“What is she doing here?” Raistlin demanded. “Did you tell her to come? You did, didn’t you?”
“No, Raist, I swear it!” Caramon stood with his head hanging, his unhappy gaze on his boots. “I had no idea.”
“Of all the stupid stunts you have pulled, this takes the biscuit. Do you realize what danger you have put her in? And the kender. Ye gods, the kender!”
Raistlin was forced to pause to draw in air enough to continue speaking and that made him cough. He could not speak for long moments and fumbled for his handkerchief. Caramon regarded his twin in anguish, but he dared not say a word of sympathy or try to help him. He was in trouble enough already, trouble that was not in any way, shape, or form his fault. Though some part of him was secretly thrilled that Tika had thought enough of him to come after him, another part wished her on the other side of the continent.
“She won’t be a problem, Raist,” said Caramon, “or Tas either. Sturm can take them back to camp. You and me—we’ll go on to Thorbardin or wherever you want to go.” Raistlin finally caught his breath. He dabbed his lips and eyed his brother with grudging approval. Caramon’s plan would not only rid him of Tika and Tasslehoff, it would also rid of him of the knight.
“They leave immediately,” Raistlin said, his words rasping in his throat.
“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon, relief washing over him. “I’ll go talk to Sturm—Sturm? Oh, here you are.”
He turned to find Sturm right behind him. Caramon gave his friend a puzzled look. The knight had removed his own helm, a helm that he valued above his life, and in its place he wore a helm that was dirty, stained with blood, and far too big for him. The visor came to his throat. His eyes were barely visible through the top portion of the eye slits.
“Uh, that’s a nice helm you found, Sturm,” Caramon said.
“I am properly addressed as ‘Your Highness’,” Sturm intoned, his voice sounding odd coming from inside the helm. “I would ask your names and where you are from, but we have no time to waste on pleasantries. We must ride immediately for Thorbardin!”
Caramon flashed his brother a startled glance. He had no idea what Sturm was doing. It was not like the serious-minded knight to play the fool.
Raistlin was regarding Sturm with narrow, glittering eyes. “I warned him the helm was magical,” he said softly.
“Come on, Sturm,” said Caramon, now frightened. “Quit horsing around. I’ve been talking to Raist, and we’ve decided that you should escort Tas and Tika back to camp.”
“I do not know this Sturm person of whom you keep speaking.”
Sturm interrupted impatiently. “I am Grallen, son of Duncan, King Beneath the Mountain. We must return to Thorbardin at once.” His voice grew sad. “My brothers are dead. I fear all is lost. The king must be informed.”
Caramon’s jaw dropped. “Grallen? Son of Duncan? Huh? Raist, do you know what he’s talking about?”
“How very interesting,” murmured Raistlin, regarding Sturm as though he were some sort of experiment inside a laboratory jar. “I warned him. He would not listen.”
“What’s happened to him?” Caramon demanded.
“The helm has seized hold of him. Such magic is not uncommon. There is the famous elven Brooch of Adoration, crafted by a wizard to hold the spirit of his dead wife. Then there was Leonora’s Singing Flute, which—”
“Raist!” said Caramon. “Stop the history lessons! What about Sturm?”
“Apparently the helm belonged to a dwarven prince named Grallen,” Raistlin explained. “He died, either on the field of battle or here in the fortress. I’m not sure of the nature of the enchantment, but my guess is that the prince’s soul had some strong reason to remain in this world, a reason so important he refused to relinquish it, even unto death. His soul became part of the helm, hoping that someone would be fool enough to pick it up and put it on. Enter Sturm Brightblade.”
“So this dwarven prince is now Sturm?” Caramon asked, dazed.
“The other way around. Sturm is now the dwarven prince, Grallen.”
Caramon cast a stricken glance at his friend. “Will he ever go back to being Sturm?”
“Probably,” said Raistlin, “if the helm is removed.”
“Well, then, we’ll remove it!”
“I wouldn’t—” Raistlin began, but Caramon had already taken hold of the helm and started jerking on it, trying to drag it off Sturm’s head.
Sturm gave a cry of pain and outrage and shoved Caramon away. “How dare you lay rough hands on me, human!” He reached for his sword.
“We beg your pardon, Your Highness,” said Raistlin, hurriedly intervening. “My brother is not himself. The heat of battle has left him confused…”
Sturm sheathed his sword.
“The helm’s stuck tight, Raist,” Caramon reported. “I couldn’t budge it!”
“I am not surprised,” said Raistlin. “I wonder…” He lapsed into thought.
“What do we mean you’re not surprised? This is Sturm! You have to break this enchantment, lift it, or do something to it!”
Raistlin shook his head. “The spell cannot be broken until the soul of Prince Grallen frees him.”
“When will that be? Will Sturm be a dwarf forever?”
“Unlikely,” Raistlin said, adding irritably, “Stop shouting! You’ll have every draconian in the place down on us! The prince’s soul is intent upon completing some mission. Perhaps something as simple as returning to give news of the death of his brothers.”
Raistlin paused. He stared at the helm in thoughtful silence.
“Perhaps this is what the messenger meant…” he murmured.
Caramon ran his ran through his hair. He looked desperately unhappy. “Sturm thinking he’s a dwarf! This is terrible! What are we going to do?”
“Your Highness,” said Raistlin, ignoring his brother and addressing Sturm, “we would be glad to escort you back to Thorbardin, but as you see, we are humans. We do not know the way.”
“I will guide you, of course,” Sturm said at once. “There will be rich reward for you in return for your service to me. The king must hear this terrible news!”
Caramon turned to face his brother, who was looking inordinately pleased with himself.
“You wouldn’t use him like this!” Caramon growled.
“Why not? We have found what we sought.” Raistlin pointed to Sturm. “Behold the key to Thorbardin.”
Tika sat on a broken column and heaved a mournful sigh.
“I wish this whole fortress would just crash down on my head. Bury me in the rubble and have done with it.”
“I think you’re too late,” said Tas, wandering around the debris-strewn corridor, shining the light of his torch and poking his hoopak into murky corners in the hopes of finding something interesting. “The fortress has crashed down as much as it’s going to.”
“Well then, maybe I’ll fall into a pit,” said Tika. “Tumble down the stairs and break my neck. Anything so I don’t have to face Caramon again. Why, why, why did I ever come?” She buried her head in her hands.
“He didn’t look very pleased to see us, did he?” Tas admitted. “Which is strange, considering all the trouble we went to just to rescue him from that man-eating Stalig Mite.” Tika had told a small lie when she said that she and Tas were going to search for the way out. The fortress was dark and eerie, and though Tas would have been happy to explore, Tika was not feeling all that adventurous. She had only wanted to get away from Caramon. She and Tas remained in the corridor, not far from the room where Caramon was arguing with this twin. The light from their torches and Raistlin’s staff filtered out into the hallway. Tika could hear their angry voices, especially Raistlin’s, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Undoubtedly bad things about her. Her cheeks burned. Sick at heart, she rocked back and forth and groaned. Tasslehoff was patting her soothingly on her shoulder, when suddenly he gave a great sniff.