Kevin Stein: Brother's Majere

He put away his gear, sheathing the swords, or strapping them back onto his huge, muscular form. His arms could bend the thickest bars, lift the heaviest weight, move the largest obstacle. Veins stood out against the definition of muscles as firm as iron plates. The thinning leather thongs that held in place Caramon’s unadorned metal hauberk creaked when he breathed deeply, and the thick armored greaves he wore barely covered his lower legs. Strong and powerful, Caramon was born to fight, even as his brother was born to magic. It was difficult for most people to believe the two were twins.

The sky was clear, the stars shone brightly, with no hint of clouds.

“Tomorrow should be a fine day,” Caramon said to himself, stretching. He scratched his neck with his left hand while rubbing his face with his right. He was cold.

Earwig had let the fire die down until nothing was left but smoldering embers.

Sighing heavily, muttering imprecations on the head of the careless kender, Caramon began to walk the perimeter of the grove, searching for fallen limbs and sticks. Raistlin would need the warmth of a fire when he awoke. He would require flames to heat the herb mixture on which he relied to ease his cough.

Caramon was disappointed to find the immediate area devoid of any useful wood. Giving a backward glance at his brother still shrouded in his coverings, the warrior traveled deeper into the forest, hoping to spot some fuel without having to move too far from his companions.

He had been away from the camp fifteen minutes when he heard a strange sound back near the grove. At first, he thought it was the movement of some forest predator, but then he heard other movement-stealthy, furtive.

Caramon dodged behind a huge oak, quietly drawing the large bastard sword and the smaller, heavy main-gauche. Listening carefully, the warrior thought he could hear whispered signals being passed-signals of caution, signals to strike as one. He edged his way back to the clearing. The forest provided excellent cover, the same cover his opponents had used to hide their presence earlier.

“Five of the bastards,” Caramon counted to himself as he crouched in the shadow of another oak tree.

He heard again the sounds of their movements, learned their methods as he stalked them, listening for the whistles of the commander, the replies of his followers.

He considered sheathing his parrying dagger and using a throwing weapon, perhaps a dart or knife, to remove the intruders one by one. But as he neared the edge of the clearing, he lost all thought of strategy.

Solinari and Lunitari lit the scene in the grove, the silver and red light mixing to give double shadows that moved and swayed as the intruders did.

Three men holding war spears stood over Raistlin’s sleeping roll. Two others stood beside Earwig.

“These fools will never reach Mereklar,” said one, the tallest of the three, wearing a black hood over his head. Raising his spear, he plunged it into Raistlin’s body.

Bursting from the woods, roaring in outrage, Caramon dashed forward. He struck down one of the thieves standing over Earwig with the bastard sword as he stabbed the other through the stomach with the main-gauche. He left his parrying dagger in the thief’s body and gripped his sword in both hands. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds as he raced after the remaining three bandits.

One raised his spear to parry, but Caramon’s down-stroke shattered the haft and sank deep into his enemy, who died with a look of surprise on his face. But the blow cost Caramon.

The second leaped to stab the big warrior in the back, and the big man could not turn in time to block the attack. It didn’t matter. His brother was dead, his life was over anyway. Sobbing, Caramon saw, out of the corner of his eye, the blade’s flashing descent-

It halted in midair. The thug went stiff as a corpse.

Caramon stared, amazed, nearly dropping his sword. Then he heard softly chanted words coming from the edge of the forest and saw Raistlin emerge from the shadows. Caramon reached out an unsteady, trembling hand toward his brother.

“Raist?” he whispered.

Raistlin stopped him with a glance.

“What’s the matter, Caramon? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

Caramon let his hand sink back to his side. “I thought for a minute I had, Raist! I thought you were dead!” The big man could barely talk for his relief.

The mage’s face, shadowed by his red hood, showed no hint of emotion.

“Small thanks to you I wasn’t!” He walked over to look with cold curiosity at the remaining attacker. The thief’s limbs were stiffened by sorcery. He was unable to move, unable to overcome the irresistible will of magic.

“I went to get wood,” mumbled Caramon, shamefacedly. “I honestly didn’t think there was any danger. I haven’t heard word of thieves around these parts. And the fire was out and I knew you’d be chilled to the bone, and then there’s that stuff you drink-”

“Never mind!” Raistlin impatiently cut short his brother’s explanations. “No harm was done. You know what a light sleeper I am. I heard them coming from some distance away.” The mage paused, carefully scrutinizing their prisoner. “A bit unusual for professional thieves, don’t you think, Caramon?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact,” said the warrior, scratching his head. “They did seem sort of clumsy.”

“A pity the leader escaped.”

“Did he?” Caramon growled and glanced around.

“The man with the black hood. He ran off the moment you burst into the grove. I think a conversation with him might have been quite interesting. Did you hear his words before he struck what he thought was my limp and unresisting form?”

Caramon thought back, past blood and fear and grief, and heard in his memory, “These fools will never reach Mereklar!”

“I’ll be damned,” said the big warrior, stunned, the implication dawning on him.

“Yes, my brother. Not thieves, but hired killers.”

“I could go after him.”

“You would never find him. He is on home ground, and we are not. Let’s have a look at what we’ve captured. Shirak !”

The magical light of the staff gleamed. Raistlin held it close to the assassin while his brother grasped the greasy, leather helmet the man wore and yanked it off him. The face that stared back at them had been frozen by Raistlin’s spell just at the time he was prepared to strike down Caramon. The killer’s mouth was twisted in a grin of bloodlust. He had obviously been enjoying the idea of knifing a man in the back.

“I’m going to lift the spell. Hold onto him,” Raistlin instructed.

Caramon grabbed the man, encircling the scrawny neck with his huge arm, a dagger held to the assassin’s throat.

At a movement of Raistlin’s gold-skinned hand, the man’s body jerked. Finding himself free of the enchantment, the attacker attempted briefly to get away. Caramon tightened his grip slightly, the dagger pricking the killer’s skin.

“I won’t run!” the man whined, going limp. “Just don’t let him do no more of that magic on me!”

“I won’t … if you answer a few questions,” said Raistlin in his soft, whispering voice.

“Sure, I’ll tell you anything! Just don’t do that magic stuff again!”

“Who hired you to kill us?”

“I dunno. A fella in a black hood. I never saw his face.”

“His name?”

“I dunno. He didn’t tell us.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“In an inn near Mereklar. The Black Cat. Last night. He said he had a job for us. He said we was just goin’ to rob you! He didn’t say nothing about killin!”

“You’re lying,” said Raistlin coolly. “You were hired to murder us in our sleep.”