"Your orders, captain?"

  B'rak surveyed the village, the trap, and hissed, "I want this village burned to the ground! I want the elves slaughtered, their bodies burned! Start with the hostages! The responsibility is yours. Be prepared for battle! This is a trap! I must seek the Black Robe out before it is too late!"

  Sith grinned as the captain hurried by. His teeth glittered in the sun as he barked out orders. Here, at last, was what he had been waiting for. Here was action. He pulled a burning stick out of a fire some of the warriors had built earlier. Others followed his example.

  It was then a race to see who would be the one to start the inferno.

  B'rak was nearly spent by the time he reached the dwelling where the elves had housed the stricken warrior. It was apart from the rest of the village. Behind him, the shrieks of his warriors could be heard. He hoped they would not accidentally burn down the forest in their enthusiasm. At least, not until the patrol was well on its way.

  He was met by Vergrim at the entrance to the hut. The Black Robe, looking drawn, eyed him in a peculiar manner.

  "What have you done, B'rak?"

  "This is a trap, mage! Just as you originally believed! A very subtle trap!"

  The Black Robe continued to stare at him. "What have you done?"

  "My patrol is even now burning this village to the ground! I have ordered these elves to be slaughtered before their kinsmen can arrive! They are crafty, Ver grim! Crafty enough to fool the senses of a magic-user!"

  The other draconian nodded slowly. "True. It was all for nothing, though. The plan failed. Nothing could be done. The Queen's spell was stronger than we had imagined."

  B'rak hissed angrily. "We? What spell? What are you talking about? Where is the elf and his mate? What have they done to you, mage? You're acting even stranger than usual!"

  Vergrim moved to one side of the entrance. "You had best see for yourself, captain."

  Pushing the mage aside, B'rak burst into the hut. The darkness of the interior prevented him from seeing anything at first and he wondered why there were no windows. Within moments, though, his eyes had adjusted completely.

  The draconian backed up a step in horror, every oath to the Queen of Darkness escaping from his mouth as he sought to avoid looking at the thing on the blanket. It was S'sira-and it was not. The form changed constantly, as if two forces sought domination and could not successfully defeat one another, the commander thought.

  Disgusted, he pulled the sword from its sheath and forced himself to stand over the shifting mass. One stroke cut off what should have been the head. B'rak picked up a large piece of cloth, intending to use it to clean his weapon. The cloth turned out to be part of a dark robe which had once belonged to Vergrim. The magic-user's charred body lay crumpled in a corner.

  "The Queen's hold is too great." The voice was that of the mage, but the form was that of an elf. Looking at him closely, feeling an unreasonable fear creep over him B'rak saw that it was Eliyah… and yet it wasn't Eliyah. "We should have never believed she would honor an agreement."

  "Some of us refused to believe there was no hope," the elf continued. "We were determined to bring back our children. If the Queen could turn them into hateful monstrosities, we could turn them back."

  The draconian captain stepped forward. "You are my prisoner, old one! I have uncovered your trap! Even now, my men are slaughtering your people and burning this mockery of a village."

  Eliyah shook his head sadly. "I had hopes for you, especially. I knew you for mine when I saw you. The same determination, the same strength. The dream almost caught you. Just as it almost caught the other one." One hand pointed to the still form on the blanket. In the dim light, the elf's hand looked almost leathery.

  Eliyah went on. "There was little time to prepare an actual village. Magic did what was necessary, causing you to accept what should not have been acceptable. It was not enough, though. Only one of you truly responded to our spell, despite its intensity. He would not have survived the transformation, however, and was therefore better dead-though I could not bring myself to do it, having come so close to success."

  "What transformation?" B'rak backed away. The elf did not act like a prisoner, and his appearance had taken on an odd aspect. The face was broadening, becoming more reptilian.

  "You were the next generation. Our pride and joy. Our dear children. Long ago, while we slept, the Queen and her evil dragons stole our eggs and held them hostage, forcing us to swear an oath that we would not interfere in her wicked designs to conquer the world. She promised to leave the eggs unharmed, but she lied. Using her dark arts, she perverted them into creatures such as you. I tell you this, my son, so you know that we do what we now do out of love for what you should have been-if not for the foul Queen."

