Dragons of Winter Night

‘Only one man was above this. Only one man here among you lived the Code every day of his life. And for most of those days, he was not a knight. Or rather, he was a knight where it meant the most—in spirit, in heart, not in some official list.’

Reaching behind her, Laurana took the blood-stained dragonlance from the altar and raised it high over her head. And as she lifted the lance, her spirit was lifted. The wings of darkness that had hovered around her were banished. When she raised her voice, the knights stared at her in wonder. Her beauty blessed them like the beauty of a dawning spring day.

‘Tomorrow I will leave this place,’ Laurana said softly, her luminous eyes on the dragonlance. ‘I will go to Palanthas. I will take with me the story of this day! I will take this lance and the head of a dragon. I will dump that sinister, bloody head upon the steps of their magnificent palace. I will stand upon the dragon’s head and make them listen to me! And Palanthas will listen! They will see their danger! And then I will go to Sancrist and to Ergoth and to every other place in this world where people refuse to lay down their petty hatreds and join together. For until we conquer the evils within ourselves—as this man did—we can never conquer the great evil that threatens to engulf us!’

Laurana raised her hands and her eyes to heaven. ‘Paladine!’ she called out, her voice ringing like the trumpet’s call. ‘We come to you, Paladine, escorting the souls of these noble knights who died in the High Clerist’s Tower. Give us who are left behind in this war-torn world the same nobility of spirit that graces this man’s death!’

Laurana closed her eyes as tears spilled unheeded and unchecked down her cheeks. No longer did she grieve for Sturm. Her sorrow was for herself, for missing his presence, for having to tell Tanis of his friend’s death, for having to live in this world without this noble friend by her side.

Slowly she laid the lance upon the altar. Then she knelt before it a moment, feeling Flint’s arm around her shoulder and Tasslehoff’s gentle touch upon her hand.

As if in answer to her prayer, she heard the knights’ voices rising behind her, carrying their own prayers to the great and ancient god, Paladine.

Return this man to Huma’s breast:
Let him be lost in sunlight,
In the chorus of air where breath is translated;
At the sky’s border receive him.
Beyond the wild, impartial skies
Have you set your lodgings,
In cantonments of stars, where the sword aspires
In an arc of yearning, where we join in singing.
Grant to him a warrior’s rest.
Above our singing, above song itself,
May the ages of peace converge in a day
May he dwell in the heart of Paladine.
And set the last spark of his eyes
In a fixed and holy place
Above words and the borrowed land too loved
As we recount the ages.
Free from the smothering clouds of war
As he once rose in infancy
The long world possible and bright before him,
Lord Huma, deliver him.
Upon the torches of the stars
Was mapped the immaculate glory of childhood;
From that wronged and nestling country,
Lord Huma, deliver him.
Let the last surge of his breath
Perpetuate wine, the attar of flowers;
From the vanguard of love, the last to surrender,
Lord Huma, deliver him.
Take refuge in the cradling air
From the heart of the sword descending,
From the weight of battle on battle;
Lord Huma, deliver him.
Above the dreams of ravens where
His dreams first tried a rest beyond changing,
From the yearning for war and the war’s ending,
Lord Huma, deliver him.
Only the hawk remembers death
In a late country; from the dusk,
From the fade of the senses, we are thankful that you,
Lord Huma, deliver him.
Then let his shade to Huma rise
Out of the body of death, of the husk unraveling;
From the lodging of mind upon nothing, we are thankful that you,
Lord Huma, deliver him.
Beyond the wild, impartial skies
Have you set your lodgings,
In cantonments of stars, where the sword aspires
In an arc of yearning, where we join in singing.
Return this man to Huma’s breast
Beyond the wild, impartial skies;
Grant to him a warrior’s rest
And set the last spark of his eyes
Free from the smothering clouds of wars
Upon the torches of the stars.
Let the last surge of his breath
Take refuge in the cradling air
Above tire dreams of ravens where
Only the hawk remembers death.
Then let his shade to Huma rise
Beyond the wild, impartial skies.

The chant ended. Slowly, solemnly the knights walked forward one by one to pay homage to the dead, each kneeling for a moment before the altar. Then the Knights of Solamnia left the Chamber of Paladine, returning to their cold beds to try and find some rest before the next day’s dawning.

Laurana, Flint, and Tasslehoff stood alone beside their friend, their arms around each other, their hearts full. A chill wind whistled through the open door of the sepulcher where the Honor Guard stood, ready to seal the chamber.

‘Kharan bea Reorx,’ said Flint in dwarven, wiping his gnarled and shaking hand across his eyes. ‘Friends meet in Reorx.’ Fumbling in his pouch, he took out a bit of wood, beautifully carved into the shape of a rose. Gently he laid it upon Sturm’s breast, beside Alhana’s Starjewel.

‘Good-bye, Sturm,’ Tas said awkwardly. ‘I only have one gift that—that you would approve of. I—I don’t think you’ll understand. But then again, maybe you do now. Maybe you understand better than I do.’ Tasslehoff placed a small white feather in the knight’s cold hand.

‘Quisalan elevas,’ Laurana whispered in elven. ‘Our lovesbond eternal.’ She paused, unable to leave him in this darkness.

‘Come, Laurana,’ Flint said gently. ‘We’ve said our goodbyes. We must let him go. Reorx waits for him.’

Laurana drew back. Silently, without looking back, the three friends climbed the narrow stairs leading from the sepulcher and walked steadfastly into the chill, stinging sleet of the bitter winter’s night.

Far away from the frozen land of Solamnia, one other person said good-bye to Sturm Bright-blade.

Silvanesti had not changed with the passing months. Though Lorac’s nightmare was ended, and his body lay beneath the soil of his beloved country, the land still remembered Lorac’s terrible dreams. The air smelled of death and decay. The trees bent and twisted in unending agony. Misshapen beasts roamed the woods, seeking an end to their tortured existence.

In vain Alhana watched from her room in the Tower of the Stars for some sign of change.

The griffons had come back—as she had known they would once the dragon was gone. She had fully intended to leave Silvanesti and return to her people on Ergoth. But the griffons carried disturbing news: war between the elves and humans.

It was a mark of the change in Alhana, a mark of her suffering these past months, that she found this news distressing. Before she met Tanis and the others, she would have accepted war between elves and humans, perhaps even welcomed it. But now she saw that this was only the work of the evil forces in the world.