Caramon, glancing up, saw his own tent, sitting apart from them all, as though he had simply written them off.
An old Krynnish legend told of a man who had once committed a deed so heinous that the gods themselves gathered to inflict his punishment. When they announced that, henceforth, the man was to have the ability to see into the future, the man laughed, thinking he had outwitted the gods. The man had, however, died a tortured death—something Caramon had never been able to understand.
But now he understood, and his soul ached. Truly, no greater punishment could be inflicted upon any mortal. For, by seeing into the future and knowing what the outcome will be, man’s greatest gift—hope—is taken away.
Up until now, Caramon had hoped. He had believed Raistlin would come up with a plan. He had believed his brother wouldn’t let this happen. Raistlin couldn’t let this happen. But now, knowing that Raistlin truly didn’t care what became of these men and dwarves and the families they had left behind, Caramon’s hope died. They were doomed. There was nothing he could do to prevent what had happened before from happening again.
Knowing this and knowing the pain that this must inevitably cost him, Caramon began to unconsciously distance himself from those he had come to care about. He began to think about home.
Home! Almost forgotten, even purposefully shoved to the back of his mind, memories of his home now flooded over him with such vivid clarity—once he let them—that sometimes, in the long, lonely evenings, he stared into a fire he could not see for his tears.
It was the one thought that kept Caramon going. As he led his army closer and closer to their defeat, each step led him closer to Tika, closer to home...
“Look out there!” Reghar grabbed hold of him, shaking him from his reverie. Caramon blinked and looked up just before he stumbled into one of the strange mounds that dotted the Plains.
“What are these confounded contrivances anyway?” Caramon grumbled, glaring at it. “Some type of animal dwelling? I’ve heard tell of squirrels without tails who live in homes like these upon the great flatlands of Estwilde.” He eyed the structure that was nearly three feet tall and just as wide, and shook his head. “But I’d hate to meet up with the squirrel who built this!”
“Bah! Squirrel indeed!” Reghar scoffed. “Dwarves built these! Can’t you tell? Look at the workmanship.” He ran his hand lovingly over the smooth-sided dome. “Since when did Nature do such a perfect job?”
Caramon snorted. “Dwarves! But—why? What for? Not even dwarves love work so much that they do it for their health! Why waste time building mounds in a desert?”
“Observation posts,” Reghar said succinctly.
“Observation?” Caramon grinned. “What do they observe? Snakes?”
“The land, the sky, armies—like ours.” Reghar stamped his foot, raising a cloud of dust. “Hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That.” Reghar stamped again. “Hollow.”
Caramon’s brow cleared. “Tunnels!” His eyes opened wide. Looking around the desert at mound after mound rising up out of the flatlands, he whistled softly.
“Miles of ’em!” Reghar said, nodding his head. “Built so long ago that they were old to my great-grandfather. Of course” the dwarf sighed—“most of them haven’t been used in that long either. Legend had it that there were once fortresses between here and Pax Tharkas, connecting up with the Kharolis Mountains. A dwarf could walk from Pax Tharkas to Thorbardin without ever once seeing the sun, if the old tales be true.
“The fortresses are gone now. And many of the tunnels, in all likelihood. The Cataclysm wrecked most of ’em. Still,” Reghar continued cheerfully, as he and Caramon resumed walking, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Duncan hadn’t a few spies down there, skulking about like rats.”
“Above or below, they’ll see us coming from a long way off,” Caramon muttered, his gaze scanning the flat, empty land.
“Aye,” Reghar said stoutly, “and much good it will do them.”
Caramon did not answer, and the two kept going, the big man returning alone to his tent and the dwarf returning to the encampment of his people.
In one of the mounds, not far from Caramon’s tent, eyes were watching the army, watching its every move. But those eyes weren’t interested in the army itself. They were interested in three people, three people only...
“Not long now,” Kharas said. He was peering out through slits so cunningly carved into the rock that they allowed those in the mound to look out but prevented anyone looking at the outside of the mound from seeing in. “How far do you make the distance?”
This to a dwarf of ancient, scruffy appearance, who glanced out the slits once in a bored fashion, then glanced down the length of the tunnel. “Two hundred, fifty-three steps. Bring you smack up in the center,” he said without hesitation.
Kharas looked back out onto the Plains to where the general’s large tent sat apart from the campfires of his men. It seemed marvelous to Kharas that the old dwarf could judge the distance so accurately. The hero might have expressed doubts, had it been anyone but Smasher. But the elderly thief who had been brought out of retirement expressly for this mission had too great a reputation for performing remarkable feats—a reputation that almost equaled Kharas’s own.
“The sun is setting,” Kharas reported, rather unnecessarily since the lengthening shadows could be seen slanting against the rock walls of the tunnel behind him. “The general returns. He is entering his tent.” Kharas frowned. “By Reorx’s beard, I hope he doesn’t decide to change his habits tonight.”
“He won’t,” Smasher said. Crouched comfortably in a corner, he spoke with the calm certainty of one who had (in former days) earned a living by watching the comings and—more particularly—the goings of his fellows. “First two things you learn when yer breakin’ house—everyone has a routine and no one likes change. Weather’s fine, there’ve been no startlements, nothin out there ’cept sand an’ more sand. No, he won’t change.”
Kharas frowned, not liking this reminder of the dwarf’s lawless past. Well aware of his own limitations, Kharas had chosen Smasher for this mission because they needed someone skilled in stealth, skilled in moving swiftly and silently, skilled in attacking by night, and escaping into the darkness.
But Kharas, who had been admired by the Knights of Solamnia for his honor, suffered pangs of conscience nonetheless. He soothed his soul by reminding himself that Smasher had, long ago, paid for his misdeeds and had even performed several services for his king that made him, if not a completely reputable character, at least a minor hero.
Besides, Kharas said to himself, think of the lives we will save.
Even as he thought this, he breathed a sigh of relief. “You are right, Smasher. Here comes the wizard from his tent and here comes the witch from hers.”
Grasping the handle of his hammer strapped securely to his belt with one hand, Kharas used the other hand to shift a short sword he had tucked into his belt into a slightly more comfortable position. Finally, he reached into a pouch, drew out a piece of rolled parchment, and with a thoughtful, solemn expression on his beardless face, tucked it into a safe pocket in his leather armor.
Turning to the four dwarves who stood behind him, he said, “Remember, do not harm the woman or the general any more than is necessary to subdue them. But—the wizard must die, and he must die quickly, for he is the most dangerous.”
Smasher grinned and settled back more comfortably. He would not be going along. Too old. That would have insulted him once, but he was of an age now where it came as a compliment.