Dragons of Winter Night

by Margaret Weis

  After her song ended, and the plaintive wailing of the flute died, most in the crowd shook their heads, seeming to wake from a pleasant dream. When asked what the song had been about, they couldn’t say. The draconians shrugged and called for more ale. The goblins shouted for Tika to dance again. But, here and there, Tanis noticed a face still holding the wonder it had worn during the song. And he was not surprised to see a young, dark-skinned woman approach Goldmoon shyly.

  “I ask your pardon for disturbing you, my lady,” Tanis overheard the woman say, “but your song touched me deeply. I—I want to learn of the ancient gods, to learn their ways.”

  Goldmoon smiled. “Come to me tomorrow,” she said, “and I shall teach you what I know.”

  And thus, slowly, word of the ancient gods began to spread. By the time they left Port Balifor, the dark-skinned woman, a soft-voiced young man, and several other people wore the blue medallion of Mishakal, Goddess of Healing. Secretly they went forth, bringing hope to the dark and troubled land.

  By the end of the month, the companions were able to buy a wagon, horses to pull it, horses to ride, and supplies. What was left went toward purchase of ship’s passage to Sancrist. They planned to add to their money by performing in the small farming communities between Port Balifor and Flotsam.

  When the Red Wizard left Port Balifor shortly before the Yuletide season, his wagon was seen on its way by enthusiastic crowds. Packed with their costumes, supplies for two months, and a keg of ale (provided by William), the wagon was big enough for Raistlin to sleep and travel inside. It also held the multi-colored, striped tents in which the others would live.

  Tanis glanced around at the strange sight they made, shaking his head. It seemed that—in the midst of everything else that had happened to them—this was the most bizarre. He looked at Raistlin sitting beside his brother, who drove the wagon. The mage’s red-sequined robes blazed like flame in the bright winter sunlight. Shoulders hunched against the wind, Raistlin stared straight ahead, wrapped in a show of mystery that delighted the crowd. Caramon, dressed in a bearskin suit (a present of William’s), had pulled the head of the bear over his own, making it look as though a bear drove the wagon. The children cheered as he growled at them in mock ferocity.

  They were nearly out of town when a draconian commander stopped them. Tanis, his heart caught in his throat, rode forward, his hand pressed against his sword. But the commander only wanted to make certain they passed through Bloodwatch where draconian troops were located. The draconian had mentioned the show to a friend. The troops were looking forward to seeing it. Tanis, inwardly vowing not to set foot near the place, promised faithfully that they would certainly appear.

  Finally they reached the city gates. Climbing down from their mounts, they bid farewell to their friend. William gave them each a hug, starting with Tika and ending with Tika. He was going to hug Raistlin, but the mage’s golden eyes widened so alarmingly when William approached that the innkeeper backed away precipitously.

  The companions climbed back onto their horses. Raistlin and Caramon returned to the wagon. The crowd cheered and urged them to return for the spring Harrowing celebration. The guards opened the gates, bidding them a safe journey, and the companions rode through. The gates shut behind them.

  The wind blew chill. Gray clouds above them began to spit snow fitfully. The road, which they were assured was well traveled, stretched before them, bleak and empty. Raistlin began to shiver and cough. After awhile, he said he would ride inside the wagon. The rest pulled their hoods up over their heads and clutched their fur cloaks more closely about them.

  Caramon, guiding the horses along the rutted, muddy road, appeared unusually thoughtful.

  “You know, Tanis,” he said solemnly above the jingling of the bells Tika had tied to the horses’ manes, “I’m more thankful than I can tell that none of our friends saw this. Can you hear what Flint would say? That grumbling old dwarf would never let me live this down. And can you imagine Sturm!” The big man shook his head, the thought being beyond words.

  Yes, Tanis sighed. I can imagine Sturm. Dear friend, I never realized how much I depended on you—your courage, your noble spirit. Are you alive, my friend? Did you reach Sancrist safely? Are you now the knight in body that you have always been in spirit? Will we meet again, or have we parted never to meet in this life—as Raistlin predicted?

