Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (55 page)

The knight looked at her, then toward the dragons speeding out of the ever-brightening east.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Flint, you and Tas go down and gather the men together in the center courtyard. Hurry!”

Tasslehoff, giving Laurana a last, troubled glance, jumped down from the rock where he and the dwarf had been standing. Flint came after him more slowly, his face somber and thoughtful. Reaching the ground, he walked up to Sturm.

Must you? Flint asked Sturm silently, as their eyes met.

Sturm nodded once. Glancing at Laurana, he smiled sadly. “I’ll tell her,” he said softly. “Take care of the kender. Goodbye, my friend.”

Flint swallowed, shaking his old head. Then, his face a mask of sorrow, the dwarf brushed his gnarled hand across his eyes and gave Tas a shove in the back.

“Get moving!” the dwarf snapped.

Tas turned to look at him in astonishment, then shrugged and ran skipping along the top of the battlements, his shrill voice shouting out to the startled knights.

Laurana’s face glowed. “You come, too, Sturm!” she said, tugging at him like a child eager to show a parent a new toy. “I’ll explain this to the men if you want. Then you can give the orders and arrange the battle disposition—”

“You’re in command, Laurana,” Sturm said.

“What?” Laurana stopped, fear replacing the hope in her heart so suddenly the pain made her gasp.

“You said you needed time,” Sturm said, adjusting his swordbelt, avoiding her eyes. “You’re right. You must get the men in position. You must have time to use the orb. I will gain you that time.” He picked up a bow and a quiver of arrows.

“No! Sturm!” Laurana shivered with terror. “You can’t mean this! I can’t command! I need you! Sturm, don’t do this to yourself!” Her voice died to a whisper. “Don’t do this to me!”

“You can command, Laurana,” Sturm said, taking her head in his hands. Leaning forward, he kissed her gently. “Farewell, elfmaid,” he said softly. “Your light will shine in this world. It is time for mine to darken. Don’t grieve, dear one. Don’t cry.” He held her close. “The Forestmaster said to
us, in Darken Wood, that we should not mourn those who have fulfilled their destiny. Mine is fulfilled. Now, hurry, Laurana. You’ll need every second.”

“At least take the dragonlance with you,” she begged.

Sturm shook his head, his hand on the antique sword of his father. “I don’t know how to use it. Good-bye, Laurana. Tell Tanis—” He stopped, then he sighed. “No,” he said with a slight smile. “He will know what was in my heart.”

“Sturm …” Laurana’s tears choked her into silence. She could only stare at him in mute appeal.

“Go,” he said.

Stumbling blindly, Laurana turned around and somehow made her way down the stairs to the courtyard below. Here she felt a strong hand grasp hers.

“Flint,” she began, sobbing painfully, “he, Sturm …”

“I know, Laurana,” the dwarf replied. “I saw it in his face. I think I’ve seen it there for as long as I can remember. It’s up to you now. You can’t fail him.”

Laurana drew a deep breath, then wiped her eyes with her hands, cleaning her tear-streaked face as best she could. Taking another breath, she lifted her head.

“There,” she said, keeping her voice firm and steady. “I’m ready. Where’s Tas?”

“Here,” said a small voice.

“Go on down. You read the words in the orb once before. Read them again. Make absolutely certain you’ve got it right.”

“Yes, Laurana.” Tas gulped and ran off.

“The knights are assembled,” Flint said. “Waiting your command.”

“Waiting my command,” Laurana repeated absently.

Hesitating, she looked up. The red rays of the sun flashed on Sturm’s bright armor as the knight climbed the narrow stairs that led to a high wall near the central Tower. Sighing, she lowered her gaze to the courtyard where the knights waited.

Laurana drew another deep breath, then walked toward them, the red crest fluttering from her helmet, her golden hair flaming in the morning light.

The cold and brittle sun stained the sky blood red, deepening into the velvet blue-blackness of receding night. The
Tower stood in shadow still, though the sun’s rays sparkled off the golden threads in the fluttering flag.

