Forest of Qualinesti Kharolis Mountains
To Bertram, Library of Palanthas
From Dalamar, Tower of High Sorcery, Palanthas
Greetings,
First, sir, allow me to offer my apologies for startling you and the young scribe when we encountered each other in the great library. I am so accustomed to traveling the paths of sorcery that I forget others are not used to my sudden appearances. I trust that the young scribe is, by now, fully recovered from his unfortunate tumble down the stairs.
My messenger (I hope you are not too put off by its rather ghastly appearance) holds in its "hand" the manuscript which you requested. The material of which I spoke梚.e., a collection of notations written by Raistlin Majere himself concerning his early life梒annot, I am afraid, be delivered to the library. In accordance with his secretive nature, the Shalafi had cast spells of confusion over his books. These spells would not only make it difficult for you to read the books, Bertram, but might actually cause you serious harm.
I have taken it upon myself, therefore, to rewrite the account. All information is complete and accurate to detail as far as I was able to determine from Raistlin's notes and Caramon Majere's memory. I searched for the ken-der, .Earwig Lockpicker, who was also a companion during several adventures, but I was unable to find him. (Needless to say, I did not look very hard!)
The material is divided into two parts. The first and shorter of the pieces is titled "Raistlin and the Knight of
DRASolamnia."' This piece is important in that it provides us with information on the kender. Earwig, and how he came to join up with the twins. The story concerns the Shalafi's encounter with a stiff-necked knight, whose pride very nearly gets them all killed. (Considering our current good relations with the knights, you might think twice before publishing this story in Solamnia.)
The second story, which I have titled "Brothers Ma-, jere," is interesting for a number of reasons, particularly for the account of the mysterious and fascinating personage met by the twins. As you know, there has been considerable discussion among the scholars of the land concerning this "demi-god." Is he real, or is he merely a creature of legend and myth? I remember discussing the subject with Raistlin, and I wondered at the time at the Shalifi's knowing smile. True to form, he never told me that he knew, firsthand, the truth about "Bast."
That Raistlin was interested in Bast himself is best indicated by the fact that he went out of his way to collect other tales concerning the dark-skinned "thief." These can be forwarded to you when I have time to break the spells guarding them.
Next, about your request for information regarding the chronological order of the stories in your collection, I offer you the following for your records. (The information is based both on my notes and on discussions with Caramon Majere.)
After the separation of the Companions at the Inn of the Last Home, Raistlin and Caramon left immediately on their journey to the Tower of High Sorcery. Raistlin took the test, with results that have now become legend/
The twins then wandered in the magical Wayreth Forest for perhaps as long as a month before being allowed
1 DRAGON* Magazine, Issue 1154
; The Test of the Twins," short story, DRAGONLANCE* Tales Trilogy, Volume 1
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to leave. It is during this period of time that popular myth would have us believe Raistlin encountered the strange woman who would, unbeknowst to the Shalafi, bear him a child.3 (By the way, in regard to this rumor, I can give you no information. The stories about this liaison did not begin to circulate until several years after Raistlin's death. I find nothing in his notes pertaining to such a liaison.)
Upon escaping Wayreth Forest, the twins returned to Solace, where Raistlin spent several months seeking a cure for his malady. He studied and became expert in the sciences of alchemy and herbal lore and gained greatly in knowledge that would serve him all of his life. Unfortunately, his efforts failed to improve his health. Funds running low, the brothers were forced to leave Solace to seek their fortunes.
Caramon recalls that they intended to cross New Sea, but he is unclear as to why they were traveling to such wild and dangerous lands. Perhaps he himself did not know. Marginal notes in one of the Shalafi's alchemy texts indicate that Raistlin may have been continuing his search for some magical life-giving elixir.
During this time, Raistlin was also hunting for a true cleric. I venture to speculate that he was not seeking one out of a high-minded search for truth, but梐gain梚n hopes that he would find someone to heal him. (It is, however, interesting to note that, four years later, when he meets Goldmoon, he tells her that her healing powers will not help him. What happened to him in that intervening time period to teach him this harsh lesson? Perhaps, in further explorations through his texts, we will discover the answer.)
