Tanis shivered at the memory, though it had happened years ago. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Queen Takhisis is not my god, but she is a god. I’m just a poor, puny mortal. How could I help but revere her?”
Steel made no answer. He was thoughtful, stern, withdrawn to some inner core of himself. Paladine had given the young knight the sign he’d mockingly demanded. What meaning did it hold far him—if any?
The iron doors swung open. The knights, marching with solemn tread, began to descend the stairs.
Chapter Ten
“My Honor is My Life”
The half-elf’s explanation made sense to Steel. Paladine was a god—a weak and sniveling god, compared to his opposite, the Dark Queen, but a god nonetheless. It was right and proper for Steel to feel awed in Paladine’s presence—if that’s what had truly happened back there at the gate.
Steel even tried to laugh at the incident—it was too funny, these pompous knights leading their most feared enemy around by the hand.
The laughter died on his lips.
They had begun to descend the steps that led into the sepulcher—a place of awful majesty, holy and sacred. Here lay the bodies of many brave men, among them Sturm Brightblade.
Est Sularus oth Mithas. My Honor is My Life.
Steel heard a voice, deep and resonant, repeat those words. He looked quickly around, to see who had spoken.
No one had. All walked silently down the stairs, voices muted in respect and reverence.
Steel knew who had spoken. He knew himself to be in the presence of the god, and the young man was daunted.
Steel’s challenge to Tanis had been made out of sheer bravado, made in order to quell the sudden aching longing that seared Steel’s soul, the longing to know himself. Part of Steel wanted desperately to believe that Sturm Brightblade—noble, heroic, tragic knight—was truly his father. Another part was appalled.
A curse if you find out, Ariakan had warned him.
Yes, so it would be, but … to know the truth!
And therefore, Steel had challenged the god, dared Paladine to tell him.
It seemed the god had taken the young man’s dare.
His heart subdued, Steel’s soul bowed down in worship.
The Chamber of Paladine was a large rectangular room lined with stone coffins that held the heroes of the ancient past and the more recent dead of the War of the Lance.
Following the entombment of the bodies of Sturm Brightblade and the other knights who had fallen defending the tower, the iron doors to the chamber were shut and sealed. If the tower fell into enemy hands, the bodies of the dead would not be desecrated.
A year after the war had ended, the knights broke the seals, opened the chamber, and made it a place of pilgrimage, as they had done with Huma’s Tomb. The Chamber of Paladine had been rededicated; Sturm Brightblade was made a national hero. Tanis had been present that day, as had his wife, Laurana; Caramon and Tika; Porthios and Alhana—rulers of Silvanesti and Qualinesti, the elven nations; and the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Raistlin Majere, Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas and already turned to darkness, had not come, but he had sent a message of respect for his old comrade and friend.
The bodies of the dead had been laid unceremoniously on the floor during the dark days of the war. At this ceremony, they were given proper and seemly burial. A special catafalque had been built to hold Sturm’s body. Made of marble and carved with images of the knight’s heroic exploits, the catafalque stood in the very center of the chamber. Sturm’s body lay on it, not entombed.
Some sort of magic had kept the body from decay these twenty-some years. No one was certain, but most believed the magic emanated from the elven jewel, given to him in love by Alhana Starbreeze. The jewel was a token exchanged between lovers; it was not supposed to have any such powerful arcane properties. But, then, love works its own magic.
Tanis had not visited the chamber since that day. That solemn occasion had been far too painful and blessed for him to repeat. Now he had returned, but he didn’t feel either solemn or blessed. Looking around the room, with its ancient coffins, covered with dust, the catafalque standing in the center, Tanis felt trapped. If anything went wrong, they were a long way from the stairs, the iron doors, and escape.
“Nothing will go wrong,” Tanis said to himself. “Steel will look on the body of his father, and he’ll either be affected by it or he won’t. Personally, I don’t expect this to have any effect on him. As near as I can judge, that young man is well on his way to the Abyss. But, then, what do I know? I never expected us to get this far.”
