Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (57 page)

But no armies poured through the breaches. It was quiet, Laurana realized. In the tunnels behind her, she could hear the dying screams of the second dragon, the hoarse shouts of the knights finishing the kill.

What had happened to the army? Laurana wondered, looking around in confusion. They must be coming over the walls. Fearfully she looked up at the battlements, expecting to see the fierce creatures pouring over them.

And then she saw the flash of sunlight shining on armor. She saw the shapeless mass lying on the top of the wall.

Sturm. She remembered the dream, remembered the bloody hands of the draconians hacking at Sturm’s body.

It must not happen! she thought grimly. Drawing Sturm’s sword, she ran across the courtyard and immediately realized the ancient weapon would be too heavy for her to wield. But what else was there? She glanced around hurriedly. The dragonlances! Dropping the sword, she grabbed one. Then, carrying the lightweight footman’s lance easily, she climbed the stairs.

Laurana reached the top of the battlements and stared out across the plain, expecting to see the black tide of the army surging forward. But the plain was empty. There were only a few groups of humans standing, staring vaguely around.

What could it mean? Laurana had no idea, and she was too exhausted to think. Her wild elation died. Weariness descended on her now, as did her grief. Dragging the lance behind her, she stumbled over to Sturm’s body lying in the blood-stained snow.

Laurana knelt beside the knight. Putting her hand out, she brushed back the wind-blown hair to look once more upon the face of her friend. For the first time since she had met him, Laurana saw peace in Sturm’s lifeless eyes.

Lifting his cold hand, she pressed it to her cheek. “Sleep, dear friend,” she murmured, “and let not your sleep be troubled by dragons.” Then, as she lay the cold white hand upon the shattered armor, she saw a bright sparkle in the blood-stained snow. She picked up an object so covered with blood she could not see what it was. Carefully Laurana brushed the snow and blood away. It was a piece of jewelry. Laurana stared at it in astonishment.

But before she could wonder how it came to be here, a dark shadow fell over her. Laurana heard the creak of huge wings, the intake of breath into a gigantic body. Fearfully she leaped to her feet and whirled around.

A blue dragon landed upon the wall behind her. Stone gave way as the great claws scrabbled for a hold. The creature’s great wings beat the air. From the saddle upon the dragon’s back, a Dragon Highlord gazed at Laurana with cold, stern eyes from behind the hideous mask.

Laurana took a step backward as the dragonfear overcame her. The dragonlance slipped from her nerveless hand, and she dropped the jewel into the snow. Turning, she tried to flee, but she could not see where she was going. She slipped and fell into the snow to lie trembling beside Sturm’s body.

In her paralyzing fear, all she could think of was the dream! Here she had died—as Sturm had died. Laurana’s vision was filled with blue scales as the creature’s great neck reared above her.

The dragonlance! Scrambling for it in the blood-wet snow, Laurana’s fingers closed over its wooden shaft. She started to rise, intending to plunge it into the dragon’s neck.

But a black boot slammed down upon the lance, narrowly missing her hand. Laurana stared at the shining black boot, decorated with gold work that gleamed in the sun. She stared at the black boot standing in Sturm’s blood, and she drew a deep breath.

“Touch his body, and you will die,” Laurana said softly. “Your dragon will not be able to save you. This knight was my friend, and I will not let his killer defile his body.”

“I have no intention of defiling the body,” the Dragon Highlord said. Moving with elaborate slowness, the Highlord reached down and gently shut the knight’s eyes, which were fixed upon the sun he would see no more.

The Dragon Highlord stood up, facing the elfmaid who knelt in the snow, and removed the booted foot from the dragonlance. “You see, he was my friend, too. I knew—the moment I killed him.”

Laurana stared up at the Highlord. “I don’t believe you,” she said tiredly. “How could that be?”

Calmly, the Dragon Highlord removed the hideous horned dragon mask. “I think you might have heard of me, Lauralanthalasa. That is your name, isn’t it?”

Laurana nodded dumbly, rising to her feet.

The Dragon Highlord smiled, a charming, crooked smile. “And my name is—”

“Kitiara.”

“How did you know?”

“A dream …” Laurana murmured.

“Oh, yes—the dream.” Kitiara ran her gloved hand through her dark, curly hair. “Tanis told me about the dream.
I guess you all must have shared it. He thought his friends might have.” The human woman glanced down at the body of Sturm, lying at her feet. “Odd, isn’t it—the way Sturm’s death came true? And Tanis said the dream came true for him as well: the part where I saved his life.”

