The War Of The Lance (3 page)

“He's seeking fighters,” sang out a man in a far comer of the common room. “Not pretty
boys dressed up in fancy iron suits.”

“Ho, you're wrong, Nathan,” called out another. “I hear His Lordship's lookin' for someone
to lead a regiment - a regiment of gully dwarves!”

There was appreciative laughter. The knight choked with fury, his hand went to the hilt of
his sword. His wife laid a gentle hand restrainingly on his arm. “No, Gawain,” she
murmured, starting to rise to her feet. “We will go. Come.”

“Stay put, milady. And as for you . . .” The barmaid glared at the boisterous crowd. “Shut
your mouths or that'll be the last cold beer I draw for anyone in this inn tonight.”

Quelled by this awful threat, the men quieted. Putting her arm around the woman, the
barmaid looked up at the knight. “You'll find His Lordship in the sheriff's hall, about a
mile down the street. Go tend to your business, Sir Knight, and let your lady-wife and the
boy rest. There's a lot of rough men down there,” she added, seeing the knight about to
refuse. “It's no fit place for your child.”

The proprietor came hurrying up. He would have liked dearly to throw all three out of his
inn, but he could see the crowd was siding with his barmaid in favor of the woman. Having
just put out a grease fire in the kitchen, the last thing he needed was a riot.

“Go, Sir Knight, will you, please?” pleaded the innkeeper in a low voice. "We'll take good
care of your

lady." The knight seemingly had no choice. Gnawing his lip,

he gave an ungracious assent. “Galeth, watch over your mother. And speak no word to
anyone.” Glancing meaningfully at the mage, the knight drew his cloak around his
shoulders, cast his hood over his face, and stalked out of the inn.

“His Lordship'll have nothing to do with a Knight of Solamnia,” prophesied Caramon. “Half
the army would quit if he hired him. What did he look at you like that for, Raist? You
didn't say anything.”

“The knights have no love for magic. It's something they can neither control nor
understand. And now, my brother, the hot water! Or are you going to watch me die here in
this wretched inn?”

“Oh, uh, sure, Raist.” Caramon stood up and began searching the crowd for the barmaid.

“I'll go!” Earwig leaped to his feet and skipped out of reach to disappear into the crowd.

Talk and laughter resumed. The proprietor was arguing over the tab with a couple of his
patrons. The barmaid had disappeared back into the kitchen. The knight's wife, overcome by
weariness, lay down upon the bench. The boy stood protectively near her, his hand on her
arm. But his gaze strayed to the red-robed magic-user.

Raistlin cast a swift glance at his brother. Seeing Caramon preoccupied in attempting to
capture the barmaid's attention, the mage made a slight, beckoning gesture with his hand.

Nothing appears as sweet as fruit we are forbidden to eat. The boy's eyes widened. He
looked around to see if the mage meant someone else, then looked back at Raistlin, who
repeated the gesture. The boy tugged gently at his mother's sleeve.

“Here, now. Let your ma sleep,” scolded the barmaid, hustling past, a tray of mugs in her
hands. “Be good for a few moments, and when I come back I'll bring you a treat.” She
vanished into the crowd.

“Hey, there! Barmaid!” Caramon was waving his arms and bellowing like a bull.

Raistlin cast him an irritated glance, then turned back to the boy.

Slowly, drawn by irresistible curiosity and fascination,

the child left his mother's side and crept over to stand near the mage.

“Can you really do magic?” he asked, round-eyed with wonder.

“Here, there!” Caramon, seeing the kid apparently bothering his brother, tried to shoo him
away. “Go on back to your ma.”

“Caramon, shut up,” said Raistlin softly. He turned his golden-eyed gaze on the boy. “Is
your name Galeth?”

“Yes, sir. I was named after my grandfather. He was a knight. I'm going to be a knight,
too.”

Caramon grinned at his brother. “Reminds you of Sturm, doesn't he? These knights, they're
all daft,” he added, making the mistake that most adults make in thinking that children -
because they are small - have no feelings.

The boy flared up like dry tinder cast in the fire. “My father's not daft I He's a great
man!” Galeth flushed, realizing perhaps that his father hadn't seemed all that great.
“It's just that he's worried about my mother. He and I can do without food, we're men. But
my mother ...” His lower lip began to tremble, his eyes filled with tears.

