“This wasn’t in the histories,” Raistlin murmured to himself, staring down at the wretched little bodies, his brow furrowed. His eyes flashed. “Perhaps,” he breathed, “this means time has already been altered?”
For long moments he sat there, pondering. Then suddenly he understood.
None saw Raistlin’s face, hidden as it was by his hood, or they would have noted a swift, sudden spasm of sorrow and anger pass across it.
“No,” he said to himself bitterly, “the pitiful sacrifice of these poor creatures was left out of the histories not because it did not happen. It was left out simply because—”
He paused, staring grimly down at the small broken bodies. “No one cared...”
7
“I must see the general!”
The voice pierced through the soft, warm cloud of sleep that wrapped Caramon like the down-filled comforter on the bed the first real bed he’d slept in for months.
“Go ’way,” mumbled Caramon and heard Garic say the same thing, or close enough...
“Impossible. The general is sleeping. He’s not to be disturbed.”
“I must see him. It’s urgent!”
“He hasn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours—”
“I know! But—”
The voices dropped. Good, Caramon thought, now I can go back to sleep. But he found, unfortunately, that the lowered voices only made him more wakeful. Something was wrong, he knew it. With a groan, he rolled over, dragging the pillow on top his head. Every muscle in his body ached; he had been on horseback almost eighteen hours without rest. Surely Garic could handle it...
The door to his room opened softly.
Caramon squeezed his eyes shut, burrowing farther down into the feather bed. It occurred to him as he did so that, a couple of hundred years from now, Verminaard, the evil Dragon Highlord, would sleep in this very same bed. Had someone wakened him like this, that morning the Heroes had freed the slaves of Pax Tharkas?...
“General,” said Garic’s soft voice. “Caramon”
There was a muttered oath from the pillow.
Perhaps, when I leave, I’ll put a frog in the bed, Caramon thought viciously. It would be nice and stiff in two hundred years...
“General,” Garic persisted, “I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but you’re needed in the courtyard at once.”
“What for?” growled Caramon, throwing off the blankets and sitting up, wincing at the soreness in his thighs and back. Rubbing his eyes, he glared at Garic.
“The army, sir. It’s leaving.”
Caramon stared at him. “What? You’re crazy.”
“No, s-sir,” said a young soldier, who had crept in after Garic and now stood behind him, his eyes wide with awe at being in the presence of his commanding officer—despite the fact that the officer was naked and only half-awake. “They—they’re gathering in the courtyard, n-now, sir... The dwarves and the Plainsmen and... and some of ours.”
“Not the Knights,” Garic added quickly.
“Well... well...” Caramon stammered, then waved his hand. “Tell them to disperse, damn it! This is nonsense.” He swore. “Name of the gods, three-fourths of them were dead drunk last night!”
“They’re sober enough this morning, sir. And I think you should come,” Garic said softly. “Your brother is leading them.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Caramon demanded, his breath puffing white in the chill air. It was the coldest morning of the fall. A thin coat of frost covered the stones of Pax Tharkas, mercifully obliterating the red stains of battle. Wrapped in a thick cloak, dressed only in leather breeches and boots that he had hastily thrown on, Caramon glanced about the courtyard. It was crowded with dwarves and men, all standing quietly, grimly, in ranks, waiting for the order to march.
Caramon’s stern gaze fixed itself on Reghar Fireforge, then shifted to Darknight, chief of the Plainsmen.
“We went over this yesterday,” Caramon said. His voice taut with barely contained anger, he came to stand in front of Reghar. “It’ll take another two days for our supply wagons to catch up. There’s not enough food left here for the march, you told me that yourself last night. And you won’t find so much as a rabbit on the Plains of Dergoth—”
“We don’t mind missing a few meals,” grunted Reghar, the emphasis on the “we” leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Caramon’s love of his dinner was well-known.
This did nothing to improve the general’s humor. Caramon’s face flushed. “What about weapons, you long-bearded fool?” he snapped. “What about fresh water, shelter, food for the horses?”
“We won’t be in the Plains that long,” Reghar returned, his eyes flashing. “The mountain dwarves, Reorx curse their stone hearts, are in confusion. We must strike now, before they can get their forces back together.”
“We went over this last night!” Caramon shouted in exasperation. “This was just a part of their force we faced here. Duncan’s got another whole damn army waiting for you beneath the mountain!”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Reghar snarled surlily, staring southward and folding his arms in front of him. “At any rate, we’ve changed our minds. We’re marching today—with or without you.”
Caramon glanced at Darknight, who had remained silent throughout this conversation. The chief of the Plainsmen only nodded, once: His men, standing behind him, were stern and quiet, though—here and there—Caramon saw a few green tinged faces and knew that many had not fully recovered from last night’s celebration.
Finally, Caramon’s gaze shifted to a black-robed figure seated on a black horse. Though the figure’s eyes were shadowed by his black hood, Caramon had felt their intense, amused gaze ever since he walked out of the door of the gigantic fortress.
Turning abruptly away from the dwarf, Caramon stalked over to Raistlin. He was not surprised to find Lady Crysania on her horse, muffled in a thick cloak. As he drew nearer, he noticed that the bottom of the cleric’s cloak was stained dark with blood. Her face, barely visible above a scarf she had wound around her neck and chin, was pale but composed. He wondered briefly where she had been and what she had been doing during the long night. His thoughts were centered, however, on his twin.
“This is your doing,” he said in a low voice, approaching Raistlin and laying his hand upon the horse’s neck.
Raistlin nodded complacently, leaning forward over the pommel of the saddle to talk to his brother. Caramon could see his face, cold and white as the frost on the pavement beneath their feet.
“What’s the idea?” Caramon demanded, still in the same low voice. “What’s this all about? You know we can’t march without supplies!”
“You’re playing this much too safely, my brother,” said Raistlin. He shrugged and added, “The supply trains will catch up with us. As for weapons, the men have picked up extra ones here after the battle. Reghar is right—we must strike quickly, before Duncan can get organized.”
“You should have discussed this with me!” Caramon growled, clenching his fist. “I am in command!”
Raistlin looked away, shifting slightly in his saddle. Caramon, standing near him, felt his brother’s body shiver beneath the black robes. “There wasn’t time,” the archmage said after a moment. “I had a dream last night, my brother. She came to me—my Queen... Takhisis... . It is imperative that I reach Zhaman as soon as possible.”
Caramon gazed at his brother in silent, sudden understanding. “They mean nothing to you!” he said softly, gesturing to the men and dwarves standing, waiting behind him. “You’re interested in one thing only, reaching your precious Portal!” His bitter gaze shifted to Crysania, who regarded him calmly, though her gray eyes were dark and shadowed from a sleepless, horror-filled night spent among the wounded and dying. “You, too? You support him in this?”