by Dragon Lance
“Yes,” said Luccia. “I’ve had it verified three times.”
He sighed. She thought of everything. His mind was whirling. The emperor had surrendered and Vinas had won freedom for his people, after all of this time. “What do I do now?” he wondered aloud.
“Before we leave, we’ll need to eat. Dinner is ready Come down, or it will be cold,” said Luccia.
He smiled at her. She had a way of making things so simple. “You’ll be there, won’t you?” he asked, trying to make eye contact with her as she took him by the hand and led him toward the door.
“It’s getting cold,” she repeated. There was a mock sternness in her voice. He could see the corner of her mouth turning up in a smile.
“Whatever I do next, you’ll be there, won’t you?” he asked, leaning back, using his weight to slow their progress toward the door.
“No,” Luccia said. She let go of his hand, and Vinas almost fell backward onto the floor. She turned to face him, hands on hips. “Whatever we do next....”
Vinas laughed aloud. His heart felt suddenly light. Luccia’s hand, small and insistent, grasped his once again as she pulled him through the door of the chamber and onto the stairs. He said, “Luce, spring is a nice time of year for a wedding —”
The door closed on his joyous words.
Meus Pater
I never thought I would say this, but I am glad you are here, in this dank crypt beneath the temple. I’m glad we’ve laid you to rest again. It is my bath that while I live, Father, you will remain here in a long, deserved rest.
All of us, at one time or another, stand above a grave and wish we could bring back the one who lies within it. We are fools. Why bring back a body ravaged by the cold ground?
It is better to meet you in memory and honor, to embrace not the corruptible flesh but the incorruptible spirit. It is the greatest inheritance a father can provide.
Postlude
Sixteen Years Hence, 2,3 Corij, 1225 Age of Light
Vinas Solamnus, praetor emeritus of eastern and northern central Ansalon, was far from his home. He was lost and starving. He looked as ragged and worn as the storm-torn island around him.
The old commander fetched up beside a monolith of black granite – a strange, strange rock. It had seemed strange the first day he had arrived, and it seemed even stranger now, three nights later.
Three days and nights of fasting and prayer.
“I never was good at praying,” he muttered. His stomach rumbled. “Nor fasting, either.”
Vinas clutched the rock. He had no more breath for prayers. He panted into the stiff wind.
The sky above was clearing for the first time since he had arrived. The constellations watched him with bemusement. Beneath them the wind roared like a ravenous beast.
Vinas rested until he had drawn enough breath to laugh. Then he did laugh – not at the wind or the constellations, but at himself. His father had once said that all great men can laugh at themselves. If that was true, Vinas was great, indeed.
He had spent sixteen years struggling to be the best ruler and husband and father he could be. Perhaps he had not succeeded in these tilings, but he had developed one of the best senses of humor in Ansalon.
His son, Elias Solamnus, had in that time become a man. He waved a sword at anything that moved. Waved was not the right word, for Elias had become the finest swordsman in Solamnia. Still, he was only sixteen, and was the son of the old commander – a true handicap. Elias was neither the right age nor the right cut for the general infantry, but darn it if that kid hadn’t tried to enlist three times already. Like father, like son.
That expression came very close to summing up why Vinas Solamnus was out here on Sancrist Isle, wind-tossed and wayward. He wanted to find a way to pass honor to his son, and to his grandson, and to his great grandson.
The Quest for Honor was what Vinas had called it when, in simple clothes, he had donned a rucksack and set out from Vingaard Keep. Luccia shook her head after him and clucked. She would be worrying every night, too.
Vinas looked down at his tattered clothes and mud-filthy body, and he laughed again. She had every reason to worry.
“What kind of damned idealistic flaw brought me out here?” he wondered aloud. He chastened himself. This was a holy place, this weird wedge of black granite, and he ought to keep a reverent —
And then, from a clear sky, lightning flashed. Vinas ducked instinctually.
High overhead, three constellations shone brightly down upon him – the Dragon’s Lord, Paladine; the bison-headed Kiri-Jolith; and the kingfisher of Habbakuk. They glared at him. In his head he heard ethereal music.
