The War Of The Lance (4 page)

“Nosepicker!” Hearing this foul corruption of a name long honored among kender, Earwig was
momentarily paralyzed with shock and forgot to dodge Caramon's large hand. Catching hold
of the kender by the long ponytail, the big warrior skillfully tied him by the hair to one
of the inn's support posts. “The name's Lockpicker!” he shrieked indignantly.

“Why is it you're doing this, mage?” asked Gawain suspiciously as Raistlin walked slowly
across the room.

“Yeah, Raist, why is it we're doing this?” Caramon shot out of the comer of his mouth.

“For the money, of course,” said Raistlin coolly. “What other reason would there be?”

The crowd in the inn was on its feet, clamoring in excitement, calling out directions and
advice and laying wagers on whether or not the adventurers would return. Earwig, tied
fast, screamed and pleaded and begged and nearly yanked his hair out by the roots trying
to free himself.

It was only the barmaid who saw Raistlin's frail hand very gently ruffle the sleeping
child's hair in passing.

****

Half the patrons of the inn accompanied them down an old, disused path to the fringes of a
thick forest. Here, beneath ancient trees that seemed ill-disposed to have their rest
disturbed, the crowd bid them good fortune.

“Do you need torches?” one of the men shouted.

“No,” answered Raistlin. “SHIRAK,” he said softly, and the crystal ball on top of his
staff burst into bright, beaming light.

The crowd gasped in appreciative awe. The knight glanced at the glowing staff askance.

“I will take a torch. I will not walk in any light that has darkness as its source.”

The crowd bid them farewell, then turned back to the inn to await the outcome. Odds were
running high in favor

of Death's Keep living up to its name. The wager seemed such a sure thing, in fact, that
Raistlin had some difficulty in persuading Caramon not to bet against themselves.

Torch in hand, the knight started down the path. Raistlin and his brother walked some
paces behind, for the young knight walked so swiftly, the frail mage could not keep up.

“So much,” said Raistlin, leaning on his staff, “for the courtesy of the knights.”

Gawain instantly halted and waited, stony-faced, for them to catch up.

“Not only courtesy but just plain good sense to keep together in a forest as dark and
gloomy as this one,” stated Caramon. “Did you hear something?”

The three listened, holding their breaths. Tree leaves rustled, a twig snapped. Knight and
warrior put hand to weapon. Raistlin slid his hand inside his pouch, grasping a handful of
sand and calling to mind words of a sleep spell.

“Here I am!” said a shrill voice cheerfully. A small, green and orange figure burst into
the light. “Sorry I'm late,” said Earwig. “My hair got caught in the booth.” He exhibited
half of what had once been a long tassel. “I had to cut myself loose!”

“With MY dagger!” said Caramon, snatching it away.

“Is that one yours? Isn't that odd? I could have sworn I had one just like it!”

Sir Gawain came to a halt, scowling. “It is bad enough I must travel in the company of a
magic-user - ”

“I know,” said Earwig, nodding sympathetically. “We'll just have to make the best of it,
won't we?”

“Ah, let the little fellow come along,” said Caramon, feeling remorseful when he looked at
what had once been the kender's jaunty top-knot. “He might come in handy if we're
attacked.”

Gawain hesitated, but it was obvious that the only way to get rid of the kender would be
to slice him in two, and though the Oath and the Measure didn't specifically ban a knight
from murdering kender, it didn't exactly encourage it, either.

“Attack!” he snorted. The knight resumed his pace, Earwig skipping along beside him. “We
are in no danger until we reach the keep. At least so His Lordship told me.”

“And what else did His Lordship tell you?” Raistlin

asked, coughing. Gawain glared at him dourly, obviously wondering of

what use this sickly mage would be to him. "He told me the tale of the Maiden's Curse. A
long

time ago, before the Cataclysm, a wizard of the red robes - such as yourself - stole away
a young woman from her father's castle and carried her to this keep. A knight, the young
woman's betrothed, discovered the abduction and followed after to rescue her. He caught up
with the mage and his victim in the keep in this forest.

“The wizard, furious at having his evil plans thwarted, called upon the Queen of Darkness
to destroy the knight. The knight, in his turn, called for Paladine to come to his aid.
The forces unleashed in the ensuing battle were so powerful that they not only destroyed
the wizard and the knight, but they have, even after death, continued to drag others into
their conflict.”

