The Black Wing (13 page)

Instantly the booming thunder faded to a soft, distant thumping. The air was blue and
clear; the odor of chlorine dissipated. Lightning continued to arc around the blue sphere,
but never penetrated it. “There's no need to flap your wings here,” said the pearly globe.
“You will simply float.”

Khisanth let her wings drop to her sides and bobbed without effort. “Where are we?” she
demanded. “How do you know our names? And where is my maynus?” “In your Prime Material
world, I was that which you called 'maynus.' ” “This is all gibberish,” growled Khisanth.
"Just tell me

where on Krynn we are.“ ”I believe I know!“ screamed Pteros. His voice blasted through the
clear air, reminding him that it was still magically amplified. Blushing self-consciously,
Pteros ended the spell's effect. ”We're not on Krynn at all,“ he finished much more
softly. Khisanth scowled at Pteros, dismissing him by turning her scowl on the glowing
creature. ”Just tell me where I can pick up my maynus on the way out.“ ”I am what the
nyphids called 'maynus/ but I am no longer yours.“ ”You don't seem to understand what it
is I'm looking for, so I'll explain it to you,“ Khisanth offered with mock patience. ”My
maynus is a little inanimate globe that glows. You're a big, 'animate' thing that, well,
glows.“ She tried to peer through the bubble. ”A tiny luminous ball would be easy enough
to overlook in all this lightning.“ The creature throbbed slightly. ”I will say this one
more time. The thing you called 'maynus' is me. Here in my home world, you see my true
appearance at last.“ ”Or perhaps Pteros dropped it by the pond when he caused us to
teleport to wherever we are,“ Khisanth suggested as if the creature hadn't spoken. ”We
didn't teleport here at all, did we?“ Pteros asked the creature. ”The maynus 'gated' us to
the plane of elemental air, didn't it?“ ”Yes....“ ”I thought so,“ Pteros smirked. ”And no.
I brought you to the plane of lightning. If s a plane of finite scope and tremendous
energy, a 'quasi-plane' your wizards call it, which lies betwixt your world and that of
elemental air. This haven where we can speak, and where you are safe from the lightning,
is a pocket or bubble of elemental air.“ Khisanth felt her patience run threadbare. ”So
what about my maynus?“ she blurted. Unperturbed, the creature continued. ”I am an
elemental being native to this plane. Millennia ago, I and others of my kind were taken
against our will to your world on the Prime Material plane by the race known as nyphids.“
Finally, something Khisanth could understand. ”What do you know about the nyphids?“
”Everything. The very first of that species were the offspring of a lightning elemental
like myself and another elemental being from the neighboring quasi-plane of radiance.
Being of two worlds, they belonged neither here, nor in the radiant world, and thus became
our servants. Eventually they rebelled against their servitude and escaped to find a new
home for themselves. They settled on the Prime Material plane. But they didn't leave
alone. With the aid of the magic we had taught them, they captured many elemental beings
and took us along as the source of their magic. I was one such victim. "In your world, I
was a slave, trapped inside my own form. Like a genie in a bottle, I could use my powers
only to carry out another's orders. Unsuspecting of my true nature, you were also unaware
of the many traditions and prohibitions regarding maynus use among the nyphids. Your
carelessly worded request allowed me, after

