnome whose inventions worked,had, indeed, worked. They were gone. There was no help. 
Raistlin had seconds to live, moments to act. Yet the pain was soexcruciating that he could not think. 
His joints were being wrested from their sockets, his eyes pluckedfrom his face, his heart torn from his body, his brain sucked fromhis skull. 
He could hear himself screaming and he knew it was his death cry.Still he fought on, as he had fought all his life. 
I ... will ... control.... 
The words came from his mouth, stained with his blood.... 
I will control.... 
Reaching out, his hand closed over the Staff of Magius. 
I will! 
And then he was hurtling forward into a blinding, swirling,

crashing wave of many-colored lights 
Come home ... come home. . . .