imbecile! Go after him, Caramon! Don’t let him do
anything until I get there!”
“Another round of ale?” Caramon gazed blankly at his
brother.
“You blithering dunderhead!” Raistlin hissed through
clenched teeth. He pointed a trembling finger at the keep.
“I hear a voice calling to ME, and I recognize it as coming
from one of my own kind! It is the voice of a mage! I
think I am beginning to understand what is going on. Go
after him, Caramon! Knock him down, sit on him if that is
all you can do to hold him, but you must prevent Gawain
from offering his sword to the knight!”
“Knight? What? Oh, all right, Raist! I’m going. No
need to look at me like that. C’mon, Nosepicker.”
Earwig’s topknot bobbed indignantly. “That’s Lock – .
Oh, never mind! Hey, wait up!”
Caramon, followed by the jubilant kender, dashed off
after the knight, but he was late in starting and Gawain
had already rushed headlong into the keep. Reaching the
wooden doors, Caramon hesitated before entering and
cast an uneasy glance back at his brother.
Raistlin, leaning on his staff, was walking as fast as he
could, coughing with nearly every step until it seemed he
must drop. Still, he kept going, and he even managed to
lift his staff and angrily gesture with it to Caramon,
commanding him to enter the keep without delay.
Earwig had already darted inside. Discovering he was
alone, he turned around and dashed back. “Aren’t you
coming? It’s wonderfully dark and spooky in here. And
you know what?” The kender sighed in ecstasy. “I really
am beginning to hear voices. They want me to come and
help them fight! Just think of that. Can I borrow your
dagger?”
“No!” Caramon snarled. He, too, could hear the voices
now. Ghostly voices.
“My cause is just! All know wizards are foul
creatures, spawned of darkness. For the pride and honor
of our Order of the Sword, join with me!”
“My cause is just! All know the knights hide behind
their armor, using their might to bully and threaten those
weaker than themselves. For the pride and honor of our
Order of the Red Robes, join with me!”
Caramon was beginning to get the uncomfortable
feeling that the keep wasn’t as deserted as he’d first
thought. Reluctantly, wishing his brother were at his side,
he entered the keep. The big warrior wasn’t afraid of
anything in this world that was made of flesh and blood.
These eerie voices had a cold, hollow sound that unnerved
him. It was as if they were shouting to him from the
bottom of a grave.
He and the kender stood in a long passage leading from
the outer wall to the inner hall. The corridor was adorned
with various defensive mechanisms for dealing with an
invading enemy. He could see starlight through arrow slits
lining the cracked stone walls. Bereft of his brother’s
lighted staff and the knight’s torch, Caramon was forced to
grope his way through the darkness, following the
flickering flame shining ahead of him, and he nearly
bashed his head on an iron portcullis that had been
partially lowered from the ceiling.
“Which side do you want to be on?” Earwig asked
eagerly, tugging at Caramon’s hand to drag him forward.
“I think I’d like to be a knight, but then I’ve wanted to be a
mage, too. I don’t suppose your brother would let me
borrow his staff – ”
“Hush!” ordered Caramon harshly, his voice cracking
in his dry throat.
The corridor was coming to an end, opened into a
great, wide hall. Sir Gawain was standing right in front of
him, holding the torch high and shouting out words in a
language the big warrior didn’t understand but guessed to
be Solamnic.
The clamoring of the voices was louder. Caramon felt
them tugging him in both directions. But another voice, a
voice within him, was stronger. This voice was his
brother’s, a voice he loved and trusted, and he
remembered what it had said.
YOU MUST PREVENT GAWAIN FROM OFFERING
HIS SWORD TO THE KNIGHT!
“Stay here,” he told Earwig firmly, placing his hand
on the kender’s shoulder. “You promise?”