thousands of years, to finally return here, to my home. “Unintentional though it was, you
released me from bondage. As repayment I will return you to the Prime Material plane.
Prepare yourselves.” Khisanth could hardly grasp all that the elemental creature had
revealed about the nyphid's nature. What she did understand was that she'd lost her most
valuable treasure. “If you truly are the maynus, your freedom has cost me a very valuable
and powerful artifact. We need to settle on a purchase price for your liberty.” The maynus
darkened. “On the contrary, I have offered you something of inestimable valuepassage back
to your home. Take the word of someone who knows the pain of exile. You cannot leave this
place unaided.” “Now, look here” The elemental creature's attention became distracted to
something outside their calm pocket. “There's Fraz, an old nemesis I haven't seen for an
eon....” The elemental globe began to slip through the edge of the bubble. “We have a
score to settle.” With that, the creature disappeared. “Wait! Don't leave us here!” cried
Pteros, starting to follow. “Let it go. If s not going to help us,” muttered Khisanth. The
old dragon whirled on her. “No thanks to you! We could have been home by now if your greed
hadn't gotten in the way.” “My greed?” Blood pounded at Khisanth's temples. “Whose was it
that brought us here in the first place? Tvly, what a nice gem that is, Khisanth/ ” she
whined, mimicking Pteros. “ 'If there's one thing I know if s magic' ” Pteros looked more
smug than chastised. “I believe I told you more than once that I'd rather you'd left me
alone to polish my gems.” He looked around sadly at the empty settings in his diadem and
necklace. “Now I have nothing.” “So this is my fault?Oh, never mind,” Khisanth sighed at
last. She was letting her temper and frustration control her. Khisanth closed her eyes and
concentrated on her breathing, drawing in long, slow breaths to calm herself. When the
blood slipped at last from her temples and freed her mind to think, she said, “We've got
to figure a way out of here.” She opened her eyes and looked at Pteros. The older dragon
was just short of wringing his claws, his eyes wide with apprehension. Khisanth ventured,
“What about teleporting?” “Not powerful enough, I'm sure, to get us to a completely
different plane of existence.” Pteros scratched his wrinkled brow. “There is a gate spell,
but I've never used it. I'm afraid I'm feeling a little too shaky to try it.” Khisanth
knew it was hopeless to try to talk him into it. “We got in here, so there's got to be a
way out. Didn't the elemental say the quasi-plane of lightning adjoins the plane of air?
We'll just find that border and keep going until we find one that bumps into the Prime
Material plane.” “I don't know___” hedged Pteros. “Have you got a better plan? We can't
just sit in this bubble forever.” She peered anxiously around. “I'd be willing to consider
it,” muttered Pteros, settling himself as if for the long haul. “At least if s quiet in
here, and we aren't likely to bump into Talon.” Khisanth's brow furrowed. She contemplated
the ever-present lightning beyond the bubble. “What troubles me is that we're likely to
bump into something far worse.”

Sir Tate Sekforde squeezed the shears. Snip! The last straggle of his pale mustache
drifted to the rush-covered floor. Still peering closely into the polished brass plaque,
the Knight of the Crown smoothed his whiskers against his upper lip. His mustache had
grown back thicker, even a shade darker, in the year since the fire that had singed it
from his face. He frowned at his yellow-tinged image in the plaque as three fingers traced
the faint scars on his left cheek, white against his tanned skin. Tate hoped the nose of
the woman who had forever marked him thus looked as bad. If she was even still alive...

It was Misham, the fifth day of the week, the one he had chosen for his holy day. It meant
that as a candidate for the Order of the Sword, Tate could not do battle, earn profit, or
speak harshly to anyone this day. He must also spend at least three hours in silent
meditation and prayer to Kiri-Jolith, the patron god of the Order of the Sword. Lore said
Kiri-Jolith was twin brother to Habbakuk, who was the patron of Tate's current Order of
the Crown. When, as Tate hoped, he became a Knight of the Sword, the meditation to his new
patron would grant him clerical spells. Until then, Tate secretly felt that it served
primarily to slow down progress on his task of rebuilding Lamesh Castle. Four hundred
fifty miles away in his tower in Solamnia, the High Clerist of the knights, who would
decide whether Tate was fit to wear the sign of the sword, might never see him violate the
rule, but the god Kiri-Jolith would know. And so every seven days, Tate complied.

As ranking knight of Lamesh Castle, Tate stood alone, the last to rise in the modest
barracks he shared with his men. Not one to stand on formality, he nevertheless donned the
off-duty attire of a man of his social standinggreen- and yellow-checked tunic, green
hose, and soft-soled, rawhide shoes. Last, he draped a black silk baldric, made by his
lady mother, from right shoulder to left hip to carry the sword he never went without,
holy day or not.

