The War Of The Lance (2 page)

So it was as the centuries gathered and telescoped into the passage of a dozen years,

as the bristling heart of Silvanesti festered and doubled and hardened like crystal. And
always the promise of Cyan Bloodbane,

of the dragon coiled on the crystal globe, always the promise was nothing and nothing and
the forest the map of a strangled country, land of stillbirth, of fever, of warped and
gangrenous age and of long unendurable dying, until from the North

came another invasion of hard light and lances as the Heroes, the Fellowship, the
fashioned alliance of elf and dwarf, of human and gnome and kender came to the forest
through the nest of nightmare, through the growing entanglement, through bone, through
crystal, through all the forgotten banes and allures of the damaged heart,

to Silvanost and the disfigured Tower, to Lorac, to the imprisoning Orb, and they freed
the Speaker

the Tower and town, the forest, the people, the bright orb they freed

and like a survivor tumbled the globe through the years through the centuries lodged in
the pale hands of others and its old polished carapace bright and reflecting the
hourglassed eyes of its ultimate wielder.

But the sands were draining over the Speaker of Suns, and the knowledge of Lorac, vaulted
and various, numbered and faceted, descended and simplified into a knowledge of evil,

as the forest unfolded, stripped of the long light, bare of bedazzlement and at last
Silvanesti

was free of his mind, torn from the labyrinth bearing forever the scars of belief to the
last syllable of eventual time, and Lorac died in his daughter's arms, his thoughts in the
Tower entombed and surrendered, his last wish a burial underneath Silvanost, driving the
green from the body's decay, resolving to forest, resolving to Silvanost forever and ever,
his enabling ghost to ascribe and deliver the land that he dreamt of, as thought was
translated to dream.

And yes, it is always like this,

for the country is haunted with old supposition, and no matter the stories, no matter the
rumors

of legend and magic that illumine you through the curtain of years, you come to believe in
the web of yourself that history twines in the veins of your fingers, that it knits all
purpose, all pardon and injury, recovers the lapsed and plausible blood, until finally, in
the midst of believing, you contrive among rumors the story, the old convolution of breath
and forgetting, in which you will say, beyond truth and belief, THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS, FOR
ONCE AND AT LAST WHAT IT ALWAYS MEANT, NO MORE THAN I KNEW FROM THE WORLD'S BEGINNING IS
ALL THAT IT MEANS FOREVER.

It was a chill night for spring, undoubtedly the reason there were so many people in the
inn. The inn wasn't accustomed to such crowds. In fact, it wasn't accustomed to any
crowds, for the inn was new, so new that it still smelled of fresh-hewn wood and paint
instead of stale ale and yesterday's stew. Called “Three Sheets,” after a popular drinking
song of the time, the inn was located in - . But where it was located doesn't matter. The
inn was destroyed five years later in the Dragon Wars and never rebuilt. Small wonder, for
it was on a road little traveled then and less traveled after the dragons leveled

the town. It would be some time yet before the Queen of

Darkness plunged the world into what she hoped would be eternal night, but already, in
these years just prior to the war, her evil shadow was spreading. Goblins had always been
a problem in this realm, but suddenly what had been small bands of raiders who struck
isolated farms had grown into armies attacking villages.

“What's His Lordship offering?” queried a mage clad in red robes who occupied a booth -
the one nearest the fire and the most comfortable in the crowded inn - with just one
companion. No one thought of joining them. Though the mage was sickly in appearance, with
a hacking cough that nearly bent him double, those who had served with him in previous
campaigns whispered that he was quick to anger and quicker with his spells.

“Standard rate - two pieces of steel a week and a bounty on goblin ears. I signed us up.”
The man responding was a large, burly warrior who sat down opposite his questioner.
Shedding his plain, undecorated cloak in the heat of the room, the warrior revealed hard-
muscled arms the size of tree trunks and a chest like a bull's. He unbuckled from around
his waist a sword belt, laying on the table near at hand a sword with every appearance of
having been well and skillfully used.

“When do we get our pay?”

“After we drive out the goblins. He'll make us earn it.”

“Of course,” said the mage, “and he won't be out any cash to those who die. What took you
so long?”

“The town is packed! Every mercenary this side of Ansalon is here, not to mention horse
traders, camp followers, swordmakers, and every kender not currently behind bars. We'll be
lucky to find a place in a field to spread our blankets this night.”

“Hullo, Caramon!” called out a leather-armor-clad man, coming over to the table and
clapping the warrior on the back. “Mind if I share your booth?” he asked, starting to sit
down. “It's standing room only in this place. This your twin I've heard so much about?
Introduce us.”

The mage lifted his head, fixed his gaze upon the stranger.

Golden eyes with pupils the shape of an hourglass

glittered in the shadows of the red hood. The light in the inn glinted off golden skin.
Near at hand stood a wooden staff - obviously and ominously magical - topped by a
multifaceted crystal clutched in a dragon's claw. Gulping, the man rose quickly to his
feet and, with a hasty farewell to Caramon, took his ale to a distant comer of the room.

