Besides, his knees creaked alarmingly.
“Let them settle in,” the old thief advised. “Let them start their evening meal, relax. Then”—drawing his hand across his throat, he chortled—“two hundred and fifty-three steps...”
Standing guard duty outside the general’s tent, Garic listened to the silence within. It was more disturbing and seemed to echo louder than the most violent quarrel.
Glancing inside through the tent flap opening, he saw the three sitting together as they did every night, quiet, muttering only occasionally, each one apparently wrapped in his or her own concerns.
The wizard was deeply involved in his studies. Rumor had it that he was planning some great, powerful spells that would blow the gates of Thorbardin wide open. As for the witch, who knew what she was thinking? Garic was thankful, at least, that Caramon was keeping an eye on her.
There had been some weird rumors about the witch among the men. Rumors of miracles performed at Pax Tharkas, of the dead returning to life at her touch, of limbs growing back onto bloody stumps. Garic discounted these, of course. Still, t here was something about her these days that made the young man wonder if his first impressions had been correct.
Garic shifted restlessly in the cold wind that swept over the desert. Of the three in the tent, he worried most about his general. Over the past months, the young knight had come to revere and idolize Caramon. Observing him closely, trying to be as much like him as possible, Garic noticed Caramon’s obvious depression and unhappiness which the big man thought he was doing quite well at hiding. For Garic, Caramon had taken the place of the family he had lost, and now the young Knight brooded over Caramon’s sorrow as he would have brooded about an older brother.
“It’s those blasted dark dwarves,” Garic muttered out loud, stomping his feet to keep them from going numb. “I don’t trust ’em, that’s for certain. I’d send them packing, and I’ll bet the general would, too, if it weren’t for his bro—”
Garic stopped, holding his breath, listening.
Nothing. But he could have sworn...
Hand on the hilt of his sword, the young Knight stared out into the desert. Though hot by day, it was a cold and forbidding place at night. Off in the distance, he saw the campfires. Here and there, he could see the shadows of men passing by.
Then he heard it again. A sound behind him. Directly behind him. The sound of heavy, iron-shod boots...
“What was that?” Caramon asked, lifting his head.
“The wind,” Crysania muttered, glancing at the tent and shivering, watching as the fabric rippled and breathed like a living thing. “It blows incessantly in this horrid place.”
Caramon half-rose, hand on his sword hilt. “It wasn’t the wind.”
Raistlin glanced up at his brother. “Oh, sit down!” he snarled softly in irritation, “and finish your dinner so that we can end this. I must return to my studies.”
The archmage was going over a particularly difficult spell chant in his mind. He had been wrestling with it for days, trying to discover the correct voice inflection and pronunciation needed to unlock the secrets of the words. So far, they had eluded his grasp and made little sense.
Shoving his still-full plate aside, Raistlin started to stand—when the world literally gave way beneath his feet.
As though he were on the deck of a ship sliding down a steep wave, the sandy ground canted away from under foot. Staring down in amazement, the archmage saw a vast hole opening up before him. One of the poles that held up the tent slipped and toppled into it, causing the tent to sag. A lantern hanging from the supports swung wildly, shadows pitching and leaping around like demons.
Instinctively, Raistlin caught hold of the table and managed to save himself from falling into the rapidly widening hole. But, even as he did so, he saw figures crawling up through the hole squat, bearded figures. For an instant, the wildly dancing light flashed off steel blades, shone in dark, grim eyes. Then the figures were plunged in shadows.
“Caramon!” Raistlin shouted, but he could tell by the sounds behind him—a vicious oath and the rattle of a steel sword sliding from its scabbard—that Caramon was well aware of the danger.
Raistlin heard, too, a strong, feminine voice calling on the name of Paladine, and saw the glimmering outline of pure, white light, but he had no time to worry about Crysania. A huge dwarven warhammer, seemingly wielded by the darkness itself, flashed in the lantern light, aiming right at the mage’s head.
Speaking the first spell that came to his mind, Raistlin saw with satisfaction an invisible force pluck the hammer from the dwarf’s hand. By his command, the magical force carried the hammer through the darkness to drop it with a thud in the corner of the tent.
At first numbed by the unexpectedness of the attack, Raistlin’s mind was now active and working.
Once the initial shock had passed, the mage saw this as simply another irritating interruption to his studies. Planning to end it quickly, the archmage turned his attention to his enemy, who stood before him, regarding him with eyes that were unafraid.
Feeling no fear himself, calm in the knowledge that nothing could kill him since he was protected by time, Raistlin called upon his magic in cool, unhurried fashion.
He felt it coiling and gathering within his body, felt the ecstasy course through him with a sensual pleasure. This would be a pleasant diversion from his studies, he decided. An interesting exercise... Stretching out his hands, he began to pronounce the words that would send bolts of blue lightning sizzling through his enemy’s writhing body. Then he was interrupted.
With the suddenness of a thunder clap, two figures appeared before him, leaping out of the darkness at him as though they had dropped from a star.
Tumbling at the mage’s feet, one of the figures stared up at him in wild excitement.
“Oh, look! It’s Raistlin! We made it, Gnimsh! We made it! Hey, Raistlin! Bet you’re surprised to see me, huh? And, oh, have I got the most wonderful story to tell you! You see, I was dead. Well, I wasn’t actually, but—”
“Tasslehoff!” Raistlin gasped.
Thoughts sizzled in Raistlin’s mind as the lightning might have sizzled from his fingertips.
The first—a kender! Time could be altered!
The second—Time can be altered...
The third—I can die!
The shock of these thoughts jolted through Raistlin’s body, burning away the coolness and calmness so necessary to the magic-user for casting his complex spells.
As both the unlooked-for solution to his problem and the frightful realization of what it might cost him penetrated his brain, Raistlin lost control. The words of the spell slipped from his mind. But his enemy still advanced.
Reacting instinctively, his hand shaking, Raistlin jerked his wrist, bringing into his palm the small silver dagger he carried with him.
But it was too late... and too little.
9
Kharas’s concentration was completely centered on the man he had vowed to kill. Reacting with the trained single-mindedness of the military mindset, he paid no attention to the startling appearance of the two apparitions, thinking them, perhaps, nothing more than beings conjured up by the archmage.
Kharas saw, at the same time, the wizard’s glittering eyes go blank. He saw Raistlin’s mouth—opened to recite deadly words—hang flaccid. and loose, and the dwarf knew that for a few seconds at least, his enemy was at his mercy.
Lunging forward, Kharas drove his short sword through the black, flowing robes and had the satisfaction of feeling it hit home.
Closing with the stricken mage, he drove the blade deeper and deeper into the human’s slender body. The mans strange, burning heat enveloped him like a blazing inferno. A hatred and an anger so intense struck Kharas a physical blow, knocking him backward and slamming him into the ground.