Overwhelmed and astounded by his brothers unaccustomed praise, Caramon couldn’t answer.
But he managed to nod.
The dwarf snorted again, but there was a glint of grudging admiration in his eyes as he clanked and rattled his way out of the tent.
Reghar suddenly poked his head back inside. “I’ll be at yer dinner,” he snarled ungraciously, then stomped off.
“I, too, must be leaving, my brother,” Raistlin said absently as he 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 a touch on his arm. Irritated at the disturbance, he glanced at his brother.
“Well?”
“I—I just want to say... thank you.” Caramon swallowed, then continued 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 need these dwarves as our allies. I have often told you that you have hidden resources if you would only take the time and trouble to develop them. We are twins after all,” the mage added sardonically. “I did not think we could be so unlike as you had convinced yourself.”
The mage started to leave again but once more felt his brother’s hand 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, from what I knew then. Now, I’m not so certain.” He sighed, looking down at his feet, then raising his flushed face. “I—I’d like to think that you did this—that you put the mages in a position where they had to send me back in time—to help me learn this lesson. That may not be the reason,” Caramon hastened to add, seeing his brother’s lips compress and the cold eyes grow colder, “and I’m sure 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 a little. Some part of you saw I was in trouble and you wanted to help.”
Raistlin regarded his brother with amusement. Then he shrugged again. “Very well, Caramon: If this romantic notion of yours will help you fight better, if it will help you plan your strategies better, if it will aid your thinking, and—above all—if it will let me 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 to the entrance to the tent. Here he hesitated. Half-turning his hooded head, he spoke in a low voice, his words exasperated, yet tinged with a certain sadness.
“You never did understand me, Caramon.”
Then he left, his black robes rustling around his ankles as he walked.
The banquet that evening was held outdoors. Its beginnings were less than propitious.
The food was set on long tables of wood, hastily constructed from the rafts that had been used to cross the straits. Reghar arrived with a large escort, about forty dwarves. Darknight, Chief of the Plainsmen, who—with his grim face and tall, proud stance, reminded Caramon forcibly of Riverwind brought with him forty warriors. In turn, Caramon chose forty of his men whom he knew (or at least hoped) could be trusted and could hold their liquor.
Caramon had figured that, when the groups filed in, the dwarves would sit by themselves, the Plainsmen by themselves, and so forth. No amount of talking would get them to mingle. Sure enough, after each group had arrived, all stood staring at each other in grim silence, the dwarves gathered around their leader, the Plainsmen around theirs, while Caramon’s men looked on uncertainly.
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 a commanding presence and even the dour dwarves exchanged looks of reluctant approval.
Caramon raised his hands.
“Greetings to my guests!” he called in his loud, booming baritone. “Welcome. This is a dinner of fellowship, to mark alliance and new-found friendship among our races—”
At this there were muttered, scoffing words and snorts of derision. One of the dwarves even spat upon the ground, causing several Plainsmen to grip their bows and take a step forward—this being considered a dreadful insult among Plainspeople. Their chief stopped them, and, coolly ignoring the interruption, Caramon continued.
“We are going to be fighting together, perhaps dying together. Therefore, let us start our meeting this first night by sitting together and sharing bread and drink like brothers. I know that you are reluctant to be parted from your kinsmen and friends, but I 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 low mutterings rumbled through the air like thunder. No grown dwarf ever played games! (Certain recreational activities such as “Stone Strike” and “Hammer Throw” were considered sports.) Darknight and his men brightened, however; the Plainsmen lived for games and contests, these being considered almost as much fun as making war on neighboring tribes.
Waving his arm, Caramon gestured to a new, huge, cone shaped tent that stood behind the tables and had been the object of many curious, 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 the evening wind, illuminated by the great bonfire burning nearby.
As all stared at the tent, Caramon reached out and, with a yank of his strong hand, pulled on a rope. Instantly, the canvas sides of the tent fell to the ground and, at a signal from Caramon, were dragged away by several grinning young boys.
“What nonsense is this?” Reghar growled, fingering his axe. A single heavy post stood in a sea of black, oozing mud. The post’s shaft had been planed smooth and gleamed in the firelight. Near the top of the post was a round platform made of solid wood, except for several irregularly shaped holes that had been cut into it.
But it was not the sight of the pole or the platform or the mud that brought forth sudden exclamations of wonder and excitement from dwarves and humans alike. It was the sight of what was embedded in the wood at the very top of the post. Shining in the firelight, their crossed handles flashing, were a sword and a battle-axe. But these were not the crude iron weapons many carried. These were of the finest wrought steel, their exquis ite workmanship apparent to those who stood twenty feet below, staring up at them.
“Reorx’s beard!” Reghar drew a deep, quivering breath. “Yon axe is worth the price of our village! I’d trade fifty years of my life for a weapon such as that!”
Darknight, staring at the sword, blinked his eyes rapidly as swift tears 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 registering blank 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, forcing Caramon to shout over the turmoil.
“Reghar and Darknight—each of you may choose nine warriors to help you! The first to gain the prizes wins them for his own!”