Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

Yeah, and I’m Lord Amothus, thought the guard. “Yer in Palanthas.”

The big man glanced behind him, then back down at the guard, who barely came to his shoulder.

“So that must be New City, behind us. Where are all the people? We’ve walked the length and breadth of the town. No sign of anyone.”

“We’re under alert.” The guard jerked his head. “Everyone’s been taken inside the walls. I guess that’s all you need to know for the present. Now, what’s yer business here? And how is it you don’t know what’s going on? The word’s over half the country by now, I reckon.”

The big man ran his hand across an unshaven jaw, smiling ruefully. “A full bottle of dwarf spirits kinda blots out most everything. True enough, captain?”

“True enough,” growled the guard. And also true enough that this fellow’s eyes were sharp and clear and filled with a fixed purpose, a firm resolve. Looking into those eyes, the guard shook his head. He’d seen them before, the eyes of a man who is going to his death, who knows it, and who has made peace with both the gods and himself.

“Will you let us inside?” the big man asked. “I guess, from the looks of things, you could use another couple of fighters.”

“We can use a man yer size,” the guard returned. He scowled down at the kender. “But I mistrust we should just leave ’im here for buzzard bait.”

“I’m a fighter, too!” the kender protested indignantly. “Why, I saved Caramon’s life once!” His face brightened. “Do you want to hear about it? It’s the most wonderful story. We were in a magical fortress. Raistlin had taken me there, after he killed my fri—But never mind about that. Anyway, there were these dark dwarves and they were attacking Caramon and he slipped and—”

“Open the gate!” the old guard shouted.

“C’mon, Tas,” the big man said.

“But I just got to the best part!”

“Oh, by the way”—the big man turned around, first deftly squelching the kender with his hand—“can you tell me the date?”

“Thirdday, Fifthmonth, 356,” said the guard. “Oh, and you might be wantin’ a cleric to look at that leg of yours.”

“Clerics,” the big man murmured to himself. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. There are clerics now. Thank you,” he called out as he and the kender walked through the gates. The gate guard could hear the kender’s voice piping up again, as he managed to free himself from the big mans hand. “Phew! You should really wash, Caramon. I’ve—blooey! Drat, mud in my mouth!—Now, where was I? Oh, yes, you should have let me finish! I’d just gotten to the part where you tripped in the blood and—”

Shaking his head, the gate guard looked after the two. “There’s a story there,” he muttered, as the big gates swung shut again, “and not even a kender could make up a better one, I’ll wager.”

“What’s it say, Caramon?” Tas stood. on tiptoe, trying to peer over the big man’s arm.

“Shh!” Caramon whispered irritably. “I’m reading.” He shook his arm. “Let loose.” The big man had been leafing hurriedly through the Chronicles he had taken from Astinus. But he had stopped turning pages, and was now studying one intently.

With a sigh—after all, he’d carried the book!—Tas slumped back against the wall and looked around. They were standing beneath one of the flaming braziers that Palanthians used to light the streets at night. It was nearly dawn, the kender guessed. The storm clouds blocked the sunlight, but the city was taking on a dismal gray tint. A chill fog curled up from the bay, swirling and winding through the streets.

Though there were lights in most of the windows, there were few people on the streets, the citizens having been told to stay indoors, unless they were members of the militia. But Tas could see the faces of women, pressed against the glass, watching, waiting. Occasionally a man ran past them, clutching a weapon in his hand, heading for the front gate of the city. And once, a door to a dwelling right across from Tas opened. A man stepped out, a rusty sword in his hand. A woman followed, weeping. Leaning down, he kissed her tenderly, then kissed the small child she held in her arms. Then, turning away abruptly, he walked rapidly down the street. As he passed Tas, the kender saw tears flowing down his face.

“Oh, no!” Caramon muttered.

“What? What?” Tas cried, leaping up, trying to see the page Caramon was reading.

“Listen to this—‘on the morning of Thirdday, the flying citadel appeared in the air above Palanthas, accompanied by flights of blue dragons and black. And with the appearance of the citadel in the air, there came before the Gates of Old City an apparition, the sight of which caused more than one veteran of many campaigns to blench in fear and turn his head away.

“‘For there appeared, as if created out of the darkness of the night itself, Lord Soth, Knight of the Black Rose, mounted upon a nightmare with eyes and hooves of flame. He rode unchallenged toward the city gate, the guards fleeing before him in terror.

“‘And there he stopped.

“‘ “Lord of Palanthas,” the death knight called in a hollow voice that came from the realms of death, “surrender your city to Lord Kitiara. Give up to her the keys to the Tower of High Sorcery, name her ruler of Palanthas, and she will allow you to continue to live in peace. Your city will be spared destruction.”

“‘Lord Amothus took his place upon the wall, looking down at the death knight. Many of those around him could not look, so shaken were they by their fear. But the lord—although pale as death himself—stood tall and straight, his words bringing back courage to those who had lost it.”

“‘ “Take this message to your Dragon Highlord. Palanthas has lived in peace and beauty for many centuries. But we will buy neither peace nor beauty at the price of our freedom.”

“‘ “Then buy it at the price of your lives!” Lord Soth shouted. Out of the air, seemingly, materialized his legions thirteen skeletal warriors, riding upon horses with eyes and hooves of flame, took their places behind him. And, behind them, standing in chariots made of human bone pulled by wyvern, appeared banshees—the spirits of those elven women constrained by the gods to serve Soth. They held swords of ice in their hands, to hear their wailing cry alone meant death.

“‘Raising a hand made visible only by the glove of chain steel he wore upon it, Lord Soth pointed at the gate of the city that stood closed, barring his way. He spoke a word of magic and, at that word, a dreadful cold swept over all who watched, freezing the soul more than the blood. The iron of the gate began to whiten with frost, then it changed to ice, then—at another word from Soth—the ice gate shattered.

“‘Soth’s hand fell. He charged through the broken gate, his legions following.

“‘Waiting for him on the other side of the gate, mounted upon the bronze dragon, Fireflash (his dragonish name being Khirsah), was Tanis Half-Elven, Hero of the Lance. Immediately upon sighting his opponent, the death knight sought to slay him instantly by shouting the magical power word, “Die!” Tanis Half-Elven, being protected by the silver bracelet of magic resistance, was not affected by the spell. But the bracelet that saved his life in this first attack, could help him no longer—’”

“‘Help him no longer!’” cried Tas, interrupting Caramon’s reading. “What does that mean?”

“Shush!” Caramon hissed and went on. “‘—help him no longer. The bronze dragon he rode, having no magical protection, died at Soth’s command, forcing Tanis Half-Elven to fight the death knight on foot. Lord Soth dismounted to meet his opponent according to the Laws of Combat as set forth by the Knights of Solamnia, these laws binding the death knight still, even though he had long since passed beyond their jurisdiction. Tanis Half-Elven fought bravely but was no match for Lord Soth. He fell, mortally wounded, the death knight’s sword in his chest—’”