Love and War

By the Measure

His head was pounding, and his mouth was dry. He had neither eaten nor slept for two days — not since burning Standel after a day of mourning. Standel, his one companion. The only other knight to accompany him on his flight from an Order that had decayed. Brave, strong Standel. He had never understood his own death.

Garrick scanned the terrain as well as his bleary eyes were able. More of the same. Villagers were coming from the south, away from the advancing army sent by the Dragon Highlord. They were seeking protection from the garrison at Ironrock. The knight smiled bitterly through cracked lips. How long did they think a garrison of one hundred men was going to hold out against an army one hundred times its size? Not to mention the added pressure of trying to feed several hundred refugees.

He steered Auron away from the group. The war-horse turned reluctantly, perhaps sensing the grain the people carried. The horse had been forced to subsist on what little it could forage in this bleak area. Garrick sympathized with its plight, his own last meal having consisted of a handful of berries and some cheese and hardbread bought from the innkeeper who had been indirectly responsible for Standel's death. The lands he had traveled through since offered nothing in the way of sustenance. The inhabitants themselves had long ago spirited away anything edible.

He could not believe what the Order had become. The older knights smiled patronizingly at his plaints;

some of the younger ones scoffed. Some understood him, though. Understood that even the Knights of Solamnia had turned away from Paladine more than they admitted. The Knights were no longer an Order that aided the repressed so much as a petty sect living on its past glories and shunning those they believed had turned on them. Never mind that the Order had such black marks as Lord Soth to live down.

In his worn state, he did not notice the second group of villagers until they were almost on him. Like so many before, they spat at him as they passed and cursed him for being what he was. A stocky man with slightly gray hair and a perpetual scowl blocked his path with an open cart drawn by two oxen. Several other villagers stood behind the man.

"What do you want here, oh great and noble knight?" The venom fairly dripped from his mouth.

Garrick sighed. "I have sworn by the Measure that I will defend my fellow men from the evil that is the Queen. I intend to keep that pledge."

They laughed. Laughed loudly. The laughter was magnified a thousand times in Garrick's mind, though he knew it would come. It always had. The loud, bitter laughter.

The stocky leader stepped closer, his eyes shifting back and forth between the knight and the warhorse. It was obvious that he did not trust either of them. Closer now, he studied Garrick's battered armor, the chipped and bent weapons, his pale and sweating face.

"Aye, you look like a terror that will frighten away the dark ones. Frighten them into conquering the world, I'd say!"

There was more laughter, though much more muted than before. The looks the villagers gave Garrick were ugly, full of hate. Hate for his not having been there when it counted. The leader shifted closer, his intentions clear. Pull the knight down into the mud where he belonged. The knight drew his well-worn blade with a speed that belied his weary appearance. He kept the group at bay with the weapon, allowing no one within arm's length.

"For your own sakes, move on."

Muttering, they did so, much more quickly and complacently than Garrick would have thought possible for them. He realized why with a sadness that sank him deeper into the darkness he had ridden in since Standel's death. He was nothing to them. If anything, they were disgusted with him. Disgusted with all the knights.

It hurt Garrick that they had good reasons for their hatred.

The few huts he passed now were stripped of anything worth carrying. Mere shells. Skeletons. It was as if the war had already been through here. In a sense, he realized, perhaps it had. Standel would have been stronger, more able to cope with the shouts, the curses, the looks. Garrick could not understand why he should live while a better knight should die so ignominiously. Not for the first time since his companion's death, he wavered slightly in his belief in the Measure.

The ground reached for him. Garrick steadied himself and wiped his brow. To collapse this close, to leave his task unfinished, would be unforgivable. Paladine would surely condemn him. He waited for exhaustion to overtake him, but something held back the final fall. A warmth in his chest, around his neck. A feeling of guidance and love.

His shaking hand tugged hard on the chain circling his throat. The medallion given to him so long ago gleamed despite the lack of any sunshine. On each side of the medallion were engraved words from the Measure. More important, the medallion carried the face of Paladine as known by the Knights of Solamnia.

