As the two knights continued to battle, other knights, those slightly older and perhaps more battle-weary, looked on, cheering on the combatants between gulps of frosty ale.
The time limit on the bout was close to running out and it was obvious to everyone present that Knight Seril would be declared the winner as he had easily outscored Caradoc by a margin of four-to-one.
But suddenly Caradoc faltered, as if he had been hurt by Seril’s most recent blow to his armorless thigh.
“Caradoc, are you all right?” asked Seril, dropping his guard for a moment and leaving the right side of his body open to attack.
Caradoc rose up, swung his sword in a short and powerful arc and caught Seril on the shoulder with the sharp leading edge of his blade. The ringmail connecting the patches of leather armor covering Seril’s arm broke away allowing Caradoc’s sword to cut a long, gash across Seril’s upper arm.
“Stop the friendly!” called Oren Brightblade. “Put down your swords!”
Seril grabbed his bleeding arm and fell to one knee. “If I didn’t know you better, Knight Caradoc,” he said. “I would have thought you did that on purpose.”
“Who’s to say he didn’t?” called Arnol Kraas, Seril’s squire and a recent supplicant to the Order of the Crown. Although it was not his place to pose such a question, none of the assembled knights objected to it. Perhaps many of them had been thinking the very same thing.
“On my honor as a Knight of Solamnia, I would never consciously hurt one of my fellows.”
“You feigned being hurt—” continued Kraas.
“Enough! Enough!” interjected Brightblade. “Caradoc says the blow was accidental, and since he is bound to the Oath and the Measure, we must take him at his word.”
Kraas said no more, but was obviously dissatisfied.
The other knights also said nothing, but were seemingly more content to abide by Brightblade’s decision.
“Now, bring this man to see Istvan, the healer,” said Brightblade. “It’s only a flesh wound, but I’ve seen many a man die from less.”
Two knights quickly dropped to the ground, took hold of Knight Seril and gently lifted him up, carrying him gingerly back to the keep.
After Seril was gone, and the footman had begun preparing the two knights competing in the evening’s final friendly, Caradoc approached Brightblade and asked, “Do you declare a winner?”
Brightblade looked at Caradoc strangely. “A knight has been injured. Does it really matter who won?”
“According to the writings of Vinas Solamnus, as every battle must have a winner, so too must every friendly.”
This was true, but the knights had long ago learned that open interpretation of the writings of Vinas Solamnus was far more practical than any literal adherence to their words. They were guidelines rather than laws carved in stone. For true honor lies in the heart of each knight, not in a set of old and dusty tomes. However, if the laws were cited verbatim in situations such as this, their authority could not be questioned.
“Very well,” said Brightblade, no doubt as familiar with the thirty-seven volumes as Caradoc was. He cleared his throat and announced the winner. “Since Meyer Seril was unable to complete the friendly, Caradoc is declared winner by forfeit.”
Caradoc raised his sword to acknowledge his victory.
Few cheered.
In fact, following Seril’s wounding, many of the knights had gone inside the keep to partake of some of the evening’s more sedate celebrations or to the north end where another group of knights had gathered beneath the cool shade of a vallenwood tree. On the side of the broad trunk that faced west, a large circular patch of wood had been cut flat with an axe and its pale-colored surface had been painted with three dark red rings, each larger than the one inside it.
“Who’s next?” barked Olthar Uth Wistan, High Warrior presiding over the contest.
“I believe I shall give it a try,” said High Justice Lord Adam Caladen. “It’s been years since I’ve thrown a sword, but perhaps I’ll get lucky, eh?”
“Hear that, men?” said Lord Wistan jovially. “Stand back, give him lots of room, and remember to keep your eyes on the sword.”
A good-natured laugh coursed through the assembled knights, footmen and onlookers as Lord Caladen selected a sword from those standing upright in the rack to his left. After finding one with a length and weight to his liking, he hefted it in his hand and practiced the movement that would soon send it hurtling through the air toward its target.
Like friendlies, swordthrowing was an amiable sort of sporting event contested by the Knights of Solamnia whenever they were gathered in sufficient numbers and had the free time to spend in good-natured competition. But unlike the friendly, which pitted knight against knight, swordthrowing tested individual knights against the strength, skill and marksmanship of the legendary Huma Dragonbane, Hero of the Lance and the greatest knight the Knights of Solamnia had ever known.
The origin of the contest came from a little known story about the fabled knight’s battle with a particularly ferocious red dragon. According to the tale, Huma’s initial attack against the dragon had knocked his dragonlance from its mount and completely out of his hands. Despite being weaponless, he brought his beloved silver dragon around for another pass. But before the dragons came into range of each other’s breath weapons, Huma drew his broadsword and flung it through the air in the direction of the red. Although not designed to be used as a throwing weapon, the sword flew true, slicing the air like an arrow and piercing the vulnerable soft spot of the red dragon’s underbelly. The wound so startled the red that it was sent into a long downward spiral from which it never recovered.