Sturm reached the top of the wall. The Tower soared above him. The parapet Sturm stood upon extended a hundred feet or more to his left. Its stone surface was smooth, providing no shelter, no cover.

Looking east, Sturm saw the dragons.

They were blue dragons, and on the back of the lead dragon in the formation sat a Dragon Highlord, the blue-black dragon-scale armor gleaming in the sunlight. He could see the hideous horned mask, the black cape fluttering behind. Two other blue dragons with riders followed the Dragon Highlord. Sturm gave them a brief, perfunctory glance. They did not concern him. His battle was with the leader, the Highlord.

The knight looked into the courtyard far below him. Sunlight was just climbing the walls. Sturm saw it flicker red off the tips of the silver dragonlances that each man held now in his hand. He saw it burn on Laurana’s golden hair. He saw the men look up at him. Grasping his sword, he raised it into the air. Sunlight flashed from the ornately carved blade.

Smiling up at him, though she could barely see him through her tears, Laurana raised her dragonlance into the air in answer—in good-bye.

Comforted by her smile, Sturm turned back to face his enemy.

Walking to the center of the wall, he seemed a small figure poised halfway between land and sky. The dragons could fly past him, or circle around him, but that wasn’t what he wanted. They must see him as a threat. They must take time to fight him.

Sheathing his sword, Sturm fit an arrow to his bow and took careful aim at the lead dragon. Patiently he waited, holding his breath. I cannot waste this, he thought. Wait … wait …

The dragon was in range. Sturm’s arrow sped through the morning brilliance. His aim was true. The arrow struck the blue dragon in the neck. It did little damage, bouncing off the dragon’s blue scales, but the dragon reared its head in pain and irritation, slowing its flight. Quickly Sturm fired again, this time at the dragon flying directly behind the leader.

The arrow tore into a wing, and the dragon shrieked in rage. Sturm fired once more. This time the lead dragon’s rider steered it clear. But the knight had accomplished what he set out to do: capture their attention, prove he was a threat, force them to fight him. He could hear the sound of running footsteps in the courtyard and the shrill squeak of the winches raising the portcullises.

Now Sturm could see the Dragon Highlord rise to his feet in the saddle. Built like a chariot, the saddle could accommodate its rider in a standing position for battle. The Highlord carried a spear in his gloved hand. Sturm dropped his bow. Picking up his shield and drawing his sword, he stood upon the wall, watching as the dragon flew closer and closer, its red eyes flaring, its white teeth gleaming.

Then—far away—Sturm heard the clear, clarion call of a trumpet, its music cold as the air from the snow-covered mountains of his homeland in the distance. Pure and crisp, the trumpet call pierced his heart, rising bravely above the darkness and death and despair that surrounded him.

Sturm answered the call with a wild battle-cry, raising his sword to meet his enemy. The sunlight flashed red on his blade. The dragon swooped in low.

Again the trumpet sounded, and again Sturm answered, his voice rising in a shout. But this time his voice faltered, for suddenly Sturm realized he had heard this trumpet before.

The dream!

Sturm stopped, gripping his sword in a hand that was sweating inside its glove. The dragon loomed above him. Astride the dragon was the Highlord, the horns of his mask flickering blood-red, his spear poised and ready.

Fear knotted Sturm’s stomach, his skin grew cold. The horn call sounded a third time. It had sounded three times in the dream, and after the third call he had fallen. The dragonfear was overwhelming him. Escape! his brain screamed.

Escape! The dragons would swoop into the courtyard. The knights could not be ready yet, they would die, Laurana, Flint, and Tas.… The Tower would fall.

No! Sturm got hold of himself. Everything else was gone: his ideals, his hopes, his dreams. The Knighthood was collapsing. The Measure had been found wanting. Everything in his life was meaningless. His death must not be so. He would
buy Laurana time, buy it with his life, since that was all he had to give. And he would die according to the Code, since that was all he had to cling to.

Raising his sword in the air, he gave the knight’s salute to an enemy. To his surprise, it was returned with grave dignity by the Dragon Highlord. Then the dragon dove, its jaws open, prepared to slash the knight apart with its razor-sharp teeth. Sturm swung his sword in a vicious arc, forcing the dragon to rear its head back or risk decapitation. Sturm hoped to disrupt its flight. But the creature’s wings held it steady, its rider guiding it with a sure hand while holding the gleaming-tipped spear in the other.