  The group rode on. The day grew darker, the storm wilder. Riverwind dropped back to ride beside Goldmoon. Tika tied her horse behind the wagon and crawled up to sit near Caramon. Inside the wagon, Raistlin slept.

  Tanis rode alone, his head bowed, his thoughts far away.

  2

  The Knights Trials.

  And—finally,” said Derek in a low and measured voice, “I accuse Sturm Brightblade of cowardice in the face of the enemy.”

  A low murmur ran through the assemblage of knights gathered in the castle of Lord Gunthar. Three knights, seated at the massive black oak table in front of the assembly, leaned their heads together to confer in low tones.

  Long ago, the three seated at this Knights Trials—as prescribed by the Measure—would have been the Grand Master, the High Clerist, and the High Justice. But at this time there was no Grand Master. There had not been a High Clerist since the time of the Cataclysm. And while the High Justice—Lord Alfred MarKenin—was present, his hold on that position was tenuous at best. Whoever became the new Grand Master had leave to replace him.

  Despite these vacancies in the Head of the Order, the business of the Knights must continue. Though not strong enough to claim the coveted position of Grand Master, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan was strong enough to act in that role. And so he sat here today, at the beginning of the Yuletide season, in judgment on this young squire, Sturm Brightblade. To his right sat Lord Alfred, to his left, young Lord Michael Jeoffrey, filling in as High Clerist.

  Facing them, in the Great Hall of Castle Uth Wistan, were twenty other Knights of Solamnia who had been hastily gathered from all parts of Sancrist to sit as witnesses to this Knights Trials—as prescribed by the Measure. These now muttered and shook their heads as their leaders conferred.

  From a table directly in front of the three Knights Seated in Judgment, Lord Derek rose and bowed to Lord Gunthar. His testimony had reached its end. There remained now only the Knight’s Answer and the Judgment itself. Derek returned to his place among the other knights, laughing and talking with them.

  Only one person in the hall was silent. Sturm Brightblade sat unmoving throughout all of Lord Derek Crownguard’s damning accusations. He had heard charges of insubordination, failure to obey orders, masquerading as a knight—and not a word or murmur had escaped him. His face was carefully expressionless, his hands were clasped on the top of the table.

  Lord Gunthar’s eyes were on Sturm now, as they had been throughout the Trials. He began to wonder if the man was even still alive, so fixed and white was his face, so rigid his posture. Gunthar had seen Sturm flinch only once. At the charge of cowardice, a shudder convulsed the man’s body. The look on his face … well, Gunthar recalled seeing that same look once previously—on a man who had just been run through by a spear. But Sturm quickly regained his composure.

  Gunthar was so interested in watching Brightblade that he nearly lost track of the conversation of the two knights next to him. He caught only the end of Lord Alfred’s sentence.

  “… not allow Knight’s Answer.”

  “Why not?” Lord Gunthar asked sharply, though keeping his voice low. “It is his right according to the Measure.”

  “We have never had a case like this,” Lord Alfred, Knight of the Sword, stated flatly. “Always before, when a squire has been brought up before the Council of the Order to attain his knighthood, there have been witnesses, many witnesses. He is given an opportunity to explain his reasons for his actions. No one ever questions that he committed the acts. But Brightblade’s only defense—”

  “Is to tell us that Derek lies,” finished Lord Mi
chael Jeoffrey, Knight of the Crown. “And that is unthinkable. To take the word of a squire over a Knight of the Rose.”

  “Nonetheless, the young man will have his say,” Lord Gunthar said, glancing sternly at each of the men. “That is the Law according to the Measure. Do either of you question it?”

  “No …”

  “No, of course not. But—”

  “Very well.” Gunthar smoothed his moustaches and, leaning forward, tapped gently on the wooden table with the hilt of the sword—Sturm’s sword—that lay upon it. The other two knights exchanged looks behind his back, one raising his eyebrows, the other shrugging slightly. Gunthar was aware of this, as he was aware of all the covert scheming and plotting now pervasive in the Knighthood. He chose to ignore it.

