CHAPTER 15

"The supplywagons?" Caramon asked in even, measured tones—the tones of one who already knows the answer.

"No word, sir," replied Garic, avoiding Caramon's steady gaze. "But . . . but we expect them—"

"They won't be coming. They've been ambushed. You know that." Caramon smiled wearily.

"At least we've found water," Garic said lamely, making a valiant effort to sound cheerful, which failed miserably. Keeping his gaze fixed on the map spread on the table before him, he nervously drew a small circle around a tiny green dot on the parchment.

Caramon snorted. "A hole that is emptied by midday. Oh, sure, it fills again at night, but my own sweat tastes better. Blasted stuff must be tainted by sea water."

"Still, it's drinkable. We're rationing, of course, and I've set guards around it. But it doesn't look like it's going to run dry."

"Oh, well. There won't be men enough left to drink it to worry about it after a while," Caramon said, running his hand through his curly hair with a sigh. It was hot in the room, hot and stuffy. Some overzealous servant had tossed wood onto the fire before Caramon, accustomed to living outdoors, could stop him. The big man had thrown open a window to let the fresh, crisp air inside, but the blaze roaring at his back was toasting him nicely nonetheless. "What's the desertion count today?"

Garic cleared his throat. "About—about one hundred, sir;" he said reluctantly.

"Where'd they go? Pax Tharkas?"

"Yes, sir. So we believe."

"What else?" Caramon asked grimly, his eyes studying Garic's face. "You're keeping something back."

The young knight flushed. Garic had a passing wish, at this moment, that lying was not against every code of honor he held dear. As he would have given his life to spare this man pain, so he would almost have lied. He hesitated, then— looking at Caramon—he saw it wasn't necessary. The general knew already.

Caramon nodded slowly. "The Plainsmen?"

Garic looked down at the maps.

"All of them?"

"Yes, sir."

Caramon's eyes closed. Sighing softly, he picked up one of the small wooden figures that had been spread out on the map to represent the placement and disposition of his troops. Rolling it around in his fingers, he grew thoughtful. Then, suddenly, with a bitter curse, he turned and heaved the figurine into the fire. After a moment, he let his aching head sink into his hands.

"I don't suppose I blame Darknight. It won't be easy for him and his men, even now. The mountain dwarves undoubtedly hold the mountain passes behind us—that's what happened to the supply wagons. He'll have to fight his way home. May the gods go with him''

Caramon was silent a moment, then his fists clenched. "Damn my brother!" he cursed. "Damn him!"

Garic shifted nervously. His gaze darted about the room, fearful that the black—robed figure might materialize from the shadows.

"Well," Caramon said, straightening and studying the maps once again, "this isn't getting us anywhere. Now, our only hope—as I see it—is to keep what's left of our army here in the plains. We've got to draw the dwarves out, force them to fight in the open so we can utilize our cavalry. We'll never win our way into the mountain," he added, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice, "but at least we can retreat with a hope of winning back to Pax Tharkas with our forces still intact. Once there, we can fortify it and—"

"General." One of the guards at the door entered the room, flushing at having to interrupt. "Begging your pardon, sir, but a messenger's arrived."

"Send him in '"

A young man entered the room. Covered with dust, his cheeks red from the cold, he cast the blazing fire a longing glance but stepped forward first to deliver his message.

"No, go on, warm yourself," Caramon said, waving the man over to the fireplace. "I'm glad someone can appreciate it. I have a feeling your news is going to be foul to the taste anyway."

"Thank you, sir;" the man said gratefully. Standing near the blaze, he spread his hands out to the warmth. "My news is this—the hill dwarves have gone."

"Gone?" Caramon repeated in blank astonishment, rising to his feet. "Gone where? Surely not back—"

"They march on Thorbardin." The messenger hesitated. "And, sir, the Knights went with them."

"That's insane!" Caramon's fist crashed down upon the table, sending the wooden markers flying through the air, the maps rolling off the edges. His face grew grim. "My brother,"

"No, sir. It was apparently the Dewar. I was instructed to give you this." Drawing a scroll from his pouch, he handed it to Caramon, who quickly opened it. General Caramon,

I have just learned from Dewar spies that the gates to the mountain will open when the trumpet sounds. We plan to steal a march on them. Rising at dawn, we will reach there by nightfall. I am sorry there wasn't time to inform you of this. Rest assured, you will receive what share of the spoils you are due, even if you arrive late. Reorx's light shine on your axes. Reghar Fireforge.

