“If you have no further need of me, my lord,” the commander said, bowing, “I must check on the work of the armory. There is much to be done, and not much time in which to do it.”
“Yes, go ahead,” Kitiara muttered absently, her eyes on the huge map that was inlaid in tile upon the floor beneath her feet. Turning, the commander started to leave, his broadsword clanking against his armor. At the door, however, his lord’s voice stopped him.
“Commander?”
He turned. “My lord?”
Kitiara started to say something, stopped, bit her lip, then continued, “I—I was wondering if you would join me for dinner this evening.” She shrugged. “But, it is late to be asking. I presume you have made plans.”
The commander hesitated, confused. His palms began to sweat. “As a matter of fact, lord, I do have a prior commitment, but that could easily be changed—”
“No,” Kitiara said, a look of relief crossing her face. “No, that wont be necessary. Some other night. You are dismissed.”
The commander, still puzzled, turned slowly and started once again to leave the room. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the orange, burning eyes of the death knight, staring straight through him.
Now he would have to come up with a dinner engagement, he thought as he hurried down the hall. Easy enough. And he would send for one of the slave girls tonight—his favorite...
“You should relax. Treat yourself to an evening of pleasure,” Lord Soth said as the commander’s footsteps faded away down the corridor of Kitiara’s military headquarters.
“There is much to be done, and little time to do it,” Kitiara replied, pretending to be totally absorbed in the map beneath her feet. She stood upon the place marked “Sanction,” looking into the far northwestern corner of the room where Palanthas nestled in the cleft of its protective mountains.
Following her gaze, Soth slowly paced the distance, coming to a halt at the only pass through the rugged mountains, a place marked “High Clerist’s Tower.”
“The Knights will try to stop you here, of course,” Soth said. “Where they stopped you during the last war.”
Kitiara grinned, shook out her curly hair, and walked toward Soth. The lithe swagger was back in her step. “Now, won’t that be a sight? All the pretty Knights, lined up in a row.” Suddenly, feeling better than she had in months, Kitiara began to laugh. “You know, the looks on their faces when they see what we have in store for them will be almost worth waging the entire campaign.”
Standing on the High Clerist’s Tower, she ground it beneath her heel, then took a few quick steps to stand next to Palanthas.
“At last,” she murmured, “the fine, fancy lady will feel the sword of war slit open her soft, ripe flesh.” Smiling, she turned back to face Lord Soth. “I think I will have the commander to dinner tonight after all. Send for him.” Soth bowed his acquiescence, the orange eyes flaming with amusement. “We have many military matters to discuss,” Kitiara laughed again, starting to unbuckle the straps of her armor. “Matters of unguarded flanks, breaching walls, thrust, and penetration... .”
“Now, calm down, Tanis,” said Lord Gunthar good-naturedly. “You are overwrought.”
Tanis Half-Elven muttered something.
“What was that?” Gunthar turned around, holding in his hand a mug of his finest ale (drawn from the barrel in the dark corner by the cellar stairs). He handed the ale to Tanis.
“I said you’re damn right I’m overwrought!” the half-elf snapped, which wasn’t what he had said at all, but was certainly more appropriate when talking to the head of the Knights of Solamnia than what he had actually spoken.
Lord Gunthar uth Wistan stroked his long mustaches—the ages-old symbol of the Knights and one that was currently much in fashion—hiding his smile. He had heard, of course, what Tanis originally said. Gunthar shook his head. Why hadn’t this matter been brought straight to the military? Now, as well as preparing for this minor flare-up of undoubtedly frustrated enemy forces, he had also to deal with black-robed wizards’ apprentices, white-robed clerics, nervous heroes, and a librarian!
Gunthar sighed and tugged at his mustaches gloomily. All he needed now was a kender... .
“Tanis, my friend, sit down. Warm yourself by the fire. You’ve had a long journey, and it’s cold for late spring. The sailors say something about prevailing winds or some such nonsense. I trust your trip was a good one? I don’t mind telling you, I prefer griffons to dragons—”
“Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said tensely, remaining standing, “I did not fly all the way to Sancrist to discuss the prevailing winds nor the merits of griffons over dragons! We are in danger! Not only Palanthas, but the world! If Raistlin succeeds—” Tanis’s fist clenched. Words failed him.
Filling his own mug from the pitcher that Wills, his old retainer, had brought up from the cellar, Gunthar walked over to stand beside the half-elf. Putting his hand on Tanis’s shoulder, he turned the man to face him.
“Sturm Brightblade spoke highly of you, Tanis. You and Laurana were the closest friends he had.”
Tanis bowed his head at these words. Even now, more than two years since Sturm’s death, he could not think of the loss of his friend without sorrow.
“I would have esteemed you on that recommendation alone, for I loved and respected Sturm like one of my own sons,” Lord Gunthar continued earnestly. “But I have come to admire and like you myself, Tanis. Your bravery in battle was unquestioned, your honor, your nobility worthy of a Knight.” Tanis shook his head irritably at this talk of honor and nobility, but Gunthar did not notice.
“Those honors accorded you at the end of the war you more than merited. Your work since the war’s end has been outstanding. You and Laurana have brought together nations that have been separated for centuries. Porthios has signed the treaty and, once the dwarves of Thorbardin have chosen a new king, they will sign as well.”
“Thank you, Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said, holding his mug of untouched ale in his hand and staring fixedly into the fire. “Thank you for your praise. I wish I felt I had earned it. Now, if you’ll tell me where this trail of sugar is leading—”
“I see you are far more human than you are elven,” Gunthar said, with a slight smile. “Very well, Tanis. I will skip the elven amenities and get right to the point. I think your past experiences have made you jumpy—you and Elistan both. Let’s be honest, my friend. You are not a warrior. You were never trained as such. You stumbled into this last war by accident. Now, come with me. I want to show you something. Come, come...”
Tanis set his full mug down upon the mantelpiece and allowed himself to be led by Gunthar’s strong hand. They walked across the room that was filled with the solid, plain, but comfortable furniture preferred by the Knights. This was Gunthar’s war room, shields and swords were mounted on the walls, along with the banners of the three Orders of Knights—the Rose, the Sword, and the Crown. Trophies of battles fought through the years gleamed from the cases where they were carefully preserved. In an honored place, spanning the entire length of the wall, was a dragonlance the first one Theros Ironfeld had forged. Ranged around it were various goblin swords, a wicked saw-toothed blade of a draconian, a huge, double—bladed ogre sword, and a broken sword that had belonged to the ill-fated Knight, Derek Crownguard.
It was an impressive array, testifying to a lifetime of honored service in the Knights. Gunthar walked past it without a glance, however, heading for a corner of the room where a large table stood. Rolled-up maps were stuffed neatly into small compartments beneath the table, each compartment carefully labeled. After studying them for a moment, Gunthar reached down, pulled out a map, and spread it out upon the table’s surface. He motioned Tanis nearer. The half-elf came closer, scratching his beard, and trying to look interested.