The pain in his mind eased. Paladine had not condemned him after all. There was still some purpose to Garrick's life, some reason the god still watched over him. He thanked his lord and allowed the piece to thump against his chest again. Though his body was worn beyond the limits of most men, he smiled gratefully. He would be allowed the chance to fulfill his Oath.

Somewhere to the south lay his objective. Somewhere to the south, perhaps four days, perhaps only two, lay part of the advancing army of the Dragon Highlord — a sizable portion commanded by one of the Highlord's most dangerous generals. Pushing ever closer, its only real obstacle was the tiny garrison four days north from Garrick's present location.

They would be forced to travel through the woods to obtain the pass, he realized. In the woods, they would be vulnerable. In the woods, he stood a chance.

He came across the bodies just after crossing a stream. They had been carelessly stacked to one side. Plague victims. The stench nearly overwhelmed him. The knight shivered. Better to die in battle than waste away in the end. He covered his nose and mouth with tattered, dirty cloth and urged the warhorse to move at a quicker pace. That their loved ones had left these poor shells to rot did not bother him. Now was a time to take care of the living, to help those still with the breath of life within them. The dead were in no hurry.

The light began to fade as the sun, hidden by clouds, plunged closer toward its own death. Garrick eyed the huts in this region. Unlike those he had passed shortly before, these were more or less whole. Knowing them to be contaminated, though, he could not bring himself to rest in one. He dared not rest, anyway. Each moment was as precious to him as if it were his last.

The woods came into view less than an hour later, marking the beginning of the pass even before the great ridges that stood to each side. Garrick blinked, rather surprised that he had made it this far. That in itself was a miracle. He gave thanks to Paladine and suddenly felt warm all over.

The first trees were little more than stumps. This part of the forest had been raped by the desperate villagers. Panic had finally taken over at some point. To one side was a small stack of firewood. A little farther, a tree stood with its trunk chopped half through. Idly, Garrick wondered if the woodsmen had fled because of plague or because of the approaching horde.

Auron was hesitant to enter the woods and would do so only after much persuasion. Garrick frowned. The warhorse was not prone to hesitancy. The knight put one hand on the hilt of his sword, but did not draw it. With more urging, he managed to get the horse to move at a reasonable pace.

The woods were deathly silent. No birds, no ground creatures. Not even the faintest hint of a breeze. Auron snorted. Garrick tightened his hold on the sword. He searched for but did not find any trace of draconian activity in the woods. The feeling of death was in the air, though. It was as if animal life had abandoned this area to the Queen. Even the trees seemed to have given up; many were obviously dying — another sign of things to come should the armies of darkness emerge triumphant.

He rode on. The night air cooled his burning head. He forgot some of his pain. To either side, the ridges grew higher and higher. Garrick pulled his mount to a halt momentarily and picked out a likely spot on one ridge. Auron snorted and would not move. The animal had given more than most and had finally reached its limit. Even its training could not overcome such exhaustion.

Garrick patted the animal gently and dismounted. Leaving the horse to rest, he made his way to the ridge top. It was steep but by no means impassable. Discarding some of his heavier equipment, the knight made progress.

He thanked Paladine that it was not a long climb. The campfires became visible just after he had cleared the tops of the trees. Further in, the pass sank deeply, giving him a much better view of the region than he had hoped. Seeing the vast number of fires, Garrick knew he had located the Queen's forces. They had dared to settle in an area where they could easily have been trapped if there had existed an army to trap them. The northern garrison, of course, was too small. All other resistance had been crushed. The commander of the army had a right to be confident.

Tomorrow they would head through the pass and into the unprotected lands. It would not take them long to reach the garrison then. The battle would be even shorter.

Once more, he wished that Standel had survived rather than he. Standel would have looked at the massed forces and scoffed. He would have organized, would have planned. Garrick had only a few wild ideas and a hope that Paladine would grant him the chance.

