The War Of The Lance (5 page)

“Fellow knight, I call upon you, by the Oath and the Measure, to come to my aid against my
enemy.”

The dead knight gestured and there appeared, standing

some distance from him, a wizard clad in red robes that were torn and stained black with
blood. The wizard, too, was dead and had, it seemed from his wounds, died most horribly.

Earwig started forward. “I'll fight on your side if you'll teach me how to cast spells!”

Caramon, catching hold of the kender by the scruff of his neck, lifted him off his feet
and tossed him backward. Slamming into the wall, the kender slid down to the floor where
he spent an entertaining few moments attempting to breathe. Caramon reached out a shaking
hand.

“Gawain, let's get out of - ”

The knight thrust Caramon's hand aside and, kneeling on one knee, started to lay his sword
at the knight's feet. “I will come to your aid, Sir Knight!”

“Caramon, stop him!” The hissing whisper slid over stone and through shadow. “Stop him or
we ourselves are doomed!”

“No!” said the dead knight, his fiery eyes seeming to see Caramon for the first time.
“Join my fight! Or are you a coward?”

“Coward!” Caramon glowered. “No man dares call me -”

“Listen to me, my brother!” Raistlin commanded. “For my sake, if for no other or I will be
lost, too!”

Caramon cast a fearful look at the dead wizard, saw the mage's empty eyes fixed on
Raistlin. The dead knight was leaning down to lift Gawain's sword. Lurching forward on
stiff legs, Caramon kicked the weapon with his foot and sent it spinning across the stone
floor.

The dead knight howled in rage. Gawain jumped up and ran to retrieve his weapon. Caramon,
with a desperate lunge, managed to grab hold of the knight by the shoulders. Gawain
whirled around and struck at him with his bare hands. The legion of dead knights clattered
their swords against their shields, the wizards raised their hollow voices in a cheer that
grew louder when Raistlin entered the room.

“What an interesting experience,” said Earwig, feeling to see if any ribs were cracked.
Finding himself in one piece, he rose to his feet and looked to see what was going on. “My
goodness, someone's lost a sword. I'll just go pick it up.”

“Wizard of the Red Robes!” The dead were shouting at Raistlin. “Join us in our fight!”

Caramon caught a glimpse of his brother's face from the comer of his eye. Tense and
excited, Raistlin was staring at the wizards, a fierce, eager light in his golden eyes.

“Raist! No!” Caramon lost his hold on Gawain.

The knight clouted him on the jaw, sending the big warrior to the floor, and bounded after
the sword, only to find Earwig clutching it tightly, a look of radiant joy on his face
that began to fade as the knight approached.

“Oh, no,” said the kender firmly, clutching the sword to his bosom. “Finders keepers. You
obviously didn't want this anymore.”

“Raist! Don't listen to them!” Caramon staggered to his feet. TOO LATE, he thought. His
brother was walking toward the dead wizard, who was extending a bony hand for the glowing
staff.

The chill fingers were nearly touching it when Raistlin suddenly turned the staff
horizontally and held it out before him. The crystal's light flared, the dead wizard
sprang back from the frail barrier as though it had scalded him.

“I will not join your fight, for it is an eternal fight!” Raistlin raised his voice above
the clamoring. “A fight that can never be won.”

At this, the dead ceased their calling. A brooding silence descended in the hall. Gawain
ceased to threaten the kender and turned around. Earwig, suddenly losing interest in the
sword, let it fall to the floor and hopped forward to see what was going on. Caramon
rubbed his aching jaw and watched warily, ready to leap to his brother's defense.

Leaning on his staff, whose crystal seemed to shine more brightly in the chill darkness,
Raistlin walked forward until he stood in the center of the hall. He looked first at the
knight - the rotting, decaying face beneath a battered helm, a bony hand clutching a
rusting sword. The young mage turned his golden-eyed gaze to the wizard - red robes, torn
and slashed by sword thrusts, covering a body that had for centuries been denied the peace
of death.

Then Raistlin, lifting his head, stared up into the

darkness. “I would talk with the maiden,” he called. The figure of a young woman
materialized out of the night and came to stand before the mage. She was fair-

haired and pretty, with an oval face, rich brown hair, and blue eyes that were bright and
spirited. So lovely was she, and so warm and seemingly alive, that it took some moments
before Caramon realized she was long-since dead.

“YOU are the one who called down the curse, are you not?” asked Raistlin.

“Yes,” the maiden answered in a voice cold as the end of the world. “Which side do you
choose, mage? Here stands pride” - she gestured toward the knight - “and here stands
pride” - she gestured toward the mage. “Which will you choose? Not that it much matters.”