3 "Raistlin's Daughter." short story, DRAGONLANCE Tales Trilogy, Volume 3
II
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Undoubtedly it is due to his bitter disappointment in being unable to find a true cleric that he continues to ferret out and expose charlatans. One of these is the infamous fraud of Larnish {mentioned briefly in this volume). It is shortly after this encounter that Raistlin and Caramon met the Knight of Solamnia and rid Death's Keep of its curse. Continuing on their way to New Sea, they enter Mereklar.
This adventure is not the end of the brothers' journey-ings. They would travel another four years before the outbreak of the War of the Lance. My teaching, as well as the work involved in being Head of the Order of Black Robes, leaves me little time to pursue my research but, hopefully, at some later date, I will be able to decipher the remainder of the Shalafi's notes. Like you, Bertram, I must admit that I find the subject fascinating.
My Shalafi was undoubtedly the most skilled and powerful wizard who has ever lived. I am pleased that you are setting down the true facts concerning his life. It is my profound hope that future generations will remember and honor the tragedy and ultimate triumph of Raistlin Majere.
I hope that this is helpful to you. I trust the messenger will deliver it to you safely. (If he leaves any slime on the parchment, you may remove it with a solution of lemon water and vinegar.)
Please extend my greetings and respect to Aslinus.
*fe?
WANTED
PuolQQue
C/?c boy lookeo up fnoM tjis play 1o see two strangers, standing at the crossroads, reading the sign. Keeping his eyes on them, the boy continued what he was doing梥ailing a makeshift boat in a puddle. But when the larger and stronger of the two men梐 warrior, by the number of weapons he carried梤ipped the parchment off the post, the boy left the boat to sink slowly into the muddy water. Hidden by a scraggly shrub, the boy crept close to listen.
"Hey, Raist, look at this!" yelled the big man to the other, who stood only a few feet away.
The boy stared at this second man with intense inter-
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est. The child had never seen a mage before, he'd only heard about them in tales. He had no trouble recognizing a wizard, however, by his outlandish robes梩heir color red as blood梩he mysterious pouches and feathered amulets that hung from the mage's simple rope belt, and a black wooden staff on which he leaned when he walked.
"Stop bellowing! I'm not deaf. What have you found?" the mage spoke irritably.
"It says . . . here, you read it." The warrior handecT over the notice. He watched as the mage studied it. "Well, what do you think? Unless, of course, it's outdated."
"This posting is recent. The parchment's not even weatherworn yet."
"Oh, yeah. So maybe this is what we're looking for, huh?"
"Fee negotiable." The mage frowned. "Still, that's better than nothing. The reward we earned for ending the curse of Death's Keep is nearly gone. We'll never be able to cross New Sea unless we have the means to hire a boat." He rolled up the parchment and thrust it in the sleeves of his robes.
The warrior sighed. "Another night sleeping on the ground?"
"We need to carefully conserve what little money we have."
"I guess. I could sure use a mug of ale, though."
"I've no doubt," said the mage sourly.
"You ever heard of this Mereklar place?" asked the warrior after a pause.
"No, have you?"
"Nope."
The mage looked from the signpost to the road it indicated. The road was muddy and overgrown with grass and weeds.
"It doesn't look as if many people have heard of it. I*"
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"Whew! Here you are! Finally!"
The boy heard someone gasping in relief. Peering around the hedge, he saw a person, smaller in stature than the other two, pumping up the road as fast as his orange-stockinged legs would carry him.
A kender! recognized the boy and immediately clasped fast in his hand all his worldly possessions, which consisted of a half-eaten apple that had been lunch and a small, broken knife used for whittling boats.
Perhaps the branches of the bush rustled when the boy moved, because he was astonished and alarmed to see the mage suddenly turn his head and cast a piercing glance into the shrubs that concealed him. The boy froze. He'd never seen a face like that, not even in a dream. The mage's skin had a gold cast to it, and his eyes were golden, the pupils shaped like hourglasses.
