Dragons of the Highlord Skies

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Sturm had placed himself in front of the female prisoner, keeping her protectively behind him, shielding her with his body. The woman was heavily veiled and wore a thick cloak, so that Brian could gain no clear impression of her. She moved with flowing grace and her hand, resting on the knight’s arm, was remarkable for its delicacy and alabaster purity.

  Sturm gasped in recognition.

  “Est Tsarthai en Paranaith,” he replied, meaning, “My companions are your friends.” He added in Common, “These men are Knights of Solamnia.”

  The half-elf and the dwarf both looked at them suspiciously. “Knights! Why—”

  “There is no time for explanation, Sturm Brightblade,” Derek told him, speaking in Common out of politeness, since he assumed the others could not speak Solamnic. “The guards will return soon. Come with us.”

  “Not so fast!” stated the dwarf.

  He was an elder dwarf, to judge by the gray in his long beard, and like most dwarves Brian had known, he appeared to be irascible, obstinate, and headstrong. He snatched up a halberd one of the guards had let fall, and grasping it in his large, strong hands, he slammed it down on his bent knee, snapping off the handle so that he could wield it more easily.

  “You’ll find time for explanations, or I’m not going,” the dwarf told them. “How’d you know the knight’s name and how came you to be waiting for us—”

  Tasslehoff had, by this time, managed to escape Marcus’s grasp.

  “Oh, just run him through,” the kender cried cheerfully. “Leave his body to feed the crows. Not that they’ll bother; there’s few in the world who can stomach dwarf—”

  The half-elf relaxed and smiled. He turned to the red-faced dwarf. “Satisfied?”

  “Some day I’ll kill that kender,” the dwarf muttered into his beard.

  All this time, Sturm had been staring hard at Derek, who had removed his scarf from his face.

  “Brightblade,” Derek acknowledged coldly.

  Sturm’s lips tightened, his face darkened, and his hand clenched over the hilt of his sword. Brian tensed, foreseeing trouble, but then Sturm glanced at those with him, especially at the veiled woman. Brian could guess what Sturm was thinking. Had he been alone, he would have refused to accept any aid from the man who had publicly insulted him and his family.

  “My lord,” said Sturm, his voice equally cold. He did not bow. If either had been going to say more, they were cut off by the sound of whistles and shouts heading in their direction.

  “The guards! This way!” called Marcus.

  Sturm’s friends looked to him and he gave a nod. Marcus led them into a maze of streets and alleyways that twisted and turned back in on themselves like a drunken serpent. They soon lost the guards, and when they could no longer hear the whistles, deemed they were safe from pursuit and slowed their pace to mingle with the people in the street.

  “Are you glad I rescued you, Flint?” asked Tasslehoff, walking alongside the scowling dwarf.

  “No,” he answered, glowering, “and you didn’t rescue me, you doorknob. These knights did.” He cast Brian, who was keeping near the kender, a grudgingly grateful glance.

  Tasslehoff grinned and winked conspiratorially at Brian, then said, “That’s a fine halberd you have there,

  Flint!”

  Flint had been about to toss away the broken weapon, but at the kender’s teasing, he held onto it firmly. “It suits my purpose,” he said, “and besides, it’s not a halberd. It’s a hauberk.”

  “No, it isn’t!” Tasslehoff gave a smothered giggle. “A hauberk’s a shirt made of chain mail like the one Sir Brian is wearing. A halberd’s a weapon.”

  Flint snorted. “What would a kender know about weapons?” He shook it at Tasslehoff, who was now so overcome with laughter he was having difficulty keeping up with his friends. “This is a hauberk!”

  “Oh, yes! Just like that helm you’re wearing has the mane of a griffon! All of us know it’s horse hair,” Tasslehoff retorted.

  Flint was already red in the face and puffing from the running. At this accusation, he went purple. He put his hand to the white tail that dangled down from his helm. “It is not! Horse hair makes me sneeze! This is the mane of a griffon!”

