“What… what does it mean?” Caramon asked instead.
Sturm shoved forward. He saw the mark and said grimly, “Evil, that’s what it means.”
“It’s not evil; it’s magic,” Caramon said, though he knew he was wasting his breath. In the mind of the Solamnic knight, they amounted to the same thing.
Raistlin paid no attention to either of them. The mage’s long, delicate fingers rested lightly, caressingly, on the rune.
“Don’t you know where you are, Pheragas?” Raistlin said suddenly. “This was to be our supply route in case we were besieged, and this was to have been our means of escape if the battle went awry. I know that you are dull-witted sometimes, Pheragas, but even you could not have forgotten something this important.”
Caramon glanced around in perplexity, then stared at his brother. “Who are you talking to, Raist? Who’s Pheragas?”
“You are, of course,” returned Raistlin irritably. “Pheragas…” He looked at Caramon and blinked. Raistlin put his hand to his forehead. His eyes lost their focus. “Why did I say that?” Seeing the rune beneath his fingers, he suddenly snatched his hand away. He looked up the wall and down, looked side to side. Turning to Caramon, Raistlin asked in a low voice. “Where are we, my brother?”
“Paladine save us,” said Sturm. “He’s gone mad.”
Caramon licked dry lips, then said hesitantly, “Don’t you know? You brought us here, Raist.” Raistlin made an impatient gesture. “Just tell me where we are!”
“The eastern end of the valley.” Caramon peered at their surroundings. “By my reckoning, Skullcap must be somewhere on the other side of this wall. You said something about an ‘escape route’. ‘In case the battle went awry.’ What… uh… did you mean by that?”
“I have no idea,” Raistlin replied. He gazed at the wall and at the rune, his brow furrowed. “Yet I do seem to remember...”
Caramon laid a solicitous hand on his brother’s arm. “Never mind, Raist. You’re exhausted. You should rest.”
Raistlin wasn’t listening. He stared at the wall, and his expression cleared. “Yes, that’s right.” He spoke softly. “If I touch this rune…”
“Raist, don’t!” Caramon grabbed hold of his brother’s arm.
Raistlin whipped his staff around, giving Caramon a crack on the wrist. Caramon yelped and drew back his hand. Raistlin touched the rune and pressed on it hard.
The portion of the wall on which the rune was etched depressed, sliding into the wall about three inches. A grinding sound emanated from inside the stone wall, followed by loud snapping and groaning. The outline of a doorway, about five feet in height and rectangular, appeared etched into the wall. The door shivered, displacing the snow sticking to the side of the wall, then the noise stopped. Nothing else happened.
Raistlin stood, frowning at it.
“Something must be wrong with the mechanism. Pheragas, put your shoulder to the door and push on it. You, too, Denubis. It will take both of you to force it.”
Neither man moved.
Raistlin glanced irritably at them both. “What are you waiting for? Your brains to come back? Trust me. It will not happen. Pheragas, quit standing there gaping like a gutted fish and do as I command you.”
Caramon simply stared at his twin, his mouth wide open. Sturm frowned deeply and took a step backward.
“I’ll have nothing to do with evil magic,” he said.
Raistlin gave a mirthless laugh.
“Magic? Are you daft? This is not magic. If this door was magic, it would be reliable! This mark is not a magical rune. It is the dwarven rune for the word ‘Door’. The mechanism is three hundred years old and it is stuck, that’s all.”
He eyed his brother. “Pheragas—”
“I’m not Pheragas, Raist,” said Caramon quietly.
Raistlin stared at him. His eyes flickered, and he said quietly, “No, no, you’re not. I don’t know why I keep calling you that. Caramon, please, you have nothing to fear. Just put your shoulder to the door—”
“Wait a minute, Caramon.” Sturm halted the big man as he was about to obey. “This door might not be magic, as you say—” though he gave the doorway a dark glance—“but I for one want to know how your brother knew it was here.”
Raistlin glared at the knight and Caramon cringed, expecting him to lash out at Sturm. Caramon was always getting caught in the middle between his brother and his friends, and he hated it. Their fighting made his stomach twist. He cast Sturm a pleading glance, begging him to let the subject drop. After all, it was just a door…
His brother did not lash out. The explosion of rage Caramon feared did not happen. Raistlin’s lips compressed. He looked at the door, looked at the trail they had left through the snow, the trail that stretched back to the woods and across the valley. His gaze went to Sturm, and there came a ghost of a smile to the thin lips.
“You have never trusted me, Sturm Brightblade,” Raistlin said quietly, “and I do not know why. To my knowledge, I have never betrayed you. I have never lied to you. If I have kept certain information to myself from time to time, I suppose that is my right. To be honest,” Raistlin added with a shrug, “I do not know how I found this door. I do not know how I knew it was here. I do not know how I knew to open it. I did, and that is all I can say.”
He raised his hand, as Sturm would have spoken. “I also know this. Inside the door we will find a tunnel that will lead us directly into the fortress of Zhaman, what is now known as Skullcap.” Raistlin glanced at the door and sighed. “At least, it used to. The tunnel might have been destroyed in the blast.”
“Now that you’re being so open and honest,” said Sturm grimly, “I suppose you assume we’ll walk right in.”
“Either that or spend the next several days searching for a way over these mountains, and more days after that in crossing them,” Raistlin replied. “It is up to you, Sir Knight. Which would you rather do? In the interests of saving time, Caramon and I will take this route. Won’t we, my brother?”
“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon.
Sturm was still frowning at the door.
“C’mon, Sturm,” said Caramon in low tones. “You don’t want to go traipsing over these mountains. You might never find a way. Like Raist says, the door’s not magic. Dwarves built it. We saw doors that worked like this in Pax Tharkas. As for how Raist knew it was here, it doesn’t matter. Maybe he read about it in a book and just forgot.”
Sturm regarded his friend thoughtfully. Then he smiled and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“If all mankind were as loyal and trusting as you are, Caramon, the world would be a better place. Unhappily—” his gaze shifted to Raistlin—“such is not the case. Still, as you say, this saves us time and effort.”
Sturm walked over to the door and put his shoulder against the stone. Caramon joined him, and both shoved on the rock. At first, they made no progress. They might have been pushing on the side of the mountain. They gave it another shove, digging their heels into the ground, and suddenly the block of stone slid backward, moving so fast on steel tracks that Caramon lost his footing and fell flat. Sturm stumbled too, barely catching himself.
The sun had vanished. The afterglow was all the light in the sky, and that would be gone soon.
“Shirak,” said Raistlin, raising his staff. The crystal on top, held fast in the golden claw, burst into light. He walked past his brother, and Sturm, who stood hesitantly near the opening in the stone wall, and entered the tunnel.
Light gleamed on a steel rail about six feet in length, running straight into the passage until, at this juncture, the rail line split, part of it curving around to the left to come up against a wall, The rest continued on down the tunnel, disappearing in the darkness. Raistlin examined the mechanism with interest.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing. “The door is mounted on wheels that run along the rail. The door can then be pushed against this wall, so that it is out of the way.” Four carts mounted on rails stood in a row. The carts were still in good condition, for the passage beneath the mountain had been sealed up tight. The floor and walls were dry. Raistlin glanced inside the carts. They were empty. By the looks of them, they had never been used.