Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (26 page)

“How does it work?” Derek asked.

“The book didn’t give instructions,” Tas replied, irritated at being asked all these questions when his friends were in danger. Seeing Derek frown, he added, “I have a friend who probably knows all about them. He’s a wizard. His name is Raistlin and we can ask him—”

“No,” said Derek, “we can’t. Did the book say where to find these dragon orbs?”

“It says one was taken to a place called Icereach—” Tas began.

“You should really hurry,” Lillith interrupted urgently. She had been fidgeting near the door the entire time, glancing nervously up the stairs. “We can talk about this when you come back. Your friend the knight has been arrested and it’s likely he’s going be killed.”

“He’s not a knight,” insisted Derek. “But,” he added in a more subdued tone, “he is a fellow Solamnic. Brian, you’re in charge of the kend—Master Burrfoot.” He and Aran started up the stairs. Tasslehoff hung about at the bottom, waiting for Brian.

“One more kiss,” Brian said to Lillith, smiling. “For luck?”

“For luck!” she said and kissed him, then she added wistfully, “Have you ever found something you’ve searched for all your life, only to know that you’re bound to lose it and maybe you’ll never find it again?”

“That happens to me all the time,” exclaimed Tasslehoff, crowding close to the two of them. “I once found this extremely interesting ring that belonged to an evil wizard. It kept jumping me all over the place—first here, then there, then back to here again. I was quite fond of it, only I seem to have misplaced it—”

Tasslehoff stopped talking. His story about the ring and the evil wizard was extremely exciting, very interesting and mostly true, but he’d lost his audience. Neither Lillith nor Brian were listening.

Derek called his name impatiently. Brian gave Lillith one last kiss then got a firm grip on Tasslehoff, and the two ran up the stairs.

Lillith sighed and went back to her dusty books.

6

The rescue.

Sturm settles an argument.

he knights and the kender emerged from the library’s secret entrance to find themselves in a snow storm, a startling change in the weather, for the day had been sunny when they went underground.

Large, heavy snowflakes were plummeting down from the sky, obscuring their vision and making walking on the stone streets slippery and treacherous. Though Marcus had been gone only a few moments, his footprints were already being covered up by the fast-falling snow. As Tas said, the snow was so thick they could barely see their noses in front of their faces, and they were startled when a figure suddenly loomed out of the white curtain.

“It’s me, Marcus,” he said, raising his hands as he heard the rattle of steel. “It occurred to me you’ll need a guide to the Hall of Justice.”

Derek muttered his thanks as he sheathed his sword, and they hurried on through the storm, blinking the snow out of their eyes and slipping on the icy pavement. Though the rest of the world had gone still and silent beneath a snowy blanket, their little part of it was quite lively, for the kender talked incessantly.

“Have you ever noticed how snow makes everything look different? I guess that’s why it’s really easy to get lost in a blizzard. Are we lost? I don’t remember seeing that tree before—the one that’s all humped over. I think we’ve taken a wrong turn—”

Eventually they came to a street corner and a building the kender did recognize, though this didn’t stop his flow of talk.

“Look at all the gargoyles! Hey, I saw one of them move! Brian, did you see that very fierce-looking gargoyle move? Wouldn’t it be exciting if it flew off its perch on that building and swooped down on us and gouged out our eyes with its sharp talons? Not that I want to have my eyes gouged out, mind you. I like my eyes. I couldn’t see much without them. Say, Marcus, I think we’re lost again. I don’t remember going past that butcher—oh, wait, yes, I do—”

“Can’t you keep him quiet?” Derek grumbled.

“Not without cutting out his tongue,” Aran returned.

Derek seemed to be considering this as a viable option. By this time, however—fortunately for Tas—they had arrived at the Hall of Justice, a large, ugly brick structure. Despite the storm, a crowd had gathered out front, some of them shouting for the detested Solamnic to quit skulking about behind the lord’s skirts and show himself.

“These people truly hate us,” said Derek.

“You can’t really blame them,” said Marcus.

“They
were the ones who turned on us,” returned Derek. “Many Solamnics died in this city after the Cataclysm at the hands of the mobs.”

“That was a tragedy,” Marcus admitted. “And after the riot was over, some of the people here were genuinely ashamed of themselves. The Tarsians sent a delegation to Solamnia to try to make peace. Did you know that?”