  Wings spread. All vestiges of elf melted away into a towering form of brilliant silver. The draconian fell backward, one hand brandishing the sword in a feeble attempt to defend himself. The walls of the hut, no longer able to hold in the expanding form, burst apart like parchment. B'rak was forced to dodge parts of the roof.

  The massive head stared down. A sigh escaped the great jaws.

  "Forgive us, your parents, for failing you."

  Everything was fire.

  The fire was contained in the village. They made sure of that. Not one draconian escaped. Their very act of attempting to burn the village had assured their presence when the moment came.

  For three days, the parents mourned the loss. Three days of sorrow, of singing to those twisted by the Queen. When that was done, the dragons-some silver, some gold, some speckled with each-flew off to join their kin in the terrible war.

  Behind them, they left only ashes.

  The Test of the Twins

  Margaret Weis

  The magician and his brother rode through the mists toward the secret place.

  "We shouldn't have come," Caramon muttered. His large, strong hand was on the hilt of his great sword, and his eyes searched every shadow. "I have been in many dangerous places, but nothing to equal this!"

  Raistlin glanced around. He noticed dark, twisted shadows and heard strange sounds.

  "They will not bother us, brother," he said gently. "We have been invited. They are guardians who keep out the unwanted." He did, however, draw his red robes closer around his thin body and move to ride nearer Caramon.

  "Mages invited us… I don't trust 'em." Caramon scowled.

  Raistlin glanced at him. "Does that include me, dear brother?" he asked softly.

  Caramon did not reply.

  Although twins, the two brothers could not have been more different. Raistlin, frail and sickly magician and scholar, pondered this difference frequently. They were one whole man split in two: Caramon the body, Raistlin the mind. As such, the two needed and depended on each other far more than other brothers. But, in some ways, it was an unwholesome dependence, for it was as if each was incomplete without the other. At least, this was how it seemed to Raistlin. He bitterly resented whatever gods had played such a trick that cursed him with a weak body when he longed for mastery over others. He was thankful that, at least, he had been granted the skills of a magician. It gave him the power he craved. These skills almost made him the equal of his brother.

  Caramon-strong and muscular, a born fighter- always laughed heartily whenever Raistlin discussed their differences. Caramon enjoyed being his «little» brother's protector. But, although he was very fond of Raistlin, Caramon pitied his weakertwin. Unfortunately, Caramon had a tendency to express his broth erly concern in unthoughtful ways. He often let his pity show, not realizing it was like a knife twisting in his brother's soul.

  Caramon admired his brother's skill as a magician as one admires a festival juggler. He did not treat it seriously or respectfully. Caramon had met neither man nor monster that could not be handled by the sword. Therefore, he could not understand this dangerous trip his brother was undertaking for the sake of his magic.

  "It's all parlor tricks, Raist," Caramon protested. "Riding into that forsaken land is nothing to risk our lives over."

  Raistlin replied gently-he always spoke gently to Caramon that he was determined on this course of action for reasons of his own and that Cannon could come if he so chose. Of course, Caramon went. The two had rarely been separated from one another since birth.

  The journey was long and hazardous. Carmen's sword was frequently drawn. Raistlin felt his strength ebbing. They were near the end now. Raistlin rode in silence, oppressed with the doubt and fear that shrouded him as it had when he first decided on this course of action. Perhaps Caramon was right, perhaps he was risking their lives needlessly.

  It had been three months ago when the Head of the Order arrived at his master's home. Par-Salian had invited Raistlin to visit with him as he dined-much to the master's surprise.

  "When do you take the Test, Raistlin?" the old man asked the young conjurer.

  "Test?" Raistlin repeated, startled. No need to ask which Test-there was only one.

  "He is not ready, Par-Salian," his master protested. "He is young-only twenty-one! His spellbook is far from complete-"

  "Yes," Par-Salian interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "But you believe you are ready, don't you, Raistlin?"