He heard the grand justice of Paladine in well-ordered chords, the unflagging courage of Kiri-Jolith in enduring themes, and the temperance of Habbakuk in balanced counterpoint.
Then he heard wisdom – wisdom resonating in his own soul.
A knighthood. He would establish a knighthood to embody honor, to live it day by day. There would be three orders, the highest for Paladine, championing justice. The second for Kiri-Jolith, preserving courage. And the third for temperate Habbakuk, personifying loyalty and obedience.
“Knights of the Rose... of the Sword... of the Crown,” whispered Vinas in awe. “They will preserve honor, and pass it, unsullied, generation to generation.”
Suddenly, the great lights of the heavens glowed in the very stone beneath his fingers. The black granite had been transformed into white crystal, and it shone like a chunk of star grounded on Ansalon.
“Honor,” said Vinas. “They shall live and die by honor. My own Elias will do so. And so will I.
“My honor is my life.”
The Dargonesti
(1793 PC)
Chapter 1
A RESCUE MISSION
Tall columns of smoke, bent by the southern wind, rose above the thick forests at the mouth of the Greenthorn River. Even more telling than the smoke was the debris filling the river delta and the Gulf of Ergoth: wrecked wagons, burnt timbers, and the bodies of men and horses. The civil war in Ergoth was moving ever nearer this once-peaceful coast.
High up in the crow’s nest of the Qualinesti ship Evenstar, Princess Vixa Ambrodel watched with concern the evidence of distant devastation. Her uncle, Speaker of the Sun Silveran, had dispatched her to this spot on Ergoth’s southeastern shore to rescue certain important Qualinesti elves fleeing the strife in that country. For two days she and Evenstar had waited in the sunny waters of the gulf. Of Ambassador Quenavalen, his family, and his entourage, there was as yet no sign.
“How now, lady? What can you see?” called a white-haired, older elf from the deck.
“The fires are on both sides of the river,” Vixa replied, squinting her eyes against the sun’s glare.
“General Solamnus is moving fast. No sign of Quenavalen’s party I take it.”
“There’s nothing on the river but wreckage. Watch out, Colonel. I’m coming down.”
Vixa swung her mailed legs over the rope rail of the crow’s nest and climbed down the shroud lines. She jumped from the lines, dropping the final four feet to the deck. Climbing in armor was never easy, but in this heat and humidity it approached torture. Vixa was puffing with exertion.
Evenstar’s mostly human crew lolled on deck, trying to keep cool. Not so the elves in Vixa’s party, twenty hand-picked Qualinesti from the city garrison. They’d been girded for battle for two days, eating and sleeping in their armor since Evenstar had dropped anchor. They were restless, eager for action. The smoke of far-off battles drifting over the ship only heightened their anticipation.
A cluster of fishing smacks, canoes, and flat-bottomed river craft dotted the water around the Qualinesti ship. Most of these were laden with refugees fleeing the advance of the army of General Vinas Solamnus. The Imperial Army of Ergoth was in disarray, unable to offer Solamnus open resistance. Instead, they continued to retreat, harassing the enemy at every opportunity. The fires along the Greenthorn had been set
by the retreating troops as they burned crops and storehouses to deny supplies to Solamnus’s men.
Every hour brought to the river mouth more wretched refugees, desperate for passage away from the fighting. Most were simple farmers or foresters who had been caught up in events. They welcomed the overthrow of their mad emperor, but no one was prepared for the cost – in homes destroyed, crops burned, and family members killed or injured – of such an uprising.
Vixa relieved Colonel Armantaro of her polished silver helmet, but did not don it. The slight breeze felt good on her face, ruffling through her short blond hair. At six feet, the princess was two inches taller than her colonel. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, scanning the distant shore. Their silent watch was interrupted by Harmanutis, corporal of the city guard, who came to Vixa and saluted.
“Lady, we would like to know, how long are we to stay here?” he asked, standing at stiff attention.
Armantaro frowned. “As long as it takes, Corporal.”
