At first Sturm had wondered about the knight’s dying words. “They ran before us!” Why had the dragonarmy run? Then it became clear to him—the dragonmen had used the knights’ own vainglory against them in an ancient, yet simple, maneuver. Fall back before your enemy … not too fast, just let the front lines show enough fear and terror to be believable. Let them seem to break in panic. Then let your enemy charge after you, overextending his lines. And let your armies close in, surround him, and cut him to shreds.
It didn’t need the sight of the bodies—barely visible in the distant trampled, bloody snow—to tell Sturm he had judged correctly. They lay where they had tried desperately to regroup for a final stand. Not that it mattered how they died. He wondered who would look on his body when it was all over.
Flint peered out from a crack in the wall. “At least I’ll die on dry land,” the dwarf muttered.
Sturm smiled slightly, stroking his moustaches. His eyes went to the east. As he thought about dying, he looked upon the land where he’d been born—a home he had barely known, a father he barely remembered, a country that had driven his family into exile. He was about to give his life to defend that country. Why? Why didn’t he just leave and go back to Palanthas?
All of his life he had followed the Code and the Measure. The Code: Est Sularus oth Mithas—My Honor Is My Life. The Code was all he had left. The Measure was gone. It had failed. Rigid, inflexible, the Measure had encased the Knights in steel heavier than their armor. The Knights, isolated, fighting to survive, had clung to the Measure in despair—not realizing that it was an anchor, weighing them down.
Why was I different? Sturm wondered. But he knew the answer, even as he listened to the dwarf grumble. It was because of the dwarf, the kender, the mage, the half-elf.… They had taught him to see the world through other eyes: slanted eyes, smaller eyes, even hourglass eyes. Knights like Derek saw the world in stark black and white. Sturm had seen the world in all its radiant colors, in all its bleak grayness.
“It’s time,” he said to Flint. The two descended from the high lookout point just as the first of the enemy’s poison-tipped arrows arched over the walls.
With shrieks and yells, the blaring of horns, and clashing of shield and sword, the dragonarmies struck the Tower of the High Clerist as the sun’s brittle light filled the sky.
By nightfall, the flag still flew. The Tower stood.
But half its defenders were dead.
The living had no time during the day to shut the staring eyes or compose the contorted, agonized limbs. The living had all they could do to stay alive. Peace came at last with the night, as the dragonarmies withdrew to rest and wait for the morrow.
Sturm paced the battlements, his body aching with weariness. Yet every time he tried to rest, taut muscles twitched and danced, his brain seemed on fire. And so he was driven to pace again—back and forth, back and forth with slow, measured tread. He could not know that his steady pace drove the day’s horrors from the thoughts of the young knights who listened. Knights in the courtyard, laying out the bodies of friends and comrades, thinking that tomorrow someone might be doing this for them, heard Sturm’s steady pacing and felt their fears for tomorrow eased.
The ringing sound of the knight’s footfalls brought comfort to everyone, in fact, except to the knight himself. Sturm’s thoughts were dark and tormented: thoughts of defeat; thoughts of dying ignobly, without honor; tortured memories of the dream, seeing his body hacked and mutilated by the foul creatures camped beyond. Would the dream come true? he wondered, shivering. Would he falter at the end, unable to conquer fear? Would the Code fail him, as had the Measure?
Step … step … step … step …
Stop this! Sturm told himself angrily. You’ll soon be mad as poor Derek. Spinning abruptly on his heel to break his stride, the knight turned to find Laurana behind him. His eyes met hers, and the black thoughts were brightened by her light. As long as such peace and beauty as hers existed in this world there was hope. He smiled at her and she smiled back—a strained smile—but it erased lines of fatigue and worry in her face.
“Rest,” he told her. “You look exhausted.”
“I tried to sleep,” she murmured, “but I had terrible dreams—hands encased in crystal, huge dragons flying through stone hallways.” She shook her head, then sat down, exhausted, in a corner sheltered from the chill wind.
Sturm’s gaze moved to Tasslehoff, who lay beside her. The kender was fast asleep, curled into a ball. Sturm looked at him with a smile. Nothing bothered Tas. The kender’d had a truly glorious day, one that would live in his memory forever.