Laurana began to tremble. Her face, which had already been white with exhaustion, was so drained of blood it seemed transparent. “Tanis? … You’ve seen Tanis?”

“Just two days ago,” Kitiara said. “I left him in Flotsam, to look after matters while I was gone.”

Kitiara’s cold, calm words drove through Laurana’s soul like the Highlord’s spear had driven through Sturm’s flesh. Laurana felt the stones start to shift from under her. The sky and ground mixed, the pain cleaved her in two. She’s lying, Laurana thought desperately. But she knew with despairing certainty that, though Kitiara might lie when she chose—she was not lying now.

Laurana staggered and nearly fell. Only the grim determination not to reveal any weakness before this human woman kept the elfmaiden on her feet.

Kitiara had not noticed. Stooping down, she picked up the weapon Laurana had dropped and studied it with interest.

“So this is the famed dragonlance?” Kitiara remarked.

Laurana swallowed her grief, forcing herself to speak in a steady voice. “Yes,” she replied. “If you want to see what it’s capable of, go look within the walls of the fortress at what’s left of your dragons.”

Kitiara glanced down into the courtyard briefly, without a great deal of interest. “It was not these that lured my dragons into your trap,” she said, her brown eyes appraising Laurana coolly, “nor scattered my army to the four winds.”

Once more Laurana glanced across the empty plains.

“Yes,” Kitiara said, seeing the dawning comprehension on Laurana’s face. “You have won—today. Savor your victory now, Elf, for it will be short-lived.” The Dragon Highlord dexterously flipped the lance in her hand and held it aimed at Laurana’s heart. The elfmaid stood unmoving before her, the delicate face empty of expression.

Kitiara smiled. With a quick motion, she reversed the killing stroke “Thank you for this weapon,” she said, standing the lance in the snow. “We’ve received reports of these. Now
we can find out if it as formidable a weapon as you claim.”

Kitiara made Laurana a slight bow from the waist. Then, replacing the dragonmask over her head, she grasped the dragonlance and turned to go. As she did, her gaze went once more to the body of the knight.

“See that he is given a knight’s funeral,” Kitiara said. “It will take at least three days to rebuild the army. I give you that time to prepare a ceremony befitting him.”

“We will bury our own dead,” Laurana said proudly. “We ask you for nothing!”

The memory of Sturm’s death, the sight of the knight’s body, brought Laurana back to reality like cold water poured on the face of a dreamer. Moving to stand protectively between Sturm’s body and the Dragon Highlord, Laurana looked into the brown eyes, glittering behind the dragonmask.

“What will you tell Tanis?” she asked abruptly.

“Nothing,” Kit said simply. “Nothing at all.” Turning, she walked away.

Laurana watched the Dragon Highlord’s slow, graceful walk, the black cape fluttering in the warm breeze blowing from the north. The sun glinted off the prize Kitiara held in her hand. Laurana knew she should get the lance away. There was an army of knights below. She had only to call.

But Laurana’s weary brain and her body refused to act. It was an effort just to remain standing. Pride alone kept her from falling to the cold stones.

Take the dragonlance, Laurana told Kitiara silently. Much good it will do you.

Kitiara walked to the giant blue dragon. Down below, the knights had come into the courtyard, dragging with them the head of one of her blue dragons. Skie tossed his own head angrily at the sight, a savage growl rumbling deep within his chest. The knights turned their amazed faces toward the wall where they saw the dragon, the Dragon Highlord, and Laurana. More than one drew his weapon, but Laurana raised her hand to stop them. It was the last gesture she had strength to make.

Kitiara gave the knights a disdainful look and laid her hand upon Skie’s neck, stroking him, reassuring him. She took her time, letting them see she was not afraid of them.

Reluctantly, the knights lowered their weapons.

Laughing scornfully, Kitiara swung herself onto the dragon.

“Farewell, Lauralanthalasa,” she called.

Lifting the dragonlance in the air, Kitiara commanded Skie to fly. The huge blue dragon spread his wings, rising effortlessly into the air. Guiding him skillfully, Kitiara flew just above Laurana.

