Brightblade did not resent this, however, just as his commander did not resent being placed in charge of burial detail. It was part of the discipline of the Knights of Takhisis that they served their Dark Queen in all capacities and gave her glory in the doing.
Halfway across the beach, Brightblade was forced to stop and ask where the Gray Knights, the Knights of the Thorn, had set up their headquarters. He was grateful to discover that they had sought shelter in a grove of trees.
“I might have known,” he said to himself, with a slight smile. “I never knew a wizard yet who didn’t relish what comfort he could find.”
Brightblade left the crowded, hot, and noisy beach and entered the relatively cool shade of the trees. The noise receded, as did the heat. He paused a moment to revel in both the coolness and the stillness, then continued on his way, anxious to discharge his duty and leave this place, no matter how cool and inviting. He was now beginning to experience the customary sense of unease and disquiet all those not endowed with the gift of magic feel around those who are.
He found the Knights of the Thorn some distance from the beach, in a grove of tall pine trees. Several large wooden chests, carved with intricate arcane symbols, rested on the ground. Apprentices were sorting through these chests, ticking off items listed on sheets of parchment. The knight gave these chests a wide berth. The smells issuing from them were sickening; he wondered how the apprentices could stand it, but supposed they must grow used to it over time. The Thorn Knights carried their own equipment, always.
He grimaced at a particularly foul odor emanating from one of the chests. A glance within revealed rotting and unsavory objects, best not defined. He turned his gaze away in disgust, searched for his objective instead. Through the shadows of the trees, he saw a patch of white, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight, yet partially obscured by gray. Brightblade was not particularly fanciful, but he was reminded of fleece-white clouds overtaken by the gray of the storm. He marked it as a good omen. Diffidently, he approached the head of the order—a powerful wizardess of high rank known as a Nightlord.
“Madam, Knight Warrior Steel Brightblade.” He saluted. “I am sent by Subcommander Knight Trevalin with the request that your prisoner, the white-robed mage, be conveyed to him. Lord Trevalin is in need of the prisoner to make identification of the bodies of the dead, that they may be entombed with honor. Also,” he added in a low voice, not be overheard, “to verify the count.”
Trevalin would be glad to know if any Solamnic Knight had escaped, one who might lie in ambush, perhaps hope to pick off a leader.
The Nightlord thus addressed did not return the knight’s salute, nor did she appear at all pleased by his request. An older woman, perhaps in her late forties, Lillith had once been a Black Robe, but had switched allegiances when the opportunity had presented itself. As a Thorn Knight, she was now considered a renegade by the other wizards of Ansalon, including those who wore the black robes. This might seem confusing to some, since the sorcerers all served the same Dark Queen. But the Black Robes served Nuitari, god of dark magic first, his mother, Queen Takhisis, second. The Knights of the Thorn served the Dark Queen first, last, and only.
The Nightlord eyed Steel Brightblade intently. “Why did Trevalin send you?”
“Madam,” Brightblade returned, taking care not to reveal his irritation at this unwonted interrogation, “I was the only one available at the time.”
The Nightlord frowned, deepening an already dark line between her brows. “Return to Subcommander Trevalin. Tell him to send someone else.”
Brightblade shrugged. “I beg your pardon, Madam, but my orders come from Subcommander Trevalin. If you wish to have him countermand them, then you must apply to him directly. I will remain here until you have conferred with my commanding officer.”
The Nightlord’s frown deepened, but she was caught on the hooks of protocol. To alter Steel’s orders, she would be forced to send one of her own apprentices back across the beach to talk to Trevalin. The journey would likely accomplish nothing, for Trevalin was short-handed anyway and would not send another knight to do what this knight could do with ease.
“It must be Her Dark Majesty’s will,” the Nightlord muttered, regarding Steel with green, penetrating eyes. “So be it, then. I bow to it. The mage you seek is over there.”
Steel had no idea what this odd conversation was in regard to, and he had no desire to ask.
