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Massive and stalwart, the keep had been designed for
     function, not beauty. It was square, with a tower at each comer for the lookouts. A wall
     connecting the towers surrounded a structure whose main purpose had probably been to house
     troops. Large wooden doors, banded with steel, permitted entrance and egress.
    But no soldiers had come here in a long, long time. The battlements were crumbling and in
     some places had completely fallen down. The walls were split by gigantic cracks, perhaps
     caused by the Cataclysm, perhaps by the supposedly magical battle that had been fought
     within. One of the towers had collapsed in upon itself, as had the roof of the central
     building, for they could see the skeletal outline of broken beams show up black against
     the myriad glistening stars.
    “The keep is deserted,” said Caramon, staring at it in disgust. "There's no one here,
     magical or otherwise. I'm surprised those jokers back at the inn didn't send us out here
     with a bag and tell us to stand in the middle of the
    path yelling, 'here, snipe!'“ ”That will be the task I set for you, my bumbling
    brother!“ Raistlin began to cough, but stifled the sound in his sleeve. ”Death's Keep is
     NOT deserted! I hear voices plainly - or I could if you would silence yours!"
    “I, too, hear someone calling out,” said Gawain, awed. “A knight of my order is trapped in
     there, and he shouts for help!” The knight, sword in hand, bolted forward. “I'm coming!”
     he shouted.
    “Me, too!” cried Earwig, leaping in a circle around Raistlin. “I hear voices! I'm positive
     I hear voices! What are they saying to you? Do you want to know what they're saying to me?
     'Another round of ale!' That's what I hear them calling out.”
    “Wait!” Raistlin reached to grasp the knight, but Gawain was running swiftly toward huge
     double wooden doors. Once this gate would have been closed, locked fast against any foe.
     Now it stood ominously open. “He's an imbecile! Go after him, Caramon! Don't let him do
     anything until I get there!”
    “Another round of ale?” Caramon gazed blankly at his brother.
    “You blithering dunderhead!” Raistlin hissed through clenched teeth. He pointed a
     trembling finger at the keep. “I hear a voice calling to ME, and I recognize it as coming
     from one of my own kind! It is the voice of a mage! I think I am beginning to understand
     what is going on. Go after him, Caramon! Knock him down, sit on him if that is all you can
     do to hold him, but you must prevent Gawain from offering his sword to the knight!”
    “Knight? What? Oh, all right, Raist! I'm going. No need to look at me like that. C'mon,
     Nosepicker.”
    Earwig's topknot bobbed indignantly. “That's Lock - . Oh, never mind! Hey, wait up!”
    Caramon, followed by the jubilant kender, dashed off after the knight, but he was late in
     starting and Gawain had already rushed headlong into the keep. Reaching the wooden doors,
     Caramon hesitated before entering and cast an uneasy glance back at his brother.
    Raistlin, leaning on his staff, was walking as fast as he could, coughing with nearly
     every step until it seemed he must drop. Still, he kept going, and he even managed to lift
     his staff and angrily gesture with it to Caramon,
    commanding him to enter the keep without delay. Earwig had already darted inside.
     Discovering he was
    alone, he turned around and dashed back. “Aren't you coming? It's wonderfully dark and
     spooky in here. And you know what?” The kender sighed in ecstasy. “I really am beginning
     to hear voices. They want me to come and help them fight! Just think of that. Can I borrow
     your dagger?”
    “No!” Caramon snarled. He, too, could hear the voices now. Ghostly voices.
    “My cause is just! All know wizards are foul creatures, spawned of darkness. For the pride
     and honor of our Order of the Sword, join with me!”
    “My cause is just! All know the knights hide