Having been taught in the arena to size up an enemy and search out every weakness, Caramon watched the man closely. When the wind blew aside the thick fur cloak that covered him, Caramon saw in astonishment that the man had only one leg. The other was a steel pegleg.
Noticing Caramon’s glance at his pegleg, the half-ogre grinned broadly and took a step nearer the big man. Reaching out a huge hand, the robber patted Caramon tenderly on the cheek.
“I admire a man who puts up a good fight,” he said in a soft voice. Then, with startling swiftness, he doubled his hand into a fist, drew back his arm, and slugged Caramon in the jaw. The force of the blow knocked the big warrior backward, nearly causing those who held him to fall over, too.
“But you’ll pay for the death of my man.”
Gathering his long, fur cloak around him, the half-ogre stumped over to where Crysania stood, held securely in the arms of one of the robbers. Her captor still had his hand over her mouth, and, though her face was pale, her eyes were dark and filled with anger.
“Isn’t this nice,” the half-ogre said softly. “A present, and it’s not even Yule.” His laughter boomed through the trees. Reaching out, he caught hold of her cloak and ripped it from her neck. His gaze flicked rapidly over her curving figure, well revealed as the rain soaked instantly through her white robes. His smile widened and his eyes glinted. He reached out a huge hand.
Crysania shrank away from him, but the half-ogre grabbed hold of her easily, laughing.
“Why, what’s this bauble you wear, sweet one?” he asked, his gaze going to the medallion of Paladine she wore around her slender neck. “I find it... unbecoming. Pure platinum, it is!” He whistled. “Best let me keep it For you, dear. I fear that, in the pleasures of our passion, it might get lost—”
Caramon had recovered enough by now to see the half-ogre grasp the medallion in his hand.
There was a glint of grim amusement in Crysania’s eyes, though she shuddered visibly at the man’s touch. A flash of pure, white light crackled through the driving rain. The half-ogre clutched at his hand. Drawing it back with a snarl of pain, he released Crysania.
There was a muttering among the men standing watching. The man holding Crysania suddenly loosened his grip and she jerked free, glaring at him angrily and pulling her cloak back around her.
The half-ogre raised his hand, his face twisted in rage. Caramon feared he would strike Crysania, when, at that moment, one of the man yelled out.
“The wizard, he’s comin’ to!”
The half-ogre’s eyes were still on Crysania, but he lowered his hand. Then, he smiled. “Well, witch, you have won the first round, it seems.” He glanced back at Caramon. “I enjoy contests—both in fighting and in love. This promises to be a night of amusement, all around.”
Giving a gesture, he ordered the man who had been holding Crysania to take her in hand again, and the man did, though Caramon noticed it was with extreme reluctance. The half-ogre walked over to where Raistlin lay upon the ground, groaning in pain.
“Of all of them, the wizard’s the most dangerous. Bind his hands behind his back and gag him,” ordered the robber in a grating voice. “If he so much as croaks, cut out his tongue. That’ll end his spellcasting days for good.”
“Why don’t we just kill him now?” one of the men growled.
“Go ahead, Brack,” said the half-ogre pleasantly, turning swiftly to regard the man who had spoken. “Take your knife and slit his throat.”
“Not with my hands,” the man muttered, backing up a step.
“No? You’d rather I was the one cursed for murdering a Black Robe?” the leader continued, still in the same, pleasant tone. “You’d enjoy seeing my sword hand wither and drop off?”
“I—I didn’t mean that, of course, Steeltoe. I—I wasn’t thinking, that’s all.”
“Then start thinking. He can’t harm us now. Look at him.” Steeltoe gestured to Raistlin. The mage lay on his back, his hands bound in front of him. His jaws had been forced open and a gag tied around his mouth. However, his eyes gleamed from the shadows of his hood in a baleful rage, and his hands clenched in such impotent fury that more than one of the strong men standing about wondered uneasily if such measures were adequate.
Perhaps feeling something of this himself, Steeltoe limped over to where Raistlin lay staring up at him with bitter hatred. As he stopped near the mage, a smile creased the half-ogre’s yellowish face, and he suddenly slammed the steel toe of his pegleg against the side of Raistlin’s head.
The mage went limp. Crysania cried out in alarm, but her captor held her fast. Even Caramon was amazed to feel swift, sharp pain contract his heart as he saw his brother’s form lying huddled in the mud.
“That should keep him quiet for a while. When we reach camp, we’ll blindfold him and take him for a walk up on the Rock. If he slips and falls over the cliff, well, that’s the way of things, isn’t it, men? His blood won’t be on our hands.”
There was some scattered laughter, but Caramon saw more than a few glance uneasily at each other, shaking their heads.
Steeltoe turned away from Raistlin to examine with gleaming eyes the heavily laden pack horse.
“We’ve made a rich haul this day, men,” he said in satisfaction. Stumping back around, he came to where Crysania stood, pinned in the arms of her somewhat nervous captor.
“A rich haul, indeed,” he murmured. One huge hand grasped Crysania’s chin roughly. Bending down, he pressed his lips against hers in a brutal kiss. Trapped in the arms of her captor, Crysania could do nothing. She did not struggle; perhaps some inner sense told her this was precisely what the man wanted. She stood straight, her body rigid. But Caramon saw her hands clench and, when Steeltoe released her, she could not help but avert her face, her dark hair falling across her cheek.
“You know my policy, men,” Steeltoe said, fondling her hair coarsely, “share the spoils among us—after I’ve taken my cut, of course.”
There was more laughter at this and, here and there, some scattered cheering. Caramon had no doubt of the man’s meaning and he guessed, from the few comments he heard, that this wouldn’t be the first time “spoils” had been “shared.”
But there were some young faces who frowned, glancing at each other in disquiet, shaking their heads. And there were even a few muttered comments, such as, “I’ll have nought to do with a witch!” and “I’d sooner bed the wizard!”
Witch! There was that term again. Vague memories stirred in Caramon’s mind—memories of the days when he and Raistlin had traveled with Flint, the dwarven metalsmith; days before the return of the true gods. Caramon shivered, suddenly remembering with vivid clarity the time they had come into a town that was going to burn an old woman at the stake for witchcraft. He recalled how his brother and Sturm, the ever noble knight, had risked their lives to save the old crone, who turned out to be nothing more than a second-rate illusionist.
But Caramon had forgotten, until now, how the people of this time viewed any type of magical powers, and Crysania’s clerical powers—in these days when there were no true clerics—would be even more suspect. He shuddered, then forced himself to think with cold logic. Burning was a harsh death, but it was a far quicker one than...
“Bring the witch to me.” Steeltoe limped across the trail to where one of his men held his horse. Mounting, he gestured. “Then follow with the others.”
Crysania’s captor dragged her forward. Reaching down, Steeltoe grabbed her under the arms and lifted her onto the horse, seating her in front of him. Grasping the reins in his hands, his thick arms wrapped around her, completely engulfing her. Crysania sat staring straight ahead, her face cold and impassive.