Caramon's mind went back to the piece of blood-stained parchment he'd held in his hand not long ago. The wizard has betrayed you. . . .

"Dewar!" Caramon scowled. "Dewar spies. Spies all right, but not for us! Traitors all right, but not to their own people!"

"A trap!" Garic said, rising to his feet as well.

"And we fell into it like a bunch of damn rabbits," Caramon muttered, thinking of another rabbit in a trap; seeing, in his mind's eyes, his brother setting it free. "Pax Tharkas falls. No great loss. It can always be retaken—especially if the defenders are dead. Our people deserting in droves, the Plainsmen leaving. And now the hill dwarves marching to Thorbardin, the Dewar marching with them. And, when the trumpet sounds—"

The clear, clarion call of a trumpet rang out. Caramon started. Was he hearing it or was it a dream, borne on the wings of a terrible vision? He could almost see it being played out before his eyes—the Dewar, slowly, imperceptibly spreading out among the hill dwarves, infiltrating their ranks. Hand creeping to axe, hammer . . .

Most of Reghar's people would never know what hit them, would never have a chance to strike.

Caramon could hear the shouts, the thudding of iron—shod boots, the clash of weapons, and the harsh, discordant cries of deep voices. It was real, so very real. . ..

Lost in his vision, Caramon only dimly became aware of the sudden pallor of Garic's face. Drawing his sword, the young Knight sprang toward the door with a shout that jolted Caramon back to reality. Whirling, he saw a black tide of dark dwarves surging outside the door. There was a flash of steel.

"Ambush!" Garic yelled.

"Fall back!" Caramon thundered. "Don't go out there! The Knights are gone—we're the only ones here! Stay inside the room. Bolt the door!" Leaping after Garic, he grabbed the Knight and hurled him back. "You guards, retreat l" he yelled to the two who were still standing outside the door and who were now battling for their lives.

Caramon gripped the arm of one of the guards to drag him into the room, bringing his sword down upon the head of an attacking Dewar at the same time. The dwarf's helm shattered. Blood spattered over Caramon, but he paid no attention. Shoving the guard behind him, Caramon hurled himself bodily at the horde of dark dwarves packed into the corridor, his sword slashing a bloody swath through them.

"Fall back, you fool!" he shouted over his shoulder at the second guard, who hesitated only a moment, then did as ordered. Caramon's ferocious charge had the intended effect of catching the Dewar off-balance—they stumbled backward in momentary panic at the sight of his battle—rage. But, that was all the panic was—momentary. Already Caramon could see them starting to recover their wits and their courage.

"General! Look out!" shouted Garic, standing in the doorway, his sword still in hand. Turning, Caramon headed back for the safety of the map room. But his foot slipped on the blood-covered stones and the big man fell, wrenching his knee painfully.

With a wild howl, the Dewar leaped on him.

"Get inside! Bolt the door, you—" The rest of Caramon's words were lost as he disappeared beneath a seething mass of dwarves.

"Caramon!"

Sick at heart, cursing himself for hanging back, Garic jumped into the fray. A hammer blow crashed into his arm, and he heard the bone crunch. His left hand went oddly limp. Well, he thought, oblivious to the pain, at least it wasn't my sword arm. His blade swung, a dark dwarf fell headless. An axe blade whined, but its wielder missed his mark. The dwarf was cut down from behind by one of the guards at the door.

Though unable to stand, Caramon still fought. A kick from his uninjured leg sent two dwarves reeling backward to crash into their fellows. Twisting onto his side, the big man smashed the hilt of his sword through the face of another dwarf, splashing blood up to his elbows. Then, in the return stroke, he thrust the blade through the guts of another. Garic's charge spared his life for an instant, but it seemed it was an instant only.

"Caramon! Above you!" shrieked Garic, battling viciously.

Rolling onto his back, Caramon looked up to see Argat standing over him, his axe raised. Caramon lifted his sword, but at that moment four dark dwarves leaped on him, pinning him to the floor.

Almost weeping in rage, heedless of the weapons flashing around him, Garic tried desperately to save Caramon. But there were too many dwarves between him and his general. Already, the Dewar's axe blade was falling. . ..

The axe fell—but it fell from nerveless hands. Garic saw Argat's eyes open wide in profound astonishment. The dwarf's axe fell to the blood-slick stones with a ringing clatter as the dark dwarf himself toppled over on top of Caramon. Staring at Argat's corpse, Garic saw a small knife sticking out of the back of the dwarf's neck.

He looked up to see the dark dwarf's killer and gasped in astonishment.

Standing over the body of the dead traitor was, of all things, a kender.

