‘Finally—’ Lord Gunthar paused. He leaned forward, his hands toying with the black roses that graced the antique sword. His shrewd eyes swept the Assembly, gathering up his audience, allowing the tension to build. By the time he spoke, even the fire behind him had ceased to crackle.
‘Sturm Brightblade. Assembled Knights. Never before has a case such as this come before the Council. And that, perhaps, is not as odd as it may seem, for these are dark and unusual days. We have a young squire—and I remind you that Sturm Brightblade is young by all standards of the Order—a young squire noted for his skill and valor in battle. Even his accuser admits that. A young squire charged with disobeying orders and cowardice in the face of the enemy. The young squire does not deny this charge, but states that he has been misrepresented.
‘Now, by the Measure, we are bound to accept the word of a tried and tested knight such as Derek Crownguard over the word of a man who has not yet won his shield. But the Measure also states that this man shall be able to call witnesses in his own behalf. Due to the unusual circumstances occasioned by these dark times, Sturm Brightblade is not able to call witnesses. Nor, for that matter, was Derek Crownguard able to produce witnesses to support his own cause. Therefore, we have agreed on the following, slightly irregular, procedure.’
Sturm stood before Gunthar, confused and troubled. What was happening? He glanced at the other two knights. Lord Alfred was not bothering to conceal his anger. It was obvious, therefore, that this ‘agreement’ of Gunthar’s had been hard won.
‘It is the judgment of this Council,’ Lord Gunthar continued, ‘that the young man, Sturm Brightblade, be accepted into the lowest order of the knights—the Order of the Crown—on my honor...’
There was a universal gasp of astonishment.
‘And that, furthermore, he be placed as third in command of the army that is due to set sail shortly for Palanthas. As prescribed by the Measure, the High Command must have a representative from each of the Orders. Therefore, Derek Crownguard will be High Commander, representing the Order of the Rose. Lord Alfred MarKenin will represent the Order of the Sword, and Sturm Brightblade will act—on my honor—as commander for the Order of the Crown.’
Amid the stunned silence, Sturm felt tears course down his cheeks, but now he need hide them no longer. Behind him, he heard the sound of someone rising, of a sword rattling in anger. Derek stalked furiously out of the Hall, the other knights of his faction following him. There were scattered cheers, too. Sturm saw through his tears that about half the knights in the room—particularly the younger knights, the knights he would command—were applauding. Sturm felt swift pain well deep from inside his soul. Though he had won his victory, he was appalled by what the knighthood had become—divided into factions by power-hungry men. It was nothing more than a corrupt shell of a once-honored brotherhood.
‘Congratulations, Brightblade,’ Lord Alfred said stiffly. ‘I hope you realize what Lord Gunthar has done for you.’
‘I do, my Lord,’ Sturm said, bowing, ‘and I swear by my father’s sword’—he laid his hand upon it—‘that I will be worthy of his trust.’
‘See to it, young man,’ Lord Alfred replied and left. The younger lord, Michael, accompanied him without a word to Sturm.
But the other young knights came forward then, offering their enthusiastic congratulations. They pledged his health in wine and would have stayed for an all-out drinking bout if Gunthar had not sent them on their way.
When the two of them were alone in the Hall, Lord Gunthar smiled expansively at Sturm and shook his hand. The young knight returned the handshake warmly, if not the smile. The pain was too fresh.
Then, slowly and carefully, Sturm took the black roses from his sword. Laying them on the table, he slid the blade back in the scabbard at his side. He started to brush the roses aside, but paused, then picked up one and thrust it into his belt.
‘I must thank you, my lord,’ Sturm began, his voice quivering.
‘You have nothing to thank me for, son,’ Lord Gunthar said. Glancing around the room, he shivered. ‘Let’s get out of this place and go somewhere warm. Mulled wine?’
The two knights walked down the stone corridors of Gunthar’s ancient castle, the sounds of the young knights leaving drifting up from below—horses’s hooves clattering on the cobblestone, voices shouting, some even raising in a military song.
‘I must thank you, my lord,’ Sturm said firmly. ‘The risk you take is very great. I hope I will prove worthy—’
‘Risk! Nonsense, my boy.’ Rubbing his hands to restore the circulation, Gunthar led Sturm into a small room decorated for the approaching Yule celebration—red winter roses, grown indoors, kingfisher feathers, and tiny, delicate golden crowns. A fire blazed brightly. At Gunthar’s command, servants brought in two mugs of steaming liquid that gave off a warm, spicy odor. ‘Many were the times your father threw his shield in front of me and stood over me, protecting me when I was down.’
‘And you did the same for him,’ Sturm said. ‘You owe him nothing. Pledging your honor for me means that, if I fail, you will suffer. You will be stripped of your rank, your title, your lands. Derek would see to that,’ he added gloomily.
As Gunthar took a deep drink of his wine, he studied the young man before him. Sturm merely sipped at his wine out of politeness, holding the mug with a hand that trembled visibly. Gunthar laid his hand kindly on Sturm’s shoulder, pushing the young man down gently into a chair.
‘Have you failed in the past, Sturm?’ Gunthar asked.
Sturm looked up, his brown eyes flashing. ‘No, my lord,’ he answered. ‘I have not. I swear it!’
‘Then I have no fear for the future,’ Lord Gunthar said, smiling. He raised his mug. ‘I pledge your good fortune in battle, Sturm Brightblade.’
Sturm shut his eyes. The strain had been too much. Dropping his head on his arm, he wept—his body shaking with painful sobs. Gunthar gripped his shoulder.
‘I understand...’ he said, his eyes looking back to a time in Solamnia when this young man’s father had broken down and cried that same way—the night Lord Brightblade had sent his young wife and infant son on a journey into exile—a journey from which he would never see them return.
Exhausted, Sturm finally fell asleep, his head lying on the table. Gunthar sat with him, sipping the hot wine, lost in memories of the past, until he, too, drifted into slumber.
The few days left before the army sailed to Palanthas passed swiftly for Sturm. He had to find armor—used; he couldn’t afford new. He packed his father’s carefully, intending to carry it since he had been forbidden to wear it. Then there were meetings to attend, battle dispositions to study, information on the enemy to assimilate.
The battle for Palanthas would be a bitter one, determining control of the entire northern part of Solamnia. The leaders were agreed upon their strategy. They would fortify the city walls with the city’s army. The knights themselves would occupy the High Clerist’s Tower that stood blocking the pass through the Vingaard Mountains. But that was all they agreed upon. Meetings between the three leaders were tense, the air chill.
Finally the day came for the ships to sail. The knights gathered on board. Their families stood quietly on the shore. Though faces were pale, there were few tears, the women standing as tight-lipped and stern as their men. Some wives wore swords buckled around their own waists. All knew that, if the battle in the north was lost, the enemy would come across the sea.
Gunthar stood upon the pier, dressed in his bright armor, talking with the knights, bidding farewell to his sons. He and Derek exchanged a few ritual words as prescribed by the Measure. He and Lord Alfred embraced perfunctorily. At last, Gunthar sought out Sturm. The young knight, clad in plain, shabby armor, stood apart from the crowd.