Sir Wilhelm, looking as sorrowful as if he were burying his own kin, led the way to the catafalque. The six knights formed ranks around it—three on either side. Sir Wilhelm stood at stiff attention at the head of the bier.
Tanis approached the catafalque. He looked on the face of his friend—the face that seemed as one with the carved marble, yet held the remembrance of life; a thing the cold stone could never emulate. Tanis forgot Steel; he felt peace surround him. He no longer grieved for his friend; Sturm had died as he had lived—with honor and courage.
It did Tanis good to see the knight’s untroubled sleep. Tanis’s fretful worries over his own son, over the hectic political situations, the brooding threat of war, all vanished. Life was good, sweet; but there was a greater good waiting.
Sturm Brightblade lay on his marble bier, his hands folded over the hilt of an antique sword—his father’s sword. He was clad in his father’s armor. The star jewel, shining with the light of love, gleamed on his breast. A dragonlance lay alongside him. Next to it was a wooden rose, carved by the hands of a grieving old dwarf, now sleeping his own restful sleep. Beside the rose, encapsulated in crystal, was a white feather, a final gift of a loving kender.
Tanis knelt on one knee beside the body. His head level with the knight’s, Tanis spoke to his friend softly in Elvish. “Sturm, honorable, gentle, noble heart. I know you have forgiven Kitiara for what she did to you, for her treachery, her deceit—more painful for you than the spear she finally used to slay you. This young man is her son, far too much her son, I fear.
“Yet, there is, I think, something of you in him, my friend. Now that I stand here, I believe that you truly are his father. I see the resemblance in your features, but, stronger than physical evidence, I see you in this young man’s spirit, in his dauntless courage, in his nobility of character, in the compassion for others that he counts as a mark against himself.
“Your son is in danger, Sturm. The Dark Queen draws him near, whispering her words of seduction, promising him glory that must surely end in ultimate defeat. He needs your help, my friend, if such help is possible for you to grant. I regret disturbing your peaceful slumber, but I am asking you, Sturm, to do whatever you can to draw your son away from the dark path he now walks.”
Tanis stood up. Brushing his hand across his eyes, he looked over at Caramon.
The big man knelt on the opposite side of the catafalque. “I’d give up my life for my children,” he said, in a quiet voice, “if I thought that would save them from danger. I know that you’ll … Well, you’ll do what’s right, Sturm. You always did.”
With this somewhat enigmatic request, Caramon stood up. Turning his back, he snuffled loudly, then wiped his eyes and nose on his shirt sleeve.
Tanis looked at Steel. The young man had held back. He stood alone, away from the knights, away from the catafalque, though he stared at the body with dark and burning eyes. He continued to stand, unmoving. His face, pale and cold and hard, was the exact copy of the face of the slumbering knight. Both might well have been carved out of marble.
“So much for that,” Tanis said to himself. “Poor Sara. Still, she tried.”
Sighing, he took a step forward. It was time to leave.
Suddenly Steel made a convulsive lunge for the marble catafalque.
“Father!” he cried brokenly, and it wasn’t the man’s voice who spoke, but the voic
e of the child, bereft, alone.
Steel’s hands closed over the cold hands of the corpse.
A flash of white light, a light pure and radiant, cold and awful, surged through all present, left them paralyzed and half-blind.
Tanis rubbed his eyes, trying to knead out the vibrant afterimage, trying frantically to see through a bursting of fiery red and vivid yellow spots. Elven eyesight is keen, and elven eyes adjust better to darkness and to light than do human eyes. Or perhaps, in this instance, it was the eyes of the heart that saw clearer than those of the head.
Sturm Brightblade stood in the chamber.
So real was the vision—if vision it was—that Tanis very nearly called out his friend’s name, very nearly reached out to once again clasp his friend’s hand. Something kept the half-elf silent. Sturm’s gaze was fixed on his son, and in it was sorrow, understanding, love.
Sturm spoke no word. He reached to his breast, clasped his hand over the star jewel. The dazzling white light was briefly diminished. Sturm reached out to his son.
Steel stared at his father; the young man was more livid than the corpse.
Sturm’s hand touched Steel on the breast. The light of the jewel flared.
