Kevin Stein - Brother's Majere

The councillor bit her lower lip and scraped her tapered fingernails against the varnished table, leaving a slight mark of their passage in the wood. Reaching to the scales, she removed another ingot, this one larger than the others.

Raistlin frowned, wondering at her strategy. The spell she was about to cast was powerful. In defense, he took a marker of his own.

Shavas lifted her knight, dropped it nervously.

“He is here!” she said in a hollow voice. “He has come to kill us all!”

“Who?”

“You know very well who I’m talking about! The Lord of the Cats! He has come to punish the Council of Mereklar.” Shavas reached out a lovely, trembling hand to Raistlin. “I desperately need your protection!”

“The Cat Lord? If is it truly he, then he is a demi-god. How can I stand against one so powerful?” Raistlin asked.

“I didn’t tell you this before,” Shavas began, taking a deep breath, “but my ancestors collected several items of magic in their journeys. One of them is this broach of good fortune I wear”-she touched the golden necklace with the fire opal-“and the other is this.” Opening the drawer to the table, Shavas removed a triangular leather pouch that bulged in the center. “It is a weapon.”

Raistlin was not looking at the bag. He was staring at the necklace, thinking that it looked incomplete, unfinished. Why didn’t I notice that before? he asked himself.

Because you weren’t looking at the necklace, a mocking, inner voice answered.

Shavas opened the pouch, taking out a short wand. Raistlin glanced at it, saw that it was bent at one end, and fitted with a metal ring at the other. It was covered with runes and sigla. He did not touch it.

“How does it work?”

“I’m not certain. I’ve never used it. I’ve never had any need. But, I was told by my father that it takes our feelings and amplifies them a hundredfold. If you want to destroy an enemy, you have only to feel his destruction and point the wand at him, like this.”

She held the weapon by the bent end, pointing the tip at Raistlin.

The mage made no comment. He did not move.

Shavas, smiling and lowering her eyes, turned the wand around and handed it to him. Raistlin replaced it in the bag, then tucked the bag into his robes.

“Now, you can protect me,” Shavas said. “It is a powerful weapon. It can destroy even a demi-god.”

She leaned forward and her gown slipped, revealing her white bosom. The opal hung glittering from her soft neck. “And when this terrible nightdream is over, we will have time to ourselves.”

“You mean you and my brother will have time,” Raistlin said, sneering. Why did I say that? What is she doing to me? He snarled at himself inwardly. Remember! Remember what you have seen!

“I admit it,” said Shavas, her fingers caressing the mage’s hand. “I … met with Caramon”-she blushed like a schoolgirl-“but it was only to make you jealous. You’re the one I want!”

Her voice was low and husky. There was a ring of truth to her last statement that startled Raistlin. He stared at her, entranced.

“I am wealthy, powerful! I could give you … so much! Do this one thing for me! Destroy the Lord of the Cats!”

Raistlin slowly removed his arm from the woman’s grasp. She let him go, sitting back in her chair. The mage stared down at the board, at the warrior of the dead who stood before his champion.

“From the way you speak, you sound as if you know where he is.”

“Not where he is, where he might be. Lord Cal is very efficient. We think the Cat Lord may be trapped in Leman Square, east of the center of Southgate Street.”

“I have seen it,” the mage said, standing. “Shall I go there now, lady?”

“Yes!” she cried. “And if you succeed, come back to me … tonight.”

“Yes,” said Raistlin, gazing at her intently. “I will be back. Tonight.”

Caramon made excellent time, running at a steady pace up Southgate Street. The road was, for the most part, empty. Lord Cal and his guards were busy dispersing the people, attempting to restore order. Still, the warrior thought it best to keep to the shadows of twilight. He didn’t have time to beat off an enraged mob.

When he reached Barnstoke Hall, the place appeared deserted. He put his hand on the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. The door was locked. He started to bang on it, demanding entrance, then realized the proprietor might not be exactly delighted to see him.

Well, I opened it once, he thought. I can do it again.

Taking a deep breath, Caramon stepped back, then threw his weight into the door. It gave a little. Gathering himself together, rubbing his shoulder, he started to try again when a voice shrilled behind him.

“Hey, Caramon. Can I help you?”

“Earwig!” the warrior exclaimed, whirling around. “Where have you been? We’ve looked all over! Are you sick or something?”

The kender seemed unusually pale, his face drawn and pinched. He stood with a slight stoop, leaning as heavily on his hoopak as Raistlin did on the Staff of Magius.

“I haven’t eaten in a few days, I think,” he said vaguely. “I was captured by … by that man.”

“Yeah, we went looking for you. In the cave … the cave of the dead wizard?”

Earwig appeared thoughtful, then shrugged. “I don’t remember. I’ve been through quite a lot recently, you know.”

“Where have you been? How did you escape? Wait till I bust this door down, and we’ll have a bite to eat and then talk.”

“No!” cried Earwig, clinging to Caramon. “There’s something I need to show you. We have to go now.”

“But what about you? You don’t look like you’re in any condition to-”

“Do not worry about me, Caramon. We have more pressing matters to attend to!”

The warrior’s eyes opened in surprise. “You’re sure talking funny. You sound kind of like Raist.”

“Don’t be a fool, Caramon!” the kender said sharply. “Come on!”

Caramon didn’t like this, and he wished his brother were around to advise him. Thinking of Raistlin made him recall the mage’s warning. Caramon looked at the kender’s ring finger. The flesh around the ring was swollen and fiery red. Blood trickled from beneath it.

Seeing the warrior’s stare, Earwig shoved his hand into his pocket. “Are you coming? Or do I have to go by myself?”

“All right, Earwig,” said Caramon, not wanting the kender to run around loose. “Lead the way.”

The kender headed at a run back toward the center of the city. Caramon had to work to catch up with him.

“Where are we going?” the warrior asked, searching the streets for signs of the mob.

“Uh, back to where I was, when I was captured, that is,” Earwig replied, apparently distracted by having to walk and think at the same time. “I mean, to the tunnels underneath the city.”

“Tunnels? What tunnels?”

“The tunnels where my jail cell was, dolt!” Earwig muttered beneath his breath.

“Did the tunnels have paintings all over them, like somebody was trying to tell a story or something?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. It’s kind of hard to remember. I have this terrible headache,” the kender mumbled, rubbing his head with his right hand.

“Here, stop. Wait a minute. Let me see. Maybe you were-” The warrior reached out.

“Hey! What are you doing?!” the kender yelled. Spinning around, he clobbered the fighter on the hand with his hoopak.

“Ouch! Hey, yourself!” Caramon said in dismay, clutching his hand, staring at his friend. “I was only trying to help.”

Earwig glared at him, then a look of confusion crossed his face. “I–I’m sorry. I’m … nervous, that’s all.” The kender turned, moving back up the street.