Introduction

The golden hourglass eyes watched with a hint of amusement, as the man wiped the sweat from his brow before turning back to face his opponent. The timeless eyes narrowed in thought, should I be worried? Should I be stricken with fear at the thought of my own flesh and blood being rent open by axe and blade? The hobgoblin let out a wretched cry and slashed at the man who sidestepped quickly, his light-brown curls flying symmetrically from the sudden move. The man calmly swung his broadsword with one hand, the dull metal glinting softly in the afternoon sun. With a screech the hobgoblin fell to the ground as the blade cut open its pale green skin; tearing through sinew and bone. The hourglass eyes closed for a moment, he won . . . this feeling, is it of happiness, for it seems too bitter to be so, yet too sweet to be regret. No, this feeling was a fusion of both, a relief of worry, and reminder that he would once again be forced to submit himself into the "glorious" presence of his brother.

The man, amidst cries of joy and merriness looked into those hourglass eyes, a grin spread upon his sweaty face. The golden eyes stared back . . . unrevealing, unspeaking, emotionless to the naked eye. The spectators of the arena suddenly rose to their feet, clouds of dust rising in the air at the sudden massive commotion. Many scrambled into the arena pit to simply touch their hero, this warrior who seemed to have no faults; courageous, chivalrous, honorable, and infallibly strong. The figure with the golden eyes sat bitterly, none would come to meet him with unconditional love. The hourglass eyes saw only looks of hate and fear on the eyes of those who he did happen to meet. Long work for the cause of good, toil and misery to make happy those who deserved nothing was not enough to gain the respect of impudent commoners! The eyes closed, would he forever remain in the shadow of one of such limited ability? One whose gullibility and ignorance were limitless?

The warrior, that grin still smote upon his face, looked up again to those golden hourglass eyes; they were narrowed, angry and tired. He must be in another fit, or so though the warrior, he needs my help . . . he needs my understanding, my love. I have not faltered in my thoughtful care of my flesh and blood, he shall not be alone, and I shall never overshadow him in foolish delusions of grandeur.

The hourglass eyes understood the sweaty man's intentions; he would once again flaunt his admiration, his 'power' in front of me. In front of people who despise me, to further their hatred against me, he will overshadow me in foolish delusions of grandeur . . .

Preface

"Quite a show you put on, Caramon," Raistlin said softly, staring thoughtfully down at the desolate dry earth below them, "you made sure that you were paid?" The big warrior next to Raistlin scratched his head and nodded slowly, "of course, Raist, how could I for. . ." "I thought you might be too immersed in your glorious atmosphere, after having slain the hobgoblin. It wouldn't be the first time you messed up on such important matters," Raistlin said, smoothly cutting of the big man with a snarl, "I still feel it necessary to make sure that you have done more than have fun."

Caramon fell silent, his face downcast. This hadn't been something for fun, however exciting it may have been at the moment, the big man knew of the necessity to make money for the both of them. The warrior sighed, he had evaded death, conquered it once again, and all he felt was relief and joy at having saved his life. What would Raistlin do without him? But then the mage had not made any mention of the fact that Caramon might have died.

At that, Raistlin whipped out a handkerchief and began coughing furiously. As quickly as lightning, Caramon came to the mage's aid, putting his arm around Raistlin to support him. With a wave of his hand and a wheeze being all that Raistlin could manage, the mage dismissed Caramon, wiping his mouth . . . staining the pure white cloth with deeply contrasting deep red blood. "Are you okay, Raist?" Caramon asked tentatively, the reaction was as expected,
"how many times will you ask me if I am okay, will your bothersome questions make me okay? Make yourself useful . . . stand away from me and allow me to breath. Your presence is stifling . . ." Raistlin growled.

Caramon sighed, shaking his head. Raistlin was ill, the warrior understood, and had to be forgiven for such harsh words under these terrible circumstances. Raistlin appreciated him . . . Caramon had no doubt of this, whether the mage showed it or not. The warrior smiled suddenly, he was the only one that understood Raistlin . . . he would always be there for his twin, whether it be in life or death, or any realm in between.

Chapter 1.

