Kevin Stein - Brother's Majere

“What in the name of the Abyss are you doing?” Caramon grunted.

“You’re not dead yet!” Earwig shrieked.

“No thanks to you! Oof-”

The kender had slipped his leg underneath the fighter and kicked upward, landing his attack just below the abdomen.

Caramon fell back with a groan. Earwig slashed with the knife, ripping open the warrior’s shoulder before the blade came up against the leather harness and flipped out of the kender’s hands.

Finding himself defenseless, Earwig fell back, taking refuge behind the stone dais.

Caramon leaned against the wall. The wound in his shoulder wasn’t deep, and he managed to stop the bleeding by pressing part of his shirt against it. He reached under his belt and pulled out his cestus, slipping it over his fingers, driving the metal into his flesh to help retain his failing consciousness. He, too, wondered why he wasn’t dead.

As awful as I feel, I sort of wish I were, he thought briefly, pain twisting his insides.

Earwig was staring at him hopefully, perhaps waiting for him to keel over. Using the smooth stone as a prop, Caramon slid back up the wall, pushing with his powerful legs. Three throwing spikes clattered beside his head, bouncing off the smooth stone and falling to his feet. The fighter was late to duck, then realized that the weapons had already missed. Three more projectiles flew out from behind the dais, and two struck him in the arm and chest, bouncing off his armor.

If I don’t stop the kender soon, Caramon thought, it’ll be a race to see if I die from the poison or loss of blood! Taking a deep breath, he dropped to his knees and began to crawl around the giant disk, hoping to take the kender by surprise. The chamber was very quiet, and he knew he sounded as loud as a dwarf on a drinking binge, but he couldn’t help it.

Caramon saw movement and sprang, attempting to grab his friend. But the kender dodged backward and threw an egg at the ground, breaking it open, creating billowing clouds of foul-smelling smoke.

Beware the ring!

If I can get hold of him, maybe I can get the cursed thing off his finger, Caramon thought desperately. The warrior peered through the smoke, blinking back tears that streamed down his cheeks.

“Earwig, are you here?”

“Of course, I’m here. I’m waiting to kill you!” The voice came from the opposite side of the chamber.

“No, I don’t want to talk to you !” Caramon shouted, having the strangest impression that there were two different kender in the room. “I want to talk to Earwig! I’m his friend.”

“Caramon, help-” came a muffled voice, but it was cut off.

Good, if I can just keep him off-balance.… Caramon began to babble, talking about the first thing that came into his head. “Hey, Earwig, the cats really miss you, especially that black one that kept following you around. Remember him?”

“All the cats will die! I’ll kill them, too!”

“Why do you want to kill the cats, Earwig?”

“I don’t, Caramon,” came the kender’s voice. “You’ve got to believe-” he faltered, then shouted, “The prophecy speaks. Hear its words. ‘The cats alive are the turning stone, they decide the fate, darkness or light.’ Darkness will triumph!”

The kender had moved, and Caramon was no longer sure where, though the smoke was beginning to dissipate. He sat still, gathering his strength, hoping soon to be able to see.

“Oh, by the way, Earwig. Catherine says to tell you she’s sorry. She feels real bad about what she did.”

“Catherine? Catherine who?” It was Earwig who answered, sounding lost and frightened.

“Catherine. The girl at the tavern. The one who kissed you.”

“I remember! I … I … I need your help, Caramon. She’s trying to control me, and I can’t stop her!” Earwig cried.

“I’ll help you, Earwig, just tell me where you are,” the fighter called.

“I’m right here!”

The kender leaped on Caramon’s shoulders. Grabbing Caramon by the hair, the kender pulled the warrior’s head back and tried to slash his neck with a knife.

Caramon, roaring like a wounded bull, reached back over his head, caught Earwig, and jerked him forward. The kender slammed against the wall and lay motionless.

The warrior eyed him warily a moment to see if he was shamming. The kender was obviously out cold.

Caramon lifted the kender’s left arm and held it up to the dim light in the chamber. Grasping the gold ring, he tugged. As Raistlin had discovered, the band would not come off.

“This is gonna hurt real bad, Earwig,” Caramon whispered.

He saw blood seeping from under the gold, as if the finger were being bitten. Shuddering, he tried again, but the flow of blood increased and the ring stayed where it was. Earwig moaned and thrashed about in pain.

“What am I going to do?” Caramon wracked his brain for an answer. The realm of magic was far beyond his comprehension. “What would you do, Raist?” he muttered. He could almost hear his brother’s voice: “Cut off the finger.”

Caramon slowly drew out his knife. “Well, if that’s what I have to do …” He took hold of the ring, now wet with blood, and gave it one last try. He thought he felt it wiggle slightly.

Wet with blood. Wet. Rub soap around a ring and it will slip off. No soap, but if I could get it slick enough … “That’s it!”

Caramon turned the dagger on himself, slashing a large cut in his thumb. He dripped his blood over the ring, pouring more and more of his life’s essence onto the gold until the kender’s hand was stained crimson.

“It’s not soap, but let’s see if this works!”

Caramon pinched the band between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. The ring slipped off easily-too easily. It almost seemed as if was growing and expanding, pulsing in his grip. Caramon stared at it in fascination.

Put me on! Put me on!

It is a beautiful ring and it will fit me now, Caramon thought.

Earwig screamed in pain, a sound that echoed in the chamber for many minutes. He writhed in throes of incredible agony, moaning like a child.

“She was in my head-she was in my head-she was in my head!”

Caramon threw the ring aside. Catching his friend up in his huge arms, the warrior held Earwig close to his chest, rocking the sobbing kender gently.

Mereklar remained silent and foreboding, awaiting the forming of the Great Eye. The three moons, Solinari, Lunitari, and dark Nuitari, forging the same arcs they had crossed for thousands of years, would once more meet again. White over red over black-an eye to gaze upon the world, a focus to release the power of wizards dead since the Age of Might.

Who would use it?

Walking, his head bent into a wind only he could feel, Raistlin searched the paths and portents of his life, from his childhood to his indoctrination into the ranks of the adept, to where he stood now on the flawless street. He sought to discover the key to the mystery of the festival that had remained locked since the Cataclysm.

His right hand gripped the Staff of Magius, using it both as support and reference. Its black wood, golden claw, and pale blue orb were the pinnacles of magical knowledge-an artifact containing runes and glyphs to spells he could not yet comprehend. It held the wisdom of the one who had created it, potent rituals and sacrifices lost to the past, available to those who could hear its silent tales. It was to these venerable voices that the mage listened, ignoring all else around him.

Pictures and images floated across his consciousness, sensation more than substance. He let his spirit flow into the lines of the staff. Paths of power took him, scattered parts of his mind to other roads. But the mage did not have the experience to clutch through the veil of time and penetrate to the past. His will was forced from the rune-paths again and again, until he finally admitted defeat.