Fortunately for the boy, the kender began to talk again.
"I thought I'd never catch up with you two! You left me behind by mistake. Why didn't you guys tell me you were taking off in the middle of the night? If I hadn't woken up and seen you two sneaking past my door, carrying your packs, I never would have known which way you were going! As it was, I had to take a moment to gather up all my things and then I had a dreadful time keeping up and once I lost you, but I have a special device that I use for finding my way and it showed me which path you took. Do you want to see it?" The kender began to fumble through innumerable pouches, spilling out various articles and objects into the street. "It's in here, somewhere. . . ."
The warrior exchanged a long-suffering glance with the mage. "Uh, no, that's all right, Earmite* "
"Earwig!" corrected the kender indignantly.
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"Uh, yeah. Sorry. Earwig Nosepicker, isn't it?"
"Lockpicker!" The kender jabbed the forked stick he was carrying into the ground for emphasis. "Lockpicker. A highly honored name among*"
"Come, Caramon," said the mage in a voice that would have chilled boiling water. "We must be going."
"Where are we headed?" asked the kender, cheerfully falling into step.
The mage came to a halt and fixed the kender with his strange eyes.
"We aren't headed anywhere."
The boy thought that anyone but a kender would have curled up and sunk into the ground under the mage's baleful stare. But the kender just gazed up at him solemnly.
"Oh, but you need me, Raistlin. You really do. Wasn't I a help to you in solving the mystery of Death's Keep? I was. You said so yourself. I gave you the clue that made you think the maiden was the reason for the curse. And Caramon never would have found his favorite dagger if it hadn't been for me*"
"I never would have lost it, if it hadn't been for you," muttered the warrior.
"And then Tasslehoff told me* You remember my cousin, Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Anyway, he told me that you always took him with you on your adventures and that he was always getting you out of trouble and since he's not around you should take me to do the same thing. And 1 can tell you lots of interesting stories, like the one about Dizzy Longtongue and the minotaur*"
"Enough!" The mage pulled his cowl farther down over his head, as if the cloth could shut out the monologue.
"Ah, let him come along, Raist," said the warrior. "It'd be company for us. You know we get bored, just talking to each other."
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"I know I get bored just talking to you, my brother. But I do not think the situation will be alleviated by taking on a kender!"
The mage started off down the road, leaning heavily on his staff and walking slowly, as if he had just been through a recent illness.
"What did he say?" the kender asked, coming to walk beside the warrior.
"I'm not sure," said the warrior, shaking his head. "But I don't think it was a compliment."
"Oh, well," said the kender, twirling his forked stick in the air until it made a shrill, whistling sound. "I'm not much used to compliments anyway. Where did you say we were going?"
"Mereklar."
"Mereklar. Never heard of it," stated the kender happily.
The boy saw the three well on their way before he ran to an old, dilapidated inn that huddled in the woods near the crossroads. A man sat at a table, an untasted drink in his hand.
The boy went up to the man and told what he had seen.
"A warrior, a mage, and a kender. All three heading for Mereklar. And now that I've done what you wanted, where's my money?" the child demanded boldly. "You promised."
The man asked a few questions, wanting to know what color robes the mage was wearing and if the warrior appeared to be very old and battle-hardened.
"No," said the boy, considering. "He's only about the age of my big brother. Twenty or so if he's a day. But his weapons seemed well used. I don't think you'll pick him off so easily."
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The man fished a steel piece from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Rising from his seat with unusual haste, considering he'd been sitting in the inn for three days* ever since he'd posted the sign梩he man ran out into the woods and was soon lost to sight in the shadows.
IS
Cljapteu i
awoke fnoM Deep sluMben fo f/?e SOUN&
of pipes梐 haunting, eerie sound that reminded him of a time of everlasting pain, a time of torture and torment. Propping himself up on weak elbows from his red, tattered sleeping roll, he stared into the embers of the fire.