The cottage was exactly that – a cottage. A small home not meant for large people or creatures. Currently, however, the cottage seemed to be breaking its forewarned rules by allowing two large strangers inside it. The owner of this cottage was a small – creature – named Choal Steelanvil. This creature was in fact a dwarf; a short broad creature that tended to keep to himself, hammering weapons and armor into shape to be sold in his shop. The dwarf's shop was "connected" in a manner to the cottage, but was not stone and brick, but an open gazebo like structure that Choal had proudly built himself. Before the newcomers had started to arrive in haven from solace, the dwarf had been perfectly happy with no interruptions to his business of any kind. Two of the newcomers had been particularly destructive to business, or so said Choal. They were young men – men he would loudly repeat if he were telling the story, men that were not of proper size to his nice homely dwarven cottage. The dwarf had been out, selling his wares when the two stopped by; one huge young man with curly brown hair and an honest open smile, and another smaller, frail young man with a bitter face, golden complexion, and all the stranger – golden hourglass eyes. At the moment, Choal was not to proud to admit that he was a bit phased by the strange sight of the newcomers, but the dwarf quickly regained his composure and took up what he thought was a charming smile.

"Well well, what'll it be, lads?" Choal said, his deep voice cheery and booming. The smithy's eyes darted from the big man's buckler, to his broadsword. "Not bad metal," Choal said, nodding superiorly, "but the sword looks like it could use a tweak, what with that nasty crack by the hilt! Why, that sword wouldn't last another battle, one parry and you'll be holding nothing but your handle!" The big man simply goggled at the dwarf for a moment, his mouth hanging open. The frail man rolled his eyes and leaned on his staff, obviously sensing the marketing ploy, and knowing that the big man would give in and pay the dwarf some amount of their money. The warrior shook his head, and unstrapped his sword, eyeing the hilt suspiciously. After a few minutes of Choal impatiently pointing something out, the big man seemed to notice a tiny chip where the blade met the hilt, "Oh!" He said with surprise, "You sure have good eyesight, to have noticed that from afar." Choal chuckled, mostly to himself, but it had a good effect on the warrior as well, "indeed it is so!" The dwarf said with a sigh, "Though I don't mean to boast. I've been a smithy for a fair amount of years; 'tisn't the first of its kind that I've seen. It's a simple procedure really, one night with me and she'll be good as new. For a humble charge of ten silver pieces, I shall have it done with a polish!" Choal finished this by bowing dramatically, as though the offer were too good to pass up.

By the end of their first encounter, Choal had managed to convince the warrior to let the dwarf "fix" his sword. The Dwarf had also learned that the two men were brothers, twins in fact, and that their names were Caramon and Raistlin. The slender Raistlin hadn't spoken a word the whole time, leaving the warrior, Caramon, to converse readily with Choal. The dwarf was woeful to admit that he had grown a bit fond of the two, or Caramon to be more precise, and when the next morning came, had a long conversation with the pair.

At first, Raistlin simply examined Caramon and Choal as they spoke, but as matters moved toward a more immediate topic – the matter of where Caramon and Raistlin were staying in haven – Raistlin felt the need to speak up. "We came from Pax Tharkas, in southern Abanasinia," the frail one said, "and now we plan on staying somewhere for a while, so that we can get on our feet and hopefully gather some money." Choal thought for a moment, scratching his chin. The lads were seemingly honorable, smart, strong, and friendly. The Dwarf definitely needed help in his shop . . . perhaps these two could be of use for the smithy. "I'll tell you what lads, why don't you stay in my cottage, free of charge, if you help me with chores and any jobs I might have for you." Choal said with a curt nod, "Yes, I think that's a fair deal, stay with and simply help me with a few things around. You can look for jobs in the city, I here there looking for warriors to fight in the Arena, Caramon. And all kinds of inns need chefs that cook good food, Raistlin," the dwarf finished, acknowledging Raistlin's cooking skills after the young man brought him a stew along with the ten silver pieces.

The twins looked at each other and nodded . . . "Yes . . . a fair deal indeed," the twins said at the same time.

Chapter 2.

A smile played on Lady Sorcia's lips, her black robes flowing about her as she moved to sit in her throne. "The mage and his brother have reached Haven, my lady," A hulking man clad in silver plate armor, "they stay at a dwarf's home. A metalsmith named Choal." The lady squirmed in her throne, positioning herself more comfortably on top of the plush red pillows that layered the cheery-wood chair. Holding out her hand, the woman stared at her fingers before responding, "Oh Lerehn, finally caught up with the two?" Lady Sorcia chuckled to herself, her laugh like musical trills resounding off glass walls. The huge man named Lerehn bowed his head humbly, but said nothing. Silence reigned eminent for a few moments before the Lady spoke up again, "am I to understand that hunting for one novice mage is a task that should be taken on by the greatest of trackers and warriors?" Lerehn looked up at his lady, wondering whether or not Lady Sorcia meant for him to answer. The woman raised her eyebrow expectantly, and Lerehn quickly cleared his throat, "Yes – um, well, the two are very crafty. They have escaped footsoldiers and hired hobgoblin mercenaries countless times . . ." "Then you track them down yourself and stop relying on impudent weaklings!" Lady Sorcia cut off, her voice loud and cold.