And today, the Knights of Solamnia celebrated the near-miraculous feat by throwing swords, not at a dragon, but at the symbolic red rings painted into the trunk of a sturdy vallenwood tree.
Satisfied with his weapon, Lord Caladen walked off the twenty paces from the tree then turned back around to face it. “Ready!” he said, lifting the sword to his shoulder.
The assembled knights and others in the crowd fell silent.
Lord Caladen took three steps forward and let go of the sword. Its flight was straight and unwavering, but it was slightly off the mark, clipping the right edge of the tree trunk and sending a sliver of bark spinning through the air before landing heavily on the grass behind the tree.
Even though he’d missed, the throw had been a respectable one for such a senior knight.
“Well done, Caladen!”
“A good effort.”
The knights applauded, forcing Lord Caladen to accept their cheers with a broad smile and prideful wave, gestures that would have been more than enough acknowledgement even if he had hit the target dead center. “You’re too kind,” he said. “A lucky throw, no more.”
Just then, Lord Soth came upon the pitch. He’d been circling the keep, greeting his guests one last time before retiring for the night—his wedding night.
Seeing Soth approach, Lord Wistan put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Perhaps the bridegroom would care to test his mettle?”
The knights turned around and, seeing Soth, beckoned him to try a throw.
“Yes, give a try.”
“Come on, Soth!”
Soth hesitated, then said, “All right, perhaps just a single throw.”
The words were followed by a rousing cheer.
A footman quickly helped Soth with his cloak, then stood back as the knight selected a sword. To no one’s surprise he lifted one of the heavier weapons into the air. Then, alter finding its center of balance, he hefted it in his hand to check its weight.
“Make room!” cried Lord Wistan.
The knights surrounding Lord Soth fanned out, clearing a path toward the tree. Soth then walked over to the tree, marched off twenty paces, and turned on his heel.
“Ready,” he said.
Lord Wistan nodded.
The crowd of knights and numerous other onlookers that had sud
denly gathered around the tree were never more silent.
Soth took three long strides, then threw the sword.
The blade whistled as it sliced through the air …
And an instant later it struck the tree with a hard thwok!
Soth looked up, and saw that the sword had hit the exact middle of the center ring, its haft wavering like the stiffened tail of a hungry cat.
For a moment, all were silent as they looked with awe upon the sword as it jutted out from the tree like a new branch.
“Huma could have done no better!” someone shouted.
“A sword never flew more true!” yelled another.
The cheers continued to ring out until they combined together in a single loud wash of exultant voices.
Soth acknowledged the cheers with a slight nod of his head, then raised his hands to restore quiet once more. “If you’ll excuse me, I hate to keep a lady waiting, especially when that lady is my wife.”
The words were followed by good-natured and knowing laughter.
Soth turned and headed for the keep.
At the vallenwood tree, several footmen tried to pull the sword from the trunk, but with half the length of the blade embedded in the wood, it would not budge.
Finally, three of them combined their efforts and the heavy broadsword slowly came free.
Soth came around to the entrance of the keep.
Standing on the drawbridge was Lady Korinne talking to a young knight draped in a blue cloak. They stood close together, barely inches apart—a distance which could be considered almost intimate.
Soth moved into the shadows cast by a large oak, and watched.
They talked for a minute, maybe longer, then kissed.
Moments later they parted, Korinne entering the keep, the young knight mounting his horse and riding away.
Soth waited until the knight was gone, then followed Korinne.
Once inside, he paused to stand at the open window of the master bedchamber overlooking the grounds outside the entrance to the keep. The fires that had been lit as the sun began its descent were themselves dying out, spotting the land with points of flickering orange-yellow light.
It had been a long day, thought Soth. A good day. The happiest, the proudest, the best yet in his relatively short life. And now the best day’s night, his wedding night, was about to begin. Would it prove to be as special as the day had been?
He hoped so.
But before he could enjoy his special night, he had to deal with something that was troubling him.
Just then, the door to the chamber’s dressing room opened. Soth turned in time to see Lady Korinne step into the room.
Even in the dim light of the candles set about the room, the woman’s beauty was obvious and enchanting. She was dressed in a white nightgown made of a thin, almost sheer, material which clung to her every curve and left little to Soth’s imagination.
Soth felt desire for his new bride, a desire he’d been suppressing throughout the day, suddenly erupt within him like sparked tinder. But despite his wish to rush across the room, he stood stock-still, watching patiently.
She moved to the middle of the bedchamber, stopped and looked up at him. “Does what you see please you?”
Soth knew it wasn’t the time for such questions, but he couldn’t help himself—he had to know.
“Who was that knight you were speaking to on the drawbridge?”
“A knight?” asked Korinne. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
“A young man dressed in a blue cloak. You kissed him.”
“Oh, you mean Trebor Reywas. He’s a friend of the family, a Crown knight from Palanthas. He was departing early and came looking for me in order to say goodbye.”
“A friend of the family?” asked Soth.
“Why, Loren Soth,” said Lady Korinne, her hands placed firmly on her hips. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re jealous.”
