Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (52 page)

The High Clerist’s Tower had been built during the Age of Might. Flint knew a lot about the architecture of this period—the dwarves having been instrumental in designing and building most of it. But they had not built or designed this Tower. In fact, Flint wondered who had—figuring the person must have been either drunk or insane.

An outer curtain wall of stone formed an octagon as the Tower’s base. Each point of the octagonal wall was surmounted
by a turret. Battlements ran along the top of the curtain wall between turrets. An inner octagonal wall formed the base of a series of towers and buttresses that swept gracefully upward to the central Tower itself.

This was fairly standard design, but what puzzled the dwarf was the lack of internal defense points. Three great steel doors breached the outer wall, instead of one door—as would seem most reasonable, since three doors took an incredible number of men to defend. Each door opened into a narrow courtyard at the far end of which stood a portcullis leading directly into a huge hallway. Each of these three hallways met in the heart of the Tower itself!

“Might as well invite the enemy inside for tea!” the dwarf had grumbled. “Stupidest way to build a fortress I ever saw.”

No one entered the Tower. To the knights, it was inviolate. The only one who could enter the Tower was the High Clerist himself, and since there was no High Clerist, the knights would defend the Tower walls with their lives, but not one of them could set foot in its sacred halls.

Originally the Tower had merely guarded the pass, not blocked it. But the Palanthians had later built an addition to the main structure that sealed off the pass. It was in this addition that the knights and the footmen were living. No one even thought of entering the Tower itself.

No one except Tasslehoff.

Driven by his insatiable curiosity and his gnawing hunger, the kender made his way along the top of the outer wall. The knights on guard duty eyed him warily, gripping their swords in one hand, their purses in the other. But they relaxed as soon as he passed, and Tas was able to slip down the steps and into the central courtyard.

Only shadows walked down here. No torches burned, no guard was posted. Broad steps led up to the steel portcullis. Tas padded up the stairs toward the great, yawning archway and peered eagerly through the bars. Nothing. He sighed. The darkness beyond was so intense he might have been staring into the Abyss itself.

Frustrated, he pushed up on the portcullis, more out of habit than hope, for only Caramon or ten knights would have the strength necessary to raise it.

To the kender’s astonishment, the portcullis began to rise,
making the most god-awful screeching! Grabbing for it, Tas dragged it slowly to a halt. The kender looked fearfully up at the battlements, expecting to see the entire garrison thundering down to capture him. But apparently the knights were listening only to the growlings of their empty stomachs.

Tas turned back to the portcullis. There was a small space open between the sharp iron spikes and the stone work, a space just big enough for a kender. Tas didn’t waste any time or stop to consider the consequences. Flattening himself, he wriggled beneath the spikes.

He found himself in a large, wide hall, nearly fifty feet across. He could see just a short distance. There were old torches on the wall, however. After a few jumps, Tas reached one and lit it from Flint’s tinder box he found in his pouch.

Now Tas could see the gigantic hall clearly. It ran straight ahead, right into the heart of the Tower. Strange columns ranged along either side, like jagged teeth. Peering behind one, he saw nothing but an alcove.

The hall itself was empty. Disappointed, Tas continued walking down it, hoping to find something interesting. He came to a second portcullis, already raised, much to his chagrin. “Anything easy is more trouble than it’s worth,” was an old kender saying. Tas walked beneath that portcullis into a second hallway, narrower than the first—only about ten feet wide—but with the same strange, toothlike columns on either side.

Why build a tower so easy to enter? Tas wondered. The outer wall was formidable, but once past that, five drunken dwarves could take this place. Tas peered up. And why so huge? The main hall was thirty feet high!

Perhaps the knights back in those days had been giants, the kender speculated with interest as he crept down the hall, peering into open doors and poking into corners.

At the end of the second hallway, he found a third portcullis. This one was different from the other two, and as strange as the rest of the Tower. This portcullis had two halves, which slid together to join in the center. Oddest of all, there was a large hole cut right through the middle of the doors!

Crawling through this hole, Tas found himself in a smaller room. Across from him stood two huge steel doors. Pushing on them casually, he was startled to find them locked. None of the
portcullises had been locked. There was nothing to protect.