"I sent you on your mission long ago; to rid this land of any mages so that I can rule eminent as the only sorceress in north-western Abanasinia. You really are some kind of dilly! I imagine your life is very hard, what with the huge piles of gold you loot on a daily basis! I must be overworking you by asking you to root out a few unwanted mages!" The sorceress said, her voice quavering with anger. Lerehn looked down respectfully again and waited for the full extent of his mistress' wrath. "Why I tolerate your insolence, I do not know. I would weed out the mages myself if I knew you were so incapable. Now the last mage in the area has managed to get himself in Haven, a heavily guarded city! How are you going to kill him there?" Lady Sorcia asked with vehemence, her teeth gritted. It had indeed been a long hardship to get mages to leave areas near Haven. Dragon Highlords had even begun to take notice of Lady Sorcia, but the clever sorceress had managed to stave them off for now. As soon as she held enough power, she would be able to challenge the new order of Dragon Highlords and take them down, taking their place in their conquest for rule over all of Ansalon. Lady Sorcia could not have any mages interfering with her . . . she needed to be the lone power. A single presence of power would be more daunting, more intimidating to the common person, she knew. She would display her power and make sure that all would join her in a new order. The sorceress could not afford to wait much longer, and this latest list of failures had finally swayed her to take action into her own hands. She could not trust Lerehn to rid her of the young mage in time . . . Lady Sorcia smelled that the Highlords were beginning to get impatient, and so was she.

Kitiara leaned back, as he kissed her neck and fondled her breasts. The dragon-army commander knew not to mix business with pleasure . . . and she made a point of not doing so. Therefore, she enjoyed herself immensely with pleasure happened to cross paths with her under circumstances in which business was not involved. Kitiara gasped and closed her eyes as he his fingers raked her inner-thigh. While he began to fondle and caress her gently, he moved in for a long kiss, their lips pressed together in a blissful passionate kiss. The lively Kitiara bit down on his lip, tasting blood. At the feeling of such pain mixed with such pleasure, her sped up the pace and their passion deepened into intense pleasure . . .

She woke up lying on his chest, her black curls spread across her breasts. Pleasure had been stated . . . it was now time for business, Ariakas had a job for her to do, or so he had told her the day before. Kitiara rose from the bed and slipped on a light leather tunic and leather breeches, strapping her longsword to her belt around her waist. She slipped on some long travelling boots and deftly slipped a dagger inside her right boot before zipping it up.

Kitiara agilely avoided stepping into any potholes along the worn road of Sanction. Dragon Highlord Ariakas had commanded her to come to his tent this very day for instructions to a new mission. The warrior-woman knew better than to dismiss the urgency in his voice and take the mission to be a fool's journey. The last time Kitiara had doubted General Ariakas; she had come face to face with a red dragon and nearly died in the process. Kitiara thought it to be highly unlikely that this mission would be much different as far as danger was concerned. The Highlord new that Kitiara had abilities unlike any abilities his other commanders possessed, and he fully intended to take advantage of them. Kitiara knew that General Ariakas sought to take advantage of her abilities, and took advantage of that situation in itself; if he wanted her, she would make him make it very much worth her while. Looking up, Kitiara saw the two red flags of the five-headed dragon, the evil goddess Takhisis, which marked General Ariakas' tent.

The warrior stood in front of the guard stationed at the entrance to General Ariakas' royal tent. Kitiara gave him a crooked smile as she stood, "General Ariakas was expecting me, as I know you understand." In an undertone, she hissed, "move aside or you may find yourself lacking certain parts required to do certain bodily functions!" The guard moved aside, his eyes and lips narrowed at the unnecessary threat.

Kitiara entered the huge tent and instantly bowed low in front of a large man who was wearing naught but leather breeches and boots, sitting at a table eating a breakfast of fruits and sweetmeats.