Dragons of Winter Night

by Margaret Weis

  “To the Abyss with the Measure!” Sturm snarled, his patience snapping. “Where has the Measure gotten us? Divided, jealous, crazed! Even our own people prefer to treat with the armies of our enemies! The Measure has failed!”

  A deathly hush settled over the knights in the courtyard, broken only by the restless pawing of a horse or the jingle of armor as here and there a man shifted in his saddle.

  “Pray for my death, Sturm Brightblade,” Derek said softly, “or by the gods I’ll slit your throat at your execution myself!” Without another word, he wheeled his horse around and cantered to the head of the column.

  “Open the gates!” he called.

  The morning sun climbed above the smoke, rising into the blue sky. The winds blew from the north, fluttering the flag flying bravely from the top of the Tower. Armor flashed. There was a clatter of swords against shields and the sound of a trumpet call as men rushed to open the thick wooden gates.

  Derek raised his sword high in the air. Lifting his voice in the Knight’s salute to the enemy, he galloped forward. The knights behind him picked up his ringing challenge and rode forth out onto the fields where—long ago—Huma had ridden to glorious victory. The footmen marched, their footsteps beating a tattoo upon the stone pavement. For a moment, Lord Alfred seemed about to speak to Sturm and the young knights who stood watching. But he only shook his head and rode away.

  The gates swung shut behind him. The heavy iron bar was dropped down to lock them securely. The men in Sturm’s command ran to the battlements to watch.

  Sturm stood silently in the center of the courtyard, his gaunt face expressionless.

  The young and handsome commander of the dragonarmies in the Dark Lady’s absence was just waking to breakfast and the start of another boring day when a scout galloped into camp.

  Commander Bakaris glared at the scout in disgust. The man was riding through camp wildly, his horse scattering cooking pots and goblins. Draconian guards leaped to their feet, shaking their fists and cursing. But the scout ignored them.

  “The Highlord!” he called, sliding off his horse in front of the tent. “I must see the Highlord.”

  “The Highlord’s gone,” said the commander’s aide.

  “I’m in charge,” snapped Bakaris. “What’s your business?”

  The ranger looked around quickly, not wanting to make a mistake. But there was no sign of the dread Dark Lady or the big blue dragon she rode.

  “The Knights have taken the field!”

  “What?” The commander’s jaw sagged. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes!” The scout was practically incoherent. “Saw them! Hundreds on horseback! Javelins, swords. A thousand foot.”

  “She was right!” Bakaris swore softly to himself in admiration. “The fools have made their mistake!”

  Calling for his servants, he hurried back to his tent. “Sound the alarm,” he ordered, rattling off instructions. “Have the captains here in five minutes for final orders.” His hands shook in eagerness as he strapped on his armor. “And send the wyvern to Flotsam with word for the Highlord.”

  Goblin servants ran off in all directions, and soon blaring horn calls were echoing throughout the camp. The commander cast one last, quick glance at the map on his table, then left to meet with his officers.

  “Too bad,” he reflected coolly as he walked away. “The fight will probably be over by the time she gets the news. A pity. She would have wanted to be present at the fall of the High Clerist’s Tower. Still,” he reflected, “perhaps tomorrow night we’ll sleep in Palanthas, she and I.”

  12

  Death on the plains.

  Tasslehoff’s discovery.

  The sun climbed high in the sky. The knights stood upon the battlements of the Tower, staring out across the plains until their eyes ached. All they could see was a great tide of black, crawling figures swarming over the fields, ready to engulf the slender spear of gleaming silver that advanced steadily to meet it.

  The armies met. The knights strained to see, but a misty gray veil crept across the land. The air became tainted with a foul smell, like hot iron. The mist grew thicker, almost totally obscuring the sun.

  Now they could see nothing. The Tower seemed afloat on a sea of fog. The heavy mist even deadened sound, for at first they heard the clash of weapons and the cries of the dying. But even that faded, and all was silent.

  The day wore on. Laurana, pacing restlessly in her darkening chamber, lit candles that sputtered and flickered in the foul air. The kender sat with her. Looking down from her tower window, Laurana could see Sturm and Flint, standing on the battlements below her, reflected in ghostly torchlight.