“He has a right to know,” Vixa conceded. “Corporal, if the ambassador is not here by midday, we’ll have to act.” Harmanutis saluted once more and departed to share this word with the others.
Alone with his princess, the old colonel allowed himself a slight smile. “Just what does that mean, lady?”
“I’ll let you know when I do.” A smile eased the lines of worry on her face.
To a human, Vixa would appear to be eighteen or twenty years old. But elves aged much more slowly than humans, and her actual age was sixty-five. She had served in the army of Qualinesti for six years, mainly under the tutelage of her warrior mother, Lady Verhanna Kanan, daughter of the great Kith-Kanan, first Speaker of the Sun. In spite of her proud lineage, Vixa had come up through the ranks on merit and hard work. Her mother had seen to that. This mission was her first independent command.
A commotion on shore brought everyone to the port rail. A mob of Ergothians was swarming down the banks to the water. Though burdened with rolls of clothing and valuables, they ran down the sandy slope and waded into the river. The slow and the weak fell, were trodden upon, but no one stopped to help them.
Soon the elves saw the cause of the panic. Emerging from the trees on the south bank of the river was a band of mounted humans. The men, who wore remnants of Ergothian uniforms and carried lances, swooped down on the unarmed refugees.
“Is that the army of Ergoth?” asked Vanthanoris, another of Vixa’s soldiers.
“No,” replied Armantaro. “They’re deserters – brigands – I’ll wager.”
The elves watched in mounting anger as the lancers rode down the defenseless folk, trampling them in the shallows, spearing them on the riverbank. Several of the brigands dismounted and tore through the refugees’ sad bundles. There was obviously precious little to steal.
“Scum,” Armantaro was heard to mutter. Vixa put a hand on the old warrior’s shoulder.
“You know, Colonel, those scavengers pose a grave threat to Ambassador Quenavalen’s safety,” she said slowly. “It would never do to let His Excellency or his family be inconvenienced by such as they, would it?”
Armantaro’s blue eyes widened. “No indeed, lady. It would not do at all.”
She nodded once. The colonel turned away from the rail and hailed Evenstar’s captain. “Break out your longboats, Captain Esquelamar! Soldiers, stand to arms! Leave your helms and bucklers behind. I want swords and bows only!”
Evenstar’s deck boiled with activity. Vixa set down her helmet next to her embossed shield. She stepped into her stubby recurved bow and bent it against her thigh, stringing it. By the time she had shouldered her quiver, the Qualinesti contingent was mustered in the ship’s waist. Elven sailors lowered two longboats, one on each side of the ship. Armantaro took command of one boat and ten warriors, Vixa the other.
The sea was glassy calm. Sailors bent to their oars, and the longboats soon reached the tiny island at the mouth of the Greenthorn. Some of the Ergothian refugees had sought the supposed safety of this sandy spit of land. When they beheld armed elves coming ashore, they screamed and started back into the river.
“Hold!” Vixa cried. “We’ve come to protect you!”
Warily the exhausted men and women trickled back. Armantaro asked one sturdy fellow, a blacksmith by the look of him, where he had come from.
“The village of Piney Brook, m’lord,” said the man, eyeing the colonel’s sparkling armor.
“Did you follow the river downstream?” asked Vixa.
“Aye, lady, for forty miles or more.”
“Did you see any elves along the way? Well dressed perhaps, a group of some twenty-five?”
The smith nodded. “Oh, aye. I seen folk like yourselves four or five miles back on the north bank,” he said.
“When did you see them?” Vixa pressed.
“Yesterday it was, lady.”
Just then the brigands, who had finished looting the bodies of those they’d killed on the riverbank, formed up and shouted threats at the refugees across the way. The Qualinesti soldiers stepped out in front of the unarmed Ergothians, bows ready.
The sight of the small party of elves failed to intimidate the mounted deserters. They held up stolen trinkets, taunted the Qualinesti.
“Go home while you can, Long Ears!” screamed one bandit.
Vixa’s brown eyes narrowed. “Amend their manners,” she said calmly. The elves nocked arrows, and soon a hard rain was falling over the brigands. Half a dozen saddles were emptied when the arrows landed. The bandits ceased their shouting, wheeled their plunging horses, and fled into the woods.