Well, at least here was something to keep him occupied and make him forget about his empty stomach. Climbing onto a stone bench, Tas stuck his torch into a wall sconce, then began to fumble through his pouches. He finally discovered the set of lock-picking devices that are a kender’s birthright—“Why insult the door’s purpose by locking it?” is a favorite kender expression.

Quickly Tas selected the proper tool and set to work. The lock was simple. There was a slight click, and Tas pocketed his tools with satisfaction as the door swung inward. The kender stood a moment, listening carefully. He could hear nothing. Peering inside, he could see nothing. Climbing up on the bench again, he retrieved his torch and crept carefully through the steel doors.

Holding his torch aloft, he found himself in a great, wide, circular room. Tas sighed. The great room was empty except for a dust-covered object that resembled an ancient fountain standing squarely in the center. This was the end of the corridor, too, for though there were two more sets of double doors leading out of the room, it was obvious to the kender that they only led back up the other two giant hallways. This was the heart of the Tower. This was the sacred place. This was what all the fuss was about.

Nothing.

Tas walked around a bit, shining his torchlight here and there. Finally the disgruntled kender went to examine the fountain in the center of the room before leaving.

As Tas drew closer, he saw it wasn’t a fountain at all, but the dust was so thick, he couldn’t figure it out. It was about as tall as the kender, standing four feet off the ground. The round top was supported on a slender three-legged stand.

Tas inspected the object closely, then he took a deep breath and blew as hard as he could. Dust flew up his nose and he sneezed violently, nearly dropping the torch. For a moment he couldn’t see a thing. Then the dust settled and he could see the object. His heart leaped into his throat.

“Oh, no!” Tas groaned. Diving into another pouch, he pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed the object. The dust came off easily, and he knew now what it was. “Drat!” he said in despair. “I was right. Now what do I do?”

The sun rose red the next morning, glimmering through a haze of smoke hovering above the dragonarmies. In the courtyard of the Tower of the High Clerist, the shadows of night had not yet lifted before activity began. One hundred knights mounted their horses, adjusted the girths, called for shields, or buckled on armor, while a thousand footmen milled around, searching for their proper places in line.

Sturm, Laurana, and Lord Alfred stood in a dark doorway, watching in silence as Lord Derek, laughing and calling out jokes to his men, rode into the courtyard. The knight was resplendent in his armor, the rose glistening on his breastplate in the first rays of the sun. His men were in good spirits, the thought of battle making them forget their hunger.

“You’ve got to stop this, my lord,” Sturm said quietly.

“I can’t!” Lord Alfred said, pulling on his gloves. His face was haggard in the morning light. He had not slept since Sturm awakened him in the waning hours of the night. “The Measure gives him the right to make this decision.”

In vain had Alfred argued with Derek, trying to convince him to wait just a few more days! Already the wind was starting to shift, bringing warm breezes from the north.

But Derek had been adamant. He would ride out and challenge the dragonarmies on the field. As for being outnumbered, he laughed in scorn. Since when do goblins fight like Knights of Solamnia? The Knights had been outnumbered fifty to one in the Goblin and Ogre wars of the Vingaard Keep one hundred years ago, and they’d routed the creatures with ease!

“But you’ll be fighting draconians,” Sturm warned. “They are not like goblins. They are intelligent and skilled. They have magic-users among their ranks, and their weapons are the finest in Krynn. Even in death they have the power to kill—”

“I believe we can deal with them, Brightblade,” Derek interrupted harshly. “And now I suggest you wake your men and tell them to make ready.”

“I’m not going,” Sturm said steadily. “And I’m not ordering my men to go, either.”

Derek paled with fury. For a moment he could not speak, he was so angry. Even Lord Alfred appeared shocked.

“Sturm,” Alfred began slowly, “do you know what you are doing?”

“Yes, my lord,” Sturm answered. “We are the only thing standing between the dragonarmies and Palanthas. We dare not leave this garrison unmanned. I’m keeping my command here.”

