Caramon raised his eyebrows, then frowned. Glancing around at the wrecked tent, he saw the trail of blood on the trampled dirt floor. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the tent flap and walked unsteadily outside, Garic following.
“The army?”
“They know. The word spread.” Garic spread his hands helplessly. “There was so much to do. We tried to go after the dwarves—”
“Bah!” Caramon snorted, wincing as pain shot through his head. “They would have collapsed the tunnel.”
“Yes. We tried digging, but you might as well dig up the whole damn desert,” Garic said bitterly.
“What about the army?” Caramon persisted, pausing outside Raistlin’s tent. Inside, he could hear a low moaning sound.
“The men are upset,” Garic said with a sigh. “Talking, confused. I don’t know.”
Caramon understood. He glanced into the darkness of his brother’s tent. “I’ll go in alone. Thank you for all you’ve done, Garic,” he added gently. “Now, go get some rest before you pass out. I’m going to need you later on, and you’ll be no help to me sick.”
“Yes, sir;” Garic said. He started to stagger off, then stopped, turning back. Reaching beneath the breastplate of his armor, he withdrew a blood-soaked bit of parchment. “We—we found this... in your hand, sir. The handwriting’s dwarven... .”
Caramon looked at it, opened it, read it, then rolled it back up without comment, tucking it into his belt.
Guards surrounded the tents now. Gesturing to one, Caramon waited until he saw Garic being helped to his bed. Then, bracing himself, he stepped into Raistlin’s tent.
A candle burned on a table, near a spellbook that had been left open—the archmage had obviously been expecting to return to his studies soon after dinner. A middle-aged, battle scarred dwarf—Caramon recognized him as one of Reghar’s staff—crouched in the shadows near the bed. A guard beside the entrance saluted when Caramon entered.
“Wait outside,” Caramon ordered, and the guard left.
“He won’t let us touch ’im,” the dwarf said laconically, nodding toward Raistlin. “Wound’s gotta be dressed. Wont help much, of course. But it might hold some of ’im inside for a bit.”
“I’ll tend to him,” Caramon said harshly.
Hands on his knees, the dwarf shoved himself up. Hesitating, he cleared his throat as if wondering whether or not to speak. Decision made, he squinted up at Caramon with shrewd, bright eyes.
“Reghar said I was to tell you. If you want me to do it... you know—end it quick, I’ve done it afore. Sort of a knack I’ve got. I’m a butcher by trade, you see—”
“Get out.”
The dwarf shrugged. “As you say. Up to you. If it was my brother, though—”
“Get out!” Caramon repeated softly. He did not look at the dwarf as he left, nor even hear the sounds of his heavy boots. All his senses were concentrated on his twin.
Raistlin lay on his bed, still dressed, his hands clenched over the horrible wound. Stained black with blood, the mage’s robes and flesh were gummed together in a ghastly mass. And he was in agony. Rolling involuntarily back and forth upon the bed, every breath the mage exhaled was a low, incoherent moan of pain. Every breath he drew in was bubbling torture.
But to Caramon, the most awful sight of all was his brother’s glittering eyes, staring at him, aware of him, as he moved nearer the bed. Raistlin was conscious.
Kneeling down beside his brother’s bed, Caramon laid a hand upon his twin’s feverish head. “Why didn’t you let them send for Crysania?” he asked softly.
Raistlin grimaced. Gritting his teeth, he forced the words out through blood-stained lips. “Paladine... will... not... heal... me!” The last was a gasp, ending in a strangled scream.
Caramon stared at him, confused. “But—you’re dying! You can’t die! You said—”
Raistlin’s eyes rolled, his head tossed. Blood trickled from his mouth. “Time... altered... All… changed!”
“But—”
“Leave me! Let me die!” Raistlin shrieked in anger and pain, his body writhing.
Caramon shuddered. He tried to look upon his brother with pity, but the face, gaunt and twisted in suffering, was not a face he knew.
The mask of wisdom and intelligence had been stripped away, revealing the splintered lines of pride, ambition, avarice, and unfeeling cruelty beneath. It was as if Caramon, seeing a face he had known always, were seeing his twin for the first time.
Perhaps, Caramon thought, Dalamar saw this face in the Tower of High Sorcery as Raistlin burned holes in his flesh with his bare hands. Perhaps Fistandantilus, too, saw the face as he died...
Repulsed, his very soul shaken with horror, Caramon tore his gaze from that hideous, skull-like visage and, hardening his own expression, reached out his hand. “At least let me dress the wound.”
Raistlin shook his head vehemently. A blood-covered hand wrenched itself free from holding his very life inside him to clutch at Caramon’s arm. “No l End it! I have failed. The gods are laughing. I can’t... bear...”
Caramon stared at him. Suddenly, irrationally, anger took hold of the big man—anger that rose from years of sarcastic gibes and thankless servitude. Anger that had seen friends die because of this man. Anger that had seen himself nearly destroyed. Anger that had seen love devoured, love denied. Reaching out his hand, Caramon grasped hold of the black robes and jerked his brothers head up off the pillow.
“No, by the gods,” Caramon shouted with a voice that literally shook with rage. “No, you will not diet Do you hear me?” His eyes narrowed. “You will not die, m y brother! All your life, you have lived only for yourself. Now, even in your death, you seek the easy way out—for you! You’d leave me trapped here without a second’s thought. You’d leave Crysania! No, brother! You will live, damn you! You’ll live to send me back home. What you do with yourself after that is your concern.”
Raistlin looked at .Caramon and, despite his pain, a gruesome parody of a smile touched his lips. It almost seemed he might have laughed, but a bubble of blood burst in his mouth instead. Caramon loosened his hold of his brother’s robes, almost but not quite, hurling him backward. Raistlin collapsed back upon the pillow. His burning eyes devoured Caramon. At that moment the only life in them was bitter hatred and rage.
“I’m going to tell Crysania,” Caramon said grimly, rising to his feet, ignoring Raistlin’s glare of fury. “At least she must have the chance to try to heal you. Yes, if looks could kill, I know I’d be dead right now. But, listen to me, Raistlin or Fistandantilus or whoever you are—if it is Paladine’s will that you die before you can commit greater harm in this world, then so be it. I’ll accept that fate and so will Crysania. But if it is his will that you live, we’ll accept that, too—and so will you!”
Raistlin, his strength nearly spent, kept hold of his bloody clasp around Caramon’s arm, clutching at him with fingers already seeming to stiffen in death.
Firmly, his lips pressed together, Caramon detached his brothers hand. Rising to his feet, he left his brothers bedside, hearing, behind him, a ragged moan of agonized torment. Caramon hesitated, that moan going straight to his heart. Then he thought of Tika, he thought of home...
Caramon kept walking. Stepping outside into the night, heading quickly for Crysania’s tent, the big warrior glanced to one side and saw the dwarf, standing nonchalantly in the shadows, whittling a piece of wood with a sharp knife.
Reaching into his armor, Caramon withdrew the piece of parchment. He had no need to reread it. The words were few and simple.
The wizard has betrayed you and the army. Send a messenger to Thorbardin to learn the truth.
Caramon tossed the parchment upon the ground. What a cruel joke!
What a cruel joke!
What a cruel and twisted joke!
Through the hideous torment of his pain, Raistlin could hear the laughter of the gods. To offer him salvation with one hand and snatch it away with the other! How they must revel in his defeat!