by Roland Green
Knights of the Crown
( Warriors - 1 )
Roland Green
Roland Green
Knights of the Crown
Prologue
Dargaard Keep rose into history and fell into ruin through Lord Soth, who could have prevented the Cataclysm but found cause to do otherwise. Its name became hardly less cursed than that of its lord.
But it was not always a ruin, haunted by evil shades and even less mentionable entities. Once it stood tall and glorious, its pink stone a beacon for anyone within three days’ journeying. In the time of Istar’s greatest power, it was a seat of the Knights of Solamnia, second only to Vingaard Keep itself.
The knights were not at their height in the days when Istar claimed most of the world and actually ruled a good part of it. Even in their ranks, some doubted that the knights would ever again have the high purpose that they had in the days of their founding, or more recently in the time of Huma Dragonbane. They spread their doubts, and young men eager to win honor by heroic deeds did not come forward as they once had.
Others among the knights knew better. They knew that this was one of those times when men lived so well and so much at peace that they forgot gods and warriors alike. When evil or mere folly offended the gods and sowed wars, the knights would be remembered. Men would call on them to ride out in the old way.
It was the purpose of some of those knights, in Dargaard Keep and elsewhere, to make certain preparations for that day.
Sir Marod, Knight of the Rose, had always been an early riser. On a farm, one hardly had a choice in the matter, not when the cows began lowing to be milked even before the cock’s crow. In his first training at Dargaard Keep, he had been alert when too many of his comrades were still bleary-eyed and stumble-footed.
Thirty years later, he still rose early, and more so than usual on days of ceremony or battle. Today was a rite that also represented a battle won for the future of the knights, so he had been awake and praying since false dawn crept into the sky.
He had shaved his cheeks and chin and trimmed his mustache and hair, both now more silver-gray than brown, while the sky was still the color of Vingaard Keep’s stone. Now he stood in white tunic and trousers, supple boots and broad belt, while his squire armed him.
Old Elius did not really deserve that traditional name, for in better days squires had been lads still in their teens, polishing their knightly skills and honor by attending their elders in chamber and on the battlefield. Elius had seen his share of battles, as a sergeant in the knights’ foot scouts, and bore their marks in the form of a blind eye and a stiff knee. He deserved to be at a snug fireside, with a cup of tarberry tea and a pipe, telling of long-ago fights and frolics, rather than doing a boy’s work.
But like many old warriors, Elius had neglected to provide himself with children to offer that fireside, tea, and pipe. The knights would not give the old and faithful servants to the windy road or the equally chill charity of the priests. They would provide something better.
With Elius and his like it was almost easy. Some knights needed servants, so that they could eat and sleep as well as do their duty. Others thought that their rank and state entitled them to it. If they were willing to pay for the service themselves, the leaders of the knights would look the other way.
Marod sat on a stool as Elius buckled on the leg armor and attached the spurs to the boots. Then he knelt and the two began the undignified struggle to don the heavy mail shirt. At last Marod rose, with Elius kneeling beside him to pull the shirt down to the proper level.
Now came the breastplate, the backplate, the throat protection, and the open-faced ceremonial helm with the crest of silver roses. Elius was as careful with the helmet lacings as if Marod’s life would depend on them, though they were of gold-washed silk rather than robust leather and might have lasted three minutes in battle.
At last, the weapons, Marod’s own choice for ceremonial occasions. He had once been chief among all the knights in the art of fighting unarmored with sword and dagger, so he wore the sword with the foxstone inlays and the dagger with the crystal pommel in the shape of a rose.
At last he looked in the mirror. It was a small one, so Elius had to move it around to give the knight a complete look at himself. Finally Marod ran a finger across his mustache and laughed softly.
“Oh, to be young again.”
“Was it not you, Sir Marod, who last month left six men young enough to be your very sons, sweating and bruised when they left the training rooms?”
“I suppose it was, or someone all saw fit to confuse with me. But I was thinking of how I look in this garb. Am I only disguising myself as a warrior?”
“Eh, it’s not my place to say.”
“If you won’t offer opinions when you have them, Elius, the knights are truly facing dire times.”
“Ah, well, then I say-you don’t look ready for the robe and pipe any more than I do.”
Marod swallowed laughter, not too successfully, but a knock at the door drew him away.
“Who enters here?”
“Sir Lewin of Delan, attending Sir Marod.”
“Enter, Sir Lewin!” Marod called. He lifted a cloak of owlbear skin, and draped it over his shoulders. Elius had just finished thrusting in a heavy gold pin when the other knight entered.
Were he a few years younger, Sir Lewin could have been the son Marod did not and now never would have. However, Marod would not have been wholly content to see any son of his loins grow to a manhood like Lewin’s. The younger knight was of the second order, the Order of the Sword, so he had proved himself wise as well as formidable. But there was a brittleness in his manner and an extravagance in his dress that smelled of unhappiness-with others, with himself, with not receiving honors or attention he thought were his due?
Those were Marod’s three principal guesses, but he would call them no more. Nor were any of them certain paths to dishonor or even error. Knights had fought well, lived long, and died full of years and honors with more vices than Lewin had shown so far.