“I’ve never been at a siege before,” Sturm had heard Tas confide to Flint just seconds before the dwarf’s battle-axe swept off a goblin’s head.
“You know we’re all going to die,” Flint growled, wiping black blood from his axe blade.
“That’s what you said when we faced that black dragon in Xak Tsaroth,” Tas replied. “Then you said the same thing in Thorbardin, and then there was the boat—”
“This time we’re going to die!” Flint roared in a rage. “If I have to kill you myself!”
But they hadn’t died—at least not today. There’s always tomorrow, Sturm thought, his gaze resting on the dwarf who leaned against a stone wall, carving at a block of wood.
Flint looked up. “When will it start?” he asked.
Sturm sighed, his gaze shifting out to the eastern sky. “Dawn,” he replied. “A few hours yet.”
The dwarf nodded. “Can we hold?” His voice was matter-of-fact, the hand that held the wood firm and steady.
“We must,” Sturm replied. “The messenger will reach Palanthas tonight. If they act at once, it’s still a two-day march to reach us. We must give them two days—”
“If they act at once!” Flint grunted.
“I know …” Sturm said softly, sighing. “You should leave,” he turned to Laurana, who came out of her reverie with a start. “Go to Palanthas. Convince them of the danger.”
“Your messenger must do that,” Laurana said tiredly. “If not, no words of mine will sway them.”
“Laurana,” he began.
“Do you need me?” she asked abruptly. “Am I of use here?”
“You know you are,” Sturm answered. He had marveled at the elfmaid’s unflagging strength, her courage, and her skill with the bow.
“Then I’m staying,” Laurana said simply. Drawing the blanket up more closely around her, she closed her eyes. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered. But within a few moments, her breathing became soft and regular as the slumbering kender’s.
Sturm shook his head, swallowing a choking thickness in his throat. His glance met Flint’s. The dwarf sighed and went back to his carving. Neither spoke, both men thinking the same thing. Their deaths would be bad if the draconians overran the Tower. Laurana’s death could be a thing of nightmares.
The eastern sky was brightening, foretelling the sun’s approach, when the knights were roused from their fitful slumber by the blaring of horns. Hastily they rose, grabbed their weapons, and stood to the walls, peering out across the dark land.
The campfires of the dragonarmies burned low, allowed to go out as daylight neared. They could hear the sounds of life returning to the horrible body. The knights gripped their weapons, waiting. Then they turned to each other, bewildered.
The dragonarmies were retreating! Although only dimly seen in the faint half-light, it was obvious that the black tide was slowly withdrawing. Sturm watched, puzzled. The armies moved back, just over the horizon. But they were still out there, Sturm knew. He sensed them.
Some of the younger knights began to cheer.
“Keep quiet!” Sturm commanded harshly. Their shouts grated on his raw nerves. Laurana came to stand beside him and glanced at him in astonishment. His face was gray and haggard in the flickering torchlight. His gloved fists, resting atop the battlements, clenched and unclenched nervously His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, starin
g eastward.
Laurana, sensing the rising fear within him, felt her own body grow chill. She remembered what she had told Tas.
“Is it what we feared?” she asked, her hand on his arm.
“Pray we are wrong!” he spoke softly, in a broken voice.
Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Flint came to join them, clambering up on a huge slab of broken stone to see over the edge of the wall. Tas woke, yawning.
“When’s breakfast?” the kender inquired cheerfully, but no one paid any attention to him.
Still they watched and waited. Now all the knights, each of them feeling the same rising fear, lined the walls, staring eastward without any clear idea why.
“What is it?” Tas whispered. Climbing up to stand beside Flint, he saw the small red sliver of sun burning on the horizon, its orange fire turning the night sky purple, dimming the stars.
“What are we looking at?” Tas whispered, nudging Flint.
“Nothing,” Flint grumbled.
“Then why are we looking—” The kender caught his breath with a sharp gulp. “Sturm—” he quavered.
“What is it?” the knight demanded, turning in alarm.
Tas kept staring. The rest followed his gaze, but their eyes were no match for the kender’s.
