knight, but they have, even after death, continued to drag
others into their conflict.”
“And you wouldn’t let me make that bet!” said
Caramon reproachfully to his brother.
Raistlin did not appear to hear him. He was,
seemingly, lost in thought.
“Well,” said Gawain abruptly, “and what do you think
of that tale?”
“I think that, like most legends, it has outgrown the
truth,” answered Raistlin. “A wizard of the red robes, for
example, would not call upon the Queen of Darkness for
aid. That is something only wizards of the black robes do.”
“It seems to me,” said Gawain grimly, “that your kind
dabbles in darkness no matter what color robes they wear –
the fox cloaking himself in sheep’s wool, so the saying
goes.”
“Yeah,” retorted Caramon angrily. “And I’ve heard a
few sayings myself about YOUR kind, Sir Kettle-head.
One goes – ”
“That will do, my brother,” remonstrated Raistlin, his
thin fingers closing firmly over Caramon’s arm. “Save
your breath for what lies ahead.”
The group continued on in a silence that was tense
and smoldering.
“What happened to the maiden?” Earwig asked
suddenly. All three started, having forgotten, in their
preoccupation, the kender’s presence.
“What?” growled Gawain.
“The maiden. What happened to her? After all, it’s
called the Maiden’s Curse.”
“Yes, it is,” said Raistlin. “An interesting point.”
“Is it?” Earwig jumped up and down gleefully,
scattering the contents of his pouches across the path and
nearly tripping Caramon. “I came up with an interesting
point!”
“I don’t see why it’s called the Maiden’s Curse, except
that she was the innocent victim,” answered the knight as
an afterthought.
“Ah,” said Earwig with a gusty sigh. “An innocent
victim. I know what THAT feels like!”
****
The three continued on their way. The walking was
easy, the path through the forest was smooth and straight.
Too smooth and too straight, according to Caramon, who
maintained that it seemed bound and determined to
deliver them to their doom as swiftly as possible. Several
hours after midnight, they arrived at the fortress known as
Death’s Keep.
Dark and empty, its stone facade glimmered grayish
white in the lambent light of the stars and a pale, thin
silver moon. Massive and stalwart, the keep had been
designed for function, not beauty. It was square, with a
tower at each comer for the lookouts. A wall connecting
the towers surrounded a structure whose main purpose
had probably been to house troops. Large wooden doors,
banded with steel, permitted entrance and egress.
But no soldiers had come here in a long, long time. The
battlements were crumbling and in some places had
completely fallen down. The walls were split by gigantic
cracks, perhaps caused by the Cataclysm, perhaps by the
supposedly magical battle that had been fought within.
One of the towers had collapsed in upon itself, as had the
roof of the central building, for they could see the skeletal
outline of broken beams show up black against the myriad
glistening stars.
“The keep is deserted,” said Caramon, staring at it in
disgust. “There’s no one here, magical or otherwise. I’m
surprised those jokers back at the inn didn’t send us out
here with a bag and tell us to stand in the middle of the
path yelling, ‘here, snipe!'”
“That will be the task I set for you, my bumbling
brother!” Raistlin began to cough, but stifled the sound in
his sleeve. “Death’s Keep is NOT deserted! I hear voices
plainly – or I could if you would silence yours!”
“I, too, hear someone calling out,” said Gawain, awed.
“A knight of my order is trapped in there, and he shouts
for help!” The knight, sword in hand, bolted forward. “I’m
coming!” he shouted.
“Me, too!” cried Earwig, leaping in a circle around
Raistlin. “I hear voices! I’m positive I hear voices! What
are they saying to you? Do you want to know what they’re
saying to me? ‘Another round of ale!’ That’s what I hear
them calling out.”
“Wait!” Raistlin reached to grasp the knight, but
Gawain was running swiftly toward huge double wooden
doors. Once this gate would have been closed, locked fast
against any foe. Now it stood ominously open. “He’s an