Thoughts of his family threatened to sour Tate's already somber mood, so he strode from
the barracks and into the inner courtyard. The knight headed for the bake house located
farther to the west along the north wall. Though the day was supposed to be spent in
fasting, Tate believed that even the god Kiri-Jolith could not expect him to pray with any
fervor on an empty stomach.

Abel, the baker Tate had brought with him from Solamnia, was a stout man who looked like
he enjoyed his own pastries too well. He was doing his part to support the rebuilding of
the castle into a Solamnic outpost. His ovens ran day and night, making a variety of baked
goods that fed the workmen inside the castle, but were also sold to the people who were
resettling the village beyond the castle walls. The knight stepped into the man's domain
just as Abel was using a long wooden paddle to retrieve a dark, round loaf from the stone
oven. “What'll it be this morning, Sir Tate?” the baker asked, his chubby face flushed
from the heat of the oven. “I've got a nice, big loaf of rye here.” “No thanks, Abel. Just
a sticky bun, if you please.” Tate winked conspiratorially. “I'm supposed to be fasting
today, you know.” The baker retrieved a bun from a bowl on the table and handed it to
Tate. “So it's Misham, again, eh?” Shaking his head, he poured water from a pitcher onto a
mound of coarse-ground flour in a wooden bowl and began to stir so vigorously the meal
spewed onto the table. “You work me so hard out here in the boondocks, I can scarcely keep
track of the days.” Tate smiled, knowing the crusty baker would have it no other way. "And
well I

appreciate your sacrifice, Abel. Are you getting the flour as quickly as you need it?“
Abel snorted. ”Barely. That fool in the granarywhat's his name, Dol? short for Dolt, no
doubthe's as slow as molasses in the month of Newkolt.“ ”Now, Abel, he's doing the best he
can. Especially when you consider he knew nothing about milling grain before we recruited
him to operate the grindstone."

“Still doesn't, if you ask me.” The baker let a handful of flour sift through his fingers.
“Look at how coarse this is. Chunks as big as your head” Tate clapped the baker on the
back to curb the man's favorite tirade. “I'll speak to him about it tomorrow, Abel,” the
knight promised. “Thanks for the bun,” he added as he stepped back into the coolness of
the courtyard, chuckling.

The knight chided himself; he should have known better than to ask the persnickety Abel
such a question. In truth, Tate didn't mind dealing with complaints. He spent many a day
resolving conflicts between the craftsmen who were working to repair and rebuild the
ruined castle. The majority of the debates were sparked when a local craftsman questioned
the opinion of one of the skilled artisans he'd brought from the more civilized region of
Solamnia. He needed all of his diplomatic skills to solve those conflicts without obvious
bias, which could cost him the craftsman. Tate needed every available hand to prepare the
castle for the coming winter.

Before entering the temple to Kiri-Jolith for his three hours of prayer, Tate climbed the
steps of the northeast tower and paced the walkway on the walls. The day was unusually
warm for late autumn, the sky as blue as a sapphire. He wanted to enjoy a few moments of
the last good weather they would have before winter turned the landscape bleak.

How far we have come in eight-odd months, he thought, surveying with pride the scene in
the courtyard below. When Tate's party of thirty or more had arrived to reestablish the
abandoned stronghold south of Kern for the forces of Good, the castle had been in ruins,
looted and laid to waste by centuries of roving monsters and mercenaries.

Tate had stumbled upon the architect's original renderings of the castle, stuffed behind a
loose stone in a wall of the great room. He was using the faded and torn plans to restore
as much of Lamesh as possible to its original condition, though he was forced to use more
wood and less stone, due to availability. The entire western cliff face had been in
advanced decay and needed immediate shoring. The only significant alteration to the design
was the conversion of a portion of the original lord knighf s personal apartments into a
temple to Kiri-Jolith.

