Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (51 page)

It was Derek who had completely alienated the people of Palanthas. Already distrustful, filled with old hatreds and bitterness, the people of the beautiful, quiet city were
alarmed and angered by Derek’s threats when they refused to allow the Knights to garrison the city. It was only through Sturm’s patient negotiations that the knights received any supplies at all.

The situation did not improve when the knights reached the High Clerist’s Tower. The disruption among the knights lowered the morale of the footmen, already suffering from a lack of food. Soon the Tower itself became an armed camp—the majority of knights who favored Derek were now openly opposed by those siding with Lord Gunthar, led by Sturm. It was only because of the knights’ strict obedience to the Measure that fights within the Tower itself had not yet broken out. But the demoralizing sight of the dragonarmies camped nearby, as well as the lack of food, led to frayed tempers and taut nerves.

Too late, Lord Alfred realized their danger. He bitterly regretted his own folly in supporting Derek, for he could see clearly now that Derek Crownguard was going insane.

The madness grew on him daily; Derek’s lust for power ate away at him and deprived him of his reason. But Lord Alfred was powerless to act. So locked into their rigid structure were the knights that it would take—according to the Measure—months of Knights Councils to strip Derek of his rank.

News of Sturm’s vindication struck this dry and crackling forest like a bolt of lightning. As Gunthar had foreseen, this completely shattered Derek’s hopes. What Gunthar had not foreseen was that this would sever Derek’s tenuous hold on sanity.

On the morning following the storm, the eyes of the guards turned for a moment from their vigilance over the dragonarmies to look down into the courtyard of the Tower of the High Clerist. The sun filled the gray sky with a chill, pale light that was reflected in the coldly gleaming armor of the Knights of Solamnia as they assembled in the solemn ceremony awarding knighthood.

Above them, the flags with the Knight’s Crest seemed frozen upon the battlements, hanging lifeless in the still, cold air. Then a trumpet’s pure notes split the air, stirring the blood. At that clarion call, the knights lifted their heads proudly and marched into the courtyard.

Lord Alfred stood in the center of a circle of knights. Dressed in his battle armor, his red cape fluttering from his shoulders, he held an antique sword in an old, battered scabbard. The kingfisher, the rose, and the crown—ancient symbols of the Knighthood—were entwined upon the scabbard. The lord cast a swift, hopeful gaze around the assembly, but then lowered his eyes, shaking his head.

Lord Alfred’s worst fears were realized. He had hoped bleakly that this ceremony might reunite the knights. But it was having the opposite effect. There were great gaps in the Sacred Circle, gaps that the knights in attendance stared at uncomfortably. Derek and his entire command were absent.

The trumpet call sounded twice more, then silence fell upon the assembled knights. Sturm Brightblade, dressed in long, white robes, stepped out of the Chapel of the High Clerist where he had spent the night in solemn prayer and meditation as prescribed by the Measure. Accompanying him was an unusual Guard of Honor.

Beside Sturm walked an elven woman, her beauty shining in the bleakness of the day like the sun dawning in the spring. Behind her walked an old dwarf, the sunlight bright on his white hair and beard. Next to the dwarf came a kender dressed in bright blue leggings.

The circle of knights opened to admit Sturm and his escorts. They came to a halt before Lord Alfred. Laurana, holding his helm in her hands, stood on his right. Flint, carrying his shield, stood on his left, and after a poke in the ribs from the dwarf—Tasslehoff hurried forward with the knight’s spurs.

Sturm bowed his head. His long hair, already streaked with gray though he was only in his early thirties, fell about his shoulders. He stood a moment in silent prayer, then, at a sign from Lord Alfred, fell reverently to his knees.

“Sturm Brightblade,” Lord Alfred declared solemnly, opening a sheet of paper, “the Knights Council, on hearing testimony given by Lauralanthalasa of the royal family of Qualinesti and further testimony by Flint Fireforge, hill dwarf of Solace township, has granted you Vindication from the charges brought against you. In recognition of your deeds of bravery and courage as related by these witnesses, you are hereby declared a Knight of Solamnia.” Lord Alfred’s voices softened as he looked down upon the knight. Tears streamed
unchecked down Sturm’s gaunt cheeks. “You have spent the night in prayer, Sturm Brightblade,” Alfred said quietly. “Do you consider yourself worthy of this great honor?”