“And you wouldn't let me make that bet!” said Caramon reproachfully to his brother.

Raistlin did not appear to hear him. He was, seemingly, lost in thought.

“Well,” said Gawain abruptly, “and what do you think of that tale?”

“I think that, like most legends, it has outgrown the truth,” answered Raistlin. “A wizard
of the red robes, for example, would not call upon the Queen of Darkness for aid. That is
something only wizards of the black robes do.”

“It seems to me,” said Gawain grimly, “that your kind dabbles in darkness no matter what
color robes they wear - the fox cloaking himself in sheep's wool, so the saying goes.”

“Yeah,” retorted Caramon angrily. “And I've heard a few sayings myself about YOUR kind,
Sir Kettle-head. One goes - ”

“That will do, my brother,” remonstrated Raistlin, his thin fingers closing firmly over
Caramon's arm. “Save your breath for what lies ahead.”

The group continued on in a silence that was tense and smoldering.

“What happened to the maiden?” Earwig asked suddenly. All three started, having forgotten,
in their preoccupation, the kender's presence.

“What?” growled Gawain.

“The maiden. What happened to her? After all, it's called the Maiden's Curse.”

“Yes, it is,” said Raistlin. “An interesting point.”

“Is it?” Earwig jumped up and down gleefully, scattering the contents of his pouches
across the path and nearly tripping Caramon. “I came up with an interesting point!”

“I don't see why it's called the Maiden's Curse, except that she was the innocent victim,”
answered the knight as an afterthought.

“Ah,” said Earwig with a gusty sigh. “An innocent victim. I know what THAT feels like!”

****

The three continued on their way. The walking was easy, the path through the forest was
smooth and straight. Too smooth and too straight, according to Caramon, who maintained
that it seemed bound and determined to deliver them to their doom as swiftly as possible.
Several hours after midnight, they arrived at the fortress known as Death's Keep.

Dark and empty, its stone facade glimmered grayish white in the lambent light of the stars
and a pale, thin silver moon. Massive and stalwart, the keep had been designed for
function, not beauty. It was square, with a tower at each comer for the lookouts. A wall
connecting the towers surrounded a structure whose main purpose had probably been to house
troops. Large wooden doors, banded with steel, permitted entrance and egress.

But no soldiers had come here in a long, long time. The battlements were crumbling and in
some places had completely fallen down. The walls were split by gigantic cracks, perhaps
caused by the Cataclysm, perhaps by the supposedly magical battle that had been fought
within. One of the towers had collapsed in upon itself, as had the roof of the central
building, for they could see the skeletal outline of broken beams show up black against
the myriad glistening stars.

“The keep is deserted,” said Caramon, staring at it in disgust. "There's no one here,
magical or otherwise. I'm surprised those jokers back at the inn didn't send us out here
with a bag and tell us to stand in the middle of the

path yelling, 'here, snipe!'“ ”That will be the task I set for you, my bumbling

brother!“ Raistlin began to cough, but stifled the sound in his sleeve. ”Death's Keep is
NOT deserted! I hear voices plainly - or I could if you would silence yours!"

“I, too, hear someone calling out,” said Gawain, awed. “A knight of my order is trapped in
there, and he shouts for help!” The knight, sword in hand, bolted forward. “I'm coming!”
he shouted.

“Me, too!” cried Earwig, leaping in a circle around Raistlin. “I hear voices! I'm positive
I hear voices! What are they saying to you? Do you want to know what they're saying to me?
'Another round of ale!' That's what I hear them calling out.”

“Wait!” Raistlin reached to grasp the knight, but Gawain was running swiftly toward huge
double wooden doors. Once this gate would have been closed, locked fast against any foe.
Now it stood ominously open. “He's an imbecile! Go after him, Caramon! Don't let him do
anything until I get there!”

“Another round of ale?” Caramon gazed blankly at his brother.

“You blithering dunderhead!” Raistlin hissed through clenched teeth. He pointed a
trembling finger at the keep. “I hear a voice calling to ME, and I recognize it as coming
from one of my own kind! It is the voice of a mage! I think I am beginning to understand
what is going on. Go after him, Caramon! Knock him down, sit on him if that is all you can
do to hold him, but you must prevent Gawain from offering his sword to the knight!”

