“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,” Caramon said quietly, “was the trial of blood.”
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 enough for his needs. He sent his men ranging up and down the coast for hundreds of miles, with orders to either purchase or commandeer sea-going vessels of any type, their crews with them, if possible. These they sailed to Caergoth, where the smiths and the craftsmen re-outfitted them to carry as great a load as possible for the short journey across the Straits of Schallsea to Abanasinia.
Daily, Caramon received reports on the build-up of the dwarven armies—how Pax Tharkas was being fortified; how the dwarves had imported slave labor (gully dwarves) to work the mines and the steel forges day and night, turning out weapons and armor; how these were being carted to Thorbardin and taken inside the mountain.
He also received reports from the emissaries of the hill dwarves and the Plainsmen. He heard about the great gathering of the tribes in Abanasinia, putting aside blood feuds to fight together for survival. He heard about the preparations of the hill dwarves, who were also forging weapons, using the same gully-dwarf slave labor 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 sent his message was none other than Solostaran, Speaker of the Suns, who had—just weeks ago—died in Caramon’s own time. Raistlin had sneered 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 dark hours 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 through the air, thudding into the ground, forming a deadly ring around each of them. Looking into the aspen woods, they could see literally hundreds of archers, each with an arrow socked and ready. No words were spoken. The messengers left, carrying an elven arrow to Caramon in answer.
The war itself, in fact, was beginning to give Caramon an eerie feeling. Piecing together what he had heard Raistlin and Crysania discussing, it suddenly occurred to Caramon that everything he was doing had all been done before. The thought was almost as nightmarish to him as to his brother, though for vastly different reasons.
“I feel as though that iron ring I wore round my neck in Istar had been bolted back on,” Caramon muttered to himself one night as he sat in the inn at Caergoth that he had taken over for his command post. “I’m a slave again, same as I was then. Only this time it’s worse, because—even when I was a slave—at least I had freedom to choose 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 dwelt on and mulled over many nights, one he knew he didn’t understand. He would like to have talked it over with his brother, but Raistlin was back at the inland camp with the army and even if they had been together, Caramon was certain his twin would have refused to discuss it.
Raistlin, during this time, had been gaining in strength almost daily. Following the use of his magical spells that consumed the dead village in a blazing funeral pyre, the archmage had laid almost dead to the world for two days. Upon waking from his feverish sleep, he had announced that he was hungry. Within the next few days, he ate more solid food than he had been able to tolerate in months. The cough vanished. He rapidly regained strength and added flesh to his bones.
But he was still tormented by nightmares that not even the strongest of sleeping potions could banish.
Day and night, Raistlin pondered his problem. If only he could learn Fistandantilus’s fatal mistake, he might be able to correct it!
Wild schemes came to mind. The archmage even toyed with the idea of traveling forward to his own time to research, but abandoned the^ idea—almost immediately. If—consuming a village in flame had plunged him into exhaustion for two days, the time-travel spell would prove even more wearing. And, though only a day or two might pass in the present while he recuperated, eons would flit by in the past. Finally, if he did make it back, he wouldn’t have the strength needed to battle the Dark Queen.
And then, just when he had almost given up in despair, the answer came to him...
1
Raistlin lifted the tent flap and walked out. The guard on duty started and shuffled uncomfortably. The appearance of the archmage was always unnerving, even to those of his own personal guard. No one ever heard him coming. He always seemed to materialize out of the air. The first indication of his presence was the touch of burning fingers upon a bare arm, or soft, whispered words, or the rustle of black robes.
The wizard’s tent was regarded with wonder and awe, though no one had ever seen anything strange emanating from it. Many, of course, watched—especially the children, who secretly hoped to see a horrible monster break free of the archmage’s control and go thundering through the camp, devouring everyone in sight until they were able to tame it with a bit of gingerbread.
But nothing of the kind ever happened. The archmage carefully nurtured and conserved his strength. Tonight would be different, Raistlin reflected with a sigh and scowl. But it couldn’t be helped.
“Guard,” he murmured.