“Dragons …” Tasslehoff replied. “Blue dragons.”
“I thought as much,” Sturm said softly. “The dragonfear. That’s why they pulled the armies back. The humans fighting among them could not withstand it. How many dragons?”
“Three,” answered Laurana. “I can see them now.”
“Three,” Sturm repeated, his voice empty, expressionless.
“Listen, Sturm—” Laurana dragged him back away from the wall. “I—we—weren’t going to say anything. It might not have mattered, but it does now. Tasslehoff and I know how to use the dragon orb!”
“Dragon orb?” Sturm muttered, not really listening.
“The orb here, Sturm!” Laurana persisted, her hands clutching him eagerly. “The one below the Tower, in the very center. Tas showed it to me. Three long, wide hallways lead to it and—and—” Her voice died. Suddenly she saw vividly, as her subconscious had seen during the night, dragons flying down stone halls.…
“Sturm!” she shouted, shaking him in her excitement. “I know how the orb works! I know how to kill the dragons! Now, if we just have the time—”
Sturm caught hold of her, his strong hands grasping her by the shoulders. In all the months he had known her, he could not recall seeing her more beautiful. Her face, pale with weariness, was alight with excitement.
“Tell me, quickly,” he ordered. Laurana explained, her words falling over themselves as she painted the picture for him that became clearer to her as she talked. Flint and Tas watched from behind Sturm, the dwarf’s face aghast, the kender’s face filled with consternation.
“Who’ll use the orb?” Sturm asked slowly.
“I will,” Laurana replied.
“But, Laurana,” Tasslehoff cried, “Fizban said—”
“Tas, shut up!” Laurana said through clenched teeth. “Please, Sturm!” she urged. “It’s our only hope. We have the dragonlances—and the dragon orb!”
The knight looked at her, then toward the dragons speeding out of the ever-brightening east.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Flint, you and Tas go down and gather the men together in the center courtyard. Hurry!”
Tasslehoff, giving Laurana a last, troubled glance, jumped down from the rock where he and the dwarf had been standing. Flint came after him more slowly, his face somber and thoughtful. Reaching the ground, he walked up to Sturm.
Must you? Flint asked Sturm silently, as their eyes met.
Sturm nodded once. Glancing at Laurana, he smiled sadly. “I’ll tell her,” he said softly. “Take care of the kender. Goodbye, my friend.”
Flint swallowed, shaking his old head. Then, his face a mask of sorrow, the dwarf brushed his gnarled hand across his eyes and gave Tas a shove in the back.
“Get moving!” the dwarf snapped.
Tas turned to look at him in astonishment, then shrugged and ran skipping along the top of the battlements, his shrill voice shouting out to the startled knights.
Laurana’s face glowed. “You come, too, Sturm!” she said, tugging at him like a child eager to show a parent a new toy. “I’ll explain this to the men if you want. Then you can give the orders and arrange the battle disposition—”
“You’re in command, Laurana,” Sturm said.
“What?” Laurana stopped, fear replacing the hope in her heart so suddenly the pain made her gasp.
“You said you needed time,” Sturm said, adjusting his swordbelt, avoiding her eyes. “You’re right. You must get the men in position. You must have time to use the orb. I will gain you that time.” He picked up a bow and a quiver of arrows.
“No! Sturm!” Laurana shivered with terror. “You can’t mean this! I can’t command! I need you! Sturm, don’t do this to yourself!” Her voice died to a whisper. “Don’t do this to me!”
“You can command, Laurana,” Sturm said, taking her head in his hands. Leaning forward, he kissed her gently. “Farewell, elfmaid,” he said softly. “Your light will shine in this world. It is time for mine to darken. Don’t grieve, dear one. Don’t cry.” He held her close. “The Forestmaster said to us, in Darken Wood, that we should not mourn those who have fulfilled their destiny. Mine is fulfilled. Now, hurry, Laurana. You’ll need every second.”
“At least take the dragonlance with you,” she begged.
Sturm shook his head, his hand on the antique sword of his father. “I don’t know how to use it. Good-bye, Laurana. Tell Tanis—” He stopped, then he sighed. “No,” he said with a slight smile. “He will know what was in my heart.”
