The War Of The Lance Read Online Free PDF

everyone around him. “Have there been any who have tried it?” At
     this the men in the inn glanced at each other and
    then looked at the ceiling or the floor or the walls or stared into their mugs.
    “A few,” said someone.
    “How few?” asked Caramon, seeing that his brother was in earnest about accompanying the
     knight.
    “Twenty, thirty maybe.”
    “Twenty or thirty! And none of them ever came back? Did you hear that, Raist? Twenty or
     thirty and none of them ever came back!” Caramon said emphatically.
    “I heard.” Using his staff to support him, Raistlin rose
    from the booth. “So did I!” said Earwig, dancing with excitement. “And we're still going,
     aren't we,” Caramon said
    gloomily, buckling his sword belt around his waist. “Some of us, that is. Not you,
     Nosepicker.”
    “Nosepicker!” Hearing this foul corruption of a name long honored among kender, Earwig was
     momentarily paralyzed with shock and forgot to dodge Caramon's large hand. Catching hold
     of the kender by the long ponytail, the big warrior skillfully tied him by the hair to one
     of the inn's support posts. “The name's Lockpicker!” he shrieked indignantly.
    “Why is it you're doing this, mage?” asked Gawain suspiciously as Raistlin walked slowly
     across the room.
    “Yeah, Raist, why is it we're doing this?” Caramon shot out of the comer of his mouth.
    “For the money, of course,” said Raistlin coolly. “What other reason would there be?”
    The crowd in the inn was on its feet, clamoring in excitement, calling out directions and
     advice and laying wagers on whether or not the adventurers would return. Earwig, tied
     fast, screamed and pleaded and begged and nearly yanked his hair out by the roots trying
     to free himself.
    It was only the barmaid who saw Raistlin's frail hand very gently ruffle the sleeping
     child's hair in passing.
    ****
    Half the patrons of the inn accompanied them down an old, disused path to the fringes of a
     thick forest. Here, beneath ancient trees that seemed ill-disposed to have their rest
     disturbed, the crowd bid them good fortune.
    “Do you need torches?” one of the men shouted.
    “No,” answered Raistlin. “SHIRAK,” he said softly, and the crystal ball on top of his
     staff burst into bright, beaming light.
    The crowd gasped in appreciative awe. The knight glanced at the glowing staff askance.
    “I will take a torch. I will not walk in any light that has darkness as its source.”
    The crowd bid them farewell, then turned back to the inn to await the outcome. Odds were
     running high in favor
    of Death's Keep living up to its name. The wager seemed such a sure thing, in fact, that
     Raistlin had some difficulty in persuading Caramon not to bet against themselves.
    Torch in hand, the knight started down the path. Raistlin and his brother walked some
     paces behind, for the young knight walked so swiftly, the frail mage could not keep up.
    “So much,” said Raistlin, leaning on his staff, “for the courtesy of the knights.”
    Gawain instantly halted and waited, stony-faced, for them to catch up.
    “Not only courtesy but just plain good sense to keep together in a forest as dark and
     gloomy as this one,” stated Caramon. “Did you hear something?”
    The three listened, holding their breaths. Tree leaves rustled, a twig snapped. Knight and
     warrior put hand to weapon. Raistlin slid his hand inside his pouch, grasping a handful of
     sand and calling to mind words of a sleep spell.
    “Here I am!” said a shrill voice cheerfully. A small, green and orange figure burst into
     the light. “Sorry I'm late,” said Earwig. “My hair got caught in the booth.” He exhibited
     half of what had once been a long tassel. “I had to cut myself loose!”
    “With MY dagger!” said Caramon, snatching it away.
    “Is that one yours? Isn't that odd? I could have sworn I had one just like it!”
    Sir Gawain came to a halt, scowling. “It is bad enough