“My boots,” she said to Tanis, smiling.
Swallowing, giving her a weak smile in return, Tanis gripped her leg in his hands. This had been an old game of theirs, him taking off her boots. It had always led to—Tanis tried to keep himself from thinking about that!
“Bring us a bottle of your finest wine,” Kitiara told the hovering innkeeper, “and two glasses.” She raised her other leg, her brown eyes on Tanis. “Then leave us alone.”
“But—my lord—” the innkeeper said hesitantly, “there have been messages from Dragon Highlord Ariakas.…”
“If you show your face in this room—after you bring the wine—I’ll cut off your ears,” Kitiara said pleasantly. But, as she spoke, she drew a gleaming dagger from her belt.
The innkeeper turned pale, nodded, and left hurriedly.
Kit laughed. “There!” she said, wiggling her toes in their blue silken hose. “Now, I’ll take off your boots—”
“I—I really must go,” Tanis said, sweating beneath his armor. “My c-company commander will be missing me …”
“But I’m commander of your company!” Kit said gaily. “And tomorrow you’ll be commander of your company. Or higher, if you like. Now, sit down.”
Tanis could do nothing but obey, knowing, however, that in his heart he wanted to do nothing but obey.
“It’s so good to see you,” Kit said, kneeling before him and tugging at his boot. “I’m sorry I missed the reunion in Solace. How is everyone? How is Sturm? Probably fighting with the Knights, I suppose. I’m not surprised you two separated. That was one friendship I never could understand—”
Kitiara talked on, but Tanis ceased to listen. He could only look at her. He had forgotten how lovely she was, how sensual, inviting. Desperately he concentrated on his own danger. But all he could think of were nights of bliss spent with Kitiara.
At that moment, Kit looked up into his eyes. Caught and held by the passion she saw in them, she let his boot slip from her hands. Involuntarily, Tanis reached out and drew her near. Kitiara slid her hand around his neck and pressed her lips against his.
At her touch, the desires and longings that had tormented Tanis for five years surged through his body. Her fragrance, warm and womanly—mingled with the smell of leather and steel. Her kiss was like flame. The pain was unbearable. Tanis knew only one way to end it.
When the innkeeper knocked on the door, he received no answer. Shaking his head in admiration—this was the third man in as many days—he set the wine upon the floor and left.
“And now,” Kitiara murmured sleepily, lying in Tanis’s arms. “Tell me about my little brothers. Are they with you? The last I saw them, you were escaping from Tarsis with that elf woman.”
“That was you!” Tanis said, remembering the blue dragons.
“Of course!” Kit cuddled nearer. “I like the beard,” she said, stroking his face. “It hides those weak elvish features. How did you get into the army?”
How indeed? thought Tanis frantically.
“We … were captured in Silvanesti. One of the officers convinced me I was a fool to fight the D-Dark Queen.”
“And my little brothers?”
“We—we were separated,” Tanis said weakly.
“A pity,” Kit said with a sigh. “I’d like to see them again. Caramon must be a giant by now. And Raistlin—I hear he is quite a skilled mage. Still wearing the Red Robes?”
“I—I guess,” Tanis muttered. “I haven’t seen him—”
“That won’t last long,” Kit said complacently. “He’s like me. Raist always craved power …”
“What about you?” Tanis interrupted quickly. “What are you doing here, so far from the action? The fighting’s north—”
“Why, I’m here for the same reason you are,” Kit answered, opening her eyes wide. “Searching for the Green Gemstone Man, of course.”
“That’s where I’ve seen him before!” Tanis said, memories flooding his mind. The man on the Perechon! The man in Pax Tharkas, escaping with poor Eben. The man with the green gemstone embedded in the center of his chest.
“You’ve found him!” Kitiara said, sitting up eagerly. “Where, Tanis? Where?” Her brown eyes glittered.
“I’m not sure,” Tanis said, faltering. “I’m not sure it was him. I—we were just given a rough description.…”
“He looks about fifty in human years,” Kit said in excitement, “but he has strange, young eyes, and his hands are young. And in the flesh of his chest is a green gemstone. We had reports he was sighted in Flotsam. That’s why the Dark Queen sent me here. He’s the key, Tanis! Find him—and no force on Krynn can stop us!”