“This is not an auspicious day for the knights,” Lewin said briskly.
That such remarks were not an auspicious beginning for the ceremonies was on the tip of Marod’s tongue. He left it there. Lewin always talked himself out of whatever temper he was in, if left alone to grumble and growl.
“Ah well, who knows what the Knights of Solamnia have admitted to their orders in days past?” Marod said, with a wry smile. “Far worse than anything we face today, I do not doubt. Yet we survive.”
“We did not once survive at the mercy of Istar,” Lewin said.
“I doubt that they will say much when one of their leading merchants favors today’s new knight.”
“Only favors? Or is he the merchant’s bought man?”
That was beyond the limits that even Lewin in a temper could be allowed.
“It is against the laws to speak against a knight’s honor in that way, and very much against my wishes as well. If you hope for this day to be auspicious, consider guarding your tongue.”
Lewin was not too angry to acknowledge a command from a lawful superior. He bowed his head. “Forgive me, Sir Marod.”
“I do. Or rather, I will, when you have repeated your remarks to our new Knight of the Crown and begged his forgiveness.”
“You would not-?” Lewin began, then seemed to feel the air turn chill around him from Marod’s gaze alone. “You would,” he finished. “Therefore, I will do as you bid. And as honor, Oath, and law require,” he added, half-grudgingly.
Lewin stepped to one side, and Elius to the other, to allow Marod to precede them. The Knight of the Rose strode out, then turned to the right. As he turned, Lewin’s words (and what L
ewin showed on his face, which he dared not put into words) ran through his mind.
Marod had few doubts about the man who, before today’s sunset, would be a Knight of the Crown. But there was even less doubt that once he had been a thief in Istar, and a prosperous one. Who would next prove worthy of the ranks of the Solamnic Knights? Kender, elves? (Full elves, that is, not half-elves, who were not unknown in the ranks of the knights and seldom much troubled if they were quiet about their ancestry.)
Two things were certain, however (at least to Sir Marod; he had doubts about other knights, beginning with Lewin). One: Almost any race could produce those who understood honor, loyalty, prowess, and statecraft. (Well, perhaps not gnomes, gully dwarves, or the majority of minotaurs.) Two: The knights could achieve little honor through their own extinction.
Content with these truths as a basis for his plans, Sir Marod quickened his pace toward the great hall.
Chapter 1
The thief crouched on the branch that reached toward the high wall of the estate. The night and the leaves concealed him for the most part, and the garb of his trade (or art, as he sometimes thought it) finished the work.
It was a summer night in Istar, so he wore shirt and trousers of light linen, dyed a soft, lustrous black and made to fit snugly, to avoid snagging on thorns or giving handholds to an enemy. His feet were shod with moccasins in the style of the Qualinesti elves’ rangers, silent, supple, and also black.
He wore sailors’ gloves, with strips of sharkskin woven into the palms for a better grip and light chain mail under the leather and sharkskin. He had no subtle sense of touch with these gloves, but for now he wanted his hands protected, not sensitive.
Where his shirt revealed his sinewy neck and throat, a dull glimmer of metal also revealed more light mail. A Knight of Solamnia or a seasoned officer in Istar’s army would have admired that mail-then wondered where its wearer had obtained it.
The wearer was alive and free today because he did not linger to answer such questions, even when he could not keep them from being asked in the first place.
Around his waist the thief wore a heavy belt of black leather, hung with various pouches that swayed ponderously and bulged suspiciously. They were rather an odd assortment, some bought in Pursemaker’s Square, some acquired during the course of the wearer’s “night work,” and some made with his own hands from properly bought-and-paid-for materials to hold special tools that not one of his craft could be trusted to see.
There were more than a few of the last, for the man had been a thief for nearly fifteen years.
On his head he wore a metal cap, forged to protect the back of his head and covered with black padding both within and without to prevent chafing and soften blows. It left his ears and the whole of his face, cheeks, and throat bare-except for a carefully applied coat of blackening.
Some of the thief’s comrades preferred all-encompassing combinations of hood and mask. Pirvan thought those interfered with an honest thief’s hearing, might slip out of position to block his eyes, and were generally as much hazard as help.
Even among those who blackened their faces, there were differing opinions about the best material. Some favored ashes of burned Glorious Beans, others elk’s-milk leaf mixed with dried bilberries, the whole burned while a Red Robe wizard cast certain minor spells over it. The thief felt that the first wore off too quickly, and that the second lasted forever-and took even longer to pay for. (Not all who lived by theft, he thought, were those who actually worked at night. There were more than a few who lived by selling to night workers that which they did not need at prices they could not truly afford.)
The crouching thief preferred a simple mixture of milk-washed hearth ashes and bear’s grease, applied generously. It had taken him some years to find a mixture that would keep anyone from gripping his face but would not shine in the moonlight, which could impartially betray thief or victim-and it did not matter which of the two bright moons cast the light. Virtuous Solinari and neutral Lunitari had at various times both helped and hindered the thief.
