Slick bastard, Gunthar thought grudgingly.
With a bow to apologize for speaking out of turn, Derek sat down again. Many of the older knights nodded in approval.
‘It also says in the Measure,’ Sturm said slowly, ‘that we are not to take life needlessly, that we fight only in defense—either our own or the defense of others. The elves did not threaten our lives. At no time were we in actual physical danger.’
‘They were shooting arrows at you, man!’ Lord Alfred struck the table with his gloved hand.
‘True, my lord,’ Sturm replied, ‘but all know the elves are expert marksmen. If they had wanted to kill us, they would not have been hitting trees!’
‘What do you believe would have happened if you had attacked the elves?’ Gunthar questioned.
‘The results would have been tragic in my view, my lord,’ Sturm said, his voice soft and low. ‘For the first time in generations, elves and humans would be killing each other. I think the Dragon Highlords would have laughed.’
Several of the young knights applauded.
Lord Alfred glared at them, angry at this serious breach of the Measure’s rules of conduct. ‘Lord Gunthar, may I remind you that Lord Derek Crownguard is not on trial here. He has proven his valor time and again upon the field of battle. I think we may safely take his word for what is an enemy action and what isn’t. Sturm Brightblade, do you say that the charges made against you by Lord Derek Crownguard are false?’
‘My lord,’ Sturm began, licking his lips which were cracked and dry, ‘I do not say the knight has lied. I say, however, that he has misrepresented me.’
‘To what purpose?’ Lord Michael asked.
Sturm hesitated. ‘I would prefer not to answer that, my lord,’ he said so quietly that many knights in the back row could not hear and called for Gunthar to repeat the question. He did so and received the same reply—this time louder.
‘On what grounds do you refuse to answer that question, Brightblade?’ Lord Gunthar asked sternly.
‘Because—according to the Measure—it impinges on the honor of the Knighthood,’ Sturm replied.
Lord Gunthar’s face was grave. ‘That is a serious charge. Making it, you realize you have no one to stand with you in evidence?’
‘I do, my lord,’ Sturm answered, ‘and that is why I prefer not to respond.’
‘If I command you to speak?’
‘That, of course, would be different.’
‘Then speak, Sturm Brightblade. This is an unusual situation, and I do not see how we can make a fair judgment without hearing everything. Why do you believe Lord Derek Crownguard misrepresents you?’
Sturm’s face flushed. Clasping and unclasping his hands, he raised his eyes and looked directly at the three knights who sat in judgment on him. His case was lost, he knew that. He would never be a knight, never attain what had been dearer to him than life itself. To have lost it through fault of his own would have been bitter enough, but to lose it like this was a festering wound. And so he spoke the words that he knew would make Derek his bitter enemy for the rest of his days.
‘I believe Lord Derek Crownguard misrepresents me in an effort to further his own ambition, my lord.’
Tumult broke out. Derek was on his feet. His friends restrained him forcibly, or he would have attacked Sturm in the Council Hall. Gunthar banged the sword hilt for order and eventually the assembly quieted down, but not before Derek had challenged Sturm to test his honor in the field.
Gunthar stared at the knight coldly.
‘You know, Lord Derek, that in this—a declared time of war—the contests of honor are forbidden! Come to order or I’ll have you expelled from this assembly.’
Breathing heavily, his face splotched with red, Derek relapsed back into his seat.
Gunthar gave the Assembly a few more moments to settle down, then resumed. ‘Have you anything more to say in your defense, Sturm Brightblade?’
‘No, my lord,’ Sturm said.
‘Then you may withdraw while this matter is considered.’
Sturm rose and bowed to the lords. Turning, he bowed to the Assembly. Then he left the room, escorted by two knights who led him to an antechamber. Here, the two knights, not unkindly, left Sturm to himself. They stood near the closed door, talking softly of matters unrelated to the trial.
Sturm sat on a bench at the far end of the chamber. He appeared composed and calm, but it was all an act. He was determined not to let these knights see the tumult in his soul. It was hopeless, he knew. Gunthar’s grieved expression told him that much. But what would the judgment be? Exile, being stripped of lands and wealth? Sturm smiled bitterly. He had nothing they could take from him. He had lived outside of Solamnia so long, exile would be meaningless. Death? He would almost welcome that. Anything was better than this hopeless existence, this dull throbbing pain.
Hours passed. The murmur of three voices rose and fell from within the corridors around the Hall, sometimes angrily. Most of the other knights had gone out, since only the three as Heads of the Council could pass judgment. The other knights were split into differing factions.
The young knights spoke openly of Sturm’s noble bearing, his acts of courage, which even Derek could not suppress. Sturm was right in not fighting the elves. The Knights of Solamnia needed all the friends they could get these days. Why attack needlessly, and so forth. The older knights had only one answer—the Measure. Derek had given Sturm an order. He had refused to obey. The Measure said this was inexcusable. Arguments raged most of the afternoon.
Then, near evening, a small silver bell rang.
‘Brightblade,’ said one of the knights.
Sturm raised his head. ‘Is it time?’ The knight nodded.
Sturm bowed his head for a moment asking Paladine for courage. Then he rose to his feet. He and his guards waited for the other knights to reenter and be seated. He knew that they were learning the verdict as soon as they entered.
Finally, the two knights detailed as escort opened the door and motioned for Sturm to enter. He walked into the Hall, the knights following behind. Sturm’s gaze went at once to the table before Lord Gunthar.
The sword of his father—a sword that legend said was passed down from Berthel Brightblade himself; a sword that would break only if its master broke—lay on the table. Sturm’s eyes went to the sword. His head dropped to hide the burning tears in his eyes.
Wreathed around the blade was the ancient symbol of guilt—black roses.
‘Bring the man, Sturm Brightblade, forward,’ called Lord Gunthar.
The man, Sturm Brightblade, not the knight! thought Sturm in despair. Then he remembered Derek. His head came up swiftly, proudly, as he blinked away his tears. Just as he would have hidden his pain from his enemy on the field of battle, so he was determined to hide it now from Derek. Throwing back his head defiantly, his eyes on Lord Gunthar and on no one else, the disgraced squire walked forward to stand before the three officers of the Order to await his fate.
‘Sturm Brightblade, we have found you guilty. We are prepared to render judgment. Are you prepared to receive it?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Sturm said tightly.
Gunthar tugged his moustaches, a sign that the men who had served with him recognized. Lord Gunthar always tugged his moustaches just before riding into battle.
‘Sturm Brightblade, it is our judgment that you henceforth cease wearing any of the trappings or accoutrements of a Knight of Solamnia.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Sturm said softly, swallowing.
‘And, henceforth, you will not draw pay from the coffers of the Knights, nor obtain any property or gift from them...’
The knights in the hall shifted restlessly. This was ridiculous! No one had drawn pay in the service of the Order since the Cataclysm. Something was up. They smelled thunder before the storm.