Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Sturm was only half-right. Caramon did fear his brother’s anger, but he would have willingly risked his twin’s snide comments and disparaging remarks if he thought that Raistlin was doing something wrong or putting himself in danger. Caramon was not so sure that was the case. Raistlin was acting very strangely, but he was also acting with purpose and resolve. Caramon felt compelled to respect his brother’s decisions.

If it turns out he’s wrong and we’ve come all this way for nothing, Caramon reflected wryly, Sturm will at least have the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” They continued to march across the grassland. Raistlin increased his pace as the shadows of coming night spread across the valley. They came at last to the base of the great gray wall. The land was silent with that eerie, heavy silence that comes with a blanket of snow. The sky was empty, as was the land around them. They might have been the only living beings in the world.

Raistlin shoved back the cowl so that it fell around his shoulders and stared at the wall before him. He blinked and looked vaguely astonished, very much like he was seeing it for the first time, with no clear idea how he came to be here.

His confusion was not lost on Sturm.

The knight dropped his pack containing his armor with a clang and a clatter that echoed off the mountainside and jarred every tooth in Caramon’s head.

“Your brother has no idea where he is, does he?” Sturm said flatly. “Or what he’s doing here?” He glanced over shoulder. “It will be dark soon. We can make camp back in the woods. If we start now—”

He stopped talking because no one was listening to him. Raistlin had begun to walk along the base of the wall, his gaze intently scanning the gray rock that glimmered orange in the light of a flaring sunset. He walked several paces in one direction, then, not finding what he was seeking, he turned around and walked back. His gaze never left the wall. At length he paused. He brushed off snow that had stuck to the wall and smiled.

“This is it,” he said.

Caramon walked over to look. His brother had uncovered a mark chiseled into stone at about waist-height. Caramon recognized the mark as a rune, one of the letters of the language of magic. His gut twisted, and his flesh crawled. He longed to ask his brother how he had known to trek miles across an unfamiliar, desolate valley and walk up to this vast wall of stone at precisely this location. He did not ask, however, perhaps because he feared Raistlin might tell him.

“What… what does it mean?” Caramon asked instead.

Sturm shoved forward. He saw the mark and said grimly, “Evil, that’s what it means.”

“It’s not evil; it’s magic,” Caramon said, though he knew he was wasting his breath. In the mind of the Solamnic knight, they amounted to the same thing.

Raistlin paid no attention to either of them. The mage’s long, delicate fingers rested lightly, caressingly, on the rune.

“Don’t you know where you are, Pheragas?” Raistlin said suddenly. “This was to be our supply route in case we were besieged, and this was to have been our means of escape if the battle went awry. I know that you are dull-witted sometimes, Pheragas, but even you could not have forgotten something this important.”

Caramon glanced around in perplexity, then stared at his brother. “Who are you talking to, Raist? Who’s Pheragas?”

“You are, of course,” returned Raistlin irritably. “Pheragas…” He looked at Caramon and blinked. Raistlin put his hand to his forehead. His eyes lost their focus. “Why did I say that?” Seeing the rune beneath his fingers, he suddenly snatched his hand away. He looked up the wall and down, looked side to side. Turning to Caramon, Raistlin asked in a low voice. “Where are we, my brother?”

“Paladine save us,” said Sturm. “He’s gone mad.”

Caramon licked dry lips, then said hesitantly, “Don’t you know? You brought us here, Raist.” Raistlin made an impatient gesture. “Just tell me where we are!”

“The eastern end of the valley.” Caramon peered at their surroundings. “By my reckoning, Skullcap must be somewhere on the other side of this wall. You said something about an ‘escape route’. ‘In case the battle went awry.’ What… uh… did you mean by that?”

“I have no idea,” Raistlin replied. He gazed at the wall and at the rune, his brow furrowed. “Yet I do seem to remember...”

Caramon laid a solicitous hand on his brother’s arm. “Never mind, Raist. You’re exhausted. You should rest.”

Raistlin wasn’t listening. He stared at the wall, and his expression cleared. “Yes, that’s right.” He spoke softly. “If I touch this rune…”

“Raist, don’t!” Caramon grabbed hold of his brother’s arm.

Raistlin whipped his staff around, giving Caramon a crack on the wrist. Caramon yelped and drew back his hand. Raistlin touched the rune and pressed on it hard.

The portion of the wall on which the rune was etched depressed, sliding into the wall about three inches. A grinding sound emanated from inside the stone wall, followed by loud snapping and groaning. The outline of a doorway, about five feet in height and rectangular, appeared etched into the wall. The door shivered, displacing the snow sticking to the side of the wall, then the noise stopped. Nothing else happened.

Raistlin stood, frowning at it.

“Something must be wrong with the mechanism. Pheragas, put your shoulder to the door and push on it. You, too, Denubis. It will take both of you to force it.”

Neither man moved.

Raistlin glanced irritably at them both. “What are you waiting for? Your brains to come back? Trust me. It will not happen. Pheragas, quit standing there gaping like a gutted fish and do as I command you.”

Caramon simply stared at his twin, his mouth wide open. Sturm frowned deeply and took a step backward.

“I’ll have nothing to do with evil magic,” he said.

Raistlin gave a mirthless laugh.

“Magic? Are you daft? This is not magic. If this door was magic, it would be reliable! This mark is not a magical rune. It is the dwarven rune for the word ‘Door’. The mechanism is three hundred years old and it is stuck, that’s all.”

He eyed his brother. “Pheragas—”

“I’m not Pheragas, Raist,” said Caramon quietly.

Raistlin stared at him. His eyes flickered, and he said quietly, “No, no, you’re not. I don’t know why I keep calling you that. Caramon, please, you have nothing to fear. Just put your shoulder to the door—”

“Wait a minute, Caramon.” Sturm halted the big man as he was about to obey. “ This door might not be magic, as you say—” though he gave the doorway a dark glance—“but I for one want to know how your brother knew it was here.”

Raistlin glared at the knight and Caramon cringed, expecting him to lash out at Sturm. Caramon was always getting caught in the middle between his brother and his friends, and he hated it. Their fighting made his stomach twist. He cast Sturm a pleading glance, begging him to let the subject drop. After all, it was just a door…

His brother did not lash out. The explosion of rage Caramon feared did not happen. Raistlin’s lips compressed. He looked at the door, looked at the trail they had left through the snow, the trail that stretched back to the woods and across the valley. His gaze went to Sturm, and there came a ghost of a smile to the thin lips.

“You have never trusted me, Sturm Brightblade,” Raistlin said quietly, “and I do not know why. To my knowledge, I have never betrayed you. I have never lied to you. If I have kept certain information to myself from time to time, I suppose that is my right. To be honest,” Raistlin added with a shrug, “I do not know how I found this door. I do not know how I knew it was here. I do not know how I knew to open it. I did, and that is all I can say.”