“The trial of blood, Caramon,” she said softly. “It must be stopped—forever. I have seen the ultimate evil mankind can inflict upon itself.”
“I wonder!” Caramon muttered, glancing at his twin.
Reaching up with his slender hands, Raistlin slowly drew back the folds of his hood, leaving his eyes visible. Caramon recoiled, seeing himself reflected in the flat surface, seeing his face—haggard, unshaven, his hair uncombed, fluttering raggedly in the wind. And then, as Raistlin stared at him, holding him in an intense gaze as a snake charms a bird, words came into Caramon’s mind.
You know me well, my brother. The blood that flows in our veins speaks louder than words sometimes. Yes, you are right. I care nothing for this war. I have fought it for one purpose only, and that is to reach the Portal. These fools will carry me that far. Beyond that, what does it matter to me whether we win or lose?
I have allowed you to play general, Caramon, since you seemed to enjoy your little game. You are, in fact, surprisingly good at it. You have served my purpose adequately. You will serve me still. You will lead the army to Zhaman. When Lady Crysania and I are safely there, I will send you home. Remember this, my brother—the battle on the Plains of Dergoth was lost! You cannot change that!
“I don’t believe you!” Caramon said thickly, staring at Raistlin with wild eyes. “You wouldn’t ride to your own death! You must know something! You—”
Caramon choked, half-strangled. Raistlin drew nearer to him, seeming to suck the words out of his throat.
My counsel is my own to keep! What I know or do not know does not concern you, so do not tax your brain with fruitless speculation.
“I’ll tell them!” Caramon said forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “I’ll tell them the truth!”
Tell them what? That you have seen the future? That they are doomed? Seeing the struggle in Caramon’s anguish-filled face, Raistlin smiled. I think not, my brother. And now, if you ever want to return to your home again, I suggest you go upstairs, put on your armor, and lead your army.
The archmage lifted his hands and pulled his hood down low over his eyes again. Caramon drew in his breath with a gasp, as though someone had dashed cold water in his face. For a moment, he could only stand staring at his twin, shivering with a rage that nearly overpowered him.
All he could think of, at that moment, was Raistlin . . laughing with him by the tree... Raistlin holding the rabbit... That camaraderie between them had been real. He would swear it! And yet, this, too, was real. Real and cold and sharp as the blade of a knife shining in the clear light of morning.
And, slowly, the light from that knife blade began to penetrate the clouds of confusion in Caramon’s mind, severing another of the ties that bound him to his brother.
The knife moved slowly. There were many ties to cut.
The first gave in the blood-soaked arena at Istar, Caramon realized. And he felt another part as he stared at his brother in the frost-rimed courtyard of Pax Tharkas.
“It seems I have no choice,” he said, tears of anger and pain blurring the image of his brother in his sight.
“None,” Raistlin replied. Grasping the reins, he made ready to ride off. “There are things I must attend to. Lady Crysania will ride with you, of course, in the vanguard. Do not wait for me. I will ride behind for a time.”
And so I’m dismissed, Caramon said to himself. Watching his brother ride away, he felt no anger anymore, just a dull, gnawing ache. An amputated limb left behind such phantom pain, so he had heard once...
Turning on his heel, feeling more than hearing the heavy silence that had settled over the courtyard, the general walked alone to his quarters and slowly began to put on his armor.
When Caramon returned, dressed in his familiar golden armor, his cape fluttering in the wind, the dwarves and Plainsmen and the men of his own army raised their voices in a resounding cheer.
Not only did they truly admire and respect the big man, but all credited him with the brilliant strategy that had brought them victory the day before. General Caramon was lucky, it was said, blessed by some god. After all, wasn’t it luck that had kept the dwarves from closing the gates?
Most had felt uncomfortable when it was rumored they might be riding off without him. There had been many dark glances cast at the black-robed wizard, but who dared voice disapproval?
The cheers were immensely comforting to Caramon and, for a moment, he could say nothing.
Then, finding his voice, he gruffly issued orders as he made ready to ride.
With a gesture, Caramon called one of the young Knights forward.
“Michael, I’m leaving you here in Pax Tharkas, in command,” he said, pulling on a pair of gloves.
The young Knight flushed with pleasure at this unexpected honor, even as he glanced behind at the hole his leaving made in the ranks.
“Sir, I’m only a low-ranking—Surely, someone more qualified—”
Smiling at him sadly, Caramon shook his head. “I know your qualifications, Michael. Remember? You were ready to die to fulfill a command, and you found the compassion to disobey. It won’t be easy, but do the best you can. The women and children will stay here, of course. And I’ll send back any wounded. When the supply trains arrive, see that they’re sent on as quickly as possible.” He shook his head. “Not that it is likely to be soon enough,” he muttered. Sighing, he added, “You can probably hold out the winter here, if you have to. No matter what happens to us... .”
Seeing the Knights glance at each other, their faces puzzled and worried, Caramon abruptly bit off his words. No, his bitter foreknowledge must not be allowed to show. Feigning cheerfulness, therefore, he clapped Michael upon the shoulder, added something brave and inane, then mounted his horse amidst wild yelling.
The yells increased as the standard-bearer raised the army’s standard. Caramon’s banner with its nine-pointed star gleamed brightly in the sun. His Knights formed ranks behind him. Crysania came up to ride with them, the Knights parting, with their usual chivalry, to let her take her place.
Though the Knights had no more use for the witch than anyone else in camp, she was a woman, after all, and the Code required them to protect and defend her with their lives.
“Open the gates!” Caramon shouted.
Pushed by eager hands, the gates swung open. Casting a final glance around to see that all was in readiness, Caramon’s eyes suddenly encountered those of his twin.
Raistlin sat upon his black horse within the shadows of the great gates. He did not move nor speak. He simply sat, watching, waiting.
For as long as it took to draw a shared, simultaneous breath, the twins regarded each other intently, then Caramon turned his face away.
Reaching over, he grabbed his standard from his bearer. Holding it high over his head, he cried out one word, “Thorbardin!” The morning sun, just rising above the peaks, burned golden on Caramon’s armor. It sparkled golden on the threads of the banner’s star, glittered golden on the spear tips of the long ranks behind him.
“Thorbardin!” he cried once again and, spurring his horse, he galloped out of the gates.
“Thorbardin!” His cry was echoed by thunderous yells and the clashing of sword against shield.
The dwarves began their familiar, eerie, deep-throated chant, “Stone and metal, metal and stone, stone and metal, metal and stone,” stomping their iron-shod feet to it in stirring rhythm as they marched out of the fort in rigid lines.
They were followed by the Plainsmen, who moved in less orderly fashion. Wrapped in their fur cloaks against the chill, they walked in leisurely fashion, sharpening weapons, tying feathers in their hair, or painting strange symbols on their faces. Soon, growing tired of the rigid order, they would drift off the road to travel in their accustomed hunting packs. After the barbarians came Caramon’s troop of farmers and thieves, more than a few of them staggering from the after-effects of last night’s victory party. And finally, bringing up the rear, were their new allies, the Dewar.