  A servant brought her the bit of maggoty bread and dried meat that was her ration for the day. It must be only mid-afternoon, she realized. Then movement down on the battlements caught her attention. She saw a man dressed in mud-splattered leather approach Sturm. A messenger, she thought. Hurriedly, she began to strap on her armor.

  “Coming?” she asked Tas, thinking suddenly that the kender had been awfully quiet. “A messenger’s arrived from Palanthas!”

  “I guess,” Tas said without interest.

  Laurana frowned, hoping he wasn’t growing weak from lack of food. But Tas shook his head at her concern.

  “I’m all right,” he mumbled. “Just this stupid gray air.”

  Laurana forgot about him as she hurried down the stairs.

  “News?” she asked Sturm, who peered over the walls in a vain effort to see out onto the field of battle. “I saw the messenger—”

  “Oh, yes.” He smiled wearily. “Good news, I suppose. The road to Palanthas is open. The snow melted enough to get through. I have a rider standing by to take a message to Palanthas in case we are def—” He stopped abruptly, then drew a deep breath. “I want you to be ready to go back to Palanthas with him.”

  Laurana had been expecting this and her answer was prepared. But now that the time had come for her speech, she could not give it. The bitter air dried her mouth, her tongue seemed swollen. No, that wasn’t it, she chided herself. She was frightened. Admit it. She wanted to go back to Palanthas! She wanted to get out of this grim place where death lurked in the shadows. Clenching her fist, she beat her gloved hand nervously on the stone, gathering her courage.

  “I’m staying here, Sturm,” she said. After pausing to get her voice under control, she continued, “I know what you’re going to say, so listen to me first. You’re going to need all the skilled fighters you can get. You know my worth.”

  Sturm nodded. What she said was true. There were few in his command more accurate with a bow. She was a trained swordsman, as well. She was battle-tested—something he couldn’t say about many of the young knights under his command. So he nodded in agreement. He meant to send her away anyhow.

  “I am the only one trained to use the dragonlance—”

  “Flint’s been trained,” Sturm interrupted quietly.

  Laurana fixed the dwarf with a penetrating stare.

  Caught between two people he loved and admired, Flint flushed and cleared his throat. “That’s true,” he said huskily, “but—uh—I—must admit—er, Sturm, that I am a bit short.”

  “We’ve seen no sign of dragons, anyhow,” Sturm said as Laurana flashed him a triumphant glance. “The reports say they’re south of us, fighting for control of Thelgaard.”

  “But you believe the dragons are on the way, don’t you?” Laurana returned.

  Sturm appeared uncomfortable. “Perhaps,” he muttered.

  “You can’t lie, Sturm, so don’t start now. I’m staying. It’s what Tanis would do—”

  “Damn it, Laurana!” Sturm said, his face flushed. “Live your own life! You can’t be Tanis! I can’t be Tanis! He isn’t here! We’ve got to face that!” The knight turned away suddenly. “He isn’t here,” he repeated harshly.

  Flint sighed, glancing sorrowfully at Laurana. No one noticed Tasslehoff, who sat huddled miserably in a corner.

&nbs
p; Laurana put her arm around Sturm. “I know I’m not the friend Tanis is to you, Sturm. I can never take his place. But I’ll do my best to help you. That’s what I meant. You don’t have to treat me any differently from your knights—”

  “I know, Laurana,” Sturm said. Putting his arm around her, he held her close. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Sturm sighed. “And you know why I must send you away. Tanis would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

  “Yes, he would,” Laurana answered softly. “He would understand. He told me once that there comes a time when you’ve got to risk your life for something that means more than life itself. Don’t you see, Sturm? If I fled to safety, leaving my friends behind, he would say he understood. But, deep inside, he wouldn’t. Because it is so far from what he would do himself. Besides”—she smiled—“even if there were no Tanis in this world, I still could not leave my friends.”

  Sturm looked into her eyes and saw that no words of his would make any difference. Silently, he held her close. His other arm went around Flint’s shoulder and drew the dwarf near.