“That was simple enough,” Armantaro remarked.
“And I was hoping for a good fight,” complained Harmanutis.
Vixa glanced at him. “You may yet get your wish, Corporal.”
She ordered the sailors to take one longboat and ferry the Ergothians off the spit. They would have to be distributed among the various boats in the gulf. The other longboat, with all twenty warriors and Colonel Armantaro, Vixa took to the north shore.
It was nearly noon, and the heat bore down like the blast from a Thorbardin forge. The still air was darkened by smoke. Nosing through the smoldering wreckage that drifted downstream, Vixa’s longboat made for the far shore. The oily river water seemed to cling to the oars, hampering their progress.
“Strange,” Vixa mused. “The air feels heavy, but there’s not a cloud in the sky.”
One warrior, Paladithel by name, looked up from his rowing. Sweat streamed down his face. “More’s the pity,” he muttered.
Vixa nodded absently. Where in the name of the Abyss were Quenavalen and his party? The priests and mages in the service of the Speaker of the Sun were certainly working all manner of spells in order to send word to the ambassador that rescue was coming.
The longboat’s prow bumped sand. Vixa and several warriors leapt overboard and steadied the boat, and the rest of the soldiers clambered out, dragging the craft ashore.
“Follow the shoreline,” Armantaro advised as the warriors readied their weapons. “Watch the trees. I don’t want to walk into an ambush.”
Strung out in single file, the elves moved along the shore. More signs of war floated down the Greenthorn: broken and smoking rafts, their occupants lying slain upon them, casks and boxes, smashed canoes. In the distance, faintly, came the sound of shouting voices. Far-off trumpets blared, and every elf paused, alert and worried. Trumpets almost certainly meant the advance guard of Vinas Solamnus’s army.
A crashing in the trees caused Armantaro to bark quick orders. The warriors formed a hollow square on a wide stretch of sand. The colonel and Vixa took up positions inside the center of the square just as a group of horsemen galloped into the open.
“Bows ready!” Armantaro called. Twenty bows rose as one. “Steady, lads. No one is to loose until the command is given.”
The riders approached on thundering hooves. They were Imperial cavalry all right, but once they cleared the trees, Vixa and
her warriors could see that most of the horsemen were unarmed. Their faces were bloody, their cloaks torn; only a few retained armor.
More and more horsemen appeared. Those in the lead slowed and milled about in confusion, clearly unsure how to proceed now that they’d left Solamnus’s army behind. They were still some thirty yards away and had not yet noticed the Qualinesti. Soon a hundred or more riders filled the clearing.
At last they saw the elves. A cry of “Infantry! Solamnic infantry!” went up. Horsemen tightened into a thick column and charged straight for the tiny band of elves.
“Target the leading riders!” hissed Armantaro. “Ready! Loose!”
Arrows peppered the horsemen. Those in front fell, tripping those behind. A ghastly pileup began, with elven arrows pouring death on the screaming mass. For a time, the elves held the cavalry back. Then the arrows ran out.
“Draw swords!” Vixa shouted. Twenty bows dropped to the sand. The remaining Ergothians rode wide of their fallen comrades and charged again. The horsemen weren’t properly armed – most had no weapons save their horses – but the twenty-two Qualinesti were greatly outnumbered. The elven square broke into isolated pairs and trios. Swords flashed as they battled for their lives.
Vixa found herself paired with Vanthanoris, an elf of Kagonesti ancestry and the best sword fighter in Qualinost. He spun, lunged, dodged a stream of terrified horses. The Ergothians spurred their mounts. Vanthanoris emptied four saddles with graceful leaping thrusts, but the fifth trooper bowled him down in a flurry of iron-shod hooves. Vixa stood over her fallen comrade, trying to protect him.
Like a wild thunderstorm, the fight was over quickly. The Ergothian cavalry vanished downriver, leaving half its number dead or wounded. Vixa’s small command was also cut in half, ten elves down with broken heads or limbs. Vanthanoris rose from the sand, bruised and winded.