  Not yet strong enough to claim the vacant position of Grand Master, but still the strongest and most powerful of the knights currently seated on the Council, Gunthar had been forced to ignore a great deal of what he would have—in another day and age—quashed without hesitation. He expected this disloyalty of Alfred MarKenin—the knight had long been in Derek’s camp—but he was surprised at Michael, whom he had thought loyal to him. Apparently Derek had gotten to him, too.

  Gunthar watched Derek Crownguard as the knights returned to their places. Derek was the only rival with the money and backing capable of claiming the rank of Grand Master. Hoping to earn additional votes, Derek had eagerly volunteered to undertake the perilous quest in search of the legendary dragon orbs. Gunthar was given little choice but to agree. If he had refused, he would appear frightened of Derek’s growing power. Derek was undeniably the most qualified—if one strictly followed the Measure. But Gunthar, who had known Derek a long time, would have prevented his going if he could have—not because he feared the knight but because he truly did not trust him. The man was vainglorious and power-hungry, and—when it came down to it—Derek’s first loyalties lay to Derek.

  And now it appeared that Derek’s successful return with a dragon orb had won the day. It had brought many knights into his camp who had been heading that direction anyway and actually enticed away some in Gunthar’s own faction. The only ones who opposed him still were the younger knights in the lowest order of the Knighthood—Knights of the Crown.

  These young men had little use for the strict and rigid interpretation of the Measure that was life’s blood to the older knights. They pushed for change—and had been severely chastened by Lord Derek Crownguard. Some came close to losing their knighthood. These young knights were firmly behind Lord Gunthar. Unfortunately, they were few in number and, for the most part, had more loyalty than money. The young knights had, however, adopted Sturm’s cause as their own.

  But this was Derek Crownguard’s master stroke, Gunthar thought bitterly. With one slice of his sword, Derek was going to get rid of a man he hated and his chief rival as well.

  Lord Gunthar was a well-known friend of the Brightblade family, a friendship that traced back generations. It was Gunthar who had advanced Sturm’s claim when the young man appeared out of nowhere five years before to seek his father and his inheritance. Sturm had been able, with letters from his mother, to prove his right to the Brightblade name. A few insinuated this had been accomplished on the wrong side of the sheets, but Gunthar quickly squelched those rumors. The young man was obviously the son of his old friend—that much could be seen in Sturm’s face. By backing Sturm, however, the lord was risking a great deal.

  Gunthar’s gaze went to Derek, walking among the knights, smiling and shaking hands. Yes, this trial was making him—Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan—appear a fool.

  Worse still, Gunthar thought sadly, his eyes returning to Sturm, it was probably going to destroy the career of what he believed to be a very fine man, a man worthy of walking his father’s path.

  “Sturm Brightblade,” Lord Gunthar said when silence descended on the hall, “you have heard the accusations made against you?”

  “I have, my lord,” Sturm answered. His deep voice echoed eerily in the hall. Suddenly a log in the huge fireplace behind Gunthar split, sending a flare of heat and a shower of sparks up the chimney. Gunthar paused while the servants hustled in efficiently to add more wood. When the servants were gone, he continued the ritual questioning.

  “Do you, Sturm Brightblade, understand the charges made against you, and do you further understand that these are grievous charges and could cause this Council to find you unfit for the knighthood?”

  “I do,” Sturm started to reply. His voice broke. Coughing, he repeated more firmly, “I do, my lord.”

  Gunthar smoothed his moustaches, trying to think how to lead into this, knowing that anything the young man said against Derek was going to reflect badly upon Sturm himself.

  “How old are you, Brightblade?” Gunthar asked.

  Sturm blinked at this unexpected question.

  “Over thirty, I believe?” Gunthar continued, musing.

  “Yes, my lord,” Sturm answered.

  “And, from what Derek tells us about your exploits in Ice Wall Castle, a skilled warrior—”

  “I never denied that, my lord,” Derek said, rising to his feet once again. His voice was tinged with impatience.