Garic blinked, thinking perhaps the fear and pain had done something strange to his mind, causing him to see phantoms. But there wasn't time to try to figure out this astounding occurrence. The young Knight had finally managed to reach his general's side. Behind him, he could hear the guards shouting and driving back the Dewar who, seeing their leader fall, had suddenly lost a great deal of their enthusiasm for a fight that was supposed to have been an easy slaughter.

The four dwarves who were holding Caramon stumbled back hastily as the big man struggled out from beneath Argat's body. Reaching down, Garic jerked the dead dwarf up by the back of his armor and tossed the body to one side, then hauled Caramon to his feet. The big man staggered, groaning, as his crippled knee gave way under his weight.

"Help us!" Garic cried unnecessarily to the guards, who were already by his side. Half-dragging and half-carrying Caramon, they assisted the limping man into the map room.

Turning to follow, Garic cast a quick glance around the corridor. The dark dwarves were eyeing him uncertainly. He caught a glimpse of other dwarves behind them—mountain dwarves, his mind registered.

And there, seemingly rooted to the spot, was the strange kender who had come out of nowhere, apparently, to save Caramon's life. The kender's face ashen, there was a green look about his lips. Not knowing what else to do, Garic wrapped his good arm around the kender's waist and, lifting him off his feet, hauled him back into the map room. As soon as he was inside, the guards slammed and bolted the door.

Caramon's face was covered with blood and sweat, but he grinned at Garic. Then he assumed a stern look.

"You damn fool knight," he growled. "I gave you a direct order and you disobeyed! I ought to—"

But his voice broke off as the kender, wriggling in Garic's grasp, raised his head.

"Tas!" whispered Caramon, stunned.

"Hello, Caramon," Tas said weakly. "I—I'm awfully glad to see you again. I've got lots to tell you and it's very important and I really should tell you now but I . . . I think . . . I'm going . . . to faint."

"And so that's it," Tas said softly, his eyes dim with tears as he looked into Caramon's pale, expressionless face. "He lied to me about how to work the magical device. When I tried, it came apart in my hands. I did get to see the fiery mountain fall," he added, "and that was almost worth all the trouble. It might have even been worth dying to see. I'm not sure, since I haven't died yet, although I thought for a while I had. It certainly wouldn't be worth it, though, if I had to spend the Afterlife in the Abyss, which is not a nice place. I can’t imagine why he wants to go there:"

Tas sighed. "But, anyway, I could forgive him for that"—the kender's voice hardened and his small jaw set firmly—"but not for what he did to poor Gnimsh and what he tried to do to you—"

Tasslehoff bit his tongue. He hadn't meant to say that.

Caramon looked at him. "Go on, Tas," he said. "Tried to do to me?"

"N-nothing," Tas stammered, giving Caramon a sickly smile. "Just my rambling. You know me."

"What did he try to do?" Caramon smiled bitterly. "I didn't suppose there was anything left he could do to me.'

"Have you killed," Tas muttered.

"Ah, yes." Caramon's expression did not change. "Of course. So that's what the dwarfs message meant."

"He gave you to—to the Dewar;" Tas said miserably. "They were going to take your head back to King Duncan. Raistlin sent away all the Knights in the castle, telling them you'd ordered them off to Thorbardin.' Tas waved his hand at Garic and the two guards. "He told the Dewar you'd have only your bodyguards.'

Caramon said nothing. He felt nothing—neither pain, nor anger, nor surprise. He was empty. Then a great surge of longing for his home, for Tika, for his friends, for Tanis, Laurana, for Riverwind and Goldmoon, rushed in to fill up that vast emptiness.

As if reading his thoughts, Tas rested his small head on Caramon's shoulder. "Can we go back to our own time now?" he said, looking up at Caramon wistfully. "I'm awfully tired. Say, do you think I could stay with you and Tika for a while? Just until I'm better. I wouldn't be a bother—I promise. . . ."

His eyes dim with tears, Caramon put his arm around the kender and held him close. "As long as you want, Tas," he said. Smiling sadly, he stared into the flames. "I'll finish the house. It won't take more than a couple of months. Then we'll go visit Tanis and Laurana. I promised Tika we'd do that. I promised her a long time ago, but I never seemed to get there. Tika always wanted to see Palanthas, you know. And maybe all of us could go to Sturm's tomb. I never did get a chance to tell him good-bye."

"And we can visit Elistan, and— Oh!" Tas's face grew alarmed. "Crysania! Lady Crysania! I tried to tell her about Raistlin, but she doesn't believe me! We can't leave her!" He leaped to his feet, wringing his hands. "We can't let him take her to that horrible place!"