His head pounding, Garrick returned to his mount. The horse was grazing peacefully. He saw no reason to disturb the animal. Auron had already performed miracles for his master. The knight could not honestly ask for anything more. It was up to Garrick alone.

With shaking fingers, he pulled out the medallion. It was still warm to his touch and seemed to shine even in the darkness. He caressed it for a moment and then sank to his knees in prayer.

They came just before dawn.

He had just put out the last of the fires. Now he rested against the side of a tree, sword drawn, shield ready. He had released Auron and sent him away, not wishing so loyal a beast to perish for little reason.

The fires had been easy to build. The forest was dying; branches littered the ground. Most were dry and made good kindling. The fires were strong, though not long in burning themselves out. That they existed was more than sufficient for Garrick's purposes.

By their slowed movements, he knew that scouts had found the remains of more than one of the fires. He had been careful to scatter a few fragments around each fire, junk he had gathered on his way here. Just enough to lend truth to the thoughts of the enemy — that the Queen's foes awaited her army in this forest.

Garrick heard the hiss of an indrawn breath. A leathery, misshapen foot moved into sight.

The knight's sword was a blur. It was into and out of the draconian's neck before the creature had a chance to die. The body solidified to stone and tumbled forward. Garrick glanced around the tree and then darted swiftly away.

He did not stop until he was some distance from the area where he had killed the reptilian warrior. Again, he pushed himself tightly against the tree and waited. This time, the wait was not long. His eyes were already getting blurry; soon he would be unable to see.

These scouts were men. His first blow took out the closest of the two. The scout had time to gasp and no more. Even as he fell, Garrick was already working on his companion. This man had time to ready his weapon, but his skill was far inferior to the training a Knight of Solamnia received. Garrick disarmed him first and then stunned him with a blow to the shoulder. When the man attempted to crawl away, Garrick knocked him out. Sheathing his sword, he dragged his senseless opponent behind a tree. He forced himself to concentrate on necessary actions. There were some things that had to be done.

He stayed as long as he felt was safe and then moved off to what would be his third, and probably final, position. He dared not take any longer. His head was already pounding.

Falling against a tree, he sought desperately to catch his breath. They were ready for him now. The bodies of their fallen comrades had alerted them to the immediate threat. No longer did they attempt to sneak through the brush. Garrick estimated at least five adversaries, two of whom were almost within striking distance. He steadied his hands as best he could and blinked several times in a futile attempt to clear his vision. He could hear the hiss of the draconians as clearly as if they were breathing in his ears.

The first to pass him made the mistake of looking the wrong way as it passed. Garrick nearly sheared its head off. Unfortunately, his speed had slowed considerably. The draconian petrified and fell, pulling the great sword from the knight's weakened grasp even as it dropped.

Weaponless, Garrick's luck nevertheless remained with him. The second draconian had been momentari ly stunned by the sudden attack. Before it could react properly, Garrick was already on it. They struggled fiercely, the draconian's awkward build proving a disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat on the ground. Only the knight's exhaustion evened the contest.

There were shouts from all around, both human and draconian. A patrol had arrived. Garrick was torn away from his adversary, who remained on the ground, gasping for breath. He was able to strike one human in the stomach, sending the recipient of the blow back a good four or five steps. Then, his arms were pinned behind his back and he was forced down. A draconian slapped him hard on the face. There was the sound of steel being drawn, but someone muttered something Garrick was unable to understand. The muttering was followed by the sound of the weapon being sheathed once more. As he had surmised, they had been ordered to take him prisoner.

Two of the draconians, their wings fluttering in anger, held him tight while one of the humans bound his hands together behind him. Someone produced chains. Garrick's feet were hooked together so that he stumbled when he tried to take normal steps. His helm was torn from his head and a leather collar with a leash attached to it wrapped around his neck, nearly choking him. He stumbled then and fell to his knees. Determination more than anything else made him stand once more. He could barely feel the blows of his captors anymore.