“Sturm …” Laurana’s tears choked her into silence. She could only stare at him in mute appeal.
“Go,” he said.
Stumbling blindly, Laurana turned around and somehow made her way down the stairs to the courtyard below. Here she felt a strong hand grasp hers.
“Flint,” she began, sobbing painfully, “he, Sturm …”
“I know, Laurana,” the dwarf replied. “I saw it in his face. I think I’ve seen it there for as long as I can remember. It’s up to you now. You can’t fail him.”
Laurana drew a deep breath, then wiped her eyes with her hands, cleaning her tear-streaked face as best she could. Taking another breath, she lifted her head.
“There,” she said, keeping her voice firm and steady. “I’m ready. Where’s Tas?”
“Here,” said a small voice.
“Go on down. You read the words in the orb once before. Read them again. Make absolutely certain you’ve got it right.”
“Yes, Laurana.” Tas gulped and ran off.
“The knights are assembled,” Flint said. “Waiting your command.”
“Waiting my command,” Laurana repeated absently.
Hesitating, she looked up. The red rays of the sun flashed on Sturm’s bright armor as the knight climbed the narrow stairs that led to a high wall near the central Tower. Sighing, she lowered her gaze to the courtyard where the knights waited.
Laurana drew another deep breath, then walked toward them, the red crest fluttering from her helmet, her golden hair flaming in the morning light.
The cold and brittle sun stained the sky blood red, deepening into the velvet blue-blackness of receding night. The Tower stood in shadow still, though the sun’s rays sparkled off the golden threads in the fluttering flag.
Sturm reached the top of the wall. The Tower soared above him. The parapet Sturm stood upon extended a hundred feet or more to his left. Its stone surface was smooth, providing no shelter, no cover.
Looking east, Sturm saw the dragons.
They were blue dragons, and on the back of the lead dragon in the formation sat a Dragon Highlord, the blue-black dragon-scale armor gleaming in the sunlight. He could see the hideous horned mask
, the black cape fluttering behind. Two other blue dragons with riders followed the Dragon Highlord. Sturm gave them a brief, perfunctory glance. They did not concern him. His battle was with the leader, the Highlord.
The knight looked into the courtyard far below him. Sunlight was just climbing the walls. Sturm saw it flicker red off the tips of the silver dragonlances that each man held now in his hand. He saw it burn on Laurana’s golden hair. He saw the men look up at him. Grasping his sword, he raised it into the air. Sunlight flashed from the ornately carved blade.
Smiling up at him, though she could barely see him through her tears, Laurana raised her dragonlance into the air in answer—in good-bye.
Comforted by her smile, Sturm turned back to face his enemy.
Walking to the center of the wall, he seemed a small figure poised halfway between land and sky. The dragons could fly past him, or circle around him, but that wasn’t what he wanted. They must see him as a threat. They must take time to fight him.
Sheathing his sword, Sturm fit an arrow to his bow and took careful aim at the lead dragon. Patiently he waited, holding his breath. I cannot waste this, he thought. Wait … wait …
The dragon was in range. Sturm’s arrow sped through the morning brilliance. His aim was true. The arrow struck the blue dragon in the neck. It did little damage, bouncing off the dragon’s blue scales, but the dragon reared its head in pain and irritation, slowing its flight. Quickly Sturm fired again, this time at the dragon flying directly behind the leader.
The arrow tore into a wing, and the dragon shrieked in rage. Sturm fired once more. This time the lead dragon’s rider steered it clear. But the knight had accomplished what he set out to do: capture their attention, prove he was a threat, force them to fight him. He could hear the sound of running footsteps in the courtyard and the shrill squeak of the winches raising the portcullises.
Now Sturm could see the Dragon Highlord rise to his feet in the saddle. Built like a chariot, the saddle could accommodate its rider in a standing position for battle. The Highlord carried a spear in his gloved hand. Sturm dropped his bow. Picking up his shield and drawing his sword, he stood upon the wall, watching as the dragon flew closer and closer, its red eyes flaring, its white teeth gleaming.
Dragons of Winter Night Page 41