The dying coals only served to remind Raistlin of his ill health. How long had it been since he took the test? How much time had passed since the wizards in the Tower of High Sorcery had demanded this sacrifice in return for his magic? Months. Only months. Yet it seemed to him that he'd been suffering like this all his life.
Lying back down, Raistlin lifted his hands up in front
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of his face, examining the bones, veins, and sinews, barely discernible in the dimly lit grove. The firelight gave his flesh an unearthly reddish tinge, reflecting off his golden skin梩he gold skin he had earned in his gambit for personal power, gold skin he had earned fighting for his life.
Smiling grimly, Raistlin clenched his hand into a fist. He'd won. He'd been victorious. He had defeated them all.
But his moment of triumph was short-lived. He began to cough uncontrollably, the spasms shaking and convulsing him like a battered puppet.
The pipes played on while Raistlin managed to catch his breath. He fumbled at his waist to find a small burlap bag filled with herbs. Holding this over his nose and mouth, he breathed the sickly sweet scent of crushed leaves and boiled twigs. The spasms eased, and Raistlin dared let himself hope that this time he'd found a cure. He refused to believe he would be this feeble all of his life.
The herbs left a bitter taste on his lips. He stashed the pungent bag away in a purse under his cloth belt, which was a darker red than the rest of his robes from constant use and wear. He didn't look for the blood that was beginning to slowly dry on the medicine pouch. He knew it would be there.
Breathing slowly, Raistlin forced himself to relax. His eyes closed. He imagined the many and varied lines of power running through his life梩he glowing, golden weave of threads of his magic, his mind, his soul. He held his life in his hands. He was the master of his own destiny.
Raistlin listened to the pipes again. They did not play the eerie, unnatural music he thought he had heard upon waking梩he music of the dark elf, the music he dreamed about in his worst nightmares since his indoctrination
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into the higher orders of sorcery. Instead it was the shrill, lively music of an inconsiderate kender.
Throwing off the heavy blankets piled on top of him, Raistlin shivered in the cold evening air. He clutched his staff with hands eager to feel the smooth wood once again safely in their grip, and pulled himself upright.
"Shirak" Raistlin said softly.
Power flowed from his spirit into the staff, mingling with the magic already housed in the black-wood symbol of the mage's victory. A soft white light beamed from the crystal clutched in a dragon's claw atop the staff.
As soon as the light flooded the grove, the music stopped abruptly. Earwig looked up in surprise to see the red-hooded figure of the magician looming over him.
"Oh, hi, Raistlin!" The kender grinned.
"Earwig," said the mage softly, "I'm trying to sleep."
"Well, of course, you are, Raistlin," answered the kender. "It's the middle of the night."
"But I can't sleep, Earwig, because of the noise."
"What noise?" The kender looked around the campsite with interest.
Raistlin reached out his gold-skinned hand and snatched the pipe from Earwig's grasp. He held it up in front of the kender 's nose.
"Oh," said Earwig meekly. 'That noise."
Raistlin tucked the pipes into the sleeve of his robes, turned, and started back to his bed.
"I can play you a lullaby," suggested Earwig, leaping to his feet and trotting along behind the mage. "If you give me back my pipes, that is. Or I could sing one for you * "
Raistlin turned and stared at the kender. The firelight flickered in the hourglass eyes.
"Or maybe not," said Earwig, slightly daunted.
But a kender never stayed daunted for long. "It's really
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boring around here," he added, keeping up with the mage. "I thought being on night watch would be fun, and it was for a while, because I kept expecting something to jump out of the woods^and attack us since Caramon said that was why we had to keep watch, but nothing has jumped out and attacked us and it's really getting boring."
"Dulak" Raistlin whispered, starting to cough again. The light from the globe dimmed and died. The mage sank down onto his sleeping mat, his tired legs barely supporting him.
"Here, Raistlin, let me help you," offered Earwig, spreading out the blankets. The kender stood, gazing down at the mage hopefully. "Would you make the staff light up again, Raistlin?"
The mage hunched his thin body beneath the heavy quilt.
"Could I have my pipes back?"
Raistlin closed his eyes.