“Why does Trevalin want the mage?” the Nightlord inquired.
Steel counseled patience, repeated himself. “He needs him to identify the bodies. The White Robe is the sole survivor.”
At this, the prisoner lifted his head. His face blanched and he grew nearly as pale as the corpses laid out on the sand. The White Robe jumped to his feet, to the startlement of those assigned to guard him.
“Not all!” he cried in a ravaged voice. “Surely, not all!”
Steel Brightblade responded with a respectful yet dignified salute, as he had been taught. Treat all persons of rank, title, and education with respect, even if they are the enemy. Especially if they are the enemy. Always respect your enemy; thus you will never underestimate him.
“We believe that to be so, Sir Mage, though we have no way of knowing for certain. We plan to bury the dead with honor, record their names on the tomb. You are the only one who can identify them.”
“Take me to them,” the young mage demanded.
His face had the flush of fever. Splotches of blood stained his robes, some of it probably his own. One side of his head was badly bruised and cut. His bags and pouches had all been taken from him and lay on the ground to one side. Some unlucky apprentice would sort through those, risking being burned—or worse—by the arcane objects which, due to their propensity for good, only a White Robe could use.
Such objects would not be of any immediate use to a Gray Knight, for despite the Thorn Knights’ ability to draw power from all three moons, white, black, and red, each magic knows its own and often reacts violently to the presence of its opposite. A Thorn Knight might possibly be able to use an artifact dedicated to Solinari, but only after long hours of the most disciplined and intense study. The White Robe’s spell components and other captured magical objects would be held in safekeeping, to be studied, then those that could not be safely handled might be exchanged for arcane artifacts of more value—and less danger—to the Thorn Knights.
Brightblade did note, however, that the White Robe kept with him a staff. Made of wood, the staff was topped by a dragon’s claw fashioned out of silver, holding in its grip a multifaceted crystal. The knight knew enough about the arcane to realize that this staff was undoubtedly magical and probably highly valuable. He wondered why the White Robe was permitted to retain it.
“I suppose the mage may go,” said the Nightlord ungraciously and with reluctance. “But only if I accompany him.”
“Certainly, Madam.”
Brightblade did his best to conceal his shock. This White Robe could not be of very high level. He was too young. Add to that the fact that no high-level White Robe would have ever permitted himself to be taken prisoner. Yet Lillith—head of the Thorn Knights’ order—was treating this young man with the careful caution she would have treated, say, Lord Dalamar, renowned Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.
The White Robe moved weakly, leaned heavily upon the staff. His face was drawn with pain and anguish. He winced as he walked, bit his lip to keep from crying out. He crept forward at a gully dwarf’s pace. It would take them the remainder of the day and into the night to reach the bodies, traveling at this rate. Subcommander Trevalin would not be pleased at the delay.
Steel glanced at the Nightlord. The mage was her prisoner. It was her place to offer him assistance. The Nightlord was regarding them both with a look of displeasure mingled with—oddly—curiosity, as if she were waiting to see what Steel would do in this situation. He would act as he had been taught to act—with honor. If the Nightlord didn’t like it …
>
“Lean on my arm, Sir Mage,” Steel Brightblade offered. He spoke coldly, dispassionately, but with respect. “You will find the going easier.”
The White Robe lifted his head and stared in amazement that quickly hardened to wary suspicion.
“What trick is this?”
“No trick, sir. You are in pain and obviously find walking difficult. I am offering you my aid, sir.”
The White Robe’s face twisted in puzzlement. “But … you are one of … hers.”
“If you mean a servant of our Dark Queen, Takhisis, then you are correct,” Steel Brightblade replied gravely. “I am hers, body and soul. Yet, that does not mean that I am not a man of honor, who is pleased to salute bravery and courage when I see it. I beg you, sir, accept my arm. The way is long, and I note that you are wounded.”
The young mage glanced askance at the Nightlord, as if thinking she might disapprove. If she did, she said nothing. Her face was devoid of expression.