Within the castle walls, work was moving according to schedule. Tate's master architect, a
man named Raymond of Winterholm, who had accompanied Tate from Solamnia, was an excellent
planner. Normally, temporary structures would have been erected to house workers and key
personnel while construction occurred. In laying out the castle, Winterholm wisely
positioned the main wooden buildings near the walls that needed the least work, so they
were permanent structures from the beginning. Most of the key workmen currently lived
inside the castle. Once it was finished, they would either return to Solamnia or build
houses of their own in the adjoining village. Ultimately, only those folk crucial to the
castle's defense would live within. Turning, Tate looked down upon the town, which was
quickly growing beyond the walls on the eastern side of Lamesh Castle. Crumbling sections
of the old town wall cast a wide circle, suggesting that Lamesh had been a sizable village
in its heyday before the Cataclysm. People were returning to the village more quickly than
even Tate had expected. The simple presence of the knights in this wild territory promised
order and authority. Since ogres and other creatures inhabited the mountains in greater
numbers these days, many people chose to relocate within the protective shadow of the
castle.

As the village awakened that morning, boys carted water with buckets on yokes, girls
hunted eggs in corners where range hens had laid them, mothers issued orders to all. The
support beams of new houses were a common sight these days. The first tavern had already
sprung up to meet the needs of the many craftsmen who'd come from all corners to find
work. Behind old, rebuilt homes, women gathered honey and tended herb gardens, drying
their produce for winter use. Goats bleated; roosters crowed; dogs barked; cows lowed to
be milked. The plaintive wail of bagpipes floated up from unseen lips. Tate felt something
akin to a father's pride for this village.

Beyond the ruined walls of the town, a man led a horse and plow through a field where corn
had just been harvested. More than half of the crops were already in, filling the granary
and storehouses. Hayricks and corn shocks dotted the rolling landscape. Sheep grazed on a
nearby hillside, their dirty white coats grown out since spring shearing. Lina the weaver
had already turned it to fabric, enough so that they wouldn't have to buy more during the
cold months. Tate's plan for a self-sufficient community was becoming a reality even more
quickly than he'd hoped. Still, there was much to be done before the first snowfall.

The Knight of the Crown dreaded the approaching winter, and not only from the standpoint
of preparations; Sir Tate Sekforde hated the cold. It seemed to bury itself in his bones
on the first frigid day and stay until buds returned to the trees. Winter would
undoubtedly seem even colder without the centuries-old conveniences of the family castle
back in Solamnia. Tate could just see his stuffy younger brother Rupport, feet propped on
a hassock before a roaring fire in the family's private apartments, thick tapestries
covering the cold stone walls of Castle DeHodge. You have no business envying Rupport,
Tate scolded himself. You gave up your claim as eldest son of your own accord. Truly, envy
was not what Tate felt for the brother who'd been so ashamed of their father's common
heritage that he'd taken their mother's maiden surname, DeHodge. Sir Rupport DeHodge. Even
his name sounded pompous. It was Tate's opinion that knights like Rupport had caused the
decline of the order. Rupport had inherited his supercilious nature from their mother,
whose noble family's history with the knighthood could be traced all the way back to Vinas
Solamnus. Thirty years ago, the DeHodge family's fortunes had declined beyond their
ability to deny it. The Cataclysm had caused less physical damage to their castle near the
High Clerist's Tower than the social aftershocks to their finances. An only child, Cilia
DeHodge had reluctantly agreed to an arranged marriage to a wealthy merchant from
downriver at Jansburg, for whom she felt nothing but contempt. Gedeon Sekforde was a
kindly, street-smart man who loved his wife despite her many faults, not the least of
which was the disdain for him she never bothered to hide. In exchange for restoring her
family's lands with his merchant money, Cilia bore him two sons. While Cilia DeHodge
Sekforde pushed her sons toward the knighthood, Gedeon Sekforde gave them the freedom to
choose whatever occupation they wished. Though both embraced the knighthood, their reasons
were very, very different. Rupport read his own intolerance and bigotry into the writings
of the Measure and espoused them as his knightly goals. Tate read the voluminous set of
laws that defined the term honor and saw obedience to the spirit of the laws as the chief
goal of the knighthood. It was Gedeon Sekforde who encouraged Tate to read between the
lines of the Measure when his elder son would question the accuracy of the younger7 s
interpretations. When Gedeon died, Cilia and Rupport's unfeeling snobbishness, not an
uncommon trait among members of the knighthood, became unbearable to Tate. To escape the
prevailing attitudes in Solamnia and in hopes that the frontier would allow for
freethinking, Tate formally renounced his claim to the family estates and signed on with
Stippling's expedition.