“Galeth,” said Raistlin, casting Caramon a glance that sent the big man back to shouting
for the barmaid, “would you like to see some magic?”

The boy, too awed to speak, nodded. “Then bring me your mother's purse.” “Her purse is
empty, sir,” said the boy. Even though

young, he was old enough to understand that this was a shameful thing, and his cheeks
flushed.

“Bring it to me,” said Raistlin in his soft, whispering voice.

Galeth stood a moment, undecided, torn between what he knew he should be doing and what he
longed to do. Temptation proved too strong for his six years. Turning, he ran back to his
mother and gently, without disturbing her rest, slipped her purse from the pocket of her
gown. He brought it back and handed it to Raistlin, who took it in his long-fingered,
delicate hands and studied it carefully. It was a small leather bag embroidered with
golden thread, such as fine ladies use to carry their jewels. If this one had ever had
jewels in it, they had long since been sold to buy food and clothing.

The mage turned the purse inside out and shook it. It was lined with silk and was, as the
boy said, pitifully empty. Then, shrugging, Raistlin handed it back to the boy. Galeth
accepted it hesitantly. Where was the magic? He began to droop a little in disappointment.

“And so you are going to be a knight like your father,” said Raistlin.

“Yes!” The boy blinked back his tears. “Since when, then, does a future knight tell a
lie?” “I didn't lie, sir!” Galeth flushed. “That's a wicked thing!” “But you said the
purse was empty. Look inside.” Startled, the boy opened the leather bag. Whistling in
astonishment, he pulled out a coin, then gazed at Raistlin in delight.

“Go put the purse back, quietly now,” said the mage. “And not a word to anyone about where
the coin came from, or the spell will be broken!”

“Yes, sir!” said Galeth solemnly. Scurrying back, he slipped his mother's purse into her
pocket with the stealthy skill of a kender. Squatting down next to her on the floor, he
began to chew on a piece of candied ginger the barmaid tossed to him, pausing every now
and then to share a conspiratorial grin with the mage.

“That's all well and good,” grunted Caramon, leaning his elbows on the table, “but what do
WE do now for food for the next week?”

“Something will turn up,” said Raistlin calmly. Raising his frail hand, he made a weak
gesture and the barmaid hurried to his side.

****

The soft glow of twilight darkened to night. The inn became even more crowded, hot, and
noisy. The knight's wife slept through the turmoil, her exhaustion so apparent that many
looked upon her with pitying eyes and muttered that she deserved a better fate. The boy
fell asleep, too, curled up on the floor at his mother's feet. He never stirred when
Caramon lifted him in his strong arms and tucked him near his mother. Earwig returned and
sat down next to Caramon. Flushed and happy, he emptied out his bulging pouches onto the
table and began to sort their contents, keeping up a nonstop, one-sided conversation at
the same time.

After two hours, Sir Gawain returned. Each man in the inn who saw him enter nudged a
neighbor into silence so that all were quiet and watching him attentively as he stepped
into the common room.

“Where's my son?” he demanded, staring around darkly.

“Right here, safe and warm and sound asleep,” answered the barmaid, pointing out the
slumbering child. “We haven't made off with him, if that's what you're thinking.”

The knight had grace enough to look ashamed. “I'm sorry,” Gawain said gruffly. “I thank
you for your kindness.”

“Knight or barmaid, death takes us all alike. At least we can help one another through
life. I'll wake your lady.”

“No,” said Gawain and put out his hand to stop her. “Let her sleep. I want to ask you” -
he turned to the proprietor - “if she and my son can stay the night. I will have money to
pay you in the morning,” he added stiffly.

“You will?” The proprietor stared at him suspiciously. “His Lordship hired you?”

“No,” answered the knight. “It seems he has all the fighters he needs to handle the
goblins.”

An audible sigh whispered through the room. “Told you so,” said Caramon to his brother.

“Shut up, you fool!” Raistlin returned sharply. “I'm interested to know where he's
planning to find money this night.”

“His Lordship says that there is a woodland not far from here, and in that woodland is a
fortress that is of no use to him or to anyone because there is a curse laid upon it. Only
- ”

“A cursed fortress? Where? What kind of curse?” demanded an excited Earwig, scrambling up
onto the table to get a better view.

“The Maiden's Curse,” called out several in answer. “The fortress is called Death's Keep.
No one who has entered it has ever returned.”