“I fight for neither,” said Raistlin. “I do not choose pride. I choose,” he paused, then
said gently, “I choose love.”

Darkness crashed down upon them with the weight and force of an avalanche, quenching even
the magical light of the staff.

“Wow!” came the awed voice of the kender.

Caramon blinked and peered around, trying to see through the blackness, which was thick
and impenetrable as solid stone. The ghostly armies were gone.

“Raistlin?” he called, panicked. “I am here, my brother. Hush. Keep silent.” Feeling a
hand grasp his shoulder, Caramon reached

out and touched a warm human arm. “Gawain?” he whispered. “Yes,” said the knight in
strained tones. "What is

happening? I don't trust that mage! He'll get us killed.“ ”So far it seems to me he's done
a good job of

keeping us alive,“ said Caramon grimly. ”Look!“ ”SHIRAK," said Raistlin and the crystal's
light

beamed brightly. Standing in front of Raistlin, illuminated by his staff, was the young
woman.

“You have broken the curse, young mage,” said the spirit. “Is there anything you would ask
of me before I go to my long-awaited rest?”

“Tell us your story,” said Raistlin. “According to the legend, the mage carried you off by
force.”

"Of course, that is what they have said, who never

bothered to seek the truth!“ said the spirit scornfully. ”And their words were fuel to the
fire of my curse. The truth is that the mage and I loved each other. My father, a Knight
of Solamnia, forbade me to marry a wizard. He betrothed me to another knight, one whom I
did not love. The mage and I ran off together. I left of my own free will to be with the
man I loved. The knight followed us and we fled to this place, knowing that it had long
been abandoned. The mage and I could have escaped, but he said that, for his honor, he
must turn and fight. For his honor,“ she repeated bitterly. Her blue eyes stared into the
shadows of the hall as though she could still see what had transpired there so long
before. ”Within these walls, he challenged the knight to battle and they fought - one with
his sword, the other with his magic. They fought, for their honor!

"And I came to realize as I watched, helpless to prevent their quarrel, that neither loved
me nearly so much as each loved his own misbegotten pride.

“When they were dead, I stood over their bodies and prayed to the gods that all men bound
up in their own pride should come here and be held enthralled. Then I left this place and
went forth into the world. I found a man who loved me truly enough to live for me, not die
for me. I was blessed with a rich, full life, surrounded by love. After my death, my
spirit returned to this place and has been here since, waiting for one who loved enough to
ignore the voices” - her gaze went to Caramon - "and for one wise enough to break the
spell.

“And now, young mage, you have freed them and you have freed me. I will go to my rest at
the side of my husband who has waited patiently for me throughout the years. But first I
would ask one thing of you. How was it that you saw and understood the truth?”

“I could say that I had a shining example of false pride before my eyes,” said Raistlin,
with a sidelong glance at the knight. Sir Gawain flushed and bowed his head. The mage,
smiling slightly, added, “But it would be more truthful to say that it was mostly due to
the curiosity of a kender.”

“Me!” gasped Earwig, struck by this revelation. “That's me he's talking about! I did it! I
lifted the curse! I TOLD you it had to be a knight, a mage, AND a kender!”

The young woman's image began to fade. “Farewell,” said Raistlin. “May your rest be
undisturbed.” “Fare you well, young mage. I leave you with a warning. Very nearly you
succumbed. Your wits and your will saved you. But unless you change, I foresee a time when
this doom you have now avoided will drag you down at last.” The blue eyes closed, and were
seen no more. “Don't go!” wailed Earwig, rushing around and grabbing at the empty air with
his hands. “I've got so many questions! Have you been to the Abyss? What's it like being
dead? Oh, please . . .”

Caramon came forward cautiously, his eyes on the place where the spirit had been, fearful
that she might suddenly burst back to life. His big hand rested on his brother's shoulder.

“Raist,” he said worriedly, “what did she mean by that?” “How should I know?” Raistlin
snapped, pulling himself free of his brother's touch. He began to cough violently. “Go
find wood to build a fire! Can't you see I'm freezing to death!”

“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon gently. “C'mon, Earmite.”

“Earwig,” said the kender automatically, trudging after the big warrior. “Wait until
Cousin Tas hears about this! Not even Uncle Trapspringer - the most famous kender of all
time - ever ended a curse!”

Gawain remained standing in silence until Caramon and the kender had left the keep. Then,
slowly, sword in hand, he approached the mage.

“I owe you my life,” he said grudgingly, awkwardly. “By the Oath and the Measure, I owe
you my allegiance.” He held the sword - hilt first - out to the mage. “What would you have
me do?”