“No, my lord,” Sturm answered, according to ancient ritual, “but I most humbly accept it and vow that I shall devote my life to making myself worthy.” The knight lifted his eyes to the sky. “With Paladine’s help,” he said softly, “I shall do so.”

Lord Alfred had been through many such ceremonies, but he could not recall such fervent dedication in a man’s face.

“I wish Tanis were here,” Flint muttered gruffly to Laurana, who only nodded briefly.

She stood tall and straight, wearing armor specially made for her in Palanthas at Lord Gunthar’s command. Her honey-colored hair streamed from beneath a silver helm. Intricate gold designs glinted on her breastplate, her soft black leather skirt—slit up the side to allow freedom of movement—brushed the tips of her boots. Her face was pale and grim, for the situation in Palanthas and in the Tower itself was dark and seemingly without hope.

She could have returned to Sancrist. She had been ordered to, in fact. Lord Gunthar had received a secret communique from Lord Alfred relating the desperate straits the knights were in, and he had sent Laurana orders to cut short her stay.

But she had chosen to remain, at least for a while. The people of Palanthas had received her politely—she was, after all, of royal blood and they were charmed with her beauty. They were also quite interested in the dragonlance and asked for one to exhibit in their museum. But when Laurana mentioned the dragonarmies, they only shrugged and smiled.

Then Laurana found out from a messenger what was happening in the High Clerist’s Tower. The knights were under siege. A dragonarmy numbering in the thousands waited upon the field. The knights needed the dragonlances, Laurana decided, and there was no one but her to take the lances to the knights and teach them their use. She ignored Lord Gunthar’s command to return to Sancrist.

The journey from Palanthas to the Tower was nightmarish. Laurana started out accompanying two wagons filled with meager supplies and the precious dragonlances. The first wagon bogged down in snow only a few miles outside of the
city. Its contents were redistributed between the few knights riding escort, Laurana and her party, and the second wagon. It, too, foundered. Time and again they dug it out of the snow drifts until, finally, it was mired fast. Loading the food and the lances onto their horses, the knights and Laurana, Flint, and Tas walked the rest of the way. Theirs was the last group to make it through. After the storm of last night, Laurana knew, as did everyone in the Tower, no more supplies would be coming. The road to Palanthas was now impassable.

Even by strictest rationing, the knights and their footmen had food enough for only a few days. The dragonarmies seemed prepared to wait for the rest of the winter.

The dragonlances were taken from the weary horses who had borne them and, by Derek’s orders, were stacked in the courtyard. A few of the knights looked at them curiously, then ignored them. The lances seemed clumsy, unwieldy weapons.

When Laurana timidly offered to instruct the knights in the use of the lances, Derek snorted in derision. Lord Alfred stared out the window at the campfires burning on the horizon. Laurana turned to Sturm to see her fears confirmed.

“Laurana,” he said gently, taking her cold hand in his, “I don’t think the Highlord will even bother to send dragons. If we cannot reopen the supply lines, the Tower will fall because there will be only the dead left to defend it.”

So the dragonlances lay in the courtyard, unused, forgotten, their bright silver buried beneath the snow.

S
turm and Flint walked the battlements the night of Sturm’s knighting, reminiscing.

“A well of pure silver—shining like a jewel—within the heart of the Dragon Mountain,” Flint said, awe his voice. “And it was from that silver Theros forged the dragonlances.”

“I should have liked—above all things—to have seen Huma’s Tomb,” Sturm said quietly. Staring out at the campfires on the horizon, he stopped, resting his hand on the ancient stone wall. Torchlight from a nearby window shone on his thin face.