The elfmaid looked up into the dragon’s fiery red eyes. She saw the wounded, bloodied nostril, the gaping mouth twisted in a vicious snarl. On his back, sitting between the giant wings, was Kitiara, the dragon-scale armor glistening, the sun glinting off the horned mask. Sunlight flashed from the point of the dragonlance.

Then, glittering as it turned over and over, the dragonlance fell from the Dragon Highlord’s gloved hand. Clattering on the stones, it landed at Laurana’s feet.

“Keep it,” Kitiara called to her in a ringing voice. “You’re going to need it!”

The blue dragon lifted his wings, caught the air currents, and soared into the sky to vanish into the sun.

W
inter’s night was dark and starless. The wind had become a gale, bringing driving sleet and snow that pierced armor with the sharpness of arrows, freezing blood and spirit. No watch was set. A man standing upon the battlements of the High Clerist’s Tower would have frozen to death at his post.

There was no need for the watch. All day, as long as the sun shone, the knights had stared across the plains, but there was no sign of the dragonarmies’ return. Even after darkness fell, the knights could see few campfires on the horizon.

On this winter’s night, as the wind howled among the ruins of the crumbled Tower like the shrieks of the slaughtered dragons, the Knights of Solamnia buried their dead.

The bodies were carried into a cavelike sepulcher beneath the Tower. Long ago, it had been used for the dead of the Knighthood. But that had been in ages past, when Huma rode to glorious death upon the fields beyond. The sepulcher might have remained forgotten but for the curiosity of a kender. Once it must have been guarded and well kept, but time had touched even the dead, who are thought to be beyond time. The stone coffins were covered with a fine sifting of thick dust. When it was brushed away, nothing could be read of the writings carved into the stone.

Called the Chamber of Paladine, the sepulcher was a large rectangular room, built far below the ground where the destruction of the Tower did not affect it. A long, narrow staircase led down to it from two huge iron doors marked with the symbol of Paladine—the platinum dragon, ancient symbol of death and rebirth. The knights brought torches to light the chamber, fitting them into rusted iron sconces upon the crumbling stone walls.

The stone coffins of the ancient dead lined the walls of the room. Above each one was an iron plaque giving the name of the dead knight, his family, and the date of his death. A center aisle led between the rows of coffins toward a marble altar at
the head of the room. In this central aisle of the Chamber of Paladine, the knights lay their dead.

There was no time to build coffins. All knew the dragonarmies would return. The knights must spend their time fortifying the ruined walls of the fortress, not building homes for those who no longer cared. They carried the bodies of their comrades down to the Chamber of Paladine and laid them in long rows upon the cold stone floor. The bodies were draped with ancient winding sheets which had been meant for the ceremonial wrapping. There was no time for that either. Each dead knight’s sword was laid upon his breast, while some token of the enemy—an arrow perhaps, a battered shield, or the claws of a dragon—were laid at his feet.

When the bodies had been carried to the torch-lit chamber, the knights assembled. They stood among their dead, each man standing beside the body of a friend, a comrade, a brother. Then, amid a silence so profound each man could hear his own heart beating, the last three bodies were brought inside. Carried upon stretchers, they were attended by a solemn Guard of Honor.

This should have been a state funeral, resplendent with the trappings detailed by the Measure. At the altar should have stood the Grand Master, arrayed in ceremonial armor. Beside him should have been the High Clerist, clad in armor covered with the white robes of a cleric of Paladine. Here should have stood the High Justice, his armor covered by the judicial robes of black. The altar itself should have been banked with roses. Golden emblems of the kingfisher, the crown, and the sword should have been placed upon it.

But here at the altar stood only an elfmaiden, clad in armor that was dented and stained with blood. Beside her stood an old dwarf, his head bowed in grief, and a kender, his impish face ravaged by sorrow. The only rose upon the altar was a black one, found in Sturm’s belt; the only ornament was a silver dragonlance, black with clotted blood.

The Guard carried the bodies to the front of the chamber and reverently laid them before the three friends.

On the right lay the body of Lord Alfred MarKenin, his mutilated, headless corpse mercifully shrouded in white linen. On the left lay Lord Derek Crownguard, his body
covered with white cloth to hide the hideous grin death had frozen upon his face. In the center lay the body of Sturm Brightblade. He was not covered by a white sheet. He lay in the armor he had worn at his death: his father’s armor. His father’s antique sword was clasped in cold hands upon his breast. One other ornament lay upon his shattered breast, a token none of the knights recognized.