Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (45 page)

The elves had arrived on Sancrist two days ago. Their tents stood out in the fields, gaily colored silk flags fluttering in brilliant contrast to the gray, stormy sky. They were the only other race to attend. There had not been time to send a message to the mountain dwarves, and the hill dwarves were reported to be fighting for their lives against the dragonarmies; no messenger could reach them.

Gunthar hoped this meeting would unite the humans and the elves in the great fight to drive the dragonarmies from Ansalon. But his hopes were dashed before the meeting began.

After scanning the report from the armies in Palanthas, Gunthar left his tent, preparing to make a final tour of the Glade of the Whitestone to see that everything was in order. Wills, his retainer, came dashing after him.

“My lord,” the old man puffed, “return immediately.”

“What is it?” Gunthar asked. But the old retainer was too much out of breath to reply.

Sighing, the Solamnic lord went back to his tent where he found Lord Michael, dressed in full armor, pacing nervously.

“What’s the matter?” Gunthar said, his heart sinking as he saw the grave expression on the young lord’s face.

Michael advanced quickly, seizing Gunthar by the arm. “My lord, we have received word that the elves will demand the return of the dragon orb. If we won’t return it, they are prepared to go to war to recover it!”

“What?” Gunthar demanded incredulously. “War! Against us! That’s ludicrous! They can’t—Are you certain? How reliable is this information?”

“Very reliable, I’m afraid, Lord Gunthar.”

“My lord, I present Elistan, cleric of Paladine,” Michael said. “I beg pardon for not introducing him earlier, but my
mind has been in a turmoil since he first brought me this news.”

“I have heard a great deal about you, sir,” Lord Gunthar said, extending his hand to the man.

The knight’s eyes studied Elistan curiously. Gunthar hardly knew what he had expected to see in a purported cleric of Paladine, perhaps a weak-eyed aesthetic, pale and lean from study. Gunthar was not prepared for this tall, well-built man who might have ridden to battle with the best of the knights. The ancient symbol of Paladine–a platinum medallion engraved with a dragon—hung about his neck.

Gunthar reviewed all he had heard from Sturm concerning Elistan, including the cleric’s intention to try and convince the elves to unite with the humans. Elistan smiled wearily, as if aware of every thought passing through Gunthar’s mind. They were the thoughts he answered.

“Yes, I have failed,” Elistan admitted. “It was all I could do to persuade them to attend the Council meeting, and they have come here only, I fear, to give you an ultimatum: return the orb to the elves or fight to retain it.”

Gunthar sank into a chair, gesturing weakly with his hand for the others to be seated. Before him, on a table, were spread maps of the lands of Ansalon, showing in shades of darkness, the insidious advance of the dragonarmies. Gunthar’s gaze rested on the maps, then suddenly he swept them to the floor.

“We might as well give up right now!” he snarled. “Send a message to the Dragon Highlords: ‘Don’t bother to come and wipe us out. We’re managing quite nicely on our own.’ ”

Angrily, he hurled on the table the message he had received. “There! That’s from Palanthas. The people have insisted the knights leave the city. The Palanthians are negotiating with the Dragon Highlords, and the presence of the knights ‘seriously compromises their position.’ They refuse to give us any aid. And so an army of a thousand Palanthians sits idle!”

“What is Lord Derek doing, my lord?” Michael asked.

“He and the knights and a thousand footmen, refugees from the occupied lands in Throtyl, are fortifying the High Clerist’s tower, south of Palanthas,” Gunthar said wearily. “It guards the only pass through the Vingaard Mountains. We’ll protect Palanthas for a time, but if the dragonarmies get
through …” He fell silent. “Damn it,” he whispered, beating his fist gently upon the table, “we could hold that pass with two thousand men! The fools! And now this!” He waved his hand in the direction of the elven tents.

Gunthar sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. “Well, what do you counsel, cleric?”

Elistan was quiet for a moment, before he answered. “It is written in the Disks of Mishakal that evil, by its very nature, will always turn in upon itself. Thus it becomes self-defeating.” He laid his hand upon Gunthar’s shoulder. “I do not know what may come of this meeting. My gods have kept this secret from me. It could be they themselves do not know; that the future of the world stands in balance, and what we decide here will determine it. I do know this: Do not enter with defeat in your heart, for that will be the first victory of evil.”