Sturm faced east. Half-blinded by the sun’s brilliance, Sturm saw the dragon as a thing of blackness. He saw the creature dip in its flight, diving below the level of the wall, and he realized the blue was going to come up from beneath, giving its rider the room needed to attack. The other two dragon riders held back, watching, waiting to see if their lord required help finishing this insolent knight.

For a moment the sun-drenched sky was empty, then the dragon burst up over the edge of the wall, its horrifying scream splitting Sturm’s eardrums, filling his head with pain. The breath from its gaping mouth gagged him. He staggered dizzily but managed to keep his feet as he slashed out with his sword. The ancient blade struck the dragon’s left nostril. Black blood spurted into the air. The dragon roared in fury.

But the blow was costly. Sturm had no time to recover.

The Dragon Highlord raised his spear, its tip flaming in the sun. Leaning down, he thrust it deep, piercing through armor, flesh, and bone.

Sturm’s sun shattered.

T
he knights surged past Laurana into the High Clerist’s Tower, taking their places where she had told them. Although at first skeptical, hope dawned as Laurana explained her plan.

The courtyard was empty after the knights’ departure. Laurana knew she should hurry. Already she should be with Tas, preparing herself to use the dragon orb. But Laurana could not leave that gleaming, solitary figure standing alone—waiting—upon the wall.

Then, silhouetted in the rising sun, she saw the dragons.

Sword and spear flashed in the brilliant sunlight.

Laurana’s world stopped turning. Time slowed to a dream. The sword drew blood. The dragon screamed. The spear held poised for an eternity. The sun stood still.

The spear struck.

A glittering object fell slowly from the top of the wall into the courtyard. The object was Sturm’s sword, dropped from his lifeless hand, and it was—to Laurana—the only movement in a static world. The knight’s body stood still, impaled upon the spear of the Dragon Highlord. The dragon hovered above, its wings poised. Nothing moved, everything held perfectly still.

Then the Highlord jerked the spear free and Sturm’s body crumpled where he stood, a dark mass against the sun. The dragon roared in outrage and a bolt of lightning streaked from the blue’s blood-frothed mouth and struck the High Clerist’s Tower. With a booming explosion, the stone burst apart. Flames flared, brighter than the sun. The other two dragons dove for the courtyard as Sturm’s sword clattered to the pavement with a ringing sound.

Time began.

Laurana saw the dragons diving at her. The ground around her shook as stone and rock rained down upon her and smoke and dust filled the air. Still Laurana could not move. To move would make the tragedy real. Some inane voice kept whispering in her brain—if you stand perfectly still, this will not have happened.

But there lay the sword, only a few feet from her. And as she watched, she saw the Dragon Highlord wave the spear, signaling to the dragonarmies that waited out upon the plains, telling them to attack. Laurana heard the blaring of the horns. In her mind’s eye, she could see the dragonarmies surging across the snow-covered land.

Again the ground shook beneath her feet. Laurana hesitated one instant more, bidding a silent farewell to the spirit of the knight. Then she ran forward, stumbling as the ground heaved and the air crackled with terrifying lightning blasts. Reaching down, she grabbed Sturm’s sword and raised it defiantly in the air.

“Soliasi Arath!!”
she cried in elven, her voice ringing above the sounds of destruction in challenge to the attacking dragons.

The dragon riders laughed, shouting their scornful challenges in return. The dragons shrieked in cruel enjoyment of the kill. Two dragons who had accompanied the Highlord plummeted after Laurana into the courtyard.

Laurana ran toward the huge, gaping portcullis, the entryway into the Tower that made so little sense. The stone walls were a blur as she fled past them. Behind her she could hear a dragon swooping after her. She could hear its stertorous breathing, the rush of air past its wings. She heard the dragon rider’s command that stopped the dragon from following her right into the Tower. Good! Laurana smiled grimly to herself.