  Raistlin had kept his eyes lowered, in the proper show of humility, his hood drawn over his face. Suddenly, he threw backhis hood and lifted his head, staring directly, proudly, at Par Salian. "I am ready. Great One," Raistlin spoke coolly.

  Par-Salian nodded, his eyes glittering. "Begin your journey in three months' time," the old man said, then went back to eating his fish.

  Raistlin's master gave him a furious glance, rebuking him for his impudence. Par-Salian did not look at him again. The young conjurer bowed and left without a word.

  The servant let him out; however, Raistlin slipped back through the unlocked door, cast a sleep spell upon the servant, and stood, hidden in the alcove, listening to the conversation between his master and Par-Salian.

  "The Order has never tested one so young," the master said. "And you chose him! Of all my pupils, he is the most unworthy. I simply do not understand."

  "You don't like him, do you?" Par-Salian asked mildly.

  "No one does," the master snapped. "There is no compassion in him, no humanity. He is greedy and grasping, difficult to trust. Did you know that his nickname among the other students is the Sly One? He absorbs from everyone's soul and gives back nothing of his own. His eyes are mirrors; they reflect all he sees in cold, brittle terms."

  "He is highly intelligent," Par-Salian suggested.

  "Oh, there's no denying that." The master sniffed. "He is my best pupil. And he has a natural affinity for magic. Not one of those surface users."

  "Yes," Par-Salian agreed. "Raistlin's magic springs from deep within."

  "But it springs from a dark well," the master said, shaking his head. "Sometimes I look at him and shudder, seeing the Black Robes fall upon him. That will be his destiny, I fear."

  "I think not," Par-Salian said thoughtfully. "There is more to him than you see, though I admit he keeps it well hidden. More to him than he knows himself, I'll wager."

  "Mmmmm," the master sounded very dubious.

  Raistlin smiled to himself, a twisted smile. It came as no surprise to learn his master's true feelings. Raistlin sneered. Who cares? he thought bitterly. As for Par-Salian-Raistlin shrugged it off.

  "What of his brother?" Par-Salian asked.

  Raistlin, his ear pressed against the door, frowned.

  "Ah!" The master became effusive. "Night and day. Caramon is handsome, honorable, trusting, everyone's friend. Theirs is a strange relationship. I have seen Raistlin watch Caramon with a fierce, burning love in his eyes. And the next instant, I have seen such hatred and jealousy I think the young man could murder his twin without giving it a second thought." He coughed, apologetically. "Let me send you Algenon, Great One. He is not as intelligent as Raistlin, but his heart is true and good."

  "Algenon is TOO good," Par-Salian snorted. "He has never known torment or suffering or evil. Set him in a cold, biting wind and he will wither like a maiden's first rose. But Raistlin-well, one who constantly battles evil within will not be overly dismayed by evil without."

  Raistlin heard chairs scrape. Par-Salian stood up.

  "Let's not argue. I was given a choice to make and I have made it," Par-Salian said.

  "Forgive me. Great One, I did not mean to be contradictory," the master said stiffly, hurt.

  Raistlin heard Par-Salian sigh wearily. "I should be the one to apologize, old friend," he said. "Forgive me. There is trouble coming upon us that the world may not survive. This choice has been a heavy burden upon me. As you know, the Test may well prove fatal to the young man."

  "It has killed others more worthy," the master murmured.

  Their conversation turned to other matters, so Raistlin crept away.

  The young mage considered Par-Salian's words many times during the weeks that followed while he prepared for his journey. Sometimes he would hug himself with pride at being chosen by the Great One to take the Test-the greatest honor conferred on a magician. But, at night, the words may WELL PROVE FATAL haunted his dreams.

  He thought, as he drew nearer and nearer the Towers, about those who had not survived. Their belongings had been returned to their families, without a single word (other than Par-Salian's regrets). For this reason, many magicians did not take the Test. After all, it gave no additional power. It added no spells to the spellbook. One could practice magic quite well without it, and many did so. But they were not considered «true» magic-users by their peers, and they knew it. The Test gave a mage an aura that surrounded him. When entering the presence of others, this aura was deeply felt by all and, therefore, commanded respect.