  “But griffons don’t have manes!” Tasslehoff protested, skipping alongside the dwarf, pouches bouncing and spilling their contents. “Griffons have an eagle’s head and a lion’s body, not the other way around. Just like that’s a halberd, not a hauberk—”

  “Is this or is this not a hauberk?” Flint demanded. He shoved his weapon practically in Sturm’s nose.

  “That is what we knights know as a halberd,” said Sturm, moving the point away from the mysterious woman, who continued to hold onto his arm.

  Tasslehoff gave a whoop of triumph.

  “However,” Sturm added diplomatically, seeing Flint look chagrined, “I believe the Theiwar dwarves have a word for ‘halberd’ that sounds similar to ‘hauberk’? Perhaps that is what you were thinking, Flint.”

  “That’s true!” stated Flint, his dignity upheld. “I … er … can’t rightly recall the word right at this moment, not being fluent in Theiwar, you understand, but it sounds like hauberk, which is what I meant.”

  Tasslehoff grinned and seemed about to comment, but the half-elf, exchanging smiles with Sturm, put an end to the discussion by seizing hold of the kender and hustling him up to the front of the group so fast that his boots skimmed the street.

  Brian was impressed by the good fellowship among this oddly assorted group of friends. He was particularly impressed with Sturm. He kept fast hold of the woman he had taken under his protection, and though clearly concerned with her, he had the patience to end the argument between the kender and the dwarf, while managing to maintain the dwarf’s dignity.

  As if aware of what Brian was thinking, Sturm met his eye and gave a half-smile and a slight shrug of the shoulders.

  They continued moving through the side streets, avoiding the major roads. Tanis Half-elven had hold of the kender and was keeping hold of him. The kender wriggled and squirmed in his friend’s grasp, his shrill voice raised in pleading. Whatever Tas wanted, Tanis was obviously having none of it.

  They came to the marketplace, and here they would have to leave the side streets and move out into the open, taking the main road that led to the library. A few guards could be seen searching for them, but finding a handful of people amidst the throng of shoppers was going to be difficult and the guards were obviously not all that interested in capturing the escaped prisoners.

  Brian recalled Lillith saying that something was wrong in this city. The guards apparently thought so, for they looked dour and unhappy. Ordinary citizens were still going about their business, but now that he paid attention, he saw people huddling together in knots, talking in hushed voices and glancing nervously over their shoulders. Sturm and the others kept their heads down, their eyes lowered, and did nothing to call attention to themselves. Obviously they’ve been in tense situations like this before, Brian realized. The half-elf even managed to squelch the kender.

  They made their way safely through the market and came at last to the road that led to the old part of the city and the library. Here Tanis called a halt. Kender in tow, he came to speak to the knights.

  “I thank you, sirs, for helping us,” Tanis said. “We must take our leave of you. We have friends in the Red Dragon Inn who have no idea what has happened—”

  “You can’t, Tanis!” Tasslehoff cried. “I keep telling you! You have to come to the library to look at what I’ve found. It’s really, really important!”

  “Tas, I don’t need to see another petrified frog,” Tanis said impatiently. “We have to go back to tell Laurana—”

  “Oh, tell Laurana!” Tasslehoff said through a smothered giggle.

  “—and Raistlin, Caramon, and the others that we are safe,” Tanis continued. “The last they saw of us, we were being taken off to prison. They will be worried.” He held out his hand. “Sir
Derek, thank you—”

  Tas took advantage of his friend’s distraction to give a wrench and a leap, and managed to twist himself out of Tanis’s grasp. Derek made a grab for the kender, but he missed, and Tas ran off down the alleyway.

  “I’ll meet you in the library!” Tas called over his shoulder, waving his hand. “The knights know where!”

  “I’ll go fetch him,” Flint offered, though he was so winded he stood doubled over, his hands on his knees. He seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

  “No!” said Tanis. “We’re already split in two. I won’t have us going off in three directions. We keep together.”

  Marcus volunteered to go after him, and he set off in pursuit.

  “I say leave the kender and good riddance,” stated Flint.

  “Actually, he has found something of vital importance,” said Derek. “I think you should come see what we have discovered.”