Caramon shook his head. "We'll try to talk to her again, Tas. I don't think she'll listen, but at least we can try." He heaved himself up painfully. "They'll be at the Portal now. Raistlin cant wait much longer. The fortress will fall to the mountain dwarves soon.

"Garic," he said, limping over to where the Knight sat. "How's it going?"

One of the other Knights had just finished setting Garic's broken arm. They were tying it up in a rude sling, binding it to his side so that it was immobile. The young man looked up at Caramon, gritting his teeth with the pain but managing a smile nonetheless.

"I'll be fine, sir;" he said weakly. "Don't worry."

Smiling, Caramon drew up a chair next to him. "Feel like traveling?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good. Actually, I guess you don't have much choice. This place will be overrun soon. You've got to try to get out now." Caramon rubbed his chin. "Reghar told me there were tunnels running beneath the plains, tunnels that lead from Pax Tharkas to Thorbardin. My advice is to find these. That shouldn't be too difficult. Those mounds out there lead down to them. You should be able to use the tunnels to at least get out of here safely."

Garic did not answer. Glancing at the other two guards, he said quietly, "You say 'your advice; sir. What about you? Aren't you coming with us?"

Caramon cleared his throat and started to answer, but he couldn't talk. He stared down at his feet. This was a moment he had been dreading and, now that it was here, the speech he had carefully prepared blew out of his head like a leaf in the wind.

"No, Garic," he said finally, "I'm not." Seeing the Knight's eyes flash and guessing what he was thinking, the big man raised his hand. "No, I'm not going to do anything so foolish as to throw my life away on some noble, stupid cause—like rescuing my commanding officer!"

Garic flushed in embarrassment as Caramon grinned at him.

"No," the big man continued more somberly, "I'm not a Knight, thank the gods. I have enough sense to run when I'm beaten. And right now"—he couldn't help but sigh—"I'm beaten." He ran his hand through his hair. "I can't explain this so that you'll understand it. I'm not sure I understand, not fully. But—let's just say that the kender and I have a magical way home."

Garic glanced from one to the other. "Not your brother!" he said, frowning darkly.

"No," Caramon answered, "not my brother. Here, he and I part company. He has his own life to live and—I finally see—I have mine." He put his hand on Garic's shoulder. "Go to Pax Tharkas. You and Michael do what you can to help those who make it there safely survive the winter."

"But—"

"That's an order, Sir Knight," Caramon said harshly.

"Yes, sir." Garic averted his face, his hand brushing quickly across his eyes.

Caramon, his own face growing gentle, put his arm around the young man. "Paladine be with you, Garic," he said, clasping him close. He looked at the others. "May he be with all of you."

Garic looked up at him in astonishment, tears glistening on his cheeks. "Paladine?" he said bitterly. "The god who deserted us?"

"Don't lose your faith, Garic," Caramon admonished, rising to his feet with a pain—filled grimace. "Even if you cant believe in the god, put your trust in your heart. Listen to its voice above the Code and the Measure. And, someday, you'll understand."

"Yes, sir," Garic murmured. "And . . . may whatever gods you believe in be with you, too, sir."

"I guess they have been," Caramon said, smiling ruefully, "all my life. I've just been too damn thick-headed to listen. Now, you better be off."

One by one, he bade the other young Knights farewell, feigning to ignore their manful attempts to hide their tears. He was truly touched by their sorrow at parting—a sorrow he shared to such an extent that he could have broken down and wept like a child himself.

Cautiously, the Knights opened the door and peered out into the corridor. It was empty, except for the corpses. The Dewar were gone. But Caramon had no doubt this lull would last only long enough for them to regroup. Perhaps they were waiting until reinforcements arrived. Then they would attack the map room and finish off these humans.

Sword in hand, Garic led his Knights out into the blood spattered corridor, planning to follow Tas's somewhat confused directions on how to reach the lower levels of the magical fortress. (Tas had offered to draw them a map, but Caramon said there wasn't time.)

When the Knights were gone, and the last echoes of their footfalls had died away, Tas and Caramon set off in the opposite direction. Before they went, Tas retrieved his knife from Argat's body.

"And you said once that a knife like this would be good only for killing vicious rabbits," Tas said proudly, wiping the blood from the blade before thrusting it into his belt.

"Don't mention rabbits;" Caramon said in such an odd, tight voice that Tas looked at him and was startled to see his face go deathly pale.