Raistlin drew a shuddering breath. He glanced at the sword and his thin lip twisted. “What
would I have you do? Break your Oath. Burn your Measure. As the maiden said, live for
those you love. A time of darkness is coming to the world, Sir Knight, and love could well
be the only thing that will save us.”

The knight's lips tightened, his face flushed. Raistlin stared at him, unmoving, and the
expression on Gawain's face altered from anger to one of thoughtful consideration.
Abruptly, he slid his sword back into its sheath.

“Oh, and Sir Knight,” said Raistlin coolly, “don't forget to give us our share of the
reward.”

Gawain unbuckled his sword belt and removed it from around his waist. “Take it all,” he
said, tossing sword and belt at the mage's feet. “I've found something of far greater
value.” Bowing stiffly, he turned and walked from the keep.

The red moon rose in the sky. Its eerie glow filtered through the crumbling walls of the
ancient fortress, lighting the path. The mage remained standing in the empty hall. He
could still feel, soft and silky beneath his fingers, the child's hair.

“Yes, Sir Knight, you have,” said Raistlin. He stood a moment, thinking of the spirit's
words. Then, shrugging, he tightened his grip on the magical staff. “DULAK”, he said, and
the light went out, leaving him to stand in darkness lit only by the rays of the red moon.

Roger E. Moore

“There'd goes!” called a hobgoblin drunkenly in the last red light of evening. “There'd
goes! S'goin' away!”

No cloud remained in the darkening sky. The wind picked up around me, the low roar almost
drowning out the laughter of the hobgoblin sentries forty feet up the steep hillside at my
back. From the sound of things, the two of them had long ago broken into one of the wine
casks they'd taken from a farm near the outskirts of Twisting Creek, basking in the
natural satisfaction hobgoblins get from killing unarmed farmers - like my cousins, Garayn
and Klart.

I licked my lips and felt for the leather waterskin on my belt, preparing to untie it, but
found the water was already low. I released it and leaned back against the rock face,
keeping my arm close to my side so that the hobgoblins above wouldn't notice the movement
in the dim light. My fingers closed over my sword hilt but stayed relaxed. The glow above
the plain to the west was almost gone; Lunitari was a low, red crescent on the horizon,
the only moon visible. Far overhead, the pantheon of gods was played out in the
brightening stars. It was beautiful, but I could tell there'd be rain by tomorrow night.
Scouts know these things.

“S'all gone!” called the hobgoblin again. “N'more sun!”

Several distant shouts came back, all curses in the coarse hobgoblins' tongue. “You
basdards wanned me d'be a lookoud, and I'm looking oud!” the hobgoblin roared back hotly,
then laughed again. He sounded as if he had a broken nose. “Bedder look oud for th' sdars!
They're coming da ged ya!”

I'd gotten here only an hour ago but had already heard enough. About a dozen hobgoblins
were camped out on this hilltop, near Solanthus's eastern border. Twisting Creek was two
days to the southwest. On the other side of the low hills to the east, beyond the Garetmar
River, was unclaimed territory populated by bandits, deserters, and hobgoblin garbage.

A hobgoblin snickered, then drunkenly mumbled a phrase that the wind carried away. Soon,
both sentries would be dead to the world. They had nothing to fear that they knew of. They
had been clever enough to raid light and avoid attracting too much unfavorable attention
from Twisting Creek's militia. Hit fast, grab loot, and run - the same old formula. The
hobgoblins had burned a few barns, killed some horses, and stolen some odds and ends
before scurrying off. They didn't want a fight. They just wanted to rub it in that they
were around.

I was Evredd Kaan: dark hair, dark eyes, good physique, ex-scout. I'd been out of the army
since Neraka fell and my unit was disbanded. After that, I'd gone home to the city of
Solanthus to find it mostly in ruins. I worked for a year on labor crews, shoveling ashes,
rubble, and bones, sometimes taking night shift as a militiaman in a city overrun with
beggars who stole to survive. Finally, I just quit and headed east for Twisting Creek,
where my parents had lived years ago before fever took them. I worked on my uncle's farm
and maintained the wagons for his trading business, which suffered more than a bit with
the obnoxious hobgoblins around.

Three nights ago, the hobgoblins killed their first humans. Laughing Garayn and brooding
Klart had been walking back from an evening in town when they were shot dead with
crossbows. A hobgoblin dagger was found in one of the bodies. I watched as my neighbors
wrapped my cousins for burial, then I went to my uncle and said I

would be leaving for a few days. “Family business,” I said. “Don't do anything foolish, my
boy,” my uncle urged.