“Knight? What? Oh, all right, Raist! I'm going. No need to look at me like that. C'mon,
Nosepicker.”

Earwig's topknot bobbed indignantly. “That's Lock - . Oh, never mind! Hey, wait up!”

Caramon, followed by the jubilant kender, dashed off after the knight, but he was late in
starting and Gawain had already rushed headlong into the keep. Reaching the wooden doors,
Caramon hesitated before entering and cast an uneasy glance back at his brother.

Raistlin, leaning on his staff, was walking as fast as he could, coughing with nearly
every step until it seemed he must drop. Still, he kept going, and he even managed to lift
his staff and angrily gesture with it to Caramon,

commanding him to enter the keep without delay. Earwig had already darted inside.
Discovering he was

alone, he turned around and dashed back. “Aren't you coming? It's wonderfully dark and
spooky in here. And you know what?” The kender sighed in ecstasy. “I really am beginning
to hear voices. They want me to come and help them fight! Just think of that. Can I borrow
your dagger?”

“No!” Caramon snarled. He, too, could hear the voices now. Ghostly voices.

“My cause is just! All know wizards are foul creatures, spawned of darkness. For the pride
and honor of our Order of the Sword, join with me!”

“My cause is just! All know the knights hide behind their armor, using their might to
bully and threaten those weaker than themselves. For the pride and honor of our Order of
the Red Robes, join with me!”

Caramon was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that the keep wasn't as deserted as
he'd first thought. Reluctantly, wishing his brother were at his side, he entered the
keep. The big warrior wasn't afraid of anything in this world that was made of flesh and
blood. These eerie voices had a cold, hollow sound that unnerved him. It was as if they
were shouting to him from the bottom of a grave.

He and the kender stood in a long passage leading from the outer wall to the inner hall.
The corridor was adorned with various defensive mechanisms for dealing with an invading
enemy. He could see starlight through arrow slits lining the cracked stone walls. Bereft
of his brother's lighted staff and the knight's torch, Caramon was forced to grope his way
through the darkness, following the flickering flame shining ahead of him, and he nearly
bashed his head on an iron portcullis that had been partially lowered from the ceiling.

“Which side do you want to be on?” Earwig asked eagerly, tugging at Caramon's hand to drag
him forward. “I think I'd like to be a knight, but then I've wanted to be a mage, too. I
don't suppose your brother would let me borrow his staff - ”

“Hush!” ordered Caramon harshly, his voice cracking in his dry throat.

The corridor was coming to an end, opened into a

great, wide hall. Sir Gawain was standing right in front of him, holding the torch high
and shouting out words in a language the big warrior didn't understand but guessed to be
Solamnic.

The clamoring of the voices was louder. Caramon felt them tugging him in both directions.
But another voice, a voice within him, was stronger. This voice was his brother's, a voice
he loved and trusted, and he remembered what it had said.

YOU MUST PREVENT GAWAIN FROM OFFERING HIS SWORD TO THE KNIGHT!

“Stay here,” he told Earwig firmly, placing his hand on the kender's shoulder. “You
promise?”

“I promise,” said Earwig, impressed by Caramon's pale and solemn face.

“Good.” Turning, Caramon continued down the corridor and came up in back of the knight.

“What's happening?” Earwig writhed with frustration. “I can't see a thing from here. But I
promised. I know! He didn't mean me to say HERE, in this one spot. He just meant me to
stay here - in the keep!” Happily, the kender crept forward, Caramon's dagger (which he
had appropriated) in his hand.

“Oh, my!” breathed Earwig. “Caramon, can you see what I see?”

Caramon could. On one side of the hall, their bodies encased in shining armor, their hands
grasping swords, stood a troop of knights. On the other side stood an army of wizards,
their robes fluttering around them as if stirred by a hot wind. The knights and the
wizards had turned their faces toward the strangers who had entered, and Caramon saw in
horror that each one of them was a rotting corpse.

A knight materialized in front of his troops. This knight, too, was dead. The marks of his
numerous wounds could be seen plainly on his body. Fear swept over Caramon, and he shrank
back against the wall, but the knight paid no attention either to him or the transfixed
kender standing by his side. The fixed and staring eyes of the corpse looked straight at
Gawain.