Flint peered out from a crack in the wall. ‘At least I’ll die on dry land,’ the dwarf muttered.
Sturm smiled slightly, stroking his moustaches. His eyes went to the east. As he thought about dying, he looked upon the land where he’d been born—a home he had barely known, a father he barely remembered, a country that had driven his family into exile. He was about to give his life to defend that country. Why? Why didn’t he just leave and go back to Palanthas?
All of his life he had followed the Code and the Measure. The Code: Est Sularus oth Mithas—My Honor Is My Life. The Code was all he had left. The Measure was gone. It had failed. Rigid, inflexible, the Measure had encased the Knights in steel heavier than their armor. The Knights, isolated, fighting to survive, had clung to the Measure in despair—not realizing that it was an anchor, weighing them down.
Why was I different? Sturm wondered. But he knew the answer, even as he listened to the dwarf grumble. It was because of the dwarf, the kender, the mage, the half-elf...They had taught him to see the world through other eyes: slanted eyes, smaller eyes, even hourglass eyes. Knights like Derek saw the world in stark black and white. Sturm had seen the world in all its radiant colors, in all its bleak grayness.
‘It’s time,’ he said to Flint. The two descended from the high lookout point just as the first of the enemy’s poison-tipped arrows arched over the walls.
With shrieks and yells, the blaring of horns, and clashing of shield and sword, the dragonarmies struck the Tower of the High Clerist as the sun’s brittle light filled the sky.
By nightfall, the flag still flew. The Tower stood.
But half its defenders were dead.
The living had no time during the day to shut the staring eyes or compose the contorted, agonized limbs. The living had all they could do to stay alive. Peace came at last with the night, as the dragonarmies withdrew to rest and wait for the morrow.
Sturm paced the battlements, his body aching with weariness. Yet every time he tried to rest, taut muscles twitched and danced, his brain seemed on fire. And so he was driven to pace again—back and forth, back and forth with slow, measured tread. He could not know that his steady pace drove the day’s horrors from the thoughts of the young knights who listened. Knights in the courtyard, laying out the bodies of friends and comrades, thinking that tomorrow someone might be doing this for them, heard Sturm’s steady pacing and felt their fears for tomorrow eased.
The ringing sound of the knight’s footfalls brought comfort to everyone, in fact, except to the knight himself. Sturm’s thoughts were dark and tormented: thoughts of defeat; thoughts of dying ignobly, without honor; tortured memories of the dream, seeing his body hacked and mutilated by the foul creatures camped beyond. Would the dream come true? he wondered, shivering. Would he falter at the end, unable to conquer fear? Would the Code fail him, as had the Measure?
Step...step...step...step...
Stop this! Sturm told himself angrily. You’ll soon be mad as poor Derek. Spinning abruptly on his heel to break his stride, the knight turned to find Laurana behind him. His eyes met hers, and the black thoughts were brightened by her light. As long as such peace and beauty as hers existed in this world there was hope. He smiled at her and she smiled back—a strained smile—but it erased lines of fatigue and worry in her face.
‘Rest,’ he told her. ‘You look exhausted.’
‘I tried to sleep,’ she murmured, ‘but I had terrible dreams—hands encased in crystal, huge dragons flying through stone hallways.’ She shook her head, then sat down, exhausted, in a corner sheltered from the chill wind.
Sturm’s gaze moved to Tasslehoff, who lay beside her. The kender was fast asleep, curled into a ball. Sturm looked at him with a smile. Nothing bothered Tas. The kender’d had a truly glorious day—one that would live in his memory forever.
‘I’ve never been at a siege before,’ Sturm had heard Tas confide to Flint just seconds before the dwarf’s battle-axe swept off a goblin’s head.
‘You know we’re all going to die,’ Flint growled, wiping black blood from his axe blade.
‘That’s what you said when we faced that black dragon in Xak Tsaroth,’ Tas replied. ‘Then you said the same thing in Thorbardin, and then there was the boat—’
‘This time we’re going to die!’ Flint roared in a rage. ‘If I have to kill you myself!’
But they hadn’t died—at least not today. There’s always tomorrow, Sturm thought, his gaze resting on the dwarf who leaned against a stone wall, carving at a block of wood.
Flint looked up. ‘When will it start?’ he asked.
Sturm sighed, his gaze shifting out to the eastern sky. ‘Dawn,’ he replied. ‘A few hours yet.’
The dwarf nodded. ‘Can we hold?’ His voice was matter-of-fact, the hand that held the wood firm and steady.
‘We must,’ Sturm replied. ‘The messenger will reach Palanthas tonight. If they act at once, it’s still a two-day march to reach us. We must give them two days—’
‘If they act at once!’ Flint grunted.
‘I know...’ Sturm said softly, sighing. ‘You should leave,’ he turned to Laurana, who came out of her reverie with a start. ‘Go to Palanthas. Convince them of the danger.’
‘Your messenger must do that,’ Laurana said tiredly. ‘If not, no words of mine will sway them.’
‘Laurana,’ he began.
‘Do you need me?’ she asked abruptly. ‘Am I of use here?’
‘You know you are,’ Sturm answered. He had marveled at the elfmaid’s unflagging strength, her courage, and her skill with the bow.
‘Then I’m staying,’ Laurana said simply. Drawing the blanket up more closely around her, she closed her eyes. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she whispered. But within a few moments, her breathing became soft and regular as the slumbering kender’s.
Sturm shook his head, swallowing a choking thickness in his throat. His glance met Flint’s. The dwarf sighed and went back to his carving. Neither spoke, both men thinking the same thing. Their deaths would be bad if the draconians overran the Tower. Laurana’s death could be a thing of nightmares.
The eastern sky was brightening, foretelling the sun’s approach, when the knights were roused from their fitful slumber by the blaring of horns. Hastily they rose, grabbed their weapons, and stood to the walls, peering out across the dark land.
The campfires of the dragonarmies burned low, allowed to go out as daylight neared. They could hear the sounds of life returning to the horrible body. The knights gripped their weapons, waiting. Then they turned to each other, bewildered.
The dragonarmies were retreating! Although only dimly seen in the faint half-light, it was obvious that the black tide was slowly withdrawing. Sturm watched, puzzled. The armies moved back, just over the horizon. But they were still out there, Sturm knew. He sensed them.
Some of the younger knights began to cheer.
‘Keep quiet!’ Sturm commanded harshly. Their shouts grated on his raw nerves. Laurana came to stand beside him and glanced at him in astonishment. His face was gray and haggard in the flickering torchlight. His gloved fists, resting atop the battlements, clenched and unclenched nervously His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, staring eastward.
Laurana, sensing the rising fear within him, felt her own body grow chill. She remembered what she had told Tas.
‘Is it what we feared?’ she asked, her hand on his arm.
‘Pray we are wrong!’ he spoke softly, in a broken voice.
Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Flint came to join them, clambering up on a huge slab of broken stone to see over the edge of the wall. Tas woke, yawning.
‘When’s breakfast?’ the kender inquired cheerfully, but no one paid any attention to him.
Still they watched and waited. Now all the knights, each of them feeling the same rising fear, lined the walls, staring eastward without any clear idea why.