Hesitantly, obviously still fearing some sort of evil design on the part of his enemy, the White Robe accepted the dark knight’s aid. He clearly expected to be hurled to the ground, stomped, and beaten. He looked surprised (and perhaps disappointed) to find that he was not.
The young mage walked easier and faster with Steel’s help. The two soon moved out of the cool shadows of the trees and into the hot sun. At the sight of the landing party, the White Robe’s face registered awe and dismay.
“So many troops …” he said softly to himself.
“It is no disgrace that your small band lost,” observed Steel Brightblade. “You were vastly outnumbered.”
“Still …” The White Robe spoke through teeth clenched against the pain. “If I had been stronger …” He closed his eyes, swayed on his feet, seemed on the verge of passing out.
The knight supported the fainting mage. Glancing back over his shoulder, Brightblade asked, “Why haven’t the healers, the Knights of the Skull, attended to him, Nightlord?”
“He refused their help,” answered the Nightlord offhandedly. She shrugged. “And, being servants of Her Dark Majesty, there may have been nothing our healers could have done for him anyway.”
Brightblade had no answer for this. He knew very little of the ways of the dark clerics. But he did know how to dress battlefield wounds, having experienced a few of his own.
“I have a recipe for a poultice I’ll give you,” he promised, assisting the mage to walk once more. “My mother—” He paused, corrected himself. “The woman who raised me taught me how to make it. The herbs are easily found. Your wound is in your side?”
The young mage nodded, pressed his hand against his rib cage. The white cloth of the mage’s robes was soaked in blood, had stuck to the wound. Probably just as well to leave the cloth where it was. It kept the wound sealed.
“A spear,” the young mage replied. “A glancing blow. My brother—”
He halted whatever he had been about to say, fell silent.
Ah, so that’s it, Steel reasoned. That’s why Solamnic Knights had a magic-user with them. One brother who fights with the sword, the other with the staff. And that is why he is so anxious to see the dead. He hopes for the best, but in his heart he must know what he will find. Should I say something to warn him? No, he might inadvertently reveal information that would help us.
Steel was not being callous. It was simply that he could not understand the young mage’s obvious anxiety over the fate of this brother. Surely, a Knight of Solamnia expected death in battle, even welcomed it! A relative of the honored dead should be proud, not grief-stricken.
But then this mage is young, Brightblade reflected. Perhaps this was his first battle. That would explain much.
They continued across the crowded beach, the knight and his prisoner receiving some curious stares. No one said anything to them, however. The Nightlord followed behind; her green-eyed gaze never left them. Steel could have sworn he felt the fierce intensity burn through his heavy metal breastplate.
The sun, dripping with red, had fully risen by the time they reached the site of the battle, where the bodies of the dead were located. The sunrise had been spectacular, a fiery display of angry reds and triumphant purples, as if the sun were flaunting its power over a blistered and dried-up world. This day would be a scorcher. Not even night would bring relief. Heat would radiate up from the sand, covering like a smothering blanket those who tried to sleep on it. Rest would come tonight only to those too exhausted to notice.
Steel escorted the White Robe to his superior, Subcommander Sequor Trevalin.
“Sir, here is the prisoner, as you commanded.”
The subcommander glanced at the prisoner, then shifted his gaze to the Nightlord who had accompanied them. Trevalin, too, seemed surprised to note the honored company in which they traveled. He saluted the Nightlord, who outranked him.
“I thank you for your assistance in this matter, Madam.”
“I did not see that I had much choice,” she replied bitterly. “It is Her Majesty’s will.”
The comment apparently greatly puzzled Trevalin. Queen Takhisis oversaw all they did—or so the knights believed—but surely Her Dark Majesty had more important matters to occupy her immortal mind than simply identifying prisoners. Wizards were strange folk, however, and the Nightlord was stranger than most. Who knew what she meant now? Trevalin certainly wasn’t going to ask. He proceeded swiftly with the task at hand.