“Death's Keep!” breathed the kender, misty-eyed with rapture. “What a wonderful-sounding
place!”

"A true Knight of Solamnia may enter and return. According to His Lordship, it takes a
true knight to lift the curse. I plan to go there and, with the help of Paladine,

perform this deed.“ ”I'll come wi - " Earwig was offering magnanimously,

when Caramon yanked the kender's feet out from underneath him, sending the green-clad
figure sprawling face-first on the floor.

“His Lordship has promised to reward me well,” concluded Gawain, ignoring the crash and
the kender's protest.

“Uh, huh,” sneered the proprietor, “And who's going to pay your family's bill if you don't
return, Sir True Knight? You're not the first of your kind to go up there, and I've never
seen a one come back!”

Nods and low voices in the crowd affirmed this.

“His Lordship has promised to provide for them if I fall,” answered Gawain in a calm and
steady voice.

“His Lordship? Oh, that's quite all right then,” said the proprietor, happy once more.
“And my best wishes to you, Sir Knight. I'll personally escort the lady and your boy - a
fine child, if I may say so - to their room.”

“Wait just a minute,” said the barmaid, ducking beneath the proprietor's elbow and coming
to stand in front of the knight. “Where's the mage who'll be going with you to Death's
Keep?”

“No mage accompanies me,” answered Gawain, frowning. “Now, if there is nothing further you
want of me, I must leave.” He looked down at his sleeping wife and, with a gentle hand,
started to reach out to touch her hair. Fearing it would waken her, however, he drew back.
“Good-bye, Aileen. I hope you can understand.” Turning swiftly, he started to leave, but
the proprietor grabbed his elbow.

“No mage! But didn't His Lordship tell you? It takes a knight AND a mage to lift the
Maiden's Curse! For it was because of a knight and a mage that the curse was placed on the
keep.”

“And a kender!” Earwig shouted, scrambling to his feet. "I'm positive I heard that it
takes a knight and a mage and a kender!

“His Lordship mentioned some legend about a knight and a mage,” said Gawain scornfully.
“But a true knight with faith in his god needs the help of no other being on Krynn.”

Freeing himself of the proprietor's plucking hand, the

knight started toward the door. "Are you truly so eager to throw away your life, Sir

Knight?“ The sibilant whisper cut through the hubbub in the inn, bringing with it a
deathlike silence. ”Do you truly believe that your wife and son will be better off when
you are dead?"

The knight stopped. His shoulders stiffened, his body trembled. He did not turn, but
glanced back at the mage over his shoulder. “His Lordship promised. They will have food
and a roof over their heads. I can buy them that, at least.”

“And so, with a cry of 'My Honor is My Life' you rush off to certain defeat when, by
bending that proud neck and allowing me to accompany you, you have a chance to achieve
victory. How typical of you all,” said Raistlin with an unpleasant smile. “No wonder your
Order has fallen into ruin.”

Gawain's face flushed in anger at this insult. His hand went to his sword. Caramon,
growling, reached for his own sword.

“Put away your weapons,” snapped Raistlin. “You are a young man, Sir Knight. Fortune has
not been kind to you. It is obvious that you value your life, but, being desperate, you
know no other way to escape your misfortune with honor.” His lip twisted as he said the
last word. “I have offered to help. Will you kill me for that?”

Gawain's hand tightened around the sword's hilt.

“Is it true that a knight and a mage are needed to lift the curse?” he asked of those in
the inn. (“And a kender!” piped up a shrill voice indignantly.)

“Oh, yes. Truly,” averred everyone around him. “Have there been any who have tried it?” At
this the men in the inn glanced at each other and

then looked at the ceiling or the floor or the walls or stared into their mugs.

“A few,” said someone.

“How few?” asked Caramon, seeing that his brother was in earnest about accompanying the
knight.

“Twenty, thirty maybe.”

“Twenty or thirty! And none of them ever came back? Did you hear that, Raist? Twenty or
thirty and none of them ever came back!” Caramon said emphatically.

“I heard.” Using his staff to support him, Raistlin rose

from the booth. “So did I!” said Earwig, dancing with excitement. “And we're still going,
aren't we,” Caramon said

gloomily, buckling his sword belt around his waist. “Some of us, that is. Not you,
Nosepicker.”