“Try it.”
Shrugging, but feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of those strange eyes that he could sense but could not see within the shadows of the black hood, Argat tossed the knife into the air.
A slender, white hand snaked out of the darkness, snatched the knife by the hilt, and deftly plunged the sharp blade into the table between them.
Argat’s eyes glinted. “Magic,” he growled.
“Skill,” said Raistlin coldly. “Now, are we going to continue this discussion 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 fortress itself. He will not take the field. He will give the command to shut the gates.”
Raistlin sank back into his chair, the tips of his long fingers came together. when that command comes, the gates win not shut.”
“That easy?” Argat sneered.
“That easy.” Raistlin spread his hands. “Those who would shut them die. 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 we turn traitor?”
“Nothing,” Raistlin said. Reaching into a pouch at his side, the mage pulled forth a rolled scroll tied with black ribbon. “You will have this delivered to Duncan.” Handing it to Argat, he motioned. “Read it.”
Frowning, still regarding Raistlin with suspicion, the dwarf took the 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 language of my people!”
Raistlin nodded, somewhat impatiently. “Of course, what did you expect? Duncan would not believe it otherwise.”
“But”—Argat gaped—“that language is secret, known only to the Dewar 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 him long moments, though the words were few. Stroking his thick, tangled beard, he pondered. Then, rising, he rolled the scroll back up and held it in his hand, tapping it slowly in his palm.
“You’re right. This solve everything.” He sat back down, his dark eyes, fixed on the mage, narrowing. “But I want something else give to Duncan. Not just scroll. Something... impressive.”
“What does your kind consider ‘impressive’?” Raistlin asked, his lip 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 cloth betrayed Raistlin’s thoughts. He even seemed to stop breathing. The silence lasted until it seemed to Argat to become a living entity itself, so powerful was it.
The dwarf shivered, then scowled. No, he would stick to this demand. Duncan would be forced to proclaim him a hero, like that bastard Kharas.
“Agreed.” Raistlin’s voice was level, without tone or emotion. But, as he spoke, he leaned over the table. Sensing the archmage gliding closer, Argat pulled back. He could see the glittering eyes now, and their deep, black chilling depths pierced him to the very core of his being.
“Agreed,” the mage repeated. “See that you keep your part of the bargain.”
Gulping, Argat gave a sickly smile. “You not called the Dark One without reason, are you, my friend?” he said, attempting a laugh as he rose to his feet, thrusting the scroll in his belt.
Raistlin did not answer, indicating he had heard only by a rustle of his hood. Shrugging, Argat turned and motioned to his companions, making a commanding gesture at the chest in the corner. Hurrying over, the two shut it and locked it with a key Raistlin drew out of the folds of his robes and silently handed to them. Though dwarves are accustomed to carrying heavy burdens with ease, the two grunted slightly as they lifted the chest. Argat’s eyes shone with pleasure.
The two dwarves preceded their leader from the tent. Bearing their burden between them, they hurried off to the safe shadows of the forest. Argat watched them, then turned back to face the mage, who was, 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 doublecross me, you and anyone else who has touched that money will see the skin of your hands turn black and begin to rot away. And when your hands are a bleeding mass of stinking flesh, the skin of your arms and your legs will blacken. And, slowly, as you watch helplessly, the curse will spread over your entire body. When you can no longer stand on your decaying feet, you will drop over dead.”
Argat made a strangled, inarticulate sound. “You—you’re lying!” he managed to snarl.
Raistlin said nothing. He might very well have disappeared from the tent for all Argat knew. The dwarf couldn’t see the mage or even sense his presence. What he did hear were shouts of laughter from the lodge as the door burst open. Light streamed out, dwarves and men staggered out into the night air.
Cursing under his breath, Argat hurried off.
But, as he ran, he wiped his hands frantically upon his trousers.
6
Dawn. Krynn’s sun crept up from behind the mountains slowly, almost as if it knew what ghastly sights it would shed its light upon this day. But time could not be stopped. Finally appearing over the mountains peaks, the sun was greeted with cheers and the clashing 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 Pax Tharkas, surrounded by his generals, Duncan heard the deep, hoarse voices of his men swelling up around him and he smiled with satisfaction. This would be a glorious day.
Only one dwarf was not cheering. Duncan didn’t even have to look at 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 in his large hands, he stood staring at the sunrise and, if anyone had looked, they would have seen tears trickling down his face.
But no one looked. Everyone’s gaze carefully avoided Kharas. Not because he wept, though tears are considered a childish weakness by dwarves. No, it was not because Kharas wept that everyone keep their 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 as his mind took in the disposition of the enemy, spreading out upon the barren plains, their spear tips glittering in the light of the sun, the Thane could still feel the boundless shock that had overwhelmed his soul that morning when he had seen Kharas take his place upon the battlements, bare-faced. In his hands, the dwarf held the long, curling tresses of his luxurious beard and, as they watched in horror, Kharas hurled them out over the battlements.
A beard is a dwarf’s birthright, his pride, his family’s pride. In deep grief, a dwarf will go through the mourning time without combing his beard, but there is only one thing that will cause a dwarf 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.