Brothers in Arms (The Raistlin Chronicles Book 2) by Margaret Weis & Don Perrin

Author:Margaret Weis & Don Perrin [Weis, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786961658
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2011-10-11T00:00:00+00:00

2

AT ABOUT THE TIME GOOD KING WILHELM WAS DISEMBOWELING the rebellious city’s ambassador, the army of the Mad Baron began its march toward that doomed metropolis. Led by the baron waving his plumed hat and laughing heartily for no good reason other than his pleasure at the prospect of action, the baron’s soldiers paraded down the road amidst cheers and well-wishes from Langtree’s assembled townsfolk. After the last heavily laden supply wagon had rolled out the gates, the townsfolk returned to their homes and businesses, grateful for the peace and quiet, sad for the lost revenue.

The baron gave his troops plenty of time to reach their objective. The soldiers marched no more than fifteen miles per day. He wanted his troops fresh and ready to fight, not falling over from exhaustion. Wagons carried their armor, their shields and rations, so they did not have to stop for anything along the route, except for a brief rest at midday. Anyone who dropped out of the march from exhaustion, illness, or injury was teased unmercifully but was permitted to ride in the wagons alongside the drivers.

The men were in good spirits, eager for battle and glory and the pay at the finish. They sang songs as they marched, songs led by the baron’s rich baritone. They played tricks and jokes upon the new recruits. Each man knew that this battle might be his last, for every soldier knows that somewhere is an arrowhead marked with his blood or a sword with his name etched on the blade. But such knowledge makes the life he is living at the moment that much sweeter.

The only person who was not enjoying the march was Raistlin. His weak body could not withstand even a moderate walking pace for very long. He grew weary and footsore after the first five miles.

“You should ride in the supply wagons, Raist,” Caramon told him helpfully. “Along with the other—” He went red in the face and bit his tongue.

“Along with the rest of the weak and infirm,” Raistlin finished the sentence.

“I-I didn’t mean that, Raist,” Caramon stammered. “You’re a lot stronger now than you used to be. Not that you were weak or anything, but—”

“Just be quiet, Caramon,” Raistlin said irritably. “I know perfectly well what you meant.”

He limped off in high dudgeon, leaving Caramon to look after him and shake his head with a sigh.

Raistlin pictured the scornful looks of the other soldiers as they marched past him, lying recumbent on a sack of dried beans. He pictured his brother helping him out of the wagon every night, solicitous and patronizing. Raistlin resolved then and there that he would march with the rest of the army if it killed him—which it likely would. Dropping dead on the trail was preferable to being pitied.

Raistlin had lost track of Horkin during the march, supposed that the robust mage was in the front ranks, setting the pace. When the word came that Raistlin was to report to the master-at-wizardry, he was considerably astonished to find Horkin back with the supply wagons.

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