  Brian and Aran exchanged startled glances.

  “What are you doing?” Aran asked Derek, drawing him to one side. “I thought this dragon orb was a secret.”

  “I’m going to need the half-elf’s cooperation,” Derek said in a low voice. “I intend to take the kender with us to Icereach—”

  “You’re joking!” Aran exclaimed, horrified.

  “I never joke,” said Derek sternly. “He’s the only one who can translate these magical writings for us. We will need him.”

  “He won’t go,” said Brian. “He won’t leave his friends.”

  “Then Brightblade must persuade him, or better yet, I will order Brightblade to accompany us.”

  “He’s not a knight, Derek, as you keep reminding us,” said Brian. “He doesn’t have to obey your orders.”

  “He will unless he wants me to tell his friends the truth,” said Derek harshly. “He can make himself useful on the journey minding the horses and the kender.”

  They had kept their voices low, but Sturm must have heard his name mentioned for he looked over at them to see Derek’s disapproving gaze fixed on his breastplate. Sturm flushed, then turned away.

  Derek, don’t do this, Brian begged his friend silently. Just let it be. Let them go their way and we’ll go ours.

  He had the unhappy feeling that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Come with us, Brightblade,” Derek called, making it sound like an order.

  The half-elf and the dwarf exchanged troubled glances, then both looked at Sturm, who had not heard, for he was talking in low and reassuring tones to the veiled woman.

  “Mark my words—this isn’t going to end well,” the dwarf predicted “and it’s all the fault of that rattlebrained kender!”

  The half-elf gave a deep sigh and nodded his head in gloomy agreement.

  “They don’t know the half of it!” Aran remarked.

  He took out his flask, hefted it, found it was empty. He shook it. Nothing came out.

  “Great,” he muttered. “Now I have to put up with Derek while I’m sober.”

  7

  A last kiss. Fine and blood.

  he knights and their newfound companions arrived back at the library without incident. Marcus had returned to report that Tas was safely back at the library, regaling Lillith with his tale of how they had fought off six hundred Tarsian guards and a wandering giant.

  “Brian,” said Derek, “before we enter the library, go fetch Brightblade. Tell him I want to speak with him.”

  Brian sighed deeply, but went to do as he was told.

  Sturm Brightblade came of an honored family and he had the backing of Lord Gunthar, who was an old and valued friend of the family. When Sturm had asked that he be considered for knighthood, Lord Gunthar had supported the young man. It was Derek who had opposed Sturm’s nomination to enter the knighthood on various grounds: Sturm had not been raised in Solamnia; he had been raised by his mother, his father having been absent during his formative years; Sturm was not properly educated; he had not served as a squire to a knight; and most damning, Derek had hinted that Sturm’s parentage was subject to question.

  Fortunately Sturm had not been present to hear all that Derek had said about him and his family, or there would have been bloodshed in the council hall. As it was, Lord Gunthar had answered the charges, arguing vehemently in favor of his young friend, but Derek’s charges had been enough to sink Sturm’s candidacy.

  Rumor had it that when Sturm heard rumors of what Derek had said, the young man had tried to challenge Derek to a contest of honor. That was not possible, however. A mere nobody, such as Sturm Brightblade, could not challenge a Lord Knight of the Rose to mortal combat. Feeling himself disgraced, Sturm had determined to leave Solamnia. In vain, Lord Gunthar had tried to persuade Sturm to remain. Gunthar urged him to wait a year, and his name could be submitted again. In the meantime, Sturm could refute Derek’s charges. Sturm refused. He left Solamnia shortly after, taking with him his inheritance—his father’s sword and armor, part of which he was now wearing, though he had no right to do so.

  Two proud and stubborn men, Brian thought, both at fault.

  “We need to talk to you, Sturm,” said Brian. “In private. Perhaps the lady would like to take some time to rest,” he concluded awkwardly.

