But the wizard was wounded—mortally. That much Kharas knew: Staring up from where he lay, looking into those searing, baleful eyes, Kharas saw them burn with fury, but he saw them fill with pain as well. And he saw—by the leaping, swaying light of the lantern—the hilt of his short sword sticking out of the mage’s gut. He saw the wizard’s slender hands curl around it, he heard him scream in terrible agony. He knew he had no reason to fear. The wizard could harm him no longer.
Stumbling to his feet, Kharas reached out his hand and jerked the sword free. Crying out in bitter anguish, his hands deluged in his own blood, the wizard pitched forward onto the ground and lay still.
Kharas had time to look around then. His men were fighting a pitched battle with the general who, hearing his brother scream, was livid with fear and anger. The witch was nowhere to be seen, the eerie white light that had shone from her was gone, lost in the darkness.
Hearing a strangled sound from his left, Kharas turned to see the two apparitions the archmage had summoned staring down in stunned horror at the wizard’s body. Getting a good look at them, Kharas was startled to see that these demons conjured from the nether planes were nothing more sinister than a kender in bright blue leggings and a balding gnome in a leather apron.
Kharas didn’t have time to ponder this phenomenon. He had accomplished what he came for, at least he had almost. He knew he could never talk to the general, not now. His main concern was getting his men out safely. Running across the tent, Kharas picked up his warhammer and, yelling to his men in dwarven to get out of his way, flung it straight at Caramon.
The hammer struck the man a glancing blow on the head, knocking him out but not killing him.
Caramon dropped like a felled ox and, suddenly, the tent was deathly silent.
It had all taken just a few short minutes.
Glancing through the tent flap, Kharas saw the young Knight who stood guard lying senseless upon the ground. There was no sign that anyone sitting around those far-off fires had heard or seen anything unusual.
Reaching up, the dwarf stopped the lantern from swinging and looked around. The wizard lay in a pool of his own blood. The general lay near him, his hand reaching out for his brother as though that had been his last thought before he lost consciousness. In a corner lay the witch, on her back, her eyes closed.
Seeing blood on her robes, Kharas glared sternly at his men. One of them shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Kharas,” the dwarf said, looking down at her and shivering. “But—the light from her was so bright! It split my head open. All I could think of was to stop it. I-I wouldn’t have been able to, but then the wizard screamed and she cried out, and her light wavered. I hit her, then, but not very hard. She’s not hurt badly.”
“All right.” Kharas nodded. “Let’s go.” Retrieving his hammer, the dwarf looked down at the general lying at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, fishing out the little bit of parchment and tucking it into the man’s outstretched hand. “Maybe, sometime, I can explain it to you.” Rising, he looked around. “Everyone all right? Then let’s get out of here.”
His men hurried to the tunnel entrance.
“What about these two?” one asked, stopping by the kender and the gnome.
“Take them,” Kharas said sharply. “We cant leave them here, they’ll raise the alarm.”
For the first time, the kender seemed to come to life.
“Not” he cried, looking at Kharas with pleading, horrified eyes. “You can’t take us! We just got here! We’ve found Caramon and now we can go home! No, please!”
“Take them!” Kharas ordered sternly.
“No!” the kender wailed, struggling in his captor’s arms. “No, please, you don’t understand. We were in the Abyss and we escaped—”
“Gag him,” Kharas growled, peering down into the tunnel beneath the tent to see that all was well.
Motioning for them to hurry, he knelt beside the hole in the ground.
His men descended into the tunnel, dragging the gagged kender, who was still putting up such a fight—kicking with his legs and clawing at them—that they were finally forced to stop and truss him up like a chicken before they could haul him away. They had nothing to worry about with their other captive, however. The poor gnome was so horrified that he had lapsed into a state of shock.
Staring around helplessly, his mouth gaping wide open, he quietly did whatever he was told.
Kharas was the last to leave. Before jumping down into the tunnel, he took a final glance about the tent.
The lantern hung quite still now, shedding its soft, glowing light upon a scene from a nightmare.
Tables were smashed, chairs were overturned, food was scattered everywhere. A thin trail of blood ran from beneath the body of the black-robed magic-user. Forming a pool at the lip of the hole, the blood began to drip, slowly, down into the tunnel.
Leaping into the hole, Kharas ran a safe distance down the tunnel, then stopped. Grabbing up the end of a length of rope lying on the tunnel floor, he gave the rope a sharp yank. The opposite end of the rope was tied to one of the support beams right beneath the general’s tent. The jerk on the rope brought the beam tumbling down. There was a low rumble. Then, in the distance, he could see stone falling, and his vision was obscured by a thick cloud of dust.
The tunnel now safely blocked behind him, Kharas turned and hurried after his men.
“General—”
Caramon was on his feet, his big hands reaching out for the throat of his enemy, a snarl contorting his face.
Startled, Garic stumbled backward.
“General!” he cried. “Caramon! It’s met”
Sudden, stabbing pain and the sound of Garic’s familiar voice penetrated Caramon s brain. With a moan, he clasped his head in his hands and staggered. Garic caught him as he fell, lowering him safely into a chair.
“My brother?” Caramon said thickly.
“Caramon—I—” Garic swallowed.
“My brother!” Caramon rasped, clenching his fist.
“We took him to his tent,” Garic replied softly. “The wound is—”
“What? The wound is what?” Caramon snarled impatiently, raising his head and staring at Garic with blood-shot, pain filled eyes.
Garic opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. “M-my father told me about wounds like it,” he mumbled. “Men lingering for days in dreadful agony...”
“You mean it’s a belly wound,” Caramon said.
Garic nodded and then covered his face with his hand. Caramon, looking at him closely, saw that the young man was deathly white. Sighing, closing his eyes, Caramon braced himself for the dizziness and nausea he knew would assail him when he stood up again. Then, grimly, he rose to his feet. The darkness whirled and heaved around him. He made himself stand steadily and, when it had settled, opened his eyes.
“How are you?” he asked Garic, looking intently at the young Knight.
“I’m all right,” Garic answered, and his face flushed with shame. “Th-they took me... from behind.”
“Yeah.” Caramon saw the matted blood in the young man’s hair. “It happens. Don’t worry about it.” The big warrior smiled without mirth. “They took me from the front.”
Garic nodded again, but it was obvious from the expression on his face that this defeat preyed on his mind.
He’ll get over it, Caramon thought wearily. We all have to face it sooner or later.
“I’ll see my brother now,” he said, starting out of the tent with uneven steps. Then he stopped.
“Lady Crysania?”
“Asleep. Knife wound glanced off her... uh... ribs. I—We dressed it... as well as we could. We had to... rip open her robes.” Garic’s flush deepened. “And we gave her some brandy to drink...”
“Does she know about Raist—Fistandantilus?”
“The wizard forbade it.”