“Disobeying a direct order,” Derek said, breathing heavily. “You are a witness, Lord Alfred. I’ll have his
head
this time!” He stalked out. Lord Alfred, his face grim, followed, leaving Sturm alone.

In the end, Sturm had given his men a choice. They could stay with him at no risk to themselves—since they were simply obeying the orders of their commanding officer—or they could accompany Derek. It was, he mentioned, the same choice Vinas Solamnus had given his men long ago, when the Knights rebelled against the corrupt Emperor of Ergoth. The men did not need to be reminded of this legend. They saw it as a sign and, as with Solamnus, most of them chose to stay with the commander they had come to respect and admire.

Now they stood watching, their faces grim, as their friends prepared to ride out. It was the first open break in the long history of the Knighthood, and the moment was grievous.

“Reconsider, Sturm,” Lord Alfred said as the knight helped him mount his horse. “Lord Derek is right. The dragonarmies have not been trained, not like the Knights. There’s every probability we’ll route them with barely a blow being struck.”

“I pray that is true, my lord,” Sturm said steadily.

Alfred regarded him sadly. “If it
is
true, Brightblade, Derek will see you tried and executed for this. There’ll be nothing Gunthar can do to stop him.”

“I would willingly die that death, my lord, if it would stop what I fear will happen,” Sturm replied.

“Damn it, man!” Lord Alfred exploded. “If we are defeated, what will you gain by staying here? You couldn’t hold off an army of gully dwarves with your small contingent of men! Suppose the roads do open up? You won’t be able to hold the Tower long enough for Palanthas to send reinforcements.”

“At the least we can buy Palanthas time to evacuate her citizens, if—”

Lord Derek Crownguard edged his horse between those of his men. Glaring down at Sturm, his eyes glittering from behind the slits in his helm, Lord Derek raised his hand for silence.

“According to the Measure, Sturm Brightblade,” Derek began formally, “I hereby charge you with conspiracy and—”

“To the Abyss with the Measure!” Sturm snarled, his patience snapping. “Where has the Measure gotten us? Divided, jealous, crazed! Even our own people prefer to treat with the armies of our enemies! The Measure has failed!”

A deathly hush settled over the knights in the courtyard, broken only by the restless pawing of a horse or the jingle of armor as here and there a man shifted in his saddle.

“Pray for my death, Sturm Brightblade,” Derek said softly, “or by the gods I’ll slit your throat at your execution myself!” Without another word, he wheeled his horse around and cantered to the head of the column.

“Open the gates!” he called.

The morning sun climbed above the smoke, rising into the blue sky. The winds blew from the north, fluttering the flag flying bravely from the top of the Tower. Armor flashed. There was a clatter of swords against shields and the sound of a trumpet call as men rushed to open the thick wooden gates.

Derek raised his sword high in the air. Lifting his voice in the Knight’s salute to the enemy, he galloped forward. The knights behind him picked up his ringing challenge and rode forth out onto the fields where—long ago—Huma had ridden to glorious victory. The footmen marched, their footsteps beating a tattoo upon the stone pavement. For a moment, Lord Alfred seemed about to speak to Sturm and the young knights who stood watching. But he only shook his head and rode away.

The gates swung shut behind him. The heavy iron bar was dropped down to lock them securely. The men in Sturm’s command ran to the battlements to watch.

Sturm stood silently in the center of the courtyard, his gaunt face expressionless.

The young and handsome commander of the dragonarmies in the Dark Lady’s absence was just waking to breakfast and the start of another boring day when a scout galloped into camp.

Commander Bakaris glared at the scout in disgust. The man was riding through camp wildly, his horse scattering cooking pots and goblins. Draconian guards leaped to their feet, shaking their fists and cursing. But the scout ignored them.

“The Highlord!” he called, sliding off his horse in front of the tent. “I must see the Highlord.”

“The Highlord’s gone,” said the commander’s aide.

“I’m in charge,” snapped Bakaris. “What’s your business?”

The ranger looked around quickly, not wanting to make a mistake. But there was no sign of the dread Dark Lady or the big blue dragon she rode.

“The Knights have taken the field!”

“What?” The commander’s jaw sagged. “Are you certain?”