Caramon nodded and moved forward slowly. The brightening day was driving night from the tent, and he could see more clearly with each step he took.
“There,” he said. He hurriedly kicked aside a camp stool that blocked his way. “Raist!” he called softly as he knelt down.
The archmage was lying on the floor. His face was ashen, his thin lips blue. His breathing was shallow and irregular, but he was breathing. Lifting his twin carefully, Caramon carried him to his bed. In the dim light, he could see a faint smile on Raistlin’s lips, as though he were lost in a pleasant dream.
“I think he’s just sleeping now,” Caramon said in a mystified voice to Crysania, who was covering Raistlin with a blanket. “But something’s happened. That’s obvious.” He looked around the tent in 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 material itself 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 seriously damaged. It was the object on the table, however, that had brought the exclamation from Caramon.
“The dragon orb!” he whispered in awe.
Made by the mages of all three Robes long ago, filled with the essence of good, evil, and neutral dragons, powerful enough to span the banks of time, the crystal orb still stood upon the table, 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 its center.
Now...
“It’s broken,” Caramon said in a quiet voice.
4
The Army of Fistandantilus sailed across the Straits of Schallsea in a ramshackle fleet made up of many fishing boats, row boats, crude rafts, and gaudily decorated pleasure boats. Though the distance was not great, it took over a week to get the people, the animals, and the supplies transported.
By the time Caramon was ready to make the crossing, the army had grown to such an extent that there were not enough boats to ferry everyone across at once. Many craft had to make several trips back and forth. The largest boats were used to carry livestock. Converted into floating barns, they had stalls for the horses and the scrawny cattle and pens for the pigs.
Things went smoothly, for the most part, though Caramon got only about three hours of sleep each night, so busy was he with the problems that everyone was sure only he could solve everything from seasick cattle to a chest-load of swords that was accidentally dropped overboard and had to be retrieved. Then, just when the end was in sight and nearly everyone was across, a storm came up. Whipping the seas to froth, it wrecked two boats that slipped from their moorings and prevented anyone from crossing for two days. But, eventually, everyone made it in relatively good shape, with only a few cases of seasickness, one child tumbling overboard (rescued), and a horse that broke its leg kicking down its stall in a panic (killed and butchered).
Upon landing on the shores of Abanasinia, the army was met by the chief of the Plainsmen—the tribes of barbarians inhabiting the northern plains of Abanasinia who were eager to gain the fabled gold of Thorbardin—and also by representatives from the hill dwarves. 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 to the tent. Standing aside, the knight allowed a group of three dwarves to enter.
That name ringing in his ears, Caramon stared at the first dwarf in disbelief. Raistlin’s thin fingers closed painfully over his arm.
“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’s grandfather.”
Flint’s grandfather! Flint Fireforge—his old friend. The old dwarf who had died in Tanis’s arms at Godshome, the old dwarf—so gruff and irascible, yet so tender-hearted, the dwarf who had seemed ancient to Caramon. He had not even been born yet! This was his grandfather.
Suddenly the full scope of where he was and what he was doing struck Caramon a physical blow.
Before this, he might have been adventuring in his own time. He knew then that he hadn’t really been taking any of this seriously. Even Raistlin “sending” him home had seemed as simple as the archmage putting him on a boat and bidding him farewell. Talk of “altering” time he’d put out of his mind. It confused him, seeming to go round in a closed, endless circle.
Caramon felt hot, then cold. Flint hadn’t been born yet. Tanis didn’t exist, Tika didn’t exist. He, himself, didn’t exist! No! It was too implausible! It couldn’t be!
The tent tilted before Caramon’s eyes. He was more than half afraid he might be sick.
Fortunately, Raistlin saw the pallor of his brother’s face. Knowing intuitively what his twin’s brain was trying to assimilate, the mage rose to his feet and, moving gracefully in front of his momentarily befuddled brother, spoke suitable words of welcome to the dwarves. But, as Raistlin did so, he shot a dark, penetrating glance at Caramon, reminding him sternly of his duty.
Pulling himself together, Caramon was able to thrust the disturbing and confusing thoughts from his mind, telling himself he would deal with them later in peace and quiet. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Unfortunately, the peace and quiet time never seemed to come about...
Getting to his feet, Caramon was even able to shake hands calmly with the sturdy, gray-bearded dwarf.
“Little did I ever think,” Reghar said bluntly, sitting down in the chair offered him and accepting a mug of ale, which he quaffed at one gulp, “that I’d be making deals with humans and wizards, especially against my own flesh and blood.” He scowled into the empty mug. Caramon, with a gesture, had the lad who attended him refill it.
Reghar, still with the same scowl, waited for the foam to settle. Then, sighing, he raised it to Caramon, who had returned to his chair. “Durth Zamish och Durth Tabor. Strange times makes strange brothers.”
“You can say that again,” Caramon muttered with a glance at Raistlin. The general lifted his glass of water and drank it. Raistlin—out of politeness—moistened his lips from a glass of wine, 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’s scowl deepened, and Caramon sighed inwardly, foreseeing trouble. But he continued in a hearty, cheerful tone. “Let’s dine together tonight, to seal our alliance.”
At this, Reghar rose to his feet. “I may have to fight with the barbarians,” he growled. “But, by Reorx’s beard, I don’t have to eat with them—or you either!”
Caramon stood up again. Dressed in his best ceremonial armor (more gifts from the knights), he was an imposing sight. The dwarf squinted up at the warrior.
“You’re a big one, ain’t you?” he said. Snorting, he shook his head dubiously. “I mistrust there’s more muscle in your head than brain.”
Caramon could not help smiling, though his heart ached. It sounded so much like Flint talking!
But Raistlin did not smile.
“My brother has an excellent mind for military matters,” the mage said coldly and unexpectedly.
“When we left Palanthas, there were but three of us. It is due to General Caramon’s skill and quick thinking that we are able to bring this mighty army to your shores. I think you would find it well to accept his leadership.”
Reghar snorted again, peering at Raistlin keenly from beneath his bushy gray, overhanging eyebrows. His heavy armor clanging and rattling about him, the dwarf turned and started to stump out of the 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 stood guard outdoors, the hundreds of men he had seen working together to unload supplies from the ships, other men practicing their fighting techniques, the row after row of cooking fires...