So saying, Elistan rose and left the tent quietly.

Gunthar sat in silence after the cleric had gone. It seemed that the whole world was silent, in fact, he thought. The wind had died during the night. The storm clouds hung low and heavy, muffling sound so that even the clarion trumpet’s call marking day’s dawning seemed flat. A rustling broke his concentration. Michael was slowly gathering up the spilled maps.

Gunthar raised his head, rubbing his eyes.

“What do you think?”

“Of what? The elves?”

“That cleric,” Gunthar said, staring out the tent opening.

“Certainly not what I would have expected,” Michael answered, his gaze following Gunthar’s. “More like the stories we’ve heard of the clerics of old, the ones that guided the Knights in the days before the Cataclysm. He’s not much like these charlatans we’ve got now. Elistan is a man who would stand beside you on the field of battle, calling down Paladine’s blessing with one hand while wielding his mace with the other. He wears the medallion that none have seen since the gods abandoned us. But is he a true cleric?” Michael shrugged. “It will take a lot more than a medallion to convince me.”

“I agree.” Gunthar rose to his feet and began to walk toward the tent flap. “Well, it is nearly time. Stay here, Michael, in case any more reports come in.” Starting to leave, he paused at the entrance to the tent. “How odd it is, Michael,” he murmured, his eyes following Elistan, now no
more than a speck of white in the distance. “We have always been a people who looked to the gods for our hope, a people of faith, who distrusted magic. Yet now we look to magic for that hope, and when a chance comes to renew our faith, we question it.”

Lord Michael made no answer. Gunthar shook his head and, still pondering, made his way to the Glade of the Whitestone.

As Gunthar said, the Solamnic people had always been faithful followers of the gods. Long ago, in the days before the Cataclysm, the Glade of the Whitestone had been one of the holy centers of worship. The phenomenon of the white rock had attracted the attention of the curious longer than anyone remembered. The Kingpriest of Istar himself had blessed the huge white rock that sat in the middle of a perpetually green glade, declaring it sacred to the gods and forbidding any mortal being to touch it.

Even after the Cataclysm, when belief in the old gods died, the Glade remained a sacred place. Perhaps that was because not even the Cataclysm had affected it. Legend held that when the fiery mountain fell from the sky, the ground around the Whitestone cracked and split apart, but the Whitestone remained intact.

So awesome was the sight of the huge white rock that even now none dared either approach or touch it. What strange powers it possessed, none could say. All they knew was that the air around the Whitestone was always springlike and warm. No matter how bitter the winter, the grass in Whitestone Glade was always green.

Though his heart was heavy, Gunthar relaxed as he stepped inside the glade and breathed the warm, sweet air. For a moment, he felt once again the touch of Elistan’s hand upon his shoulder, imparting a feeling of inner peace.

Glancing around quickly, he saw all in readiness. Massive wooden chairs with ornately carved backs had been placed on the green grass. Five for the voting members of the Council stood to the left side of the Whitestone, three for the advisory members stood on the right. Polished benches for the witnesses to the proceedings as demanded by the Measure, sat facing the Whitestone and the Council members.

Some of the witnesses had already begun arriving, Gunthar noticed. Most of the elven party traveling with the Speaker and the Silvanesti lord were taking their seats. The two estranged elven races sat near each other, apart from the humans who were filing in as well. Everyone sat quietly, some in remembrance of Famine Day; others, like the gnomes, who did not celebrate that holiday, in awe of their surroundings. Seats in the front row were reserved for honored guests or for those with leave to speak before the Council.

Gunthar saw the Speaker’s stern-faced son, Porthios, enter with a retinue of elven warriors. They took their seats in the front. Gunthar wondered where Elistan was. He’d intended to ask him to speak. He had been impressed with the man’s words (even if he was a charlatan) and hoped he would repeat them.

As he searched in vain for Elistan, he saw three strange figures enter and seat themselves in the front row: it was the old mage in his bent and shapeless hat, his kender friend, and a gnome they had brought back with them from Mount Nevermind. The three had arrived back from their journey only last night.

