Darknight needed no urging. Without bothering to get help, he leaped into the mud and began to wade toward the post. But with each step, he sank farther and farther, the mud growing deeper and deeper as he neared his objective. By the time he reached the post, he had sunk past his knees in the sticky substance.
Reghar—more cautious—took time to observe his opponent. Calling on nine of his stoutest men to help, the dwarven leader and his men stepped into the mud. The entire contingent promptly vanished, their heavy armor causing them to sink almost immediately. Their fellows helped drag them out. Last to emerge was Reghar.
Swearing an oath to every god he could think of, the dwarf wrung mud out of his beard, then, scowling, proceeded to strip off his armor. Holding his axe high over his head, he waded back into the mud, not even waiting for his escort.
Darknight had reached the pole. Right at the base, the mud wasn’t so deep—there was firm ground below it. Grasping the pole with his arms, the chieftain dragged himself up out of the mud and wrapped his legs around it. He moved up about three feet, grinning broadly at his tribesmen who cheered him on. Then, suddenly, he began to slide back down. Gritting his teeth, he strove desperately to hang on, but it was useless. At last, the great chieftain slid slowly down to the base, amid howls of dwarven derision. Sitting in the mud, he glared grimly at the pole. It had been greased with animal fat.
More swimming that walking, Reghar at last reached the base of the pole. He was waist-deep in mud by that time, but the dwarf’s great strength kept him going.
“Stand aside,” he growled to the frustrated Plainsman. “Use your brains! If we can’t go up, we’ll bring the prize down to us!” A grin of triumph on his mud-splattered, bearded face, Reghar drew back 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 rebounded off the pole as if it had struck the side of a mountain the pole had been hewn from the thick trunk of an ironwood tree. As the reverberating axe flew from the dwarf’s stinging hands, the force of the blow sent Reghar sprawling on his back in the mud. Now it was 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. Then Reghar’s eyes went to the notched axe that was slowly sinking into the ooze. He glanced up at the beautiful axe, its steel flashing in the firelight, and—with a growl, turned to face his men.
Reghar’s escort, now stripped of their armor, had waded out to him by now. Shouting and gesturing, Reghar motioned them to line up at the base of the slick pole. Then the dwarves began to form a pyramid. 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 to nine of his warriors. Within moments, the humans were forming their own pyramid. Being shorter, the dwarves were forced to make their pyramid smaller at the base and extend it up by single dwarves to reach the top.
Reghar himself made the final ascent. Teetering on the pinnacle as the dwarves swayed and groaned beneath him, his arms strained to reach the platform—but he wasn’t tall enough.
Darknight, climbing over the backs of his own men, easily reached the underside of the platform.
Then, laughing at the scowl on Reghar’s mud-covered face, the chieftain tried to pull himself through one of the odd-shaped openings.
He couldn’t fit.
Squeezing, swearing, holding his breath was no help. The human could 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 mud below, while the force of his jump caused the entire dwarven pyramid to topple, sending dwarves everywhere.
This time, though, the humans didn’t laugh. Staring down at Reghar, Darknight suddenly jumped down into the mud himself. Landing next to the dwarf, he grabbed hold of him and dragged him to the surface of the ooze.
Both were, by this time, almost indistinguishable, covered head to foot with the black goop. They stood, staring at each other.
“You know,” said Reghar, wiping mud from his eyes, “that I’m the only one who can fit through that hole.”
“And you know,” said Darknight through clenched teeth, “that I’m the only who can get you up there.”
The dwarf grabbed the Plainsman’s hand. The two moved quickly over to the human pyramid.
Darknight climbed first, providing the last link to the top. Everyone cheered as Reghar climbed up onto the human’s shoulders and easily squirmed through the hole.
Scrambling up onto the platform, the dwarf grasped the hilt of the sword and the handle of the axe and raised them triumphantly over his head. The crowd fell silent. Once again, human and dwarf eyed each other suspiciously.
This is it! Caramon thought. How much of Flint did I see in you, Reghar? How much of Riverwind in you, Darknight? So much depends on this!
Reghar looked down through the hole at the stern face of the Plainsman. “This axe, which must have been forged by Reorx himself, I owe to you, Plainsman. I will be honored to fight by your side. And, if you’re going to fight with me, you need a decent weapon!”
Amid cheers from the entire camp, he handed the great, gleaming sword down through the hole to Darknight.
5
The banquet lasted well into the night. The field rang with laughter and shouts and good-natured oaths sworn in dwarven and tribal tongues as well as Solamnic and Common.
It was easy for Raistlin to slip away. In the excitement, no one missed 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 nothing more 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 dared not join them, knowing that the presence of the “witch” would harm Caramon immensely.
How ironic, thought Raistlin, that a black-robed wizard is tolerated in this time, while a cleric of Paladine is scorned and reviled.
Treading softly in his leather boots across the field where the army camped, barely even leaving footprints in the damp grass, Raistlin found a grim sort of amusement in this. Glancing up at the constellations in the sky, he regarded both the Platinum Dragon and the Five-Headed Dragon opposite with a slight sneer.
The knowledge that Fistandantilus might have succeeded if it had not been for the unforeseen intervention of some wretched gnome had 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 mountain fortress of Zhaman, then, from there, it would be simple indeed to make his way into Thorbardin, discover this gnome, and render him harmless.
Time—which had been altered previously—would return to its proper flow. Where Fistandantilus had failed, he would succeed.
Therefore, even as Fistandantilus had done before him, Raistlin now gave the war effort his undivided interest and attention to make certain that he would be able to reach Zhaman. He and Caramon spent long hours poring over old maps, studying the fortifications, comparing what they remembered from their journeys in these lands in a time yet to come and trying to guess what changes 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.