“Sir Mage, if you could give us the names and titles of these knights, we will see that these are recorded, that posterity may honor their bravery as they deserve.”
The young mage was exhausted by the walk, the heat, and the pain he suffered. He appeared to be dazed, stood looking at the bodies without recognition, as he might have looked at the bodies of strangers. His arm, resting on Steel’s, trembled.
“Perhaps, sir,” Steel suggested, “if the mage might have some water. Or a cup of wine.”
“Certainly.” Trevalin supplied not wine, but a cup of potent brandy he kept in a flask on his belt.
The young mage drank it heedlessly, probably not knowing what passed his lips. But the first sip brought some color back to the pale cheeks. That and the brief rest appeared to have helped. He even went so far as to thrust aside Steel’s arm and stand on his own.
The White Robe closed his eyes. His lips moved. He appeared to be offering up a prayer, for Steel thought he heard the whispered word “Paladine.”
Strength restored, probably more from the prayer than the brandy, the young mage limped over to the first of the dead. The White Robe bent down and drew aside the cape that had been laid over the face. A tremor of relief, as well as sorrow, shook his voice as he pronounced the name and the title, adding the knight’s homeland.
“Sir Llewelyn ap Ellsar, Knight of the Rose from Guthar of Sancrist.”
He moved down the row of dead with more strength and fortitude than the young knight would have first credited him.
“Sir Horan Devishtor, Knight of the Crown from Palanthas township; Sir Yori Beck, Knight of the Crown from Caergoth; Sir Percival Nelish …” He continued on.
A scribe, summoned by Subcommander Trevalin, followed, recording all the details on a horn slate.
And then the young mage came to the last two bodies. He stopped, looked back over the row of dead. Everyone there could see him taking count. He bowed his head, pressed his hand over his eyes, and did not move.
Steel moved to Trevalin’s side.
“He mentioned something to me about a brother, sir.”
Trevalin nodded in understanding, said nothing. The White Robe had revealed all the officer needed to know. There were no more knights; none had escaped.
The White Robe knelt down. With a trembling hand, he drew aside the cape that covered the still, cold face. He choked on his grief, sat huddled near the body.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the scribe. “I didn’t understand what you said. This man’s name?”
“Majere,�
�� whispered the White Robe brokenly. “Sturm Majere. And that”—he moved to lift the cape that covered the other knight’s face—“is Tanin Majere.”
Bending over them, he wiped the blood from the shattered faces, kissed each one on the chill forehead.
“My brothers.”
2
Cousins. A debt of honor.
A death sentence. The parole.
ajere.” Steel turned to face the young mage. “Majere. I know that name.”
Overcome by his grief, the White Robe did not respond. He had probably not even heard. The Nightlord heard, however. She made a soft hissing sound, breath drawn inward. The green eyes shut partway. She gazed at Steel from beneath lowered lids.
He paid no attention to the Nightlord. Steel walked forward, came to stand beside the mage. The young man was tall, well built, though he lacked the bulky musculature of his soldier brothers. His hair was a rich auburn; he wore it long to his shoulders. His hands were the hands of the mage: supple, slender, with tapered fingers. Now that Steel studied the young man, he could see the resemblance, not only to the bodies lying in the sand, but to the man who had once saved Steel Brightblade’s life.
“Majere. Caramon Majere. These”—Steel indicated the dead knights—“must be his two eldest sons. And you are the younger. You are the son of Caramon Majere?”
“I am Palin,” the young mage answered brokenly. With one hand, he brushed back the damp red curls from his brother’s cold forehead. The other hand clung tightly to the staff, as if drawing from it the strength that was keeping him alive. “Palin Majere.”
“Son of Caramon Majere, nephew of Raistlin Majere!” the Nightlord whispered with sibilant emphasis.
At this, Subcommander Trevalin—who had been paying scant attention, mulling over the logistics of moving the bodies, the detailing of men to the task—lifted his head, looked with greater interest at the young White Robe.
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