But he would have no more gone bare-faced to a night’s work than he would have gone full-armed. The only weapon that shared space on his belt with the purses was a stout-bladed dagger, with an even stouter pommel. That pommel had much to do with the dagger’s seldom having shed blood, as much as did Pirvan’s distaste for violence. With the dagger reversed and the pommel applied smartly to an opponent’s wrist, knee, or skull, it was a rare man who continued fight or pursuit, if he did not fall down senseless to wake later, in need of healing but not of burying or mourning.
The thief was more than a trifle proud of the fact that, though he had in his time profited enough from his night work to afford a manor (had he so chosen), no one mourned kin or swore vengeance for a life he had taken. There were those who had sworn to avenge the theft of every sort of possession, from strongboxes of golden coins to vials of alleged Qualinesti love potions. They were rare, however, folk who would avenge their goods, and less dangerous than those who sought blood.
Or so experience had taught the man who called himself Pirvan the Thief. (As with most of the brothers and sisters of the night work, he used no family name, to protect both himself and any kin.) Tonight experience would teach a different lesson, and set him on a long road away from night work. Pirvan the Thief was about to become a hero, because he could not resist the challenge of stealing the dowry jewels of Lady Eskaia of House Encuintras.
Pirvan was crouching by the wall around the Encuintras estate in a year when Istar ruled or at least reigned over all the human regions of Ansalon and more than a few lands held by other races. Its rule was neither as just as it had once been, nor as grasping as it later became. There were those among Istar’s subjects who thought times had been better when they had ruled themselves, but in any year few went beyond muttering into their ale in the company of discreet friends.
Those mutterers, the rulers of Istar (merchants, priests, and soldiers, with occasional reluctant advice from the Towers of High Sorcery) largely left in peace. If one did not molest the various instruments of Istar’s rule, one seldom suffered their attention.
It goes almost without saying that Istar’s rule brought wealth to the city. Indeed, never had Krynn seen so much wealth gathered in one place. The blood of fighters in the arena flowed over gilded armor, and there was at least bread and wine, clean water, and healing for all but the poorest.
This wealth changed hands by many means, from the most lawful (purchase or tax collection) down to the work of the common cutpurses and smash-and-snatch artists. Pirvan was a thief of the highest sort, who stole more than he needed to keep food in his belly only because he enjoyed the challenge of besting someone’s defenses.
Even Pirvan’s kind of thievery was not a recognized profession, with a guild of its own. Both the laws of Istar and the demonstrated will of the gods limited the lawfulness of thieves. But there were those among the ranks of the wise thieves who sat in judgment on their comrades when they behaved too much like cutpurses, killing, hurting without need, stealing too much or from those whom the loss would injure, or engaging in other outrages.
Pirvan’s hands had been clean these past fifteen years, and he was proud of the fact. But a man who practices both honor and theft walks a tightrope over the Abyss, and at various times good, neutral, and evil gods may give that rope a tweak, if only to see what may happen.
The idle curiosity of the gods had been the downfall of many men living less dangerously than Pirvan the Thief.
* * * * *
A light glimmered in the distance, roughly from the direction of the main house. The glow had to wriggle past too many leaf-heavy branches to tell Pirvan more. It was spring in Istar, a warm spring after a wet and mild winter, and growing things flourished exceedingly.
It was late enough in the day that Istar had fallen into slumber, and few with lawful business were abroad. The exceptions were the patrons of certain taverns and the workers at th
e markets and docks, unloading the night’s cargoes and making them ready for the day.
Those were all a long way from the estate. Nothing except the breeze and night birds broke the silence. Pirvan lowered himself onto a branch as cautiously as a cat stalking one of those birds, to keep it from creaking. He lay motionlessly until the light went out, without any noises coming to join it.
As far as he could tell, the Encuintras estate had joined the rest of Istar in slumber.
He studied the wall. It was three times his height and half his height broad. The top flourished no fewer than three rows of silvered iron spikes, one jutting outward, one jutting inward, and one revolving in a slot in the middle.
Those spikes were encouraging. People who built such stout physical defenses seldom went to the additional expense of magical ones-at least in Istar, where a thief who wielded potent spells was apt to have the mages, the priests, and the sharp steel of his comrades pursuing him to the death.
Pirvan had enough magical talent that he might have earned a modest living in one of the lesser traveling shows, doing minor conjury, juggling with the aid of a levitation spell, and so on. A modest illusion caster, he had firm command of only one considerable spell, and no hope of penetrating or defending himself against serious magical defenses.
However, the physical defenses he’d seen so far were formidable enough. His mail might protect him if he drove hard against any of the spikes; better not put it to such drastic proof. Besides, his agility was his greatest pride-though “a man most often ends in the arena for what he’s proudest of” was an old saying in Istar’s back streets.
Pirvan opened one purse, pulled out a long rope of tightly wound silken cord, and checked the loop at one end. He shifted position, lowered the rope until the loop had free play, then began to swing it.
Back and forth the loop danced like a pendulum, until Pirvan judged it was moving fast enough. Then he flicked both hands, and the loop soared up to drop over one of the spikes pointing inward. A brisk tug told Pirvan that it would hold.