Derek shook his head.

“Their overtures were rebuffed. They were not even permitted to leave their ship to set foot on Solamnic soil. If the Solamnics had been forgiving to those who wronged them, as the Measure states they should,” Marcus added with a sidelong glance at Derek, “the knights would have been welcomed back to Tarsis and perhaps the city might not find itself about to be attacked by the dragonarmy.”

“Much of Solamnia is now in the hands of the enemy,” said Derek.

“Yes, I know,” Marcus replied. “My parents live in Vingaard. I have not heard from them in a long time.”

The knights were silent a moment, then Brian asked quietly, “You are from Solamnia, then?”

“I am,” said Marcus. “I am one of the ‘Pathetics’ as the kender terms us.” He smiled through the snow at Tasslehoff. “I was sent here with Lillith and several others to protect the library.”

“There’s no way you can protect it!” said Brian, suddenly and unreasonably angry at the man. “Not from the dragonarmies. The library’s safely hidden. You and Lillith should just lock it up and leave it. You’re putting your lives in danger over a few books.”

He paused, flushing. He had not meant to speak with such passion. They were all staring at him in astonishment.

Marcus was gentle, sympathetic, but resolute. “You forget, Sir Knight, that our god is with us. Gilean will not leave us to fight alone, if fight we must. Wait here a moment. I see one of my colleagues. I’ll go ask him what’s going on.”

He hastened through the snow to speak to a man who had just come out of the Hall. After a moment’s conference, Marcus came hurrying back.

“Your friends are going to be taken to prison—”

“I hope it’s a nice prison,” Tasslehoff said to no one in particular. “Some are and some aren’t, you know. I’ve never been in the Tarsis jail before, so I haven’t any idea—”

“Silence, Burrfoot!” Derek ordered peremptorily. “Aran, put that damn flask away!”

Tasslehoff opened his mouth to give the knight a piece of his mind, but he sucked in a gigantic clump of snow-flakes and spent the next few moments trying to cough them back up.

“The constable won’t risk bringing them within sight of this mob,” Marcus continued, “not after what happened when he tried to arrest them. He’ll take them round by an alley in the back.”

“Luck is on our side, for once,” said Derek.

“Not luck,” said Marcus gravely. “Gilean favors us with his blessing. Hurry! This way!”

“Perhaps it was Gilean who choked the kender,” suggested Aran. He had put the flask back in his belt and was patting the coughing Tasslehoff on the back. “If he did, I may become his disciple,” said Derek.

Marcus led them around the side of the Hall to an alleyway that ran behind the building. As if the storm delighted in playing tricks, the snow shower ended, and sunlight sparkled on the new fallen snow. Then more clouds scudded across the sky and the sun began to play at peek-a-boo, ducking in and out of the snow showers, so that one moment the sun shone brightly and the next snow was falling.

The building cast a shadow over the alley that was dark and gloomy. Just as they entered it, Brian saw two cloaked and hooded figures detach themselves from the wall at the far end and walk off in the opposite direction.

“Look there!” he said, pointing.

“Draconians,” said Aran, sneaking a drink when Derek wasn’t looking. “They’re dressed exactly like those who stopped us at the bridge.”

“Do you think they saw us?”

“I doubt it. We’re in shadow. I wouldn’t have seen them but they walked into the sunlight. I wonder why they left so quickly—”

“Hush! This must be them!” Marcus warned.

A door opened and they could hear voices.

“Take the kender,” Derek told Marcus.

Tasslehoff tried to insist they would need his help in the upcoming battle, but Marcus clapped his hand over Tas’s mouth and that ended that.

The constable emerged from the Hall. He was leading five prisoners, one of whom, they were astonished to see, was a woman. Three guards marched alongside. Brian recognized Sturm walking protectively near the woman, and they had been told correctly: Sturm was indeed wearing a breastplate on which was engraved the rose and the kingfisher, symbols of the knights.

Whatever Derek might say of Sturm Brightblade, Brian had always found the man to be the personification of a Solamnic knight—gallant, courageous and noble—which made it strange that Sturm would do something so dishonorable as to lie about being a knight, wear armor he had no right to wear.

Brian drew his sword, sliding it slowly and silently from its sheath. His friends had their weapons in hand. Marcus drew the muzzled kender back further into the shadows.

