“Shhhh, I wont let them do anything to you, Raist,” Caramon murmured, holding his brother close, stroking the soft brown hair. “Shhh, you’re all right. I’m here... I’m here.”
Laying his head on Caramon’s chest, hearing his twin’s steady, slow heartbeat, Raistlin gave a deep, shuddering sigh. Then he closed his eyes against the darkness and sobbed like a child.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Raistlin muttered bitterly some time later, as his brother stirred up the fire and set an iron pot filled with water on it to boil. “The most powerful mage who has ever lived, and I am reduced to a squalling babe by a dream!”
“So you’re human,” Caramon grunted, bending over the pot, watching it closely with the rapt attention all pay to the business of forcing water to boil more quickly. He shrugged. “You said it yourself.”
“Yes... human!” Raistlin repeated savagely, huddled, shivering, in his black robes and traveling cloak.
Caramon glanced at him uneasily at this, remembering what Par-Salian and the other mages had told him at the Conclave held in the Tower of High Sorcery. Your brother intends to challenge the gods! He seeks to become a god himself!
But even as Caramon looked at his brother, Raistlin drew his knees up close to his body, rested his hands upon his knees, and laid his head down upon them wearily. Feeling a strange choking sensation in his throat, vividly remembering the warm and wonderful feeling he had experienced when his brother had reached out to him for comfort, Caramon turned his attention back to the water.
Raistlin’s head snapped up, suddenly.
“What was that?” he asked at the same time Caramon, hearing the sound as well, rose to his feet.
“I dunno,” Caramon said softly, listening. Padding soft footed, the big man moved with surprising swiftness to his bedroll, grasped his sword, and drew it from its scabbard.
Acting in the same moment, Raistlin’s hand closed over the Staff of Magius that lay beside him.
Twisting to his feet like a cat, he doused the fire, upending the kettle over it. Darkness descended on them with a soft, hissing sound as the coals sputtered and died.
Giving their eyes time to become accustomed to the sudden change, both the brothers stood still, concentrating on their hearing.
The stream near which they were camped burbled and lapped among the rocks, branches creaked and leaves rattled as a sharp breeze sprang up, slicing through the autumn night. But what they had heard was neither wind in the trees nor water.
“There it is,” said Raistlin in a whisper as his brother came to stand beside him. “In the woods, across the stream.”
It was a scrabbling sound, like someone trying unsuccessfully to creep through unfamiliar territory. It lasted a few moments, then stopped, then began again. Either some one unfamiliar with the territory or some thing—clumsy, heavy-booted.
“Goblins!” hissed Caramon.
Gripping his sword, he and his brother exchanged glances. The years of darkness, of estrangement between them, the jealousy, hatred—everything vanished within that instant.
Reacting to the shared danger, they were one, as they had been in their mother’s womb.
Moving cautiously, Caramon set foot in the stream. The red moon, Lunitari, glimmered through the trees. But it was new tonight. Looking like the wick of a pinched-out candle, it gave little light.
Fearing to turn his foot upon a stone, Caramon tested each step carefully before he put his weight upon it. Raistlin followed, holding his darkened staff in one hand, resting his other lightly upon his brother’s shoulder for balance.
They crossed the stream as silently as the wind whispering across the water and reached the opposite bank. They could still hear the noise. It was made by something living, though, there was no doubt. Even when the wind died, they could hear the rustling sound.
“Rear guard. Raiding party!” Caramon mouthed, half turning so that his brother could hear.
Raistlin nodded. Goblin raiding parties customarily sent scouts to keep watch upon the trail when they rode in to loot a village. Since it was a boring job and meant that the goblins elected had no share in the killing or the spoils, it generally fell to those lowest in rank—the least skilled, most expendable members of the party.
Raistlin’s hand closed suddenly over Caramon’s arm, halting him momentarily.
“Crysania!” the mage whispered. “The village! We must know where the raiding party is!”
Caramon scowled. “I’ll take it alive!” He indicated this with a gesture of his huge hand wrapping itself around an imaginary goblin neck.
Raistlin smiled grimly in understanding. “And I will question it,” he hissed, making a gesture of his own.
Together, the twins crept up the trail, taking care to keep in the shadows so that even the faintest glimmer of moonlight should not be reflected from buckle or sword. They could still hear the sound. Though it ceased sometimes, it always started again. It remained in the same location.
Whoever or whatever it was appeared to have no idea of their approach. They drew toward it, keeping to the edges of the trail until they were—as well as they could judge—practically opposite it.
The sound, they could tell now, was in the woods, about twenty feet off the trail. Glancing swiftly around, Raistlin’s sharp eyes spotted a thin trail. Barely visible in the pale light of moon and stars, it branched off from the main one—an animal trail, probably leading down to the stream. A good place for scouts to lie hidden, giving them quick access to the main trail if they decided to attack, an easy escape route if the opposition proved too formidable.
“Wait here!” Caramon signed.
A rustle of his black hood was Raistlin’s response. Reaching out to hold aside a low, overhanging branch, Caramon entered the forest, moving slowly and stealthily about two feet away from the faint animal trail that led into it.
Raistlin stood beside a tree, his slender fingers reaching into one of his many, secret pockets, hastily rolling a pinch of sulfur up in a tiny ball of bat guano. The words to the spell were in his mind. He repeated them to himself. Even as he did this, however, he was acutely conscious of the sound of his brother’s movements.
Though Caramon was trying to be quiet, Raistlin could hear the creak of the big man’s leather armor, the metal buckles jingle, the crack of a twig beneath his feet as he moved away from his waiting twin. Fortunately, their quarry was continuing to make so much noise that the warrior would probably proceed unheard...
A horrible shriek rang through the, night, followed by a frightful yelling and thrashing sound, as if a hundred men were crashing through the wilderness.
Raistlin started.
Then a voice shouted, “Raist! Help! Aiiihh!”
More thrashing, the sound of tree limbs snapping, a thumping sound... .
Gathering his robes around him, Raistlin ran swiftly onto the animal trail, the time for concealment and secrecy past. He could hear his brother yelling, still. The sound was muffled, but clear, not choked or as if he were in pain.
Racing through the woods, the archmage ignored the branches that slapped his face and the brambles that caught at his robes. Breaking suddenly and unexpectedly into a clearing, he stopped, crouching, beside a tree. Ahead of him, he could see movement—a gigantic black shadow that seemed to be hovering in the air, floating above the ground. Grappling with the shadowy creature, yelling and cursing horribly, was—by the sound—Caramon!
“Ast kiranann Soth-aran/Suh kali Jalaran.” Raistlin chanted the words and tossed the small ball of sulphur high above him, into the leaves of the trees. An instantaneous burst of light in the branches was accompanied by a low, booming explosion. The treetops burst into flame, illuminating the scene below.
Raistlin darted forward, the words of a spell on his lips, magical fire crackling from his fingertips.
He stopped, staring in astonishment.
Before him, hanging upside down by one leg from a rope suspended over a tree branch, was Caramon. Suspended next to him, scrabbling frantically in fear of the flames, was a rabbit.