  Sturm escorted the veiled woman to a stone bench near what had once been a marble fountain. He gallantly brushed off the snow, removed his cloak, and spread it out on the bench, then graciously assisted her to seat herself. The true elf, whose name was Gilthanas, had not spoken a word to any of them this entire time. He sat protectively beside the woman. Tanis stood fidgeting, looking about. He nodded in acquiescence when Sturm told him he was going to speak with his friends.

  Derek led the way to a place where they could talk in private and not be overheard. Brian, who had the dread feeling he knew what was coming, found a chance to say a quick word to Sturm, holding him back when he would have followed Derek.

  “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for what happened to you—in regard to the knighthood. Derek’s my friend and there’s no man I love and honor more,” Brian smiled ruefully, “but he can be a horse’s rear end sometimes.”

  Sturm made no reply. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground. His face was dark with anger.

  “All of us have our failings,” Brian continued. “If Derek would ever take off his armor, we’d find a human being underneath, but he can’t take off that armor, Sturm. He’s just not made that way. He expects perfection of everyone, especially himself.”

  Sturm seemed to soften at this. He looked less grim.

  “When the dragonarmies overran Castle Crownguard,” Brian continued, “a dragon killed his younger brother, Edwin. That is, we assume he is dead.” He paused a moment, thinking back to that terrible time, and said quietly, “We hope he is dead. Derek’s wife and child are now forced to reside with her father, because Derek cannot provide a house to shelter her. How must any man feel about that, especially a man as proud as Derek? He has nothing left, except the knighthood, this quest of his—” Brian sighed “—and his pride. Remember that, Sturm, and forgive him, if you can.”

  Having said this, Brian walked away, lest Derek should suspect he’d said anything. Sturm was silent, stiff and formal when he joined Derek. Aran, peering over Derek’s helm, looked at Brian and lifted his eyebrows in a question. Brian could only shake his head. He had no idea what Derek was doing.

  “Brightblade,” said Derek abruptly, “we have had our differences in the past …”

  Sturm’s body trembled, his hands clenched. He said nothing, but gave a stiff nod in acknowledgement.

  “I remind you that according to the Measure, in time of warfare, all personal animosities must be set aside. I am willing to do so,” Derek added, “if you are. I prove it by taking you into our confidence. I am going to reveal to you the nature of our quest.”

  Brian was astonished, as all of a sudden he realized what Derek was doing. He felt himself growing so angry he had to choke back the harsh words; Derek was being conciliatory
to Sturm because he needed the kender.

  Sturm hesitated, then gave a great sigh, as though letting go a heavy burden, and said quietly, “I am honored by your trust, my lord.”

  “You have leave to tell your friends of our mission,” Derek said, “but this must go no further.”

  “I understand,” said Sturm. “I answer for their honor as for my own.”

  Considering that he was speaking for outlandish folk, such as dwarves and half-elves, Derek raised an eyebrow at this, but he let it go. He needed the kender.

  Derek was about to proceed when Aran interrupted.

  “Is it true you killed a Dragon Highlord in Pax Tharkas?” he asked with interest.

  “My friends and I assisted in a slave uprising in Pax Tharkas that resulted in the death of the Highlord,” Sturm replied.

  Aran was impressed. “No need to be modest, Brightblade. You must have had more to do with it than that, for your name to be on the Highlord’s bounty list!”

  “Is it?” Sturm asked, startled.

  “It is. Your name and those of your companions. Show him, Brian.”

  “We can do that another time. We have more important matters to discuss now,” said Derek, casting Aran an irate glance. “We have been sent by the Knight’s Council to find and bring back to Sancrist a valuable artifact called a dragon orb. We heard rumors that this orb might be found in Icereach, and we have stopped here at the ancient library to try to gain more information. The kender has been of valuable assistance to us in this.”

  Sturm smoothed his mustaches, embarrassed and uneasy. “I do not like to speak ill of anyone, my lords, especially Tasslehoff, whom I have known for many years and whom I consider a friend—”

  Derek frowned at the thought of anyone considering a kender a friend, but fortunately, Sturm didn’t notice.

  “—you should be aware, however, that Tas, while a very good-hearted person, is known to sometimes … er … fabricate—”