The door slammed shut behind the prisoners. The constable marched them down the alleyway. Brian saw Sturm exchanging glances with one of the other prisoners, and he guessed that they were going to try to make a break for freedom.

“I’ll take the constable,” said Derek. “You take the other guards.”

The constable could hear the shouts of the mob in the front of the building, but he believed they were safe in the alley. He wasn’t looking for trouble and consequently wasn’t keeping a very good watch. The first he knew of trouble was when he caught a flash of steel. Seeing three cloaked figures rushing toward him, he put his whistle to his lips to sound the alarm. Derek clubbed him with the hilt of his sword, knocking the man unconscious before he could summon help. Aran and Brian menaced the three guards with their swords, and they ran off down the alleyway.

The knights turned to the prisoners, who were blinking in astonishment at their sudden rescue.

“Who are you?” demanded the half-elf.

Brian regarded the man curiously. He was tall and muscular, clad in leather and furs, and he wore a beard, perhaps to conceal his elf features, though they weren’t that noticeable that Brian could see, except for his pointed ears. He appeared no older than his mid-thirties, but the expression in his eyes was that of someone who has lived long in the world, someone who knew life’s sorrows as well as its joys. Of course, the elf blood in him would give him a life-span far longer than most humans. Brian wondered how old he really was.

“Have we escaped one danger only to find a worse?” the half-elf demanded. “Unmask yourselves.”

It wasn’t until that moment that Brian realized they must look more like assassins than saviors. He pulled down his scarf, turned to Sturm, and spoke swiftly in Solamnic,
“Oth Tsarthon e Paran,”
meaning, “Our meeting is in friendship.”

Sturm had placed himself in front of the female prisoner, keeping her protectively behind him, shielding her with his body. The woman was heavily veiled and wore a thick cloak, so that Brian could gain no clear impression of her. She moved with flowing grace and her hand, resting on the knight’s arm, was remarkable for its delicacy and alabaster purity.

Sturm gasped in recognition.

“Est
Tsarthai en Paranaith,”
he replied, meaning, “My companions are your friends.” He added in Common, “These men are Knights of Solamnia.”

The half-elf and the dwarf both looked at them suspiciously. “Knights! Why—”

“There is no time for explanation, Sturm Brightblade,” Derek told him, speaking in Common out of politeness, since he assumed the others could not speak Solamnic. “The guards will return soon. Come with us.”

“Not so fast!” stated the dwarf.

He was an elder dwarf, to judge by the gray in his long beard, and like most dwarves Brian had known, he appeared to be irascible, obstinate, and headstrong. He snatched up a halberd one of the guards had let fall, and grasping it in his large, strong hands, he slammed it down on his bent knee, snapping off the handle so that he could wield it more easily.

“You’ll find time for explanations, or I’m not going,” the dwarf told them. “How’d you know the knight’s name and how came you to be waiting for us—”

Tasslehoff had, by this time, managed to escape Marcus’s grasp.

“Oh, just run him through,” the kender cried cheerfully. “Leave his body to feed the crows. Not that they’ll bother; there’s few in the world who can stomach dwarf—”

The half-elf relaxed and smiled. He turned to the red-faced dwarf. “Satisfied?”

“Some day I’ll kill that kender,” the dwarf muttered into his beard.

All this time, Sturm had been staring hard at Derek, who had removed his scarf from his face.

“Brightblade,” Derek acknowledged coldly.

Sturm’s lips tightened, his face darkened, and his hand clenched over the hilt of his sword. Brian tensed, foreseeing trouble, but then Sturm glanced at those with him, especially at the veiled woman. Brian could guess what Sturm was thinking. Had he been alone, he would have refused to accept any aid from the man who had publicly insulted him and his family.

“My lord,” said Sturm, his voice equally cold. He did not bow. If either had been going to say more, they were cut off by the sound of whistles and shouts heading in their direction.

“The guards! This way!” called Marcus.

Sturm’s friends looked to him and he gave a nod. Marcus led them into a maze of streets and alleyways that twisted and turned back in on themselves like a drunken serpent. They soon lost the guards, and when they could no longer hear the whistles, deemed they were safe from pursuit and slowed their pace to mingle with the people in the street.