The knight held the door open for a tall man and a woman heavily cloaked in furs. The woman must have spoken a word of thanks to Sturm, for he bowed to her in a courtly, old-fashioned manner long dead in the modern world.
“Look at that.” Caramon shook his head in admiration. “The gallant knight helps the lady fair. I wonder where he dragged up those two?”
“They’re barbarians from the Plains,” said Tas, standing on a chair, waving his arms to his friend. “That’s the dress of the Que-shu tribe.”
Apparently the two Plainsmen declined any offer Sturm made, for the knight bowed again and left them. He walked across the crowded Inn with a proud and noble air, such as he might have worn walking forward to be knighted by the king.
Tanis rose to his feet. Sturm came to him first and threw his arms around his friend. Tanis gripped him tightly, feeling the knight’s strong, sinewy arms clasp him in affection. Then the two stood back to look at each other for a brief moment.
Sturm hasn’t changed, Tanis thought, except that there are more lines around the sad eyes, more gray in the brown hair. The cloak is a little more frayed. There are a few more dents in the ancient armor. But the knight’s flowing moustaches—his pride and joy—were as long and sweeping as ever, his shield was polished just as brightly, his brown eyes were just as warm when he saw his friends.
“And you have a beard,” Sturm said with amusement.
Then the knight turned to greet Caramon and Flint. Tasslehoff dashed off after more ale, Tika having been called away to serve others in the growing crowd.
“Greetings, Knight,” whispered Raistlin from his corner.
Sturm’s face grew solemn as he turned to greet the other twin. “Raistlin,” he said.
The mage drew back his hood, letting the light fall on his face. Sturm was too well-bred to let his astonishment show beyond a slight exclamation. But his eyes widened. Tanis realized the young mage was getting a cynical pleasure out of seeing his friends’ discomfiture.
“Can I get you something, Raistlin?” Tanis asked.
“No, thank you,” the mage answered, moving into the shadows once again.
“He eats practically nothing,” Caramon said in a worried tone. “I think he lives on air.”
“Some plants live on air,” Tasslehoff stated, returning with Sturm’s ale. “I’ve seen them. They hover up off the ground. Their roots suck food and water out of the atmosphere.”
“Really?” Caramon’s eyes were wide.
“I don’t know who’s the greater idiot,” said Flint in disgust. “Well, we’re all here. What news?”
“All?” Sturm looked at Tanis questioningly.
“Kitiara?”
“Not coming,” Tanis replied steadily. “We were hoping perhaps you could tell us something.”
“Not I.” The knight frowned. “We traveled north together and parted soon after crossing the Sea Narrows into Old Solamnia. She was going to look up relatives of her father, she said. That was the last I saw of her.”
“Well, I suppose that’s that.” Tanis sighed. “What of your relatives, Sturm? Did you find your father?”
Sturm began to talk, but Tanis only half-listened to Sturm’s tale of his travels in his ancestral land of Solamnia. Tanis’s thoughts were on Kitiara. Of all his friends, she had been the one he most longed to see. After five years of trying to get her dark eyes and crooked smile out of his mind, he discovered that his longing for her grew daily. Wild, impetuous, hot-tempered—the swordswoman was everything Tanis was not. She was also human, and love between human and elf always ended in tragedy. Yet Tanis could no more get Kitiara out of his heart than he could get his human half out of his blood. Wrenching his mind free of memories, he began listening to Sturm.
“I heard rumors. Some say my father is dead. Some say he’s alive.” His face darkened. “But no one knows where he is.”
“Your inheritance?” Caramon asked.
Sturm smiled, a melancholy smile that softened the lines in his proud face. “I wear it,” he replied simply. “My armor and my weapon.”
Tanis looked down to see that the knight wore a splendid, if old-fashioned, two-handed sword.
Caramon stood up to peer over the table. “That’s a beauty,” he said. “They don’t make them like that these days. My sword broke in a fight with an ogre. Theros Ironfeld put a new blade on it today, but it cost me dearly. So you’re a knight now?”
Sturm’s smile vanished. Ignoring the question, he caressed the hilt of his sword lovingly. “According to the legend, this sword will break only if I do,” he said. “It was all that was left of my father’s—”
Suddenly Tas, who hadn’t been listening, interrupted. “Who are those people?” the kender asked in a shrill whisper.
Tanis looked up as the two barbarians walked past their table, heading for empty chairs that sat in the shadows of a corner near the firepit. The man was the tallest man Tanis had ever seen. Caramon—at six feet—would come only to this man’s shoulder. But Caramon’s chest was probably twice as big around, his arms three times as big. Although the man was bundled with the furs barbarian tribesmen live in, it was obvious that he was thin for his great height. His face, though dark-skinned, had the pale cast of one who has been ill or suffered greatly.
His companion—the woman Sturm had bowed to—was so muffled in a fur-trimmed cape and hood that it was difficult to tell much about her. Neither she nor her tall escort glanced at Sturm as they passed. The woman carried a plain staff trimmed with feathers in barbaric fashion. The man carried a well-worn knapsack. They sat down in the chairs, huddled in their cloaks, and talked together in low voices.