He was a big man with a pouchy face, hook nose, and receding hairline. Twisting Creek had
been lucky enough not to be sacked and burned during the War of the Lance, ended just two
years ago, and my uncle's business had survived. But now his two sons had been taken away
from him, his life permanently scarred by the bad elements still roaming the land. “You're
all I got left, Evredd.”

“What I do,” I said tersely, “won't be foolish.” His eyes glazed over. His hands moved
around the valuables on his desk, touching them reassuringly. Tears squeezed from his eyes.

“There's been killing enough,” my uncle pleaded. “Let it go.”

Needless to say, I didn't listen to him. My uncle had been absorbed in his business
lately, locking himself in his study with his ledgers and cursing the hobgoblins' effect
on trade, and now this. He seemed like a destroyed man.

I left town at dawn, taking food, my sword, and little else. I knew where part of the
hobgoblins' old trails usually went, so I followed that course until a regular path
appeared, six miles outside of town. The tracks stood out as if they had been laid down by
a small army instead of a few raiders loaded down with loot. Two days later, I was here.

One of the hobgoblins above me belched like a giant frog croaking, then dropped a metallic
cup and cursed. “S'my damn drink!” he moaned. “S'all spilled!”

The other sentry cleared his throat and spat. “There's yer drink,” he said, sniggering.
“Put it in yer cup.”

“I'll give ya somethin' for YER cup,” muttered the first, and a rock sailed off the top of
the hill, over my head and about sixty feet past me. I kept quiet in case one went to look
off the cliff. Hobgoblins are a fun-loving race when it comes to humans. They would have
lots of fun with me, good hobgoblin fun, with whips, knives, hot irons - the works.

Another rock flew overhead, landing in the grass beyond.

"Throw one more, and ol' Garith'll set yer dumb ass on

fire,“ said a hobgoblin testily. ”Ya godda find 'im, firs',“ retorted the other. ”S'nod

comin' back. Gonna live like a huuu-man now. Thinks 'e's so good."

“He's comin' back,” snapped the first. “Didn't I tell him we wouldn't wait long 'fore we
began to tear things up? He knows we'll cause trouble. Little toad-belly knows we want
action. We got to keep movin', not sittin' on ass- bruises. And you put that rock down or
I'll give you a face that would scare a blind dwarf.”

After several more minutes of arguing, the hobgoblins settled down in wine-sodden silence.
I decided to move out again in a bit when the sentries were either dozing or too groggy
from drink and lack of sleep to notice. Then I'd take them, one by one, the way I'd
learned to during the war. Only the crickets could be heard in the darkness. I sighed,
waiting, fingers on my sword hilt.

Something punched my chest. Pain shot through my left lung, hurting far worse than
anything that had ever happened to me at Neraka. I looked down, my hands involuntarily
going for the source of the pain, and saw a short, feathered shaft sticking out of my
leather surcoat, next to my heart. I could tell the arrow had gone right through me. I was
never more surprised to see anything in my life.

Son of a bitch, I thought, desperately trying not to breathe or scream. They'd found me;
the hobgoblins had found me. But how in the Abyss did they do that? I never heard them
coming. I stood there like an idiot, looking down at the arrow shaft and wondering why the
hobgoblins weren't now calling out in alarm. The shock and pain of being hit was too much
to take. I couldn't think.

Something prickly and cold spread through my bloodstream from the wound. The pain ceased
and became a cloud of nothingness, as if my chest had disappeared. My will broke then and
I tried to scream, but I couldn't inhale. It seemed like a huge weight pressed against my
rib cage, keeping out the air. I slumped back against the rock face, my vision swimming,
my hands clutching the wound.

It came to me then that I was going to die. There was nothing I could do. I didn't want to
die, not then, not ever.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to live. For a moment I thought of
Garayn and Klart. I could al most see their faces before me.

The numbness reached my head. Everything became very light and airy. I felt a rushing
sensation, as if I were falling.

This wasn't right, came a mad thought. The hobgoblins killed me. They'd killed my cousins,
and now they'd killed me. It wasn't right, and I wanted them to pay for it in the worst
way.

That was my last mortal thought. *****

I was having the worst of all nightmares, worse than the red dreams I'd once had of
Neraka. I dreamed I was dead and buried. Ice-cold rain fell without end on me, trickling
down on lifeless flesh. My body was dead-numb, my limbs chained down. I was hollow, a
shell of nothing in the earth. I fought to wake up or even move a muscle. I begged the
great gods of Krynn to let me wake up.