  Tasslehoff, bursting into tears, stood up and flung himself on them, sobbing wildly. They stared at him in astonishment.

  “Tas, what is it?” Laurana asked, alarmed.

  “It’s all my fault! I broke one! Am I doomed to go around the world breaking these things?” Tas wailed incoherently.

  “Calm down,” Sturm said, his voice stern. He gave the kender a shake. “What are you talking about?”

  “I found another one,” Tas blubbered. “Down below, in a big empty chamber.”

  “Another what, you doorknob?” Flint said in exasperation.

  “Another dragon orb!” Tas wailed.

  Night settled over the Tower like a thicker, heavier fog. The knights lighted torches, but the flame only peopled the darkness with ghosts. The knights kept silent watch from the battlements, straining to hear or see something, anything.…

  Then, when it was nearly midnight, they were startled to hear, not the victorious shouts of their comrades or the flat, blaring horns of the enemy, but the jingle of harness, the soft whinny of horses approaching the fortress.

  Rushing to the edge of the battlements, the knights shone torches down into the fog. They heard the hoofbeats slowly come to a halt. Sturm stood above the gate.

  “Who rides to the Tower of the High Clerist?” he called.

  A single torch flared below. Laurana, staring down into the misty darkness, felt her knees grow weak and grabbed the stone wall to support herself. The knights cried out in horror.

  The rider who held the flaming torch was dressed in the shining armor of an officer in the dragonarmy. He was blonde, his features handsome, cold, and cruel. He led a second horse across which were thrown two bodies—one of them headless, both bloody, mutilated.

  “I have brought back your officers,” the man said, his voice harsh and blaring. “One is quite dead, as you can see. The other, I believe, still lives. Or he did when I started on my journey. I hope he is still living, so that he can recount for you what took place upon the field of battle today. If you could even call it a battle.”

  Bathed in the glare of his own torch, the officer dismounted. He began to untie the bodies, using one hand to strip away the ropes binding them to the saddle. Then he glanced up.

  “Yes, you could kill me now. I am a fine target, even in this fog. But you won’t. You’re Knights of Solamnia”—his sarcasm was sharp—“and your honor is your life. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man returning the bodies of your leaders.” He gave the ropes a yank. The headless body slid to the ground. The officer dragged the other body off the saddle. He tossed the torch down into the snow next to the bodies. It sizzled, then went out, and the darkness swallowed him.

  “You have a surfeit of honor out there on the field,” he called. The knights could hear the leather creak, his armor clang as he remounted his horse. “I’ll give you until morning to surrender. When the sun rises, lower your flag. The Dragon Highlord will deal with you mercifully—”

  Suddenly there was the twang of a bow, the thunk of an arrow striking into flesh, and the sound of startled swearing from below them. The knights turned around to stare in astonishment at a lone figure standing on the wall, a bow in its hand.

  “I am not a knight,” Laurana called out, lowering her bow. “I am Lauralanthalasa, daughter of the Qualinesti. We elves have our own code of honor and, as I’m sure you know, I can see you quite well in this darkness. I could have killed you. As it is, I believe you will have some difficulty using that arm for a long time. In fact, you may never hold a sword again.”

  “Take that as our answer to your Highlord,” Sturm said harshly. “We will lie cold in death before we lower our flag!”

  “Indeed you will!” the officer said through teeth clenched in pain. The sound of galloping hooves was lost in the darkness.

  “Bring in the bodies,” Sturm ordered.

  Cautiously, the knights opened the gates. Several rushed out to cover the others who gently lifted the bodies and bore them inside. Then the guard retreated back into the fortress and bolted the gates behind them.

  Sturm knelt in the snow beside the body of the headless knight. Lifting the man’s hand, he removed a ring from the stiff, cold fingers. The knight’s armor was battered and black with blood. Dropping the lifeless hand back into the snow, Sturm bowed his head. “Lord Alfred,” he said tonelessly.

  “Sir,” said one of the young knights, “the other is Lord Derek. The foul dragon officer was right—he is still alive.”

