Bathed in the glare of his own torch, the officer dismounted. He began to untie the bodies, using one hand to strip away the ropes binding them to the saddle. Then he glanced up.
‘Yes, you could kill me now. I am a fine target, even in this fog. But you won’t. You’re Knights of Solamnia’—his sarcasm was sharp—‘and your honor is your life. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man returning the bodies of your leaders.’ He gave the ropes a yank. The headless body slid to the ground. The officer dragged the other body off the saddle. He tossed the torch down into the snow next to the bodies. It sizzled, then went out, and the darkness swallowed him.
‘You have a surfeit of honor out there on the field,’ he called. The knights could hear the leather creak, his armor clang as he remounted his horse. ‘I’ll give you until morning to surrender. When the sun rises, lower your flag. The Dragon Highlord will deal with you mercifully—’
Suddenly there was the twang of a bow, the thunk of an arrow striking into flesh, and the sound of startled swearing from below them. The knights turned around to stare in astonishment at a lone figure standing on the wall, a bow in its hand.
‘I am not a knight,’ Laurana called out, lowering her bow. ‘I am Lauralanthalasa, daughter of the Qualinesti. We elves have our own code of honor and, as I’m sure you know, I can see you quite well in this darkness. I could have killed you. As it is, I believe you will have some difficulty using that arm for a long time. In fact, you may never hold a sword again.’
‘Take that as our answer to your Highlord,’ Sturm said harshly. ‘We will lie cold in death before we lower our flag!’
‘Indeed you will!’ the officer said through teeth clenched in pain. The sound of galloping hooves was lost in the darkness.
‘Bring in the bodies,’ Sturm ordered.
Cautiously, the knights opened the gates. Several rushed out to cover the others who gently lifted the bodies and bore them inside. Then the guard retreated back into the fortress and bolted the gates behind them.
Sturm knelt in the snow beside the body of the headless knight. Lifting the man’s hand, he removed a ring from the stiff, cold fingers. The knight’s armor was battered and black with blood. Dropping the lifeless hand back into the snow, Sturm bowed his head. ‘Lord Alfred,’ he said tonelessly.
‘Sir,’ said one of the young knights, ‘the other is Lord Derek. The foul dragon officer was right—he is still alive.’
Sturm rose and walked over to where Derek lay on the cold stone. The lord’s face was white, his eyes wide and glittering feverishly. Blood caked his lips, his skin was clammy. One of the young knights supporting him, held a cup of water to his lips, but Derek could not drink.
Sick with horror, Sturm saw Derek’s hand was pressed over his stomach, where his life’s blood was welling out, but not fast enough to end the agonizing pain. Giving a ghastly smile, Derek clutched Sturm’s arm with a bloody hand.
‘Victory!’ he croaked. ‘They ran before us and we pursued! It was glorious, glorious! And I—I will be Grand Master!’ He choked and blood spewed from his mouth as he fell back into the arms of the young knight, who looked up at Sturm, his youthful face hopeful.
‘Do you suppose he’s right, sir? Maybe that was a ruse—’ His voice died at the sight of Sturm’s grim face, and he looked back at Derek with pity. ‘He’s mad, isn’t he, sir?’
‘He’s dying—bravely—like a true knight,’ Sturm said.
‘Victory!’ Derek whispered, then his eyes fixed in his head and he gazed sightlessly into the fog.
‘No, you mustn’t break it,’ said Laurana.
‘But Fizban said—’
‘I know what he said,’ Laurana replied impatiently. ‘It isn’t evil, it isn’t good, it’s not anything, it’s everything. That’—she muttered—‘is so like Fizban!’
She and Tas stood in front of the dragon orb. The orb rested on its stand in the center of the round room, still covered with dust except for the spot Tas had rubbed clean. The room was dark and eerily silent, so quiet, in fact, that Tas and Laurana felt compelled to whisper.
Laurana stared at the orb, her brow creased in thought. Tas stared at Laurana unhappily, afraid he knew what she was thinking.
‘These orbs have to work, Tas!’ Laurana said finally. ‘They were created by powerful magic-users! People like Raistlin who do not tolerate failure. If only we knew how—’
‘I know how,’ Tas said in a broken whisper.
‘What?’ Laurana asked. ‘You know! Why didn’t you—’
‘I didn’t know I knew—so to speak,’ Tas stammered. ‘It just came to me. Gnosh—the gnome—told me that he discovered writing inside the orb, letters that swirled around in the mist. He couldn’t read them, he said, because they were written in some sort of strange language—’
‘The language of magic.’
‘Yes, that’s what I said and—’
‘But that won’t help us! We can’t either of us speak it. If only Raistlin—’
‘We don’t need Raistlin,’ Tas interrupted—‘I can’t speak it, but I can read it. You see, I have these glasses—glasses of true seeing, Raistlin called them. They let me read languages—even the language of magic. I know because he said if he caught me reading any of his scrolls he’d turn me into a cricket and swallow me whole.’
‘And you think you can read the orb?’
‘I can try,’ Tas hedged, ‘but, Laurana, Sturm said there probably wouldn’t be any dragons. Why should we risk even bothering with the orb? Fizban said only the most powerful magic-users dared use it.’
‘Listen to me, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,’ Laurana said softly, kneeling down beside the kender and staring him straight in the eye. ‘If they bring even one dragon here, we’re finished. That’s why they gave us time to surrender instead of just storming the place. They’re using the extra time to bring in dragons. We must take this chance!’
A dark path and a light path. Tasslehoff remembered Fizban’s words and hung his head. Death of those you love, but you have the courage.
Slowly Tas reached into the pocket of his fleecy vest, pulled out the glasses, and fit the wire frames over his pointed ears.
13
The sun rises.
Darkness descends.
The fog lifted with the coming of morning. The day dawned bright and clear—so clear that Sturm, walking the battlements, could see the snow-covered grasslands of his birthplace near Vingaard Keep—lands now completely controlled by the dragonarmies. The sun’s first rays struck the flag of the Knights—kingfisher beneath a golden crown, holding a sword decorated with a rose in his claws. The golden emblem glittered in the morning light. Then Sturm heard the harsh, blaring horns.
The dragonarmies marched upon the Tower at dawn.
The young knights—the hundred or so that were left—stood silently on the battlements watching as the vast army crawled across the land with the inexorability of devouring insects.
At first Sturm had wondered about the knight’s dying words. ‘They ran before us!’ Why had the dragonarmy run? Then it became clear to him—the dragonmen had used the knights’ own vainglory against them in an ancient, yet simple, maneuver. Fall back before your enemy...not too fast, just let the front lines show enough fear and terror to be believable. Let them seem to break in panic. Then let your enemy charge after you, overextending his lines. And let your armies close in, surround him, and cut him to shreds.
It didn’t need the sight of the bodies—barely visible in the distant trampled, bloody snow—to tell Sturm he had judged correctly. They lay where they had tried desperately to regroup for a final stand. Not that it mattered how they died. He wondered who would look on his body when it was all over.