Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“No!” Tas gasped. “No! We cant let Tanis die!” Reaching up, he tugged on Caramon’s arm. “Let’s go! There’s still time! We can find him and warn him—”

“I cant, Tas,” Caramon said quietly. “I’ve got to go to the Tower. I can sense Raistlin’s presence drawing closer to me. I don’t have time, Tas.”

“You can’t mean that! W e can’t just let Tanis die!” Tas whispered, staring at Caramon, wide-eyed.

“No, Tas, we can’t,” said Caramon, regarding the kender gravely. “You’re going to save him.”

The thought literally took Tasslehoff’s breath away. When he finally found his voice, it was more of a squeak. “Me? But, Caramon, I’m not a warrior! Oh, I know I told the guard that I—”

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” Caramon said sternly, “I suppose it is possible that the gods arranged this entire matter simply for your own private amusement. Possible—but I doubt it. We’re part of this world, and we’ve got to take some responsibility for it. I see this now. I see it very clearly.” He sighed, and for a moment his face was solemn and so filled with sadness that Tas felt a choking lump rise up in his throat.

“I know that I’m part of the world, Caramon,” Tas said miserably, “and I’d gladly take as much responsibility as I think it likely I can handle. But—it’s just that I’m such a short part of the world—if you take my meaning. And Lord Soth’s such a tall and ugly part. And—”

A trumpet sounded, then another. Both Tas and Caramon fell silent, listening until the braying had died away.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Tas said softly.

“Yes,” Caramon replied. “You better hurry”

Closing the book, he shoved it carefully into an old knapsack Tas had managed to “acquire” when they were in the deserted New City. The kender had managed to acquire some new pouches for himself, as well, plus a few other interesting items it was probably just as well Caramon didn’t know he had. Then, reaching out his hand, the big man laid it on Tas’s head, smoothing back the ridiculous topknot.

“Good-bye, Tas. Thank YOU.”

“But, Caramon!” Tas stared at him, feeling suddenly very lonely and confused. “Wh—where will you be?”

Caramon glanced up into the sky to where the Tower of High Sorcery loomed, a black rent in the storm clouds. Lights burned in the top windows of the Tower where the laboratory—and the Portal—were located.

Tas followed his gaze, looking up at the Tower. He saw the storm clouds lowering around it, the eerie lightning play around it, toying with it. He remembered his one close-up glimpse of the Shoikan Grove.

“Oh, Caramon!” he cried, catching hold of the big man’s hand. “Caramon, don’t... wait... .”

“Good-bye, Tas,” Caramon said, firmly detaching the clinging kender. “I’ve got to do this. You know what will happen if I don’t. And you know what you’ve got to do, too. Now hurry up. The citadel’s probably over the gate by now.”

“But, Caramon—” Tas wailed.

“Tas, you’ve got to do this!” Caramon yelled, his angry voice echoing down the empty street. “Are you going to let Tanis die without trying to help him?”

Tas shrank back. He’d never seen Caramon angry before, at least, not angry at him. And in all their adventures together, Caramon had never once yelled at him. “No, Caramon,” he said meekly. “It’s just... I’m not sure what I can do...”

“You’ll think of something,” Caramon muttered, scowling. “You always do.” Turning around, he walked away, leaving Tas to stare after him disconsolately.

“G-good-bye, Caramon,” he called out after the retreating figure. “I-I wont let you down.”

The big man turned. When he spoke, his voice sounded funny to Tas, like maybe he was choking on something. “I know you won’t, Tas, no matter what happens.” With a wave, he set off again down the street.

In the distance, Tas saw the dark shadows of Shoikan Grove, the shadows no day would ever brighten, the shadows where lurked the guardians of the Tower.

Tas stood for a moment, watching Caramon until he lost him in the darkness. He had hoped, if the truth be told, that Caramon would suddenly change his mind, turn around and shout, “Wait, Tas! I’ll come with you to save Tanis!”

But he didn’t.

“Which leaves it up to me,” Tas said with a sigh. “And he yelled at me!” Snuffling a little, he turned and trudged off in the opposite direction, toward the gate. His heart was in his mud-coated shoes, making them feel even heavier. He had absolutely no idea how he was going to go about rescuing Tanis from a death knight, and, the more he thought about it, the more unusual it seemed that Caramon would give him this responsibility.

“Still, I did save Caramon s life,” Tas muttered. “Maybe he’s coming to realize—”

Suddenly, he stopped and stood stock—still in the middle of the street.

“Caramon got rid of me!” he cried. “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, you have all the brains of a doorknob, as Flint told you many times. He got rid of me! He’s going there to die! Sending me to rescue Tanis was just an excuse!” Distraught and unhappy, Tas stared down the street one way and up it another. “Now, what do I do?” he muttered.

He took a step toward Caramon. Then he heard a trumpet sound again, this time with a shrill, blaring note of alarm. And, rising above it, he thought he could hear a voice, shouting orders—Tanis’s voice.

“But if I go to Caramon, Tanis will die!” Tas stopped. Half turning, he took a step toward Tanis. Then he stopped again, winding his topknot into a perfect corkscrew of indecision. The kender had never felt so frustrated in his entire life.

“Both of them need me!” he wailed in agony. “How can I choose?”

Then—“I know!” His brow cleared. “That’s it!”

With a great sigh of relief, Tas spun around and continued in the direction of the gate, this time at a run.

“I’ll rescue Tanis,” he panted as he took a short-cut through an alley, “and then I’ll just come back and rescue Caramon. Tanis might even be of some help to me.”

Scuttling down the alley, sending cats scattering in a panic, Tas frowned irritably. “I wonder how many heroes this makes that I’ve had to save,” he said to himself with a sniff. “Frankly, I’m getting just a bit fed up with all of them!”

The floating citadel appeared in the skies over Palanthas just as the trumpets sounded for the changing of the watch. The tall, crumbling spires and battlements, the towering stone walls, the lighted windows jammed with draconian troops—all could be seen quite plainly as the citadel floated downward, resting on its foundation of boiling, magical cloud.

The wall of Old City was crammed with men—townsmen, knights, mercenaries. None spoke a word. All gripped their weapons, staring upward in grim silence.

But, after all, there was one word spoken at the sight of the citadel—or several, as it were.

“Oh!” breathed Tas in awe, clasping his hands together, marveling at the sight. “Isn’t it wonderful! I’d forgotten how truly magnificent and glorious the flying citadels are! I’d give anything, anything, to ride on one.” Then, with a sigh, he shook himself. “Not now, Burrfoot,” he said to himself sternly in his Flint voice. “You have work to do. Now”—he looked around—“there’s the gate. There’s the citadel. And there goes Lord Amothus... . My, he looks terrible! I’ve seen better looking dead people. But where’s—Ah!”

A grim processional appeared, marching up the street toward Tas—a group of Solamnic Knights, walking on foot, leading their horses. There was no cheering, they did not talk. Each mans face was solemn and tense, each man knew he walked—most likely—to his death. They were led by a man whose bearded face stood out in sharp contrast to the clean-shaven, mustached faces of the knights around him. And, although he wore the armor of a Knight of the Rose, he did not wear it with the ease of the other knights.