A human who must have been in charge led the entire group back to camp. They were obviously convinced that a large band of knights was lurking somewhere in the woods. Having faced one knight who, despite his appearance, was readily capable of taking on a good half dozen opponents, they were in no hurry to meet up with a larger force. The various members of the patrol took turns pulling him. Had they not been convinced that he must have information of some sort, they would have gladly killed him in order to speed up their retreat even more.

At some point during the trek, Garrick could hold out no longer. His head felt like it was bursting. The woods became unbearably hot. He was no longer able to coordinate his movements, nor could he even tell what was happening around him.

Mercifully, the entire world chose to go black.

Cold reality struck him in the face and dripped down his neck. Garrick shivered and tried to focus his eyes. The light of midday burned into his very mind, forcing him to close his eyes once more. He tried to stand, but found himself bound tight to some sort of chair. Someone stirred.

"Shall I throw another bucket in his face, General?"

The voice was as cold as it was commanding. "I think not. If our knight is anything of a man, he will open his eyes and face us. Still, if he is a coward, perhaps another bucket of water would be…"

Garrick gritted his teeth and forced himself to look into the light, despite the agony it caused him each moment. After seeing nothing but glare for the first few seconds, he was eventually able to make out two figures. One had the slightly stooped look of a draconian. The other was human — so to speak. All Garrick could tell at first was that the human stood a good seven feet in height. Both the knight and his captors were in a large tent. Tables and chairs stood to one side. Numerous piles of armor and equipment lay scattered elsewhere. There seemed to be no one purpose for the tent. For now, it served as his prison.

The giant chuckled softly. "Very good. I see the Knights of Solamnia deserve something of their repu tation after all. I was beginning to think it was all myth."

"Untie me." The words escaped the knight's lips as little more than a croak, but the giant caught them nonetheless.

"Oh, I couldn't risk that. You might overwhelm us and crawl to safety — given six or seven hours head start."

The draconian hissed its amusement. Garrick studied the two as they became clearer. The reptilian aide was much like its brethren, save that it was motley-colored compared to those the knight had seen earlier. There was, however, a vicious look in its eyes, one that said that this draconian would readily pull Gar-rick's fingers from his hands and his arms from his shoulders if given the chance. By all practical consideration, this was the general's torturer.

The general himself was most definitely a giant among his fellow men, and not just in height. He easily outweighed Garrick by almost one-third again his own weight, and none of it could be called fat. Strength alone, though, was not sufficient to coordinate a major army with great success. The knight did not doubt for one minute that the massive frame was matched by an equally impressive mind.

"I am General Krynos of Culthairai, a land I'm sure you've never heard of and which does not deserve any notice whatsoever. When I learned of the Queen's return and the armies being raised, I seized the chance to join and prove my skills. Up until now, though, I've lacked a sufficient challenge."

In truth, even the Knights of Solamnia had been awed by some of the accounts they had heard about Krynos. The armies he had crushed would have turned back a number of Dragon Highlords, much less their various generals. It was even said that the next opening in the ranks of the Highlords would see the addition of Krynos.

Only a garrison stood in his way. A tiny army. A tiny army and Garrick.

Krynos stroked his rich, black beard. He was a handsome, proud man. Proud and stubborn.

"What is your name, Knight of Solamnia?"

"Garrick."

"That's it? Just Garrick? Not Garrick the Great? The Champion? The Draconian Slayer?"

The wings of the torturer spread in anticipation. The draconian bore a huge reptilian smile that told of deadly delights to come when Garrick was its to play with. The knight pointedly ignored the creature.

"Just Garrick."

"Well then, 'Just Garrick,' how many of your comrades lie in wait in the forest? The scouts and patrols count at least three dozen fires. The Knights of Solamnia, whatever their faults, do not run away. Even against impossible odds."

"I am the only one. You can search all you like. You will find no others. I came on my own."

