“Yes! Yes!” cried the man pitifully.
“And now I put this curse upon you. The next time you take a life in cold blood, the ghost of the murdered man will rise up and follow you. By day it will dog your steps. By night it will hound your dreams. You will do anything to try to rid yourself of it, but to no avail. The ghost will drive you to madness and, finally, at the end, it will cause you to turn your foul knife on yourself.”
Raistlin removed his hand. “Let him go, Caramon.”
The big man released the assassin, who fell to his knees. He remained crouched on the ground, glancing furtively at the brothers. Caramon made a threatening gesture with his dagger, and the man leaped to his feet
BROtfjens Majene
and dashed, panic-stricken, into the forest. For long minutes after, they could hear him crashing into trees and blundering into bushes.
“That was a horrible curse,” said Caramon, awed. “I didn’t know you could cast those kind of spells on people.”
“I can’t,” said Raistlin, then began to cough, doubling over with the spasms that racked his thin body.
He held out his arm to his brother, who gently took it and guided the mage back to his blankets.
“You mean … there’s not really a curse on him?” asked Caramon, confused. He assisted his twin to lie down.
“Oh, there is a curse on him,” said Raistlin, when he could speak again. “But I didn’t cast it.” The mage’s thin lips parted in a slight smile. “He will do that himself. Don’t just stand there gaping at me! I’m chilled to the bone. Go gather more wood. I will keep the staff lighted until you have built the fire.”
Caramon shook his head, not understanding.
Going to pick up the wood he had dropped during his attack on the killers, the warrior almost fell over Earwig’s sleeping roll. In the excitement, he had forgotten the kender. Caramon remembered the assassins standing over Earwig, their spears held high. Kneeling down, the warrior put his hand on the small, blanket-covered form.
“Earwig?” Caramon said worriedly.
From the depths of the blanket came a yawning sound, a stretching motion, and eventually a head popped out of the top. Looking around in sleepy confusion in the brightening early morning light, the sound-sleeping kender saw the hacked and bloodied corpses lying on the ground, broken weapons scattered about, the grass torn and churned by trampling feet.
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DRAQONLANCE Pneluoes
Earwig’s mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged. He looked from Raistlin to Caramon wildly and back again. The kender threw back his head and began to wail.
“It’s all right. Earwig,” said Caramon soothingly. “Don’t cry. You’re safe. The killers are gone.”
“I know!” cried Earwig, flinging himself on the ground and kicking his feet in the sod. “Don’t rub it in!”
“What?” demanded the warrior, startled. “What’s the matter, then?”
“How could you, Caramon?” sobbed Earwig. “I thought we were friends! A fight— and you let me sleep through the whole thing!”
Ditokc, aNO CanaMON’s optiMistic pneoic-tion proved correct: it was, indeed, a fine day. The temperature rose to a comfortable level, warm enough for walking, but still cool enough to be pleasant. The sun, bright in a sky that was clear of clouds, clear of chaos, shone down upon the companions.
The dead bodies of the would-be assassins still lay in the clearing. Earwig, to make up for having missed last night’s action, was occupied in searching the bodies, “looking for some clue to tell us who these people were,” as he put it. In one of the thieves’ pockets he found a broach made from strands of gold woven together to
DRAQONLANCE PReluOes
look like rope. Opening the broach by a hidden catch only a kender would have discovered, Earwig found inside a collection of miniature musical instruments made of silver, bone, and ebony, perfectly detailed, waiting to be played by a tiny orchestra.
Closing the medallion and tossing it onto a blanket with the other “treasure,” Earwig went over to another body and saw three rings on the dead brigand’s hands, each of gold and glittering with diamonds, sparkling in the morning’s light. But what caught Earwig’s attention was a mysterious twist of wire that had fallen from the thief’s pocket.