No one heard me. I begged them for mercy. I pleaded for justice. No voice spoke in the
darkness. Then I cursed them, I cursed the gods, and I cried for

revenge. I became aware of a colorless light. Without thinking,

I opened my eyes, my lips still moving. Gray clouds rolled swiftly above me, ragged-edged.

Cold droplets slapped my face and fell into my unblinking eyes. I couldn't move my limbs.
I felt nothing, nothing at all but the cold, and I listened to the drumming of the rain
against and around me.

The gray clouds rolled on for ages. The rain fell. Then a weight seemed to fall away, and
I knew I could sit up. Very slowly, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself

upright. Every movement was unbalanced, and I swayed dizzily until I braced myself with my
arms. The tilting scenery settled in my vision, and I looked around.

The landscape appeared odd in the rain-washed light, but I was still at the foot of the
rocky cliff. It was late in the evening now. I didn't know the day. The long grass of the
plain had been beaten down by rain some time ago. A

light wind blew across the field, rippling the bent and broken stalks.

I sat there stupidly for a long time, then looked down at myself.

The butt of an arrow was projecting from my chest. After a few moments, I remembered how
it got there, and thought I was lucky that it hadn't killed me.

Then, of course, I knew the truth.

I stared at the arrow for a long time. The rain eventually slowed. All was quiet except
for the cawing of distant crows. I wasn't afraid, only dully surprised. No heartbeat
sounded within me, no blood ran from my wound. I felt surprised, but nothing more.

I hated looking at the arrow in me. It wasn't right. It ought to come out. Carefully, I
reached up and touched it, then tapped it hard. There was no pain, only a sense of its
presence. I reached up and carefully tugged on the shaft. It didn't budge. Then I took it
in both hands and broke off the arrow at the point where it entered my chest, having it in
mind not to open the wound any further. I felt a need to keep my body looking as good as
possible. Self-respect, maybe.

That done, I reached behind me with one hand to find that the arrow point stuck out of my
back by an inch or two, between two ribs. After some difficulty in getting a proper grip,
I slowly pulled the arrow out, then held both pieces of it before me.

The arrow was shorter than I'd expected; the arrowhead was small and grooved. It was
actually a crossbow bolt, not a longbow arrow - a well-made bolt, too; dwarven-make.
Doubtless the hobgoblins had been picking up good weaponry on their raids.

I rolled to my knees, then staggered to my feet and looked myself over. I was filthy with
mud. My sword scabbard was empty, my boots were gone, my food pouch was untied, and my
waterskin had been cut loose. I knew that my pouch had been tied before I had been killed.
My murderer must have checked me for loot. I had done it myself at Neraka, searching dead
hobgoblins after the battles. I hadn't brought anything with me but a few odds and ends. I
opened the pouch flap and found it was empty now. I looked down at my feet and saw my food
in the mud and water. None of the food had been eaten; all was

ruined. The boots and waterskin lay further away, slashed open. The sword was nowhere
around, but the killer had undoubtedly taken it, probably discarded it later. It was
cheaply made. My murderer was thorough.

I tossed the pieces of the bolt to the ground. I looked at my arms as I did so and
realized that, for a dead person, I didn't look half bad. My skin was very pale, almost
dull white. My hands and arms looked thinner than I'd remembered, more bony and less puffy
and full. My trousers, boots, and surcoat were muddy and soaking wet, and my surcoat was
also badly stained with what had to be blood. I must not have been dead for very long,
maybe only a day or two.

I couldn't see my own face, of course. For that small blessing I felt curiously grateful.
I touched my short beard and mustache, wiped them as free of dirt as I could, then
adjusted my leather surcoat and brushed at the small hole in the front as if I had just
spilled food there. My long, thin fingers were like icicles, but the cold was almost
comfortable.

A stick snapped, the sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the cliff above me. I
looked up, saw no faces, only clouds and rain.

Damn hobgoblins had probably forgotten about me, left me here for animals to feed on.
Maybe they were still drunk.

Maybe I should find out.

I examined the cliff face. It was weathered and old, full of cracks and plant roots. It
was worth a try. Wedging my bone-thin fingers into a vertical split in the rock, I found a
foothold and began the ascent.

It took time to go up the cliff, but I didn't mind the climb. I felt no pain at all. I
wondered what the hobgoblins would do when they saw me. I couldn't wait to find out. I had
no sword, but I had my bare hands, and I was already dead.

Just below the top, I hesitated listening. Someone was moving around up there; metal
clinked, maybe chain armor. I had no fear of their weapons now, but I wanted surprise. I
rocked slightly, then pulled myself up swiftly and quietly over the ledge.

At my feet in the tall wet grass lay a heavy-bodied figure, his misshapen head buried
face-down in mud and