Krynos laughed, and the draconian hissed. The sharp claws of the latter slapped Garrick hard across the mouth. He could feel the blood flowing from his lip. The general put a hand out to halt another blow by the torturer.

"Not yet — and not the mouth. We want to be able to understand him when he talks. And you will talk, Knight. Ssaras is very good at this job, especially with humans. You would do well to give up on such a stupid tale and tell us where your comrades have hidden themselves. I can afford to wait them out for a few days. Nothing lies beyond them that can stop me. Only an already-battered land and a tiny, insignificant garrison. The nearest force of substantial strength is two weeks away and much too busy with problems of its own to bother worrying about me."

It did not surprise Garrick that the general was so well informed about the region. That was perhaps one thing that had helped the knight. Used to the thoroughness of his information network, Krynos could not accept the solitary presence of Garrick. The fires might be real; they might be fakes. If one knight could wait in hiding, could not others? Everyone knew that the Knights of Solamnia were skilled in all aspects of warfare. Who knew what sort of tricks they might pull? Krynos could not afford a mistake at this time. Even a minor one would cause him a loss of face.

Garrick remained silent. Krynos frowned and then, nodded to Ssaras. The draconian waddled eagerly to a table upon which a number of devices, recognizable and unrecognizable, had been placed. The creature selected one and showed it eagerly to its master. The general eyed it with almost clinical interest before shaking his head. Disappointed, the draconian put down the instrument and waited for further orders. Krynos turned his attention back to his prisoner.

"Where are your companions, Garrick? How do they plan to meet us? In one massive charge on the field? Sounds foolish, but I know your Order. I wanted to become of your kind before I came to my senses and turned to the Queen."

Earlier, such a statement might have stung Garrick. Now, though, he was well beyond such petty things. It was difficult enough just to remain conscious, much less be bothered by meaningless slurs from the tongue of his foe.

The general snapped his fingers. Ssaras scurried over to a pile of odds and ends and picked something up. Garrick gradually identified it as his own shield. The general took it from the draconian and looked at it with some amusement.

"Perhaps I am overestimating the noble Knights of Solamnia. Perhaps they are indeed skulking around in the woods, hiding out of sight, fighting like elves or gully dwarves — with no honor — coming from behind their opponents." He dropped the shield and spat on the front. One heavy boot came down on the wet spot. With little effort, Krynos had put a great dent in the shield.

Garrick's growing madness threatened to burst then, but the warmth around his chest checked it. It occurred to him then that they had removed his armor but not his medallion. He could see no way that they could have possibly missed it in their search.

Ssaras looked hopefully at the general. Krynos was calculating his possibilities.

"Get Thaygan."

The torturer hissed. "Thaygan is a fraud. All clerics are frauds, General."

"Would you like to tell that to the Queen herself, Ssaras? She might beg to differ."

The draconian quieted immediately. Without further ado, it scurried away to seek the cleric. Garrick muttered a prayer to Paladine. Should Thaygan be a strong enough cleric, the knight would have little chance of defending his mind from the psychic onslaught. Unlike many of his brethren, he had a strong respect for the power of clerics.

A strong, gauntleted hand pulled his head up by the hair. Krynos moved close to him, so close that Garrick was able to feel the other's hot breath on his face. "Tell me what I want to know now, and I'll spare you the tender touch of Thaygan. In his own way, he leaves a prisoner much worse off than Ssaras does."

"There is only me."

The general's eyes flared. "Do you swear to that?"

Garrick avoided the binding trap by repeating his statement once more. As he hoped, his refusal to swear only convinced Krynos even more that there were other knights lurking around somewhere near or in the forest ahead.

The general let Garrick's head drop. He paced the width of the tent several times before the sudden presence of the dark cleric brought him to a startled halt. The cleric stared at the general and then at the prisoner, who was struggling feebly with the bonds. Nothing of the cleric was visible save his hands.

"You have need of my services, General Krynos?"

"Regretfully so. I need information from this man, and you know how stubborn Knights of Solamnia