Raistlin stared, transfixed, at his brother. Shouting for help, Caramon turned slowly in the wind while flaming leaves fell all about him.
“Raist!” He was still yelling. “Get me—Oh—”
Caramon’s next revolution brought him within sight of his astounded twin. Flushing, the blood rushing to his head, Caramon gave a sheepish grin. “Wolf snare,” he said.
The forest was ablaze with brilliant orange light. The fire flickered on the big man’s sword, which lay on the ground where he’d dropped it. It sparkled on Caramon’s shining armor as he revolved slowly around again. It gleamed in the frantic, panic-stricken eyes of the rabbit.
Raistlin snickered.
Now it was Caramon’s turn to stare in hurt astonishment at his brother. Revolving back around to face him, Caramon twisted his head, trying to see Raistlin right side up. He gave a pitiful, pleading look.
C’mon Raist! Get me down!”
Raistlin began to laugh silently, his shoulders heaving.
“Damn it, Raist! This isn’t funny!” Caramon blustered, waving his arms. This gesture, of course, caused the snared warrior to stop revolving and begin to swing from side to side. The rabbit, on the other end of the snare, started swinging, too, pawing even more frantically at the air. Soon, the two of them were spinning in opposite directions, circling each other, entangling the ropes that held them.
“Get me down!” Caramon roared. The rabbit squealed in terror.
This was too much. Memories of their youth returned vividly to the archmage, driving away the darkness and horror that had clutched at his soul for what seemed like years unending. Once again he was young, hopeful, filled with dreams. Once again, he was with his brother, the brother who was closer to him than any other person had ever been, would ever be. His bumbling, thick-headed, beloved brother... Raistlin doubled over. Gasping for air, the mage collapsed up on the grass and laughed wildly, tears running down his cheeks.
Caramon glared at him—but this baleful look from a man being held upside down by his foot simply increased his twin’s mirth. Raistlin laughed until he thought he might have hurt something ins ide him. The laughter felt good. For a time, it banished the darkness. Lying on the damp ground of the glade illuminated by the light of the flaming trees, Raistlin laughed harder, feeling the merriment sparkle through his body like fine wine. And then Caramon joined in, his booming bellow echoing through the forest.
Only the falling of blazing bits of tree striking the ground near him recalled Raistlin to himself. Wiping his streaming eyes, so weak from laughter he could barely stand, the mage staggered to his feet. With a flick of his hand, he brought forth the little silver dagger he wore concealed upon his wrist.
Reaching up, stretching his full height, the mage cut the rope wrapped around his brothers ankle. Caramon plunged to the ground with a curse and thudding crash.
Still chuckling to himself, the mage walked over and cut the cord that some hunter had tied around the rabbit’s hind leg, catching hold of the animal in his arms. The creature was half mad with terror, but Raistlin gently stroked its head and murmured soft words. Gradually, the animal grew calm, seeming almost to be in a trance.
“Well, we took him alive,” Raistlin said, his lips twitching. He held up the rabbit. “I don’t think we’ll get much information out of him, however.”
So red in the face he gave the impression of having tumbled into a vat of paint, Caramon sat up and began to rub a bruised shoulder.
“Very funny,” he muttered, glancing up at the animal with a shamefaced grin. The flames in the treetops were dying, though the air was filled with smoke and, here and there, the grass was burning. Fortunately, it had been a damp, rainy autumn, so these small fires died quickly.
“Nice spell,” Caramon commented, looking up into the glowing remains of the surrounding treetops as, swearing and groaning, he hauled himself to his feet.
“I’ve always liked it,” Raistlin replied wryly. “Fizban taught it to me. You remember?” Looking up into the smoldering trees, he smiled. “I think that old man would have appreciated this.”
Cradling the rabbit in his arms, absently petting the soft, silken ears, Raistlin walked from the smoke-filled woods. Lulled by the mage’s caressing fingers and hypnotic words, the rabbit’s eyes closed. Caramon retrieved his sword from the brush where he’d dropped it and followed, limping slightly.
“Damn snare cut off my circulation.” He shook his foot to try to get the blood going.
Heavy clouds had rolled in, blotting out the stars and snuffing Lunitari’s flame completely. As the flames in the trees died, the woods were plunged into darkness so thick that neither brother could see the trail ahead.
“I suppose there is no need for secrecy now,” Raistlin murmured. “Shirak.” The crystal on the top of the Staff of Magius began to glow with a bright, magical brilliance.
The twins returned to their camp in silence, a companionable, comfortable silence, a silence they had not shared in years. The only sounds in the night were the restless stirring of their horses, the creak and jingle of Caramon’s armor, and the soft rustle of the mage’s black robes as he walked. Behind them, once, they heard a crash—the falling of a charred branch.
Reaching camp, Caramon ruefully stirred at the remains of their fire, then glanced up at the rabbit in Raistlin’s arms.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider that breakfast.”
“I do not eat goblin flesh,” Raistlin answered with a smile, placing the creature down on the trail. At the touch of the cold ground beneath its paws, the rabbit started, its eyes flared open. Staring around for an instant to get its bearings, it suddenly bolted for the shelter of the woods.
Caramon heaved a sigh, then, chuckling to himself, sat down heavily upon the ground near his bedroll. Removing his boot, he rubbed his bruised ankle.
“Dulak,” Raistlin whispered and the staff went dark. He laid it beside his bedroll, then laid down, drawing the blankets up around him.
With the return of darkness, the dream was there. Waiting.
Raistlin shuddered, his body suddenly convulsed with chills. Sweat covered his brow. He could not, dared not close his eyes! Yet, he was so tired... so exhausted. How many nights had it been since he’d slept?...
“Caramon,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” Caramon answered from the darkness.
“Caramon,” Raistlin said after a moment’s pause, “do... do you remember how, when we were children, I’d have those... those horrible dreams?...” His voice failed him for a moment. He coughed.
There was no sound from his twin.
Raistlin cleared his throat, then whispered, “And you’d guard my sleep, my brother. You kept them away... .”
“I remember,” came a muffled, husky voice.
“Caramon,” Raistlin began, but he could not finish. The pain and weariness were too much. The darkness seemed to close in, the dream crept from its hiding place.
And then there was the jingle of armor. A big, hulking shadow appeared beside him. Leather creaking, Caramon sat down beside his brother, resting his broad back against a tree trunk and laying his naked sword across his knees.
“Go to sleep, Raist,” Caramon said gently. The mage felt a rough, clumsy hand pat him on the shoulder. “I’ll stay up and keep watch... .”
Wrapping himself in his blankets, Raistlin closed his eyes. Sleep, sweet and restful, stole upon him. The last thing he remembered was a fleeting fancy of the dream approaching, reaching out its bony hands to grasp him, only to be driven back by the light from Caramon s sword.
7
Caramon’s horse shifted restlessly beneath him as the big man leaned forward in the saddle, staring down into the valley at the village. Frowning darkly, he glanced at his brother. Raistlin s face was hidden behind his black hood. A steady rain had started about dawn and now dripped dull and monotonously around them. Heavy gray clouds sagged above them, seemingly upheld by the dark, towering trees. Other than the drip of water from the leaves, there was no sound at all.