“Why?” Tanis made himself ask calmly. “What’s he got that’s so essential to—uh—our side winning this war?”
“Who knows?” Shrugging her slender shoulders, Kit lay back in Tanis’s arms. “You’re shivering. Here, this will warm you.” She kissed his neck, running her hands over his body. “We were just told the most important thing we could do to end this war in one swift stroke is to find this man.”
Tanis swallowed, feeling himself warming to her touch.
“Just think,” Kitiara whispered in his ear, her breath hot and moist against his skin, “if we found him—you and I—we would have all of Krynn at our feet! The Dark Queen would reward us beyond anything we ever dreamed! You and I, together always, Tanis. Let’s go now!”
Her words echoed in his mind. The two of them, together, forever. Ending the war. Ruling Krynn. No, he thought, feeling his throat constrict. This is madness! Insanity! My people, my friends.… Yet, haven’t I done enough? What do I owe any of them, humans or elves? Nothing! They are the ones who have hurt me, derided me! All these years, a cast-out. Why think about them? Me! It’s time I thought about me for a change! This is the woman I’ve dreamed of for so long. And she can be mine! Kitiara … so beautiful, so desirable …
“No!” Tanis said harshly, then, “No,” he said more gently. Reaching out his hand, he pulled her back near him. “Tomorrow will do. If it was him, he isn’t going anywhere. I know.…”
Kitiara smiled and, with a sigh, lay back down. Tanis, bending over her, kissed her passionately. Far away, he could hear the waves of the Blood Sea of Istar crashing on the shore.
10
The High Clerist’s Tower.
The knighting.
By morning, the storm over Solamnia had blown itself out. The sun rose, a disk of pale gold that warmed nothing. The knights who stood watch upon the battlements of the Tower of the High Clerist went thankfully to their beds, talking of the wonders they had seen during the awful night, for such a storm as this had not been known in the lands of Solamnia since the days after the Cataclysm. Those who took over the watch from their fellow knights were nearly as weary; no one had slept.
Now they looked out upon a plain covered with snow and ice. Here and there the landscape was dotted with flickering flames where trees, blasted by the jagged lightning that had streaked out of the sky during the blizzard, burned eerily. But it was not to those strange flames the eyes of the knights turned as they ascended the battlements. It was to the flames that burned upon the horizon—hundreds and hundreds of flames, filling the clear, cold air with their foul smoke.
The campfires of war. The campfires of the dragonarmies.
One thing stood between the Dragon Highlord and victory in Solamnia. That “thing” (as the Highlord often referred to it) was the Tower of the High Clerist. Built long ago by Vinas Solamnus, founder of the Knights, in the only pass through the snow-capped, cloud-shrouded Vingaard Mountains, the Tower protected Palanthas, capital city of Solamnia, and the harbor known as the Gates of Paladine. Let the Tower fall, and Palanthas would belong to the dragonarmies. It was a soft city—a city of wealth and beauty, a city that had turned its back upon the world to gaze with admiring eyes into its own mirror.
With Palanthas in her hands and the harbor under her control, the Highlord could easily starve the rest of Solamnia in
to submission and then wipe out the troublesome Knights.
The Dragon Highlord, called the Dark Lady by her troops, was not in camp this day. She was gone on secret business to the east. But she had left loyal and able commanders behind her, commanders who would do anything to win her favor.
Of all the Dragon Highlords, the Dark Lady was known to sit highest in the regard of her Dark Queen. And so the troops of draconians, goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, and humans sat around their campfires, staring at the Tower with hungry eyes, longing to attack and earn her commendation.
The Tower was defended by a large garrison of Knights of Solamnia who had marched out from Palanthas only a few weeks ago. Legend recalled that the Tower had never fallen while men of faith held it, dedicated as it was to the High Clerist—that position which, second only to the Grand Master, was most revered in the Knighthood.
The clerics of Paladine had lived in the High Clerist’s Tower during the Age of Dreams. Here young knights had come for their religious training and indoctrination. There were still many traces of the clerics’ presence left behind.
It wasn’t only fear of the legend that forced the dragonarmies to sit idle. It didn’t take a legend to tell their commanders that taking this tower was going to be costly.