Not a month out of Solamnia, however, the venerable Knight of the Rose's party had been
ambushed by ogres and mercenaries in a pass through the northern Khalkists. Tate alone had
survived. Burned, his leg injured, he had stumbled and crawled his way to the village of
Styx. Giving himself just one day to rest, he bought a horse and headed straightaway for
the High Clerist's Tower back in Solamnia to report the deaths. And to apply for entry
into the next level of knighthood, the Order of the Sword. He knew just what quest he
would be assigned: to complete Stippling's mission of establishing a Solamnic outpost at
Lamesh.

On the return trip, the Knight of the Crown had had a lot of time to think. The clerical
spells that only Knights of the Sword received through prayer would certainly be useful,
especially if ever Tate were in a situation like the ambush again. What was more, his
reasons for joining Stippling's troop had not changed; he had no wish to settle in
Solamnia. The High Clerist and the Knightly Council had not been keen at first to agree to
such a monumental quest by so young a knight. A number of particularly arrogant knights,
mentors of Rupport's no doubt, had even questioned Tate's bravery, since he'd had the
audacity to survive. Tate had wondered more than once if the staid old Council of Knights
hadn't ultimately agreed to his request simply to brush him off, presuming that he would
fail. In a land so remote that it didn't even bear a regional name, news of a Crown
Knight's defeat would not tarnish the knighthood in Solamnia. . . . Tate shook away the
aggravating reflection. Unkind thoughts were not allowed on holy days either.

He remembered his sticky bun. Tate's mouth was open wide around the sugared tidbit when
Sir Wolter Heding's voice boomed behind him. “Ah, ah, ahhh!” the old knight scolded in
singsong. “You weren't about to eat that, were you, lad?”

“I was thinking about it, yes.” Sir Wolter came to stand before him. He was a large man by
anyone's standards, slightly corpulent, with a hooked nose and a strong jaw that was
usually covered with stubble. “A candidate for Sword Knight eating on his holy day? Tsk,
tsk, lad.” “Thaf s 'Sir Lad/ to you.” Tate's mouth was scowling, but his brown eyes were
smiling as he handed over the sticky bun. To Tate's annoyance, his sponsor in the
knighthood popped the bun into his own mouth. “Ha! That'll be the day!” chortled Sir
Wolter over the bun. “You may be lord knight of the castle because of your quest, but I
still outrank you by” “Centuries,” filled in Tate. “Yes, I know, you knew Vinas Solamnus.”
“And don't you forget it,” laughed Wolter, poking his young friend in the chest. “Not for
a moment, Wolter.” Neither would Tate forget that Sir Wolter Heding was likely the reason
the Knightly Council had finally agreed to let him undertake Stippling's assignment as his
quest. Sir Wolter had sponsored Tate as a squire. Since Tate's own father had not been a
knight and Wolter had no children of his own, they formed an unusually tight bond. The
elder knight had taught Tate everything he knew about knightly behavior and endeavor:
horsemanship, weapons, archery, wrestling, hunting, fieldcraft, even teamwork. When Tate
signed on with Stippling, Sir Wolter alone had understood his reasons for leaving
Solamnia. When Tate returned after the ambush, Wolter had spoken up for the young man. The
elder knight recounted an endless list of Tate's acts of courage, feats of strength, and
skill. In the end, the council had been swayed only when Wolter volunteered to accompany
young Sekforde and act as witness. The elder Knight of the Rose had long ago earned the
right to sit hearthside and recount tales of bravery to children. He was the kind of
knight Tate aspired to be, embracing the intent, not the letter, of the Oath and the Mea-
sure. Sir Wolter's advice was infrequent but insightful, and always relayed in private,