Gunthar was forced to turn his attention back to the Whitestone. The advisory Council members were entering. There were only two, Lord Quinath of the Silvanesti, and the Speaker of the Suns. Gunthar looked at the Speaker curiously, knowing he was one of the few beings on Krynn to still remember the horrors of the Cataclysm.

The Speaker was so stooped that he seemed almost crippled. His hair was gray, his face haggard. But as he took his seat and turned his gaze to the witnesses, Gunthar saw the elf’s eyes were bright and arresting. Lord Quinath, seated next to him, was known to Gunthar, who considered him as arrogant and proud as Porthios of the Qualinesti, but lacking in the intelligence Porthios possessed.

As for Porthios, Gunthar thought he could probably come to like the Speaker’s eldest son quite well. Porthios had every characteristic the knights admired, with one exception, his quick temper.

Gunthar’s observations were interrupted, for now it was time for the voting Council members to enter and Gunthar had to take his place. First came Mir Kar-thon of Northern Ergoth,
a dark complexioned man with iron-gray hair and the arms of a giant. Next came Serdin MarThasal, representing the Exiles on Sancrist, and finally Lord Gunthar, Knight of Solamnia.

Once seated, Gunthar glanced around a final time. The huge Whitestone glistened behind him, casting its own strange radiance, for the sun would not shine today. On the other side of the Whitestone sat the Speaker, next to him Lord Quinath. Across from them, facing the Council, sat the witnesses upon their benches. The kender was sitting subdued, swinging his short legs on his tall bench. The gnome shuffled through what looked like a ream of paper; Gunthar shuddered, wishing there’d been time to ask for a condensed report. The old magician yawned and scratched his head, peering around vaguely.

All was ready. At Gunthar’s signal, two knights entered, bearing a golden stand and a wooden chest. A silence that was almost deathlike descended on the crowd as they watched the entrance of the dragon orb.

The knights came to a halt, standing directly in front of the Whitestone. Here, one of the knights placed the golden stand upon the ground. The other set down the chest, unlocked it, and carefully brought forth the orb that was back to its original size, over two feet in diameter.

A murmur went through the crowd. The Speaker of the Suns shifted uncomfortably, scowling. His son, Porthios, turned to say something to an elflord near him. All of the elves, Gunthar noted, were armed. Not a good sign, from what little he knew of elven protocol.

He had no choice but to proceed. Calling the meeting to order, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan announced, “Let the Council of Whitestone begin.”

After about two minutes, it was obvious to Tasslehoff that things were in a real mess. Before Lord Gunthar had even concluded his speech of welcome, the Speaker of the Suns rose.

“My talk will be brief,” the elven leader stated in a voice that matched the steely gray of the storm clouds above him. “The Silvanesti, the Qualinesti, and the Kaganesti met in council shortly after the orb was removed from our camp. It is the first time the members of the three communities have met
since the Kinslayer wars.” He paused, laying a heavy emphasis on those last words. Then he continued.

“We have decided to set aside our own differences in our perfect agreement that the dragon orb belongs in the hands of the elves, not in the hands of humans or any other race upon Krynn. Therefore, we come before the Council of Whitestone and ask that the dragon orb be given over to us forthwith. In return, we guarantee that we will take it to our lands and keep it safe until such time—if ever—it be needed.”

The Speaker sat down, his dark eyes sweeping over the crowd, its silence broken now by a murmur of soft voices. The other Council members, sitting next to Lord Gunthar, shook their heads, their faces grim. The dark-skinned leader of the Northern Ergoth people whispered to Lord Gunthar in a harsh voice, clenching his fist to emphasize his words.

Lord Gunthar, after listening and nodding for several minutes, rose to his feet to respond. His speech was cool, calm, complimentary to the elves. But it said—between the lines—that the Knights would see the elves in the Abyss before they gave them the dragon orb.

The Speaker, understanding perfectly the message of steel couched in the pretty phrases, rose to reply. He spoke only one sentence, but it brought the crowd of witnesses to their feet.

“Then, Lord Gunthar,” the Speaker said, “the elves declare that, from this time on—we are at war!”

Humans and elves both headed for the dragon orb that sat upon its golden stand, its milky white insides swirling gently within the crystal. Gunthar shouted for order time and again, banging the hilt of his sword upon the table. The Speaker spoke a few words sharply in elven, staring hard at his son, Porthios, and finally order was restored.