Soth sighed. Perhaps he was jealous, but even if he was it was a weakness he’d never admit to. He answered Korinne by shaking his head. “No, not jealous. Only envious of the kiss you gave him.”
She smiled at him. “That’s so sweet,” she said, moving to the foot of the bed. There, she reached up for the string about her neck which held the gown in place. She untied the knot, moved the gown over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait. But, am I not worth waiting for?” she asked.
Soth merely nodded.
“Then, please,” she said, “love me!”
Soth went to her, took her in his arms …
And loved her.
Chapter 3
“What constitutes an evil deed?” the Kingpriest said, standing in front a large group of his followers in the largest assembly hall within the Temple of the Kingpriest in Istar. The group was made up of mages, priests, acolytes and other loyal supporters of the cause, which was the purging of Evil from the face of Krynn.
Several hands shot up in response to the question.
The Kingpriest nodded in the direction of a young man dressed in slightly faded green and brown robes. Judging by his clothing, he was one of the Kingpriest’s lesser priests, but nevertheless a devout follower and crusader for the worldwide promotion of Good over Evil.
“An act which is morally wrong, or bad,” said the young priest.
The Kingpriest paced in front of his followers, his hands clasped together before him as if in prayer, or perhaps just deep in thought.
“Yes, yes, that is part of it. But what else? What constitutes an evil deed?”
Again, hands rose up before him.
He pointed to a woman dressed in pale yellow and white robes which had the insignia of the Kingpriest sewn over the left breast. She was a mage, a renegade mage who used her considerable power to help strengthen the Kingpriest’s domination of Istar and to promote the Kingpriest’s edicts and ideology across the entire continent of Ansalon.
“Anything causing injury or harm. A harmful effect or consequence,” she said with strength of conviction.
“It is that too,” said the Kingpriest. “But what is the basis for evil deeds, the thing that lurks behind them, pushing them forward, turning them into deeds?”
This time the Kingpriest indicated an older yellow-and-white-robed mage sitting toward the back of the assembly.
“Depravity, viciousness, corruption, wickedness …”
The Kingpriest began nodding his head with delight, “Yes, yes, yes …” Obviously, he was finally hearing just what he wanted to hear. “Evil deeds have all of those things at their core.” He paused a moment to reflect. “But what must occur before an evil deed is enacted?”
The followers were unsure about the wording of the question and looked at each other in confusion.
“Before there can be an evil deed,” said the Kingpriest, “there must be …” He paused to allow his followers the chance to complete the sentence.
He pointed at various people in the group.
“Evil purpose?”
The Kingpriest shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“An evil concept?”
“Yes, but more precisely …”
“Evil intent?”
“Yes, but …”
“Evil thoughts?”
The Kingpriest stopped in his tracks, silent. “Yes,” he said at last, seemingly relieved. “Evil thoughts. Before an evil act can even be committed, it must be preceded by an evil thought.”
The followers continued to listen intently, realizing that the Kingpriest was getting closer to the reason he’d brought them all together.
“The Proclamation of Manifest Virtue was a great step toward the total defeat of Evil because it declared absolutely that Evil in the world was an utter affront to both gods and mortals alike. But the creation of the List of Evil Acts, acts for which the perpetrators faced execution, or death in the gladiatorial arena, was only a beginning. In the years since, the Istarian clergy has grown even stronger. Istar
has become not only the center of religion, but also a leading center for art, culture and commerce. Today, the clergy oversees almost every aspect of daily Istarian life.” The Kingpriest paused a moment, obviously satisfied by how powerful the priesthood had become under his rule.
“And then came the Siege on Sorcery, in which the people of Krynn laid siege to the Towers of High Sorcery, which effectively banished the evil magic wielders from Istar and allowed the benevolent powers of Good to flourish in a region of Krynn that was free of the stiflingly wicked forces of Evil.”
The Kingpriest paced back and forth in front of his followers, knowing that his next words would be absolutely crucial.
“But despite Istar’s spectacular rise to power, both at home and across the face of Krynn, and despite the banishment of Evil and the continuous fight for the cause of Good that is waged by the people of Istar and the good Knights of Solamnia, Evil still exists. Anywhere you look you can find it rearing its hideous head.”
The Kingpriest’s followers nodded in agreement.
“The time has come for new and drastic measures which will help us in the noble fight against Evil. That is why I propose to enact the following Edict of Thought Control.”
A low buzz of voices circulated the room.
“Evil thoughts equal evil deeds,” said the Kingpriest. “Anger is a capital offense equal to murder; lust is a capital offense equal to adultery.”
The Kingpriest paused to allow the concept to sink in.
“Under this new Edict of Thought Control, you, my good friends and followers will be empowered to identify evil thoughts and prevent them from becoming evil deeds, thereby ensuring that Good will once again reign supreme in a land where virtuous, righteous and, above all, moral people wish to live without fear of the forces of Evil and its denizens.
There was silence in the room for a long time.
Finally, a single hand rose up from the crowd. It was a hand belonging to the elderly mage. “But how will we be able to detect evil thoughts, let alone control them?”
Lord Soth Page 5