  “Yet you accuse him of cowardice,” Gunthar snapped. “If my memory serves me correctly, you stated that when the elves attacked, he refused to obey your order to fight.”

  Derek’s face was flushed. “May I remind your lordship that I am not on trial—”

  “You charge Brightblade with cowardice in the face of the enemy,” Gunthar interrupted. “It has been many years since the elves were our enemies.”

  Derek hesitated. The other knights appeared uncomfortable. The elves were members of the Council of Whitestone, but they were not allowed a vote. Because of the discovery of the dragon orb, the elves would be attending the upcoming Council, and it would never do to have word get back to them that the knights considered them enemies.

  “Perhaps ‘enemy’ is too strong a word, my lord.” Derek recovered smoothly. “If I am at fault, it is simply that I am being forced to go by what is written in the Measure. At the time I speak of, the elves—though not our enemies in point of fact—were doing everything in their power to prevent us from bringing the dragon orb to Sancrist. Since this was my mission—and the elves opposed it—I therefore am forced to define them as ‘enemies’—according to the Measure.”

  Slick bastard, Gunthar thought grudgingly.

  With a bow to apologize for speaking out of turn, Derek sat down again. Many of the older knights nodded in approval.

  “It also says in the Measure,” Sturm said slowly, “that we are not to take life needlessly, that we fight only in defense—either our own or the defense of others. The elves did not threaten our lives. At no time were we in actual physical danger.”

  “They were shooting arrows at you, man!” Lord Alfred struck the table with his gloved hand.

  “True, my lord,” Sturm replied, “but all know the elves are expert marksmen. If they had wanted to kill us, they would not have been hitting trees!”

  “What do you believe would have happened if you had attacked the elves?” Gunthar questioned.

  “The results would have been tragic in my view, my lord,” Sturm said, his voice soft and low. “For the first time in generations, elves and humans would be killing each other. I think the Dragon Highlords would have laughed.”

  Several of the young knights applauded.

  Lord Alfred glared at them, angry at this serious breach of the Measure’s rules of conduct. “Lord Gunthar, may I remind you that Lord Derek Crownguard is not on trial here. He has proven his valor time and again upon the field of battle. I think we may safely take his word for what is an enemy action and what isn’t. Sturm Brightblade, do you say that the charges made against you by Lord Derek Crownguard are false?”

  “My lord,” Sturm began, licking his lips which were cracked and dry, “I do not say the knight has lied. I say, however, that he has misrepresente
d me.”

  “To what purpose?” Lord Michael asked.

  Sturm hesitated. “I would prefer not to answer that, my lord,” he said so quietly that many knights in the back row could not hear and called for Gunthar to repeat the question. He did so and received the same reply—this time louder.

  “On what grounds do you refuse to answer that question, Brightblade?” Lord Gunthar asked sternly.

  “Because—according to the Measure—it impinges on the honor of the Knighthood,” Sturm replied.

  Lord Gunthar’s face was grave. “That is a serious charge. Making it, you realize you have no one to stand with you in evidence?”

  “I do, my lord,” Sturm answered, “and that is why I prefer not to respond.”

  “If I command you to speak?”

  “That, of course, would be different.”

  “Then speak, Sturm Brightblade. This is an unusual situation, and I do not see how we can make a fair judgment without hearing everything. Why do you believe Lord Derek Crownguard misrepresents you?”

  Sturm’s face flushed. Clasping and unclasping his hands, he raised his eyes and looked directly at the three knights who sat in judgment on him. His case was lost, he knew that. He would never be a knight, never attain what had been dearer to him than life itself. To have lost it through fault of his own would have been bitter enough, but to lose it like this was a festering wound. And so he spoke the words that he knew would make Derek his bitter enemy for the rest of his days.

  “I believe Lord Derek Crownguard misrepresents me in an effort to further his own ambition, my lord.”

  Tumult broke out. Derek was on his feet. His friends restrained him forcibly, or he would have attacked Sturm in the Council Hall. Gunthar banged the sword hilt for order and eventually the assembly quieted down, but not before Derek had challenged Sturm to test his honor in the field.