Mobs attacked the knights’ halls and castles. The knights could not win under such circumstances. If they defended themselves against the mobs and killed people, they were called murderers. If they did not stand up to the mobs, they risked losing everything, including their lives. The turmoil in Solamnia would abate for a time, then again rear its monstrous head. The knights continued to try desperately to bring stability and peace to the land, and in some places they would succeed, but because their Order was fractured, individual knights could never hold onto power for long.
Sturm’s family had worked hard to maintain peace in their ancestral holding, and they had succeeded longer than most, for the Brightblades were revered and honored by those they governed. Outsiders came to the villages and towns under their control, however, and began stirring up trouble, as they were now doing over much of Solamnia. This was, in truth, a concerted effort by the forces of the Dark Queen to undermine the power of her most implacable enemies. None knew this at the time, however. Angriff Brightblade, foreseeing trouble, sent his wife and son south to the tree-top town of Solace, long known as a safe haven for those in desperate straits.
Sturm grew up in Solace, raised on his mother’s tales of the past glories of the knighthood. He read and studied the Measure—the code of laws devised by the knights—and he lived by the Oath Est sularus et mithas, “My honor is my life.” He and his mother heard little news from the north, and what they did hear was bad. Then the time came that they heard no news at all. When Sturm’s mother died, he determined to seek out his father and he traveled north to Solamnia. Sturm discovered his family’s hall in ruins, for it had not only been ransacked, it had also been burned and razed. He could not find his father, nor could he discover what had happened to Angriff Brightblade. Some said this; some said that. No one knew for certain. Sturm believed his father must be dead; otherwise nothing would have kept him from returning to claim the castle of his ancestors.
While his father might be dead, his father’s debts were very much alive. Angriff had borrowed heavily on his lands in order to keep them up and provide aid to the poor and destitute under his protection. The bitter irony of the fact that those who had attacked the hall were those who were alive to do so because of his father’s help was not lost upon Sturm. He was forced to sell off the lands of his forefathers in order to settle the debts. All that was left when he was finished was his father’s sword and armor. And his honor.
Sturm thought back to all this as he walked his watch in the darkness of the tunnel, his pacing lit by the feeble light of a lantern. The night before he left to return to Solace, the only home he had ever known, he had entered the Brightblade vault where the dead lay in repose. Located in the ruins of the family chapel, the burial chamber was accessible only by a sealed bronze door, the key to which was hidden in the chapel. There was evidence that the mob had attempted to batter down the door, probably hoping to find wealth inside. The door held firm, as had the Brightblades, down through the centuries.
Sturm found the hidden key and opened the door and went, hushed and reverent, into the vault, his eyes half-blinded by his tears. The tombs holding his forebearers stood in the gloom. Stone knights lay atop upon the sarcophagi, their graven hands holding graven swords. Sturm’s father had no tomb, for none knew where his body lay buried. Sturm placed on the floor a living rose in memory of his father, and he went down on his knees and asked his ancestors for forgiveness for having failed them.
Sturm kept vigil all that night. When the light of dawn crept into the chamber, he rose stiffly to his feet and made a solemn vow on the sword, which was all he had left, that he would restore the honor and glory of the Brightblade family. He left the vault, shutting and sealing the bronze door. He kept the key with him until he was on board ship back to Abanasinia. Standing on the deck in the silver light of Solinari, Sturm consigned the key to the ocean’s depths. As yet, he’d done nothing to fulfill that oath.
He walked the tunnel with measured tread, thinking his melancholy thoughts, when he was interrupted.
“Will you stop that pacing!” Raistlin demanded peevishly. “I cannot sleep with you stomping about.”
Sturm halted, turned to confront the mage.
“What is it you hope to find in this accursed place, Raistlin? What is so important that you risk all our lives to find it?”
All Sturm could see of Raistlin were his strange hourglass eyes gleaming in the lantern light. Sturm had not really expected an answer, and he was startled when Raistlin said, his voice cool and clear in the darkness, “What is it you are hoping to find in Skullcap?” When Sturm made no reply, Raistlin continued, “You did not choose to go with us for love of me certainly. You know that both Caramon and I are capable of taking care of ourselves, so why did you come?”
“I see no need to bandy words with you, Raistlin,” Sturm returned. “My reasons are my own.”
“The Hammer of Kharas,” said Raistlin. He drew out the last syllable into a sibilant hiss. Sturm was startled. He had spoken of the Hammer only to Tanis. His first impulse was to turn away, but he could not resist the challenge.
“What do you know of the Hammer?” he asked in a low voice.
Raistlin made a hoarse, rasping sound that might have been a bitter chuckle, or else he was clearing his throat. “While you and my brother were smashing each other over the head with wooden swords, I pursued my studies, something for which you mocked me. Now you come running to me for answers.”
“I never mocked you, Raistlin,” Sturm said quietly. “Whatever else you may think of me, you must at least give me credit for that. I often protected you, as in the time the mob was about to turn you into a burnt offering to that snake god. If you must know, my dislike of you stems from the miserable way you treat your brother.”
“What is between my brother and me is between my brother and me, Sturm Brightblade,” Raistlin returned. “You cannot possibly understand.”
“You are right. I do not understand,” Sturm replied coolly. “Caramon loves you. He would lay down his life for you, and you treat him like garbage. Now I must get some sleep, so I will bid you good-night—”
“That which is now known as the Hammer of Kharas was originally known as the Hammer of Honor,” said Raistlin. “The hammer was made to honor the Hammer of Reorx, used by the god to forge the world. The Hammer of Honor was a symbol of peace between the humans of Ergoth, the elves of Qualinesti, and the dwarves of Thorbardin. During the Third Dragon War, the Hammer was given to the great knight, Huma Dragonbane, to be used along with the magical Silver Arm to forge the first dragonlances. They drove the Dark Queen back into the Abyss, where she has been ever since, or rather, up until now.
“In the time of the High King Duncan and the Dwarfgate Wars, the Hammer of Honor was given into the hands of the hero, Kharas, a dwarf so revered that the Hammer’s name was changed in his honor. The Hammer was last seen during the war being wielded by Kharas, but he departed the field of battle early, grieved at being forced to fight his own kind. He carried the Hammer with him back into Thorbardin, and there it has been lost to all knowledge, for the gates of the mountain kingdom were sealed shut and hidden from the world.”
Raistlin paused to draw breath then added, “The one who recovers the Hammer and uses it to forge dragonlances will be lauded a hero. He will find fame and fortune, honor, and glory.” Sturm cast Raistlin an uneasy glance. Was the mage speaking in generalities, or he had been prying into the knight’s innermost thoughts?