“Time is in our favor,” stated the Dark Lady before she left. “Our spies tell us the knights have received little help from Palanthas. We’ve cut off their supplies from Vingaard Keep to the east. Let them sit in their tower and starve. Sooner or later their impatience and their stomachs will cause them to make a mistake. When they do, we will be ready.”
“We could take it with a flight of dragons,” muttered a young commander. His name was Bakaris, and his bravery in battle and his handsome face had done much to advance him in the Dark Lady’s favor. She eyed him speculatively, however, as she prepared to mount her blue dragon, Skie.
“Perhaps not,” she said coolly. “You’ve heard the reports of the discovery of the ancient weapon—the dragonlance?”
“Bah! Children’s stories!” The young commander laughed as he assisted her onto Skie’s back. The blue dragon stood glaring at the handsome commander with fierce, fiery eyes.
“Never discount children’s stories,” the Dark Lady said, “for these were the same tales that were told of dragons.” She shrugged. “Do not worry, my pet. If my mission to capture the Green Gemstone Man is successful, we will not need to attack the Tower, for its destruction will be assured. If not, perhaps I will bring you that flight of dragons you ask for.”
With that, the giant blue lifted his wings and sailed off toward the east, heading for a small and wretched town called Flotsam on the Blood Sea of Istar.
And so the dragonarmies waited, warm and comfortable around their fires, while—as the Dark Lady had predicted—the knights in their Tower starved. But far worse than the lack of food was the bitter dissension within their own ranks.
The young knights under Sturm Brightblade’s command had grown to revere their disgraced leader during the hard months that followed their departure from Sancrist. Although melancholy and often aloof, Sturm’s honesty and integrity won him his men’s respect and admiration. It was a costly victory, causing Sturm a great deal of suffering at Derek’s hands. A less noble man might have turned a blind eye to Derek’s political maneuvers, or at least kept his mouth shut (as did Lord Alfred), but Sturm spoke out against Derek constantly—even though he knew it worsened his own cause with the powerful knight.
It was Derek who had completely alienated the people of Palanthas. Already distrustful, filled with old hatreds and bitterness, the people of the beautiful, quiet city were alarmed and angered by Derek’s threats when they refused to allow the Knights to garrison the city. It was only through Sturm’s patient negotiations that the knights received any supplies at all.
The situation did not improve when the knights reached the High Clerist’s Tower. The disruption among the knights lowered the morale of the footmen, already suffering from a lack of food. Soon the Tower itself became an armed camp—the majority of knights who favored Derek were now openly opposed by those siding with Lord Gunthar, led by Sturm. It was only because of the knights’ strict obedience to the Measure that fights within the Tower itself had not yet broken out. But the demoralizing sight of the dragonarmies camped nearby, as well as the lack of food, led to frayed tempers and taut nerves.
Too late, Lord Alfred realized their danger. He bitterly regretted his own folly in supporting Derek, for he could see clearly now that Derek Crownguard was going insane.
The madness grew on him daily; Derek’s lust for power ate away at him and deprived him of his reason. But Lord Alfred was powerless to act. So locked into their rigid structure were the knights that it would take—according to the Measure—months of Knights Councils to strip Derek of his rank.
News of Sturm’s vindication struck this dry and crackling forest like a bolt of lightning. As Gunthar had foreseen, this completely shattered Derek’s hopes. What Gunthar had not foreseen was that this would sever Derek’s tenuous hold on sanity.
On the morning following the storm, the eyes of the guards turned for a moment from their vigilance over the dragonarmies to look down into the courtyard of the Tower of the High Clerist. The sun filled the gray sky with a chill, pale light that was reflected in the coldly gleaming armor of the Knights of Solamnia as they assembled in the solemn ceremony awarding knighthood.
Above them, the flags with the Knight’s Crest seemed frozen upon the battlements, hanging lifeless in the still, cold air. Then a trumpet’s pure notes split the air, stirring the blood. At that clarion call, the knights lifted their heads proudly and marched into the courtyard.
Lord Alfred stood in the center of a circle of knights. Dressed in his battle armor, his red cape fluttering from his shoulders, he held an antique sword in an old, battered scabbard. The kingfisher, the rose, and the crown—ancient symbols of the Knighthood—were entwined upon the scabbard. The lord cast a swift, hopeful gaze around the assembly, but then lowered his eyes, shaking his head.