“I found them wandering around on the road outside of town,” Sturm said. “The woman appeared near exhaustion, the man just as bad. I brought them here, told them they could get food and rest for the night. They are proud people and would have refused my help, I think, but they were lost and tired and”—Sturm lowered his voice—“there are things on the road these days that it is better not to face in the dark.”
“We met some of them, asking about a staff,” Tanis said grimly. He described their encounter with Fewmaster Toede.
Although Sturm smiled at the description of the battle, he shook his head. “A Seeker guard questioned me about a staff outside,” he said. “Blue crystal, wasn’t it?”
Caramon nodded and put his hand on his brother’s thin arm. “One of the slimy guards stopped us,” the warrior said. “They were going to impound Raist’s staff, if you’ll believe that—‘for further investigation,’ they said. I rattled my sword at them and they thought better of the notion.”
Raistlin moved his arm from his brother’s touch, a scornful smile on his lips.
“What would have happened if they had taken your staff?” Tanis asked Raistlin.
The mage looked at him from the shadows of his hood, his golden eyes gleaming. “They would have died horribly,” the mage whispered, “and not by my brother’s sword!”
The half-elf felt chilled. The mage’s softly spoken words were more frightening than his brother’s bravado. “I wonder what is so important about a blue crystal staff that goblins would kill to get it?” Tanis mused.
“There are rumors of worse to come,” Sturm said quietly. His friends moved closer to hear him. “Armies are gathering in the north. Armies of strange creatures, not human. There is talk of war.”
“But what? Who?” Tanis asked. “I’ve heard the same.”
“And so have I,” Caramon added. “In fact, I heard—”
As the conversation continued, Tasslehoff yawned and turned away. Easily bored, the kender looked around the Inn for some new amusement. His eyes went to the old man, still spinning tales for the child by the fire. The old man had a larger audience now—the two barbarians were listening, Tas noted. Then his jaw dropped.
The woman had thrown her hood back and the firelight shone on her face and hair. The kender stared in admiration. The woman’s face was like the
face of a marble statue—classic, pure, cold.
But it was her hair that captured the kender’s attention. Tas had never before seen such hair, especially on the Plainsmen, who were usually dark-haired and dark-skinned. No jeweler spinning molten strands of silver and gold could have created the effect of this woman’s silver-gold hair shining in the firelight.
One other person listened to the old man. This was a man dressed in the rich brown and golden robes of a Seeker. He sat at a small round table, drinking mulled wine. Several mugs stood empty before him and, even as the kender watched, he called sourly for another.
“That’s Hederick,” Tika whispered as she passed the companions’ table. “The High Theocrat.”
The man called out again, glaring at Tika. She bustled quickly over to help him. He snarled at her, mentioning poor service. She seemed to start to answer sharply, then bit her lip and kept silent.
The old man came to an end of his tale. The boy sighed. “Are all your stories of the ancient gods true, Old One?” he asked curiously.
Tasslehoff saw Hederick frown. The kender hoped he wouldn’t bother the old man. Tas touched Tanis’s arm to catch his attention, nodding his head toward the Seeker with a look that meant there might be trouble.
The friends turned. All were immediately overwhelmed by the beauty of the Plainswoman. They stared in silence.
The old man’s voice carried clearly over the drone of the other conversation in the common room. “Indeed, my stories are true, child.” The old man looked directly at the woman and her tall escort. “Ask these two. They carry such stories in their hearts.”
“Do you?” The boy turned to the woman eagerly. “Can you tell me a story?”
The woman shrank back into the shadows, her face filled with alarm as she noticed Tanis and his friends staring at her. The man drew near her protectively, his hand reaching for his weapon. He glowered at the group, especially the heavily armed warrior, Caramon.
“Nervous bastard,” Caramon commented, his hand straying to his own sword.
“I can understand why,” Sturm said. “Guarding such a treasure. He is her bodyguard, by the way. I gathered from their conversation that she’s some kind of royal person in their tribe. Though I imagine from the looks they exchanged that their relationship goes a bit deeper than that.”
The woman raised her hand in a gesture of protest. “I’m sorry.” The friends had to strain to hear her low voice. “I am not a teller of tales. I have not the art.” She spoke the Common tongue, her accent thick.
The child’s eager face filled with disappointment. The old man patted him on the back, then looked directly into the woman’s eyes. “You may not be a teller of tales,” he said pleasantly, “but you are a singer of songs, aren’t you, Chieftain’s Daughter? Sing the child your song, Goldmoon. You know the one.”
From out of nowhere, apparently, a lute appeared in the old man’s hands. He gave it to the woman who stared at him in fear and astonishment.
“How … do you know me, sir?” she asked.
“That is not important.” The old man smiled gently. “Sing for us, Chieftain’s Daughter.”
The woman took the lute with hands that trembled visibly. Her companion seemed to make a whispered protest, but she did not hear him. Her eyes were held fast by the glittering black eyes of the old man. Slowly, as if in a trance, she began to strum the lute. As the melancholy chords drifted through the common room, conversations ceased. Soon, everyone was watching her, but she did not notice. Goldmoon sang for the old man alone.