Steel put his hand swiftly to his breast, fumbled for something there, and closed his hand over it. White light pulsed briefly in Steel’s grasp, welled through his fingers, then the light was darkness. Steel thrust whatever had been in his hand inside his armor:
“Sacrilege!” Sir Wilhelm gave a hoarse cry of outrage and fury, then drew his sword from its scabbard.
At last, the fiery halo disappeared. Tanis could see dearly and the sight unnerved and appalled him.
The body of Sturm Brightblade was gone. The corpse had disappeared. All that remained was the helm, the shining antique armor, and the ancient sword, lying on the bier.
“We have been deceived!” Sir Wilhelm was thundering. “This man is not one of us! He is not a Solamnic Knight He is a servant of the Dark Queen! A minion of evil! Seize him! Slay him!”
“The magic jewel!” another knight cried. “It’s gone! He has stolen it! The jewel must be on his person!”
“Take him! Search him!” Sir Wilhelm howled. Brandishing his sword, he leapt for Steel.
Weaponless, Steel reached instinctively for the nearest blade at hand. He grabbed the sword—his father’s sword—from atop the catafalque. Bringing the blade up, he easily blocked Sir Wilhelm’s wild downward slash. The young man threw the older knight backward, to fall with a clatter of armor among the ancient, dust-covered coffins.
The other knights dosed in. Strong and skilled as he was, Steel could never hope to fight off seven at once.
Tanis drew his sword. Leaping over the catafalque, he jumped down beside Steel.
“Caramon! Guard his back!” Tanis yelled.
Caramon stood gaping. “Tanis! I thought I saw—”
“I know! I know!” Tanis shouted. “I saw it, too!” He had to do something to jolt the big man from his dazed wonderment. “Caramon, you took an oath! You swore you’d protect Steel like your own son.”
“So I did,” Caramon said with dignified gravity. Picking up the knight nearest him, who happened to block his way, the big man flung the knight bodily aside. Drawing his sword, Caramon put his back to Steel’s.
“You don’t have to do this for me,” Steel gasped through bloodless lips. “I don’t need you to fight my battles!”
“I’m not doing this for you,” Tanis returned. “I’m doing this for your father.”
Steel stared at him, suspicious, disbelieving.
“I saw what happened,” Tanis said simply. “I know the truth.”
He pointed at the dark paladin’s breastplate, the armor decorated with the foul insignia of the Dark Queen. And shining from beneath it was a glimmer of white light.
Relief flooded Steel’s face—the young man must have been wondering if what had happened had truly happened or if he were going mad. Immediately, he recollected himself, his face hardened. Steel was, once again, one of Takhisis’s Knights. He turned grimly to face his foes.
The Solamnic Knights stood with swords drawn, but did not immediately pursue the attack. Tanis Half-Elven was a powerful force in the land, and Caramon Majere a respected and popular hero. The knights looked uneasily to their commander for orders.
Sir Wilhelm was struggling to regain his feet. For him, the answer was obvious. “The other two have been subverted by evil! They are all the servants of the Dark Queen. Seize all three!”
The knights leapt to the attack. Steel fought well; he was young, skilled, and had been waiting for just such a contest all his life. His eyes gleamed and his blade flashed in the torchlight. But the young Knights of Solamnia were his equals. Now that they could see the evil in their midst, their eyes shone with a holy light; they were defending their honor, avenging sacrilege. Four of them surrounded Steel, intent on capturing him alive, determined to wound him, not kill him.
Blades clashed. Bodies heaved and shoved. Soon, Steel was bleeding from a gash across his forehead. Two of the knights were also blooded, but they fought with renewed strength and fervor. They backed Steel up against the catafalque.
Tanis did what he could to help, but he hadn’t wielded a sword in anger in many years. Caramon was huffing and wheezing and grunting, sweat rolling off the big man’s head. He was getting in one blow to his opponent’s six, but Caramon—with his size and strength—always managed to make that one blow count. His sword rang like a hammer falling on an anvil.