  Sturm rose and walked over to where Derek lay on the cold stone. The lord’s face was white, his eyes wide and glittering feverishly. Blood caked his lips, his skin was clammy. One of the young knights supporting him, held a cup of water to his lips, but Derek could not drink.

  Sick with horror, Sturm saw Derek’s hand was pressed over his stomach, where his life’s blood was welling out, but not fast enough to end the agonizing pain. Giving a ghastly smile, Derek clutched Sturm’s arm with a bloody hand.

  “Victory!” he croaked. “They ran before us and we pursued! It was glorious, glorious! And I—I will be Grand Master!” He choked and blood spewed from his mouth as he fell back into the arms of the young knight, who looked up at Sturm, his youthful face hopeful.

  “Do you suppose he’s right, sir? Maybe that was a ruse—” His voice died at the sight of Sturm’s grim face, and he looked back at Derek with pity. “He’s mad, isn’t he, sir?”

  “He’s dying—bravely—like a true knight,” Sturm said.

  “Victory!” Derek whispered, then his eyes fixed in his head and he gazed sightlessly into the fog.

  “No, you mustn’t break it,” said Laurana.

  “But Fizban said—”

  “I know what he said,” Laurana replied impatiently. “It isn’t evil, it isn’t good, it’s not anything, it’s everything. That”—she muttered—“is so like Fizban!”

  She and Tas stood in front of the dragon orb. The orb rested on its stand in the center of the round room, still covered with dust except for the spot Tas had rubbed clean. The room was dark and eerily silent, so quiet, in fact, that Tas and Laurana felt compelled to whisper.

  Laurana stared at the orb, her brow creased in thought. Tas stared at Laurana unhappily, afraid he knew what she was thinking.

  “These orbs have to work, Tas!” Laurana said finally. “They were created by powerful magic-users! People like Raistlin who do not tolerate failure. If only we knew how—”

  “I know how,” Tas said in a broken whisper.

  “What?” Laurana asked. “You know! Why didn’t you—”

  “I didn’t know I knew—so to speak,” Tas stammered. “It just came to me. Gnosh—the gnome—told me that he discovered writing inside the orb, letters that swirled around in the mist. He couldn’t read them, he said, because they were written in some sort of strange language—”

  “The language of magic.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, that’s what I said and—”

  “But that won’t help us! We can’t either of us speak it. If only Raistlin—”

  “We don’t need Raistlin,” Tas interrupted. “I can’t speak it, but I can read it. You see, I have these glasses—glasses of true seeing, Raistlin called them. They let me read languages—even the language of magic. I know because he said if he caught me reading any of his scrolls he’d turn me into a cricket and swallow me whole.”

  “And you think you can read the orb?”

  “I can try,” Tas hedged, “but, Laurana, Sturm said there probably wouldn’t be any dragons. Why should we risk even bothering with the orb? Fizban said only the most powerful magic-users dared use it.”

  “Listen to me, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” Laurana said softly, kneeling down beside the kender and staring him straight in the eye. “If they bring even one dragon here, we’re finished. That’s why they gave us time to surrender instead of just storming the place. They’re using the extra time to bring in dragons. We must take this chance!”

  A dark path and a light path. Tasslehoff remembered Fizban’s words and hung his head. Death of those you love, but you have the courage.

  Slowly Tas reached into the pocket of his fleecy vest, pulled out the glasses, and fit the wire frames over his pointed ears.

  13

  The sun rises.

  Darkness descends.

  The fog lifted with the coming of morning. The day dawned bright and clear—so clear that Sturm, walking the battlements, could see the snow-covered grasslands of his birthplace near Vingaard Keep—lands now completely controlled by the dragonarmies. The sun’s first rays struck the flag of the Knights—kingfisher beneath a golden crown, holding a sword decorated with a rose in his claws. The golden emblem glittered in the morning light. Then Sturm heard the harsh, blaring horns.

  The dragonarmies marched upon the Tower at dawn.

  The young knights—the hundred or so that were left—stood silently on the battlements watching as the vast army crawled across the land with the inexorability of devouring insects.