Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

The Kingpriest fell silent, waiting, his arms upraised.

Tas held his breath, waiting, too, clutching the magical device in his hands.

And then, the kender felt it—the answer. A horror crept over him, a fear he’d never experienced before, not even in the presence of Lord Soth or the Shoikan Grove. Trembling, the kender sank to his knees and bowed his head, whimpering and shaking, pleading with some unseen force for mercy, for forgiveness. Beyond the curtain, he could hear his own incoherent mumblings echoed, and he knew Crysania was there and that she, too, felt the terrible hot anger that rolled over him like the thunder from the storm.

But the Kingpriest did not speak a word. He simply remained, staring up expectantly into the heavens he could not see through the vast walls and ceilings of his Temple... the heavens he could not see because of his own light.

His mind firmly resolved upon a course of action, Caramon fell into an exhausted sleep and, for a few hours, was blessed with oblivion. He awakened with a start to find Raag bending over him, breaking his chains.

“What about these?” Caramon asked, raising his bound wrists.

Raag shook his head. Although Arack didn’t really think even Caramon would be foolish enough to try and overpower the ogre unarmed, the dwarf had seen enough madness in the man’s eyes last night not to risk taking chances.

Caramon sighed. He had, indeed, considered that possibility as he had considered many others last night, but had rejected it. The important thing was to stay alive—at least until he had made certain Raistlin was dead. After that, it didn’t matter anymore...

Poor Tika... She would wait and wait, until one day she would wake and realize he was never coming home.

“Move!” Raag grunted.

Caramon moved, following the ogre up the damp and twisting stairs leading from the storage rooms beneath the arena. He shook his head, clearing it of thoughts of Tika. Those might weaken his resolve, and he could not afford that. Raistlin must die. It was as if the lightning last night had illuminated a part of Caramon’s mind that had lain in darkness for years. At last he saw the true extent of his brother’s ambition, his lust for power. At last Caramon quit making excuses for him. It galled him, but he had to admit that even that dark elf, Dalamar, knew Raistlin far better than he, his twin brother.

Love had blinded him, and it had, apparently, blinded Crysania, too. Caramon recalled a saying of Tanis’s: “I’ve never seen anything done out of love come to evil.” Caramon snorted. Well, there was a first time for everything—that had been a favorite saying of old Flint’s. A first time... and a last.

Just how he was going to kill his brother, Caramon didn’t know. But he wasn’t worried. There was a strange feeling of peace within him. He was thinking with a clarity and a logic that amazed him. He knew he could do it. Raistlin wouldn’t be able to stop him either, not this time. The magic time travel spell would require the mage’s complete concentration. The only thing that could possibly stop Caramon was death itself.

And therefore, Caramon said grimly to himself, I’ll have to live.

He stood quietly without moving a muscle or speaking a word as Arack and Raag struggled to get him into his armor.

“I don’t like it,” the dwarf muttered more than once to the ogre as they dressed Caramon. The big man’s calm, emotionless expression made the dwarf more uneasy than if he had been a raging bull. The only time Arack saw a flicker of life on Caramon’s stoic face was when he buckled his shortsword onto his belt. Then the big man had glanced down at it, recognizing the useless prop for what it was. Arack saw him smile bitterly.

“Keep your eye on him,” Arack instructed, and Raag nodded. “And keep him away from the others until he goes into the arena.”

Raag nodded again, then led Caramon, hands bound, into the corridors beneath the arena where the others waited. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced over at Caramon as he entered. Kiiri’s lip curled, and she turned coldly away. Caramon met Pheragas’s gaze unflinchingly, his eyes neither begging nor pleading. This was not what Pheragas had expected, apparently. At first the black man seemed confused, then—after a few whispered words from Kiiri—he;too, turned away. But Caramon saw the man’s shoulders slump and he saw him shake his head.

There was a roar from the crowd then, and Caramon shifted his gaze to what he could see of the stands. It was nearly midday, the Games started promptly at High Watch. The sun shone in the sky, the crowd—having had some sleep—was large and in a particularly good humor. There were some preliminary fights scheduled—to whet the crowd’s appetite and to heighten the tension. But the true attraction was the Final Bout—the one that would determine the champion—the slave who wins either his freedom or—in the Red Minotaur’s case—wealth enough to last him years.

Arack wisely kept up the pacing of the first few fights, making them light, even comic. He’d imported a few gully dwarves for the occasion. Giving them real weapons (which, of course, they had no idea how to use), he sent them into the arena. The audience howled its delight, laughing until many were in tears at the sight of the gully dwarves tripping over their own swords, viciously stabbing each other with the hilts of their daggers, or turning and running, shrieking, out of the arena. Of course, the audience didn’t enjoy the event nearly as much as the gully dwarves themselves, who finally tossed aside all weapons and launched into a mud fight. They had to be forcibly removed from the ring.

The crowd applauded, but now many began to stomp their feet in good humored, if impatient, demand for the main attraction. Arack allowed this to go on for several moments, knowing—like the showman he was—that it merely heightened their excitement. He was right. Soon the stands were rocking as the crowd clapped and stomped and chanted.

And thus it was that no one in the crowd felt the first tremor.

Caramon felt it, and his stomach lurched as the ground shuddered beneath his feet. He was chilled with fear—not fear of dying, but fear that he might die without accomplishing his objective. Glancing up anxiously into the sky, he tried to recall every legend he had ever heard about the Cataclysm. It had struck near midafternoon, he thought he remembered. But there had been earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, dreadful natural disasters of all kinds throughout Krynn, even before the fiery mountain smashed the city of Istar so far beneath the ground that the seas rushed in to cover it.

Vividly, Caramon saw the wreckage of this doomed city as he had seen it after their ship had been sucked into the whirl pool of what was now known as the Blood Sea of Istar. The sea elves had rescued them then, but there would be no rescue for these people. Once more, he saw the twisted and shattered buildings. His soul recoiled in horror and he realized, with a start, that he had been keeping that terrible sight from his mind.

I never really believed it would happen, he realized, shivering with fear as the ground shivered in sympathy. I have hours only, maybe not that long. I must get out of here! I must reach Raistlin!

Then, he calmed down. Raistlin was expecting him. Raistlin needed him—or at least he needed a “trained fighter.” Raistlin would ensure that he had plenty of time—time to win and get to him. Or time to lose and be replaced.

But it was with a feeling of vast relief that Caramon felt the tremor cease. Then he heard Arack’s voice coming from the center of the arena, announcing the Final Bout.

“Once they fought as a team, ladies and gentlemen, and as all of you know, they were the best team we’ve seen here in long years. Many’s the time you saw each one risk his or her life to save a teammate. They were like brothers”—Caramon flinched at this—“but now they’re bitter enemies, ladies and gentlemen. For when it comes to freedom, to wealth, to winning this greatest of all the Games—love has to sit in the back row. They’ll give their all, you may be sure of that, ladies and gentlemen. This is a fight to the death between Kiiri the Sirine, Pheragas of Ergoth, Caramon the Victor, and the Red Minotaur. They won’t leave this arena unless it’s feet first!”