“He looked at me as if he saw me on my deathbed!” muttered the man to more congenial
companions.

“It's going to be a cold night tonight, Raist,” said the warrior to his brother in a low
voice when the two were again alone. “It smells like snow in the air. You shouldn't sleep
outside.”

“And where would you have me sleep, Caramon?” asked the mage in a soft, sneering voice.
“In a hole in the ground, like a rabbit, for that is all we can aff - .” He broke off in a
fit of coughing that left him breathless.

His twin gazed at him anxiously. Pulling a coin from a shabby purse he wore at his belt,
Caramon held it up. “We have this, Raist. You could sleep here tonight and the next night.”

“And what would we do for food in the interim, my brother? We won't get paid for a
fortnight, at least.”

Caramon lowered his voice and, leaning across the table, grasped hold of his brother's arm
to draw him near. “I could snare us something, if need be.”

“You'd be the one to end up in a snare, you fool!” The mage jerked away from his brother's
touch. “The lord's men are all over the woods, hunting for poachers with only slightly
less enthusiasm than they're hunting for goblins. No, we'll return to camp tonight. Don't
fuss over me. You know how I hate it. I'll be fine. I've slept in worse places.”

Raistlin began to cough again, the spasms shaking his frail body until it seemed he must
split apart. Pulling out a cloth, he pressed it over his mouth. Those who glanced at him
in concern saw that, when the mage withdrew the cloth, it was covered with blood.

“Fix me my drink!” he ordered Caramon, his lips forming the words for he had momentarily
lost the power of speech. Collapsing in a comer, he closed his eyes and concentrated on
drawing breath. Those near could hear the air whistle in his lungs.

Caramon peered through the crowd, attempting to find

the barmaid, and shouted for boiling hot water. Raistlin slid a pouch across the table
toward his brother, who picked it up and carefully measured out some of its contents into
a mug. The inn's proprietor himself came bustling over with the hot water in a steaming
kettle. He was just about to pour when a sudden shouting rose up around the door.

“Hey, there! Get out you little vermin! No kender allowed!” cried several of the guests.

“Kender!” Kettle in hand, the proprietor ran off in panic.

“Hey!” shouted Caramon after the flurried innkeeper in exasperation, “you forgot our
water!”

“But I tell you I have friends here!” A shrill voice rose up from the doorway. “Where?
Why,” - there was a moment's pause - “there! Hi, Caramon! Remember me?”

“Name of the Abyss!” muttered Caramon, hunching up his big shoulders and ducking his head.

A short figure, about the stature of a twelve-year old human, with the face of a man of
twenty and the wide- eyed innocent expression of a babe of three, was pointing gleefully
at the booth of the warrior and his brother. The figure was clad in a bright green tunic
and orange striped hose. A long tassel of hair was twisted round his head and hung down
his back. Numerous pouches containing the possessions of everyone who had been unfortunate
enough to cross his path hung from his belt.

“You're answerable for him, then,” said the proprietor grimly, marching the kender across
the room, one hand gripping the slight shoulders firmly. There was a wild scramble as men
stuffed their purses inside their shirts, down their pants, or wherever else they thought
their valuables might be safe from a kender's light and nimble fingers.

“Hey! Our water!” Caramon made a grab for the innkeeper but got a handful of kender
instead.

“Earwig Lockpicker,” said the kender, holding out his hand politely. “Friend of Tasslehoff
Burrfoot's. We met at the Inn of the Last Home. I couldn't stay long. There was that
misunderstanding over the horse. I told them I didn't steal it. I can't think how it came
to follow me.”

“Maybe because you were holding firmly onto the reins?” suggested Caramon.

“Do you think so? Because I - Ouch!”

“Drop it!” said Raistlin, his thin hand closing tightly over the kender's wrist.

“Oh,” said Earwig meekly, releasing the pouch that had been lying on the table and was now
making its way into the kender's pocket. “Is that yours?”

The mage cast a piercing, infuriated glare at his brother, who flushed and shrugged
uncomfortably. “I'll get that water for you, Raist. Right now. Uh, Innkeeper!”

“Well, look over there!” said the kender, squirming around in his seat to face the front
door as it dosed behind a small group of travelers. “I followed those people into town.
You can't imagine,” he said in an indignant whisper that carried clearly across the room,
“how rude that man is! He should have thanked me for finding his dagger, instead of - ”

“Greetings, sir. Greetings, my lady.” The proprietor bobbed and bowed officiously. The
heavily cloaked man and woman were, to all appearances, well dressed. “You'll be wanting a
room, no doubt, and then dinner. There's hay in the stable for your horses.”

“We'll be wanting nothing,” said the man in a harsh voice. He was carrying a young boy in
his arms and, as he spoke, he eased the child to the floor, then flexed his arms as though
they ached. “Nothing except a seat by your fire. We wouldn't have come in except that my
lady-wife is not feeling well.”