Earwig heaved a gusty sigh, his gaze going to the sleeve of the mage's robes into which he'd seen his pipes disappear.
"Good night, Raistlin. I hope you feel better in the morning."
The mage felt a small hand pat his arm solicitously. The kender trotted away, small feet making little noise in the dew-wet grass.
Just as Raistlin was finally drifting off to sleep, he heard, once again, the shrill sound of the pipes.
Caramon awoke hours before the dawn, just in time for his watch. The companions had agreed to set two guards. Earwig taking the first watch, Caramon the second. Caramon preferred to take the last watch of the night, known as "the dead man's watch" because it was a
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time when there was the greatest possibility of trouble.
"Earwig, turn in," said Caramon, only to find his order had already been obeyed.
The kender lay fast asleep, a set of pipes clutched tightly in his hand.
Caramon shook his head. What could you expect from a kender? By nature, kender were not afraid of anything, living or dead. It was extremely difficult, therefore, to impress upon a kender the need to set a guard on the campsite.
Not that the warrior believed they were in any danger; the lands around them were peaceful and calm. But Caramon could no more have gone to his rest without setting a watch then he could have gone for a day without eating. It was one reason* at least so he had told his brother * that they needed Earwig to accompany them on their journey.
The warrior settled himself beneath a tree. He enjoyed this time of night. He liked to see the moons and stars fade into morning's first light. The constellations turned and wheeled and faced each other* the platinum dragon Paladine, the five-headed dragon Takhisis, between Ihem the god Gilean, the symbol of balance. Few others on Krynn believed in these ancient gods anymore, or even remembered the names of their constellations. Caramon had learned them from his brother. Sometimes the warrior wondered if Raistlin believed in the despised gods. If he did, he never mentioned it or worshipped them openly. Probably a good thing, Caramon reflected. This day and age, that type of faith could get you killed.
Caramon connected the bright points, his imagination drawing lines and curves, forming the stars into symbols of good and evil. He found the twins' namesake* the god Majere, called the Single Rose by the elves (accord-
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ing to his friend, Tanis), the Mantis by the Knights of So-lamnia (according to Sturm). The constellation lay deep in the pool of darkness overhead. Caramon knew from Raistlin that it was supposed to grant stability of thought, peace of mind. The heavens did give him a feeling of stability, of lasting equilibrium in the world. No matter what happened, the constellations would always be there.
Giving the stars a salute, Caramon heaved himself to his feet. Time to work. Moving silently, careful not to awake his sleeping brother, Caramon piled his weapons at his feet and began giving each a cursory examination. There were three swords, all aged and battle worn. One was a bastard sword, also called a hand-and-a-half sword, because it could be used with either one or two hands. The hilt was dirty, blackened with blood. The cross-guard梐 simple, unadorned metal bar running across the hilt where it met the four-foot blade梬as notched and cut from parrying the attacks of countless opponents.
The other swords were smaller: an old, worn broadsword with a counterweight at the bottom and a main-gauche梐 one and a half foot long parrying dagger with a large basket hilt and wide blade. These were the arms of a skilled warrior, of one who never sacrificed his honor to win a confrontation. They were old and trusted friends.
Caramon's other weapons were the spoils of war, the gifts of the dead. One, two, or even three dagger blades jutted out from hilts carved into the likenesses of demons and dragons. There was a double-edged stiletto, its blade curved like a snake, and several small throwing weapons such as darts and hand-axes. Other weapons included a brass cestus, punch-daggers, ring blades. All these had been taken from enemies who no longer needed them.
Taking out a whetstone and cloth, the warrior began
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cleaning his weapons. Deciding to do his swords first, he sharpened them with the stone, wiping them down with a cloth he wet from the waterskin. He lifted the blades, inspecting them by Solinari's silver light, holding each one up to his eye to make sure the blade was straight, bending it with his bare hands when it didn't meet with his satisfaction. He looked for cracks or dents that meant the sword had to be thrown away lest it break in the middle of a battle. There were none. Caramon, an expert at all forms of personal combat, never allowed his tools to wear, knowing full well that preventive maintenance could save his life.