  Raistlin hungered for that respect. But did he hunger for it enough to be willing to die trying to obtain it?

  "There it is!" Caramon interrupted his thoughts, reining his horse in sharply.

  "The fabled Towers of High Sorcery," Raistlin said, staring in awe.

  The three tall stone towers resembled skeletal fingers, clawing out of the grave.

  "We could turn back now," Caramon croaked, his voice breaking.

  Raistlin looked at his brother in astonishment. For the first time since he could remember, Raistlin saw fear in Caramon. The young conjurer felt an unusual sensation-a warmth spread over him. He reached out and put a steady hand on his brother's trembling arm. "Do not be afraid, Caramon," Raistlin said, "I am with you."

  Caramon looked at Raistlin, then laughed nervously to himself. He urged his horse forward.

  The two entered the Towers. Vast stone walls and darkness swallowed them up, then they heard the voice: "Approach."

  The two walked ahead. Raistlin walked steadfastly, but Caramon moved warily, his hand on the hilt of his sword. They came to stand before a withered figure sitting in the center of a cold, empty chamber.

  "Welcome, Raistlin," Par-Salian said. "Do you consider yourself prepared to undergo your final Test?"

  "I do, Par-Salian, Greatest of Them All."

  Par-Salian studied the young man before him. The conjurer's pale, thin cheeks were stained with a faint flush, as though fever burned in his blood. "Who accompanies you?" Par-Salian asked.

  "My twin brother, Caramon, Great Mage." Raist-lin's mouth twisted into a snarl. "As you see. Great One, I am no fighter. My brother came to protect me."

  Par-Salian stared at the brothers, reflecting on the odd humor of the gods. TWINS! THIS CARAMON IS HUGE. SIX FEET TALL, HE MUST WEIGH OVER TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. HIS FACE-A FACE OF SMILES AND BOISTEROUS LAUGHTER; THE EYES ARE AS OPEN AS HIS HEART. POOR RAISTLIN.

  Par-Salian turned his gaze back to the young man whose red robes hung from thin, stooped shoulders. Obviously weak, Raistlin was the one who could never take what he wanted, so he had learned, long ago, that magic could compensate for his deficiencies. Par-Salian looked into the eyes. No, they were not mirrors as the master had said-not for those with the power to see deeply. There was good inside the young man-an inner core of strength that would enable his fragile body to endure much. But now his soul was a cold, shapeless mass, dark with pride, greed, and selfishness. Therefore, as a shapeless mass of metal isplunged into a white-hot fire and emerges shining steel, so Par Salian intended to forge this conjurer.

  "Your brother cannot stay," the Mage admonished softly.

  "I am aware of that. Great One," Raistlin replied, with a hint of impatience.

  "He will be well cared for in your absence," Par-Salian continued. "And of course, he will be allowed to carry home your valuables should the Test prove beyond your skill."

  "Carry home… valuables…" Caromon's face became grim as he considered this statement. Then it darkened as he understood the full meaning of the Mage's words. "You mean-"

  'Raistlin's voice cut in, sharp, edged. "He means, dear brother, that you will take home my possessions in the event of my death."

  Par-Salian shrugged.

  "Failure, invariably, proves fatal."

  "Yes, you're right. I forgot that death could be a result of this..

  ritual." Caramon's face crumped into wrinkles of fear. He laid his

  hand on his brother's arm. "I think you should forget this, Raist. Let's go home."

  Raistlin twitched at his brother's touch, his thin body shuddering. "Do I counsel you to refuse battle?" he flared. Then, controlling his anger, he continued more calmly. "This is my battle, Caramon. Do not worry. I will not fail."

  Caramon pleaded. "Please, Raist… I'm supposed to take care of you-"

  "Leave me!" Raistlin's control cracked, splintered, wounding his brother.

  Caramon fell backward. "All right," he mumbled. "I'll… I'll meet you… outside." He flashed the Mage a threatening glance. Then he turned and walked out of the chamber, his huge battlesword clanking against his thigh.

  A door thudded, then there was silence.

  "I apologize for my brother," Raistlin said, his lips barely moving.