“Not well?” The innkeeper, backing up, held out a dish cloth in front of him as a sort of
shield and eyed them askance. “Not the plague?”

“No, no!” said the woman in a low, cultivated voice. “I am not ill. I am just tired and
chilled to the bone, that is all.” Reaching out her hand, she drew her son near. “We have
walked a great distance.”

“Walked!” muttered the innkeeper, not liking the sound of that. He looked more closely at
the family's dress.

Several of the men standing around the fire moved to one side. Others hurried to draw up a
bench, and the overworked barmaid, ignoring her waiting customers, put her arm around the
woman and helped her to a seat. The woman sank down limply.

“You're white as a ghost, milady,” said the barmaid.

“Let me bring you a posset of honey and brandywine.” “No,” said the man, moving to stand
by his wife, the

child clinging to his father. “We have no money to pay for it.”

“Tut, tut. Talk of money later,” said the barmaid briskly. “Call it my treat.”

“We'll not take charity!” The man's voice rose to a angry shout.

The boy shrank close to his mother, who glanced at her husband, then lowered her eyes.
“Thank you for your kind offer,” she said to the barmaid, “but I need nothing. I'm feeling
much better already.”

The proprietor, stalking his guests, noted that by firelight their clothes were not nearly
so fine as they had first seemed. The man's cloak was frayed at the hem and travel worn
and stained with mud. The woman's dress was clean and neat but many times mended. The boy,
who appeared to be about five or six, was clad in shirt and trousers that had probably
once been his father's, cut down to fit the boy's small, thin frame. The proprietor was
about to hint broadly that only those who spent money in his inn had a right to his fire
when he was distracted by a scream from inside the kitchen.

“Where's that kender?” the innkeeper cried out in alarm.

“Right here!” shouted Earwig eagerly, raising his hand and waving. “Do you want me?”

The proprietor cast him a baleful glance, then fled.

“Humpf,” said Caramon in an undertone, his eyes on the woman. She had shoved the hood of
her cloak back with a weary hand, revealing a pale, thin face once beautiful, now anxious
and worn with care and fatigue. Her arm stole around her son, who was gazing up at her in
concern, and she hugged the boy close. “I wonder when the last time was those two had
anything to eat,” Caramon muttered.

“I can ask them,” offered Earwig helpfully. “Hey, lady, when - Ulp!”

Caramon clamped his hand over the kender's mouth.

“It's no concern of yours, my brother,” snapped Raistlin irritably. “Get that imbecile
innkeeper back here with the hot water!” He began to cough again.

Caramon released the wriggling kender (who had

actually been silent for as long as three minutes on account of having no breath left with
which to talk) and heaved his great bulk to his feet, peering over the heads of the crowd
for the proprietor. Smoke was rolling out from under the kitchen door.

“I think he's going to be a while, Raist,” said Caramon solemnly. “I'll get the barmaid.”

He tried to catch the barmaid's eye, but she was hovering over the woman.

“I'll go and fix you a nice cup of tarbean tea, milady. No, no. It's all right. There's no
charge for tarbean tea in this inn. Is there?” she said, flashing a threatening look at
the other customers.

“No, no. No charge. None,” chorused the men in response.

The cloaked and booted man frowned, but swallowed whatever words he might have wanted to
say.

“Hey, over here!” Caramon shouted, but the barmaid was still standing in front of the
woman, twisting her apron in her hands.

“Milady,” she began hesitantly, in a low voice, “I've been speaking to cook. We're that
busy tonight we're short-handed. It would be a gift of charity, milady, if you could help
us out. It'd be worth a night's lodging and a meal.”

The woman cast a swift and pleading glance up at her husband.

His face was livid. “No wife of a Knight of Solamnia will work in an inn! We'll all three
starve and go to our graves first!”

“Uh, oh,” muttered Caramon and eased himself back into his seat.

Talking and bantering and laughter ceased, the silence falling gradually as word
circulated. All eyes went to the man. Hot blood flooded his cheeks. He had obviously not
meant to reveal such a thing about himself. His hand went to his smooth-shaven upper lip,
and it seemed to those watching that they could almost see the long, flowing mustaches
that marked a Knight of Solamnia. It was not unusual that he had shaved it off. For long
centuries the Order had stood for justice and law on Krynn. Now the knights were hated and
reviled, blamed for bringing down the wrath of the gods. What calamity had forced this

knight and his family to flee their homeland without money and barely the clothes on their
backs? The crowd didn't know and most of them didn't care. The proprietor now wasn't the
only one who wanted the knight and his family gone.

“Come along, Aileen,” said the knight gruffly. He put his hand on his wife's shoulder.
“We'll not stay in this place. Not when they cater to the likes of that!” His narrowed
eyes went to Raistlin, to the red robes that proclaimed him a wizard and the magical staff
that stood by his side. The knight turned stiffly to the barmaid. “I understand the lord
of this realm seeks men to fight the goblins. If you could tell me where to find him - ”