He put away his gear, sheathing the swords, or strapping them back onto his huge, muscular form. His arms could bend the thickest bars, lift the heaviest weight, move the largest obstacle. Veins stood out against the definition of muscles as firm as iron plates. The thinning leather thongs that held in place Caramon's unadorned metal hauberk creaked when he breathed deeply, and the thick armored greaves he wore barely covered his lower legs. Strong and powerful, Caramon was born to fight, even as his brother was born to magic. It was difficult for most people to believe the two were twins.
The sky was clear, the stars shone brightly, with no hint of clouds.
"Tomorrow should be a fine day," Caramon said to himself, stretching. He scratched his neck with his left hand while rubbing his face with his right. He was cold.
Earwig had let the fire die down until nothing was left but smoldering embers.
Sighing heavily, muttering imprecations on the head of the careless kender, Caramon began to walk the perimeter of the grove, searching for fallen limbs and sticks. Raistlin would need the warmth of a fire when he
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awoke. He would require flames to heat the herb mixture on which he relied to ease his cough.
Caramon was disappointed to find the immediate area devoid of any useful wood. Giving a backward glance at his brother still shrouded in his coverings, the warrior traveled deeper into the forest, hoping to spot some fuel without having to move too far from his companions.
He had been away from the camp fifteen minutes when he heard a strange sound back near the grove. At first, he thought it was the movement of some forest predator, but then he heard other movement梥tealthy, furtive.
Caramon dodged behind a huge oak, quietly drawing the large bastard sword and the smaller, heavy main-gauche. Listening carefully, the warrior thought he could hear whispered signals being passed梥ignals of caution, signals to strike as one. He edged his way back to the clearing. The forest provided excellent cover, the same cover his opponents had used to hide their presence earlier.
"Five of the bastards," Caramon counted to himself as he crouched in the shadow of another oak tree.
He heard again the sounds of their movements, learned their methods as he stalked them, listening for the whistles of the commander, the replies of his followers.
He considered sheathing his parrying dagger and using a throwing weapon, perhaps a dart or knife, to remove the intruders one by one. But as he neared the edge of the clearing, he lost all thought of strategy.
Solinari and Lunitari lit the scene in the grove, the silver and red light mixing to give double shadows that moved and swayed as the intruders did.
Three men holding war spears stood over Raistlin's sleeping roll. Two others stood beside Earwig.
"These fools will never reach Mereklar," said one, the
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tallest of the three, wearing a black hood over his head. Raising his spear, he plunged it into Raistlin's body.
Bursting from the woods, roaring in outrage, Caramon dashed forward. He struck down one of the thieves standing over Earwig with the bastard sword as he stabbed the other through the stomach with the main-gauche. He left his parrying dagger in the thief's body and gripped his sword in both hands. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds as he raced after the remaining three bandits.
One raised his spear to parry, but Caramon's down-stroke shattered the haft and sank deep into his enemy, who died with a look of surprise on his face. But the blow cost Caramon.
The second leaped to stab the big warrior in the back, and the big man could not turn in time to block the attack. It didn't matter. His brother was dead, his life was over anyway. Sobbing, Caramon saw, out of the corner of his eye, the blade's flashing descent-It halted in midair. The thug went stiff as a corpse.
Caramon stared, amazed, nearly dropping his sword. Then he heard softly chanted words coming from the edge of the forest and saw Raistlin emerge from the shadows. Caramon reached out an unsteady, trembling hand toward his brother
"Raist?" he whispered.
Raistlin stopped him with a glance.
"What's the matter, Caramon? You look as if you'd seen a ghost."
Caramon let his hand sink back to his side. "I thought for a minute I had, Raist! I thought you were dead!" The big man could barely talk for his relief.
The mage's face, shadowed by his red hood, showed no hint of emotion.
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这是原文～～～～在崔斯特先生的ＦＴＰ下的～～～～
相关人名翻译按照devilwing先生所译《雷斯林和索兰尼亚骑士》
