The War Of The Lance Read Free Page A

jerked away from his brother's
     touch. “The lord's men are all over the woods, hunting for poachers with only slightly
     less enthusiasm than they're hunting for goblins. No, we'll return to camp tonight. Don't
     fuss over me. You know how I hate it. I'll be fine. I've slept in worse places.”
    Raistlin began to cough again, the spasms shaking his frail body until it seemed he must
     split apart. Pulling out a cloth, he pressed it over his mouth. Those who glanced at him
     in concern saw that, when the mage withdrew the cloth, it was covered with blood.
    “Fix me my drink!” he ordered Caramon, his lips forming the words for he had momentarily
     lost the power of speech. Collapsing in a comer, he closed his eyes and concentrated on
     drawing breath. Those near could hear the air whistle in his lungs.
    Caramon peered through the crowd, attempting to find
    the barmaid, and shouted for boiling hot water. Raistlin slid a pouch across the table
     toward his brother, who picked it up and carefully measured out some of its contents into
     a mug. The inn's proprietor himself came bustling over with the hot water in a steaming
     kettle. He was just about to pour when a sudden shouting rose up around the door.
    “Hey, there! Get out you little vermin! No kender allowed!” cried several of the guests.
    “Kender!” Kettle in hand, the proprietor ran off in panic.
    “Hey!” shouted Caramon after the flurried innkeeper in exasperation, “you forgot our
     water!”
    “But I tell you I have friends here!” A shrill voice rose up from the doorway. “Where?
     Why,” - there was a moment's pause - “there! Hi, Caramon! Remember me?”
    “Name of the Abyss!” muttered Caramon, hunching up his big shoulders and ducking his head.
    A short figure, about the stature of a twelve-year old human, with the face of a man of
     twenty and the wide- eyed innocent expression of a babe of three, was pointing gleefully
     at the booth of the warrior and his brother. The figure was clad in a bright green tunic
     and orange striped hose. A long tassel of hair was twisted round his head and hung down
     his back. Numerous pouches containing the possessions of everyone who had been unfortunate
     enough to cross his path hung from his belt.
    “You're answerable for him, then,” said the proprietor grimly, marching the kender across
     the room, one hand gripping the slight shoulders firmly. There was a wild scramble as men
     stuffed their purses inside their shirts, down their pants, or wherever else they thought
     their valuables might be safe from a kender's light and nimble fingers.
    “Hey! Our water!” Caramon made a grab for the innkeeper but got a handful of kender
     instead.
    “Earwig Lockpicker,” said the kender, holding out his hand politely. “Friend of Tasslehoff
     Burrfoot's. We met at the Inn of the Last Home. I couldn't stay long. There was that
     misunderstanding over the horse. I told them I didn't steal it. I can't think how it came
     to follow me.”
    “Maybe because you were holding firmly onto the reins?” suggested Caramon.
    “Do you think so? Because I - Ouch!”
    “Drop it!” said Raistlin, his thin hand closing tightly over the kender's wrist.
    “Oh,” said Earwig meekly, releasing the pouch that had been lying on the table and was now
     making its way into the kender's pocket. “Is that yours?”
    The mage cast a piercing, infuriated glare at his brother, who flushed and shrugged
     uncomfortably. “I'll get that water for you, Raist. Right now. Uh, Innkeeper!”
    “Well, look over there!” said the kender, squirming around in his seat to face the front
     door as it dosed behind a small group of travelers. “I followed those people into town.
     You can't imagine,” he said in an indignant whisper that carried clearly across the room,
     “how rude that man is! He should have thanked me for finding his dagger, instead of - ”
    “Greetings, sir. Greetings, my lady.” The