The grasslands are endless,
And summer sings on,
And Goldmoon the princess
Loves a poor man’s son.
Her father the chieftain
Makes long roads between them:
The grasslands are endless, and summer sings on.
The grasslands are waving,
The sky’s rim is gray,
The chieftain sends Riverwind
East and away,
To search for strong magic
At the lip of the morning,
The grasslands are waving, the sky’s rim is gray.
O Riverwind, where have you gone?
O Riverwind, autumn comes on.
I sit by the river
And look to the sunrise,
But the sun rises over the mountains alone.
The grasslands are fading,
The summer wind dies,
He comes back, the darkness
Of stones in his eyes.
He carries a blue staff
As bright as a glacier:
The grasslands are fading, the summer wind dies.
The grasslands are fragile,
As yellow as flame,
The chieftain makes mockery
Of Riverwind’s claim.
He orders the people
To stone the young warrior:
The grasslands are fragile, as yellow as flame.
The grassland has faded,
And autumn is here.
The girl joins her lover,
The stones whistle near,
The staff flares in blue light
And both of them vanish:
The grasslands are faded, and autumn is here.
There was heavy silence in the room as her hand struck the final chord. Taking a deep breath, she handed the lute back to the old man and withdrew into the shadows once more.
“Thank you, my dear,” the old man said, smiling.
“Now can I have a story?” the little boy asked wistfully.
“Of course,” the old man answered and settled back in his chair. “Once upon a time, the great god, Paladine—”
“Paladine?” the child interrupted. “I’ve never heard of a god named Paladine.”
A snorting sound came from the High Theocrat sitting at the nearby table. Tanis looked at Hederick, whose face was flushed and scowling. The old man appeared not to notice.
“Paladine is one of the ancient gods, child. No one has worshiped him for a long time.”
“Why did he leave?” the little boy asked.
“He did not leave us,” the old man answered, and his smile grew sad. “Men left him after the dark days of the Cataclysm. They blamed the destruction of the world on the gods, instead of on themselves, as they should have done. Have you ever heard the ‘Canticle of the Dragon’?”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said eagerly. “I love stories about dragons, though papa says dragons never existed. I believe in them, though. I hope to see one someday!”
The old man’s face seemed to age and grow sorrowful. He stroked the young boy’s hair. “Be careful what you wish, my child,” he said softly. Then he fell silent.
“The story—” the boy prompted.
“Oh, yes. Well, once upon a time Paladine heard the prayer of a very great knight, Huma—”
“Huma from the Canticle?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Huma became lost in the forest. He wandered and wandered until he despaired because he thought he would never see his homeland again. He prayed to Paladine for help, and there suddenly appeared before him a white stag.”
“Did Huma shoot it?” the boy asked.
“He started to, but his heart failed him. He could not shoot an animal so magnificent. The stag bounded away. Then it stopped and looked back at him, as if waiting. Huma began to follow it. Day and night, he followed the stag until it led him to his homeland. He offered thanks to the god, Paladine.”
“Blashphemy!” snarled a voice loudly. A chair crashed back.
Tanis put down his mug of ale, looking up. Everyone at the table stopped drinking to watch the drunken Theocrat.
“Blasphemy!” Hederick, weaving unsteadily on his feet, pointed at the old man. “Heretic! Corrupting our youth! I’ll bring you before the counshel, old man.” The Seeker fell back a step, then staggered forward again. He looked around the room with a pompous air. “Call the guardsh!” He made a grandiose gesture. “Have them arresht thish m
an and thish woman for singing lewd songsh. Obviously a witch! I’ll confishcate thish staff!”
The Seeker lurched across the floor to the barbarian woman, who was staring at him in disgust. He reached clumsily for her staff.
“No,” the woman called Goldmoon spoke coolly. “That is mine. You cannot take it.”
“Witch!” the Seeker sneered. “I am the High Theocrat! I take what I want.”
He started to make another grab for the staff. The woman’s tall companion rose to his feet. “The Chieftain’s Daughter says you will not take it,” the man said harshly. He shoved the Seeker backward.
The tall man’s push was not rough, but it knocked the drunken Theocrat completely off balance. His arms flailing wildly, he tried to catch himself. He lurched forward, too far, tripped over his official robes, and fell headfirst into the roaring fire.
There was a whoosh and a flare of light, then a sickening smell of burning flesh. The Theocrat’s scream tore through the stunned silence as the crazed man leaped to his feet and started whirling around in a frenzy. He had become a living torch!
Tanis and the others sat, unable to move, paralyzed with the shock of the incident. Only Tasslehoff had wits enough to run forward, anxious to try and help the man. But the Theocrat was screaming and waving his arms, fanning the flames that were consuming his clothes and his body. There seemed no way that the little kender could help him.
“Here!” The old man grabbed the barbarian’s feather-decorated staff and handed it to the kender. “Knock him down. Then we can smother the fire.”
Tasslehoff took the staff. He swung it, using all his strength, and hit the Theocrat squarely in the chest. The man fell to the ground. There was a gasp from the crowd. Tasslehoff himself stood, open-mouthed, the staff clutched in his hand, staring down at the amazing sight at his feet.
Dragons of Autumn Twilight Page 4