Margaret Weis - War of the Twins

“They won’t be coming. They’ve been ambushed. You know that.” Caramon smiled wearily.

“At least we’ve found water,” Garic said lamely, making a valiant effort to sound cheerful, which failed miserably. Keeping his gaze fixed on the map spread on the table before him, he nervously drew a small circle around a tiny green dot on the parchment.

Caramon snorted. “A hole that is emptied by midday. Oh, sure, it fills again at night, but my own sweat tastes better. Blasted stuff must be tainted by sea water.”

“Still, it’s drinkable. We’re rationing, of course, and I’ve set guards around it. But it doesn’t look like it’s going to run dry.”

“Oh, well. There won’t be men enough left to drink it to worry about it after a while,” Caramon said, running his hand through his curly hair with a sigh. It was hot in the room, hot and stuffy. Some overzealous servant had tossed wood onto the fire before Caramon, accustomed to living outdoors, could stop him. The big man had thrown open a window to let the fresh, crisp air inside, but the blaze roaring at his back was toasting him nicely nonetheless. “What’s the desertion count today?”

Garic cleared his throat. “About—about one hundred, sir;” he said reluctantly.

“Where’d they go? Pax Tharkas?”

“Yes, sir. So we believe.”

“What else?” Caramon asked grimly, his eyes studying Garic’s face. “You’re keeping something back.”

The young knight flushed. Garic had a passing wish, at this moment, that lying was not against every code of honor he held dear. As he would have given his life to spare this man pain, so he would almost have lied. He hesitated, then looking at Caramon—he saw it wasn’t necessary. The general knew already.

Caramon nodded slowly. “The Plainsmen?”

Garic looked down at the maps.

“All of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Caramon’s eyes closed. Sighing softly, he picked up one of the small wooden figures that had been spread out on the map to represent the placement and disposition of his troops. Rolling it around in his fingers, he grew thoughtful. Then, suddenly, with a bitter curse, he turned and heaved the figurine into the fire. After a moment, he let his aching head sink into his hands.

“I don’t suppose I blame Darknight. It won’t be easy for him and his men, even now. The mountain dwarves undoubtedly hold the mountain passes behind us—that’s what happened to the supply wagons. He’ll have to fight his way home. May the gods go with him”

Caramon was silent a moment, then his fists clenched. “Damn my brother!” he cursed. “Damn him!”

Garic shifted nervously. His gaze darted about the room, fearful that the black-robed figure might materialize from the shadows.

“Well,” Caramon said, straightening and studying the maps once again, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. Now, our only hope—as I see it—is to keep what’s left of our army here in the plains. We’ve got to draw the dwarves out, force them to fight in the open so we can utilize our cavalry. We’ll never win our way into the mountain,” he added, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice, “but at least we can retreat with a hope of winning back to Pax Tharkas with our forces still intact. Once there, we can fortify it and—”

“General.” One of the guards at the door entered the room, flushing at having to interrupt. “Begging your pardon, sir, but a messenger’s arrived.”

“Send him in.”

A young man entered the room. Covered with dust, his cheeks red from the cold, he cast the blazing fire a longing glance but stepped forward first to deliver his message.

“No, go on, warm yourself,” Caramon said, waving the man over to the fireplace. “I’m glad someone can appreciate it. I have a feeling your news is going to be foul to the taste anyway.”

“Thank you, sir;” the man said gratefully. Standing near the blaze, he spread his hands out to the warmth. “My news is this—the hill dwarves have gone.”

“Gone?” Caramon repeated in blank astonishment, rising to his feet. “Gone where? Surely not back—”

“They march on Thorbardin.” The messenger hesitated. “And, sir, the Knights went with them.”

“That’s insane!” Caramon’s fist crashed down upon the table, sending the wooden markers flying through the air, the maps rolling off the edges. His face grew grim. “My brother,”

“No, sir. It was apparently the Dewar. I was instructed to give you this.” Drawing a scroll from his pouch, he handed it to Caramon, who quickly opened it.

General Caramon,

I have just learned from Dewar spies that the gates to the mountain will open when the trumpet sounds. We plan to steal a march on them. Rising at dawn, we will reach there by nightfall. I am sorry there wasn’t time to inform you of this. Rest assured, you will receive what share of the spoils you are due, even if you arrive late. Reorx’s light shine on your axes.

Reghar Fireforge.

Caramon’s mind went back to the piece of blood-stained parchment he’d held in his hand not long ago. The wizard has betrayed you...

“Dewar!” Caramon scowled. “Dewar spies. Spies all right, but not for us! Traitors all right, but not to their own people!”

“A trap!” Garic said, rising to his feet as well.

“And we fell into it like a bunch of damn rabbits,” Caramon muttered, thinking of another rabbit in a trap; seeing, in his mind’s eyes, his brother setting it free. “Pax Tharkas falls. No great loss. It can always be retaken—especially if the defenders are dead. Our people deserting in droves, the Plainsmen leaving. And now the hill dwarves marching to Thorbardin, the Dewar marching with them. And, when the trumpet sounds—”

The clear, clarion call of a trumpet rang out. Caramon started. Was he hearing it or was it a dream, borne on the wings of a terrible vision? He could almost see it being played out before his eyes—the Dewar, slowly, imperceptibly spreading out among the hill dwarves, infiltrating their ranks. Hand creeping to axe, hammer...

Most of Reghar’s people would never know what hit them, would never have a chance to strike.

Caramon could hear the shouts, the thudding of iron-shod boots, the clash of weapons, and the harsh, discordant cries of deep voices. It was real, so very real...

Lost in his vision, Caramon only dimly became aware of the sudden pallor of Garic’s face. Drawing his sword, the young Knight sprang toward the door with a shout that jolted Caramon back to reality. Whirling, he saw a black tide of dark dwarves surging outside the door. There was a flash of steel.

“Ambush!” Garic yelled.

“Fall back!” Caramon thundered. “Don’t go out there! The Knights are gone—we’re the only ones here! Stay inside the room. Bolt the door!” Leaping after Garic, he grabbed the Knight and hurled him back. “You guards, retreat!” he yelled to the two who were still standing outside the door and who were now battling for their lives.

Caramon gripped the arm of one of the guards to drag him into the room, bringing his sword down upon the head of an attacking Dewar at the same time. The dwarf’s helm shattered. Blood spattered over Caramon, but he paid no attention. Shoving the guard behind him, Caramon hurled himself bodily at the horde of dark dwarves packed into the corridor, his sword slashing a bloody swath through them.

“Fall back, you fool!” he shouted over his shoulder at the sec and guard, who hesitated only a moment, then did as ordered. Caramon’s ferocious charge had the intended effect of catching the Dewar off-balance—they stumbled backward in momentary panic at the sight of his battle-rage. But, that was all the panic was—momentary. Already Caramon could see them starting to recover their wits and their courage.