All three were trying to fight their way through to the stairs, but the knights were equally intent on cutting off this escape route. Fortunately, Sir Wilhelm had not thought of sending one of the knights for reinforcements. Probably he was hoping for the glory of capturing the Dark Queen’s paladin himself. Either that, or he didn’t dare risk reducing the size of his small force.
“If we can make it up the stairs,” Tanis said to Caramon, as the two fought side-by-side, “we can rush the main gate. There were only two guards there. And after that …”
“Let’s just … get that far!” Caramon was leaning on the side of the catafalque, still fighting gamely, though the big man was gasping for breath. “Damn heavy … chain mail!”
Tanis could no longer see Steel; he was encircled by a wall of silver armor. But Tanis could hear the ring of the young man’s sword and could tell, by the numerous fresh wounds on the Knights of Solamnia, that Steel was still battling. He would keep fighting until they cut him down. He would never let himself be taken alive.
He wouldn’t disgrace the memory of his father.
Every muscle in Tanis’s body ached. Fortunately, his opponent, a young knight, was in such awe of the great hero that he was fighting only halfheartedly. Sir Wilhelm was looking exasperated. This battle should have been over by now. He glanced at the stairs. Now he was going to raise the alarm, shout for reinforcements.
If that happened, they were doomed.
“Sturm Brightblade,” Tanis said softly, “you got us into this. The least you can do is help get us out!”
The iron doors, decorated with Paladine’s symbol, stood open at the top of the stairs. It might have been a freakish prank of nature, or it might have been the breath of the god. Suddenly, a great gust of wind blasted through the door, blew out the torches as if they’d been candles, and plunged the tomb into darkness, Lifting the dust of centuries, the wind tossed dirt into the faces of the Solamnic Knights.
Sir Wilhelm, in the act of drawing a deep breath to call for help, sucked in a great cloud of dust. He began to choke and cough. The knights staggered around blindly, their eyes filled with grit, their mouths coated.
Oddly, the dust didn’t affect Tanis. He located Steel in the darkness by the faint white light gleaming from beneath his breastplate. Grabbing hold of the young paladin, who was raising his sword over his suddenly disadvantaged foe, Tanis yelled in the young man’s ear.
“Let’s get out of here!”
<
br /> He thought for a minute he was going to face an argument—Sturm would have argued—but then Steel flashed Tanis a grin—a crooked grin, Kitiara’s crooked grin. Sword in hand, he ran for the stairs. Tanis found Caramon by the sound of heavy breathing.
Resting his hand on the big man’s shoulder, Tanis said, “The stairs, our only chance. Can you make it?”
Caramon nodded—too spent to talk—and started lumbering after Steel. On his way past the catafalque, Tanis rested his hand lightly, briefly, on the antique armor.
“Thank you, my friend,” Tanis whispered.
They clamored up the staircase. Bursting through the iron doors, Steel headed for the main gate. The fire of battle shone in his dark eyes. Tanis caught hold of him and nearly pulled the eager young man off his feet. Steel glared at him in fury and struggled to free himself.
Tanis held the young man fast. “Caramon, the doors!”
Caramon grabbed hold of the iron doors, swung them shut, then glanced hurriedly around for something to keep them shut. Several heavy marble blocks being used in repair work stood nearby. Heaving and grunting, Caramon shoved one of the blocks against the doors, just as footsteps could be heard stumbling up the stairs. A blow hit the iron doors, but they didn’t budge.
Blows and muffled shouts came from inside the Chamber of Paladine. It would be only a matter of moments before someone heard.
“Now, we go,” said Tanis to the young man. “Try to look as if nothing has happen—Oh, forget it.”
Caramon was red in the face, huffing and puffing like an enraged bull. Tanis’s shirt sleeves hung in ribbons around his left arm; he was bleeding from a wound he never knew he’d taken. Steel’s head was bloodied, his armor dented and scratched.
And, Tanis thought, I have the feeling no one will ever again mistake a Knight of Takhisis for a Knight of Solamnia.
He was right. The three had no sooner reached the main gate when there came a trumpet call behind them. It was the alarm, the call to arms. The knights guarding the gate jumped to action, immediately began to take defensive measures.
The Second Generation Page 9