“You will,” said the dwarf. “When this is finished, we’ll go back. Tas drew a map, not that it’s likely to be any good—”

As he grumbled on about Tas, Flint studied his other old friend with concern. The knight’s face was grave and melancholy—not unusual for Sturm. But there was something
new, a calmness about him that came not from serenity, but from despair.

“We’ll go there together,” he continued, trying to forget about his hunger. “You and Tanis and I. And the kender, too, I suppose, plus Caramon and Raistlin. I never thought I’d miss that skinny mage, but a magic-user might be handy now. It’s just as well Caramon’s not here. Can you imagine the bellyaching we’d hear about missing a couple of meals?”

Sturm smiled absently, his thoughts far away. When he spoke, it was obvious he hadn’t heard a word the dwarf said.

“Flint,” he began, his voice soft and subdued, “we need only one day of warm weather to open the road. When that day comes, take Laurana and Tas and leave. Promise me.”

“We should all leave if you ask me!” the dwarf snapped. “Pull the knights back to Palanthas. We could hold that town against even dragons, I’ll wager. Its buildings are good solid stone. Not like this place!” The dwarf glanced around the human-built Tower with scorn. “Palanthas could be defended.”

Sturm shook his head. “The people won’t allow it. They care only for their beautiful city. As long as they think it can be saved, they won’t fight. No, we must make our stand here.”

“You don’t have a chance,” Flint argued.

“Yes, we do,” Sturm replied, “if we can just hold out until the supply lines can be firmly established. We’ve got enough manpower. That’s why the dragonarmies haven’t attacked—”

“There’s another way,” came a voice.

Sturm and Flint turned. The torchlight fell on a gaunt face, and Sturm’s expression hardened.

“What way is that, Lord Derek?” Sturm asked with deliberate politeness.

“You and Gunthar believe you have defeated me,” Derek said, ignoring the question. His voice was soft and shaking with hatred as he stared at Sturm. “But you haven’t! By one heroic act, I will have the Knights in my palm”—Derek held out his mailed hand, the armor flashing in the firelight—“and you and Gunthar will be finished!” Slowly, he clenched his fist.

“I was under the impression our war was out there, with the dragonarmies,” Sturm said.

“Don’t give me that self-righteous twaddle!” Derek snarled. “Enjoy your knighthood, Brightblade. You paid enough for it.
What did you promise the elfwoman in return for her lies? Marriage? Make a respectable woman of her?”

“I cannot fight you—according to the Measure—but I do not have to listen to you insult a woman who is as good as she is courageous,” Sturm said, turning upon his heel to leave.

“Don’t you ever walk away from me!” Derek cried. Leaping forward, he grabbed Sturm’s shoulder. Sturm whirled in anger, his hand on his sword. Derek reached for his weapon as well, and it seemed for a moment that the Measure might be forgotten. But Flint laid a restraining hand on his friend. Sturm drew a deep breath and lifted his hand away from the hilt.

“Say what you have to say, Derek!” Sturm’s voice quivered.

“You’re finished, Brightblade. Tomorrow I’m leading the knights onto the field. No more skulking in this miserable rock prison. By tomorrow night, my name will be legend!”

Flint looked up at Sturm in alarm. The knight’s face had drained of blood. “Derek,” Sturm said softly, “you’re mad! There are thousands of them! They’ll cut you to ribbons!”

“Yes, that’s what you’d like to see, isn’t it?” Derek sneered. “Be ready at dawn, Brightblade.”

That night, Tasslehoff—cold, hungry, and bored—decided that the best way to take his mind off his stomach was to explore his surroundings. There are plenty of places to hide things here, thought Tas. This is one of the strangest buildings I’ve ever seen.

The Tower of the High Clerist sat solidly against the west side of the Westgate Pass, the only canyon pass that crossed the Habbakuk Range of mountains separating eastern Solamnia from Palanthas. As the Dragon Highlord knew, anyone trying to reach Palanthas other than by this route would have to travel hundreds of miles around the mountains, or through the desert, or by sea. And ships entering the Gates of Paladine were easy targets for the gnomes’ fire-throwing catapults.