Lord Alfred’s worst fears were realized. He had hoped bleakly that this ceremony might reunite the knights. But it was having the opposite effect. There were great gaps in the Sacred Circle, gaps that the knights in attendance stared at uncomfortably. Derek and his entire command were absent.
The trumpet call sounded twice more, then silence fell upon the assembled knights. Sturm Brightblade, dressed in long, white robes, stepped out of the Chapel of the High Clerist where he had spent the night in solemn prayer and meditation as prescribed by the Measure. Accompanying him was an unusual Guard of Honor.
Beside Sturm walked an elven woman, her beauty shining in the bleakness of the day like the sun dawning in the spring. Behind her walked an old dwarf, the sunlight bright on his white hair and beard. Next to the dwarf came a kender dressed in bright blue leggings.
The circle of knights opened to admit Sturm and his escorts. They came to a halt before Lord Alfred. Laurana, holding his helm in her hands, stood on his right. Flint, carrying his shield, stood on his left, and after a poke in the ribs from the dwarf—Tasslehoff hurried forward with the knight’s spurs.
Sturm bowed his head. His long hair, already streaked with gray though he was only in his early thirties, fell about his shoulders. He stood a moment in silent prayer, then, at a sign from Lord Alfred, fell reverently to his knees.
“Sturm Brightblade,” Lord Alfred declared solemnly, opening a sheet of paper, “the Knights Council, on hearing testimony given by Lauralanthalasa of the royal family of Qualinesti and further testimony by Flint Fireforge, hill dwarf of Solace township, has granted you Vindication from the charges brought against you. In recognition of your deeds of bravery and courage as related by these witnesses, you are hereby declared a Knight of Solamnia.” Lord Alfred’s voices softened as he looked down upon the knight. Tears streamed unchecked down Sturm’s gaunt cheeks. “You have spent the night in prayer, Sturm Brightblade,” Alf
red said quietly. “Do you consider yourself worthy of this great honor?”
“No, my lord,” Sturm answered, according to ancient ritual, “but I most humbly accept it and vow that I shall devote my life to making myself worthy.” The knight lifted his eyes to the sky. “With Paladine’s help,” he said softly, “I shall do so.”
Lord Alfred had been through many such ceremonies, but he could not recall such fervent dedication in a man’s face.
“I wish Tanis were here,” Flint muttered gruffly to Laurana, who only nodded briefly.
She stood tall and straight, wearing armor specially made for her in Palanthas at Lord Gunthar’s command. Her honey-colored hair streamed from beneath a silver helm. Intricate gold designs glinted on her breastplate, her soft black leather skirt—slit up the side to allow freedom of movement—brushed the tips of her boots. Her face was pale and grim, for the situation in Palanthas and in the Tower itself was dark and seemingly without hope.
She could have returned to Sancrist. She had been ordered to, in fact. Lord Gunthar had received a secret communique from Lord Alfred relating the desperate straits the knights were in, and he had sent Laurana orders to cut short her stay.
But she had chosen to remain, at least for a while. The people of Palanthas had received her politely—she was, after all, of royal blood and they were charmed with her beauty. They were also quite interested in the dragonlance and asked for one to exhibit in their museum. But when Laurana mentioned the dragonarmies, they only shrugged and smiled.
Then Laurana found out from a messenger what was happening in the High Clerist’s Tower. The knights were under siege. A dragonarmy numbering in the thousands waited upon the field. The knights needed the dragonlances, Laurana decided, and there was no one but her to take the lances to the knights and teach them their use. She ignored Lord Gunthar’s command to return to Sancrist.
The journey from Palanthas to the Tower was nightmarish. Laurana started out accompanying two wagons filled with meager supplies and the precious dragonlances. The first wagon bogged down in snow only a few miles outside of the city. Its contents were redistributed between the few knights riding escort, Laurana and her party, and the second wagon. It, too, foundered. Time and again they dug it out of the snow drifts until, finally, it was mired fast. Loading the food and the lances onto their horses, the knights and Laurana, Flint, and Tas walked the rest of the way. Theirs was the last group to make it through. After the storm of last night, Laurana knew, as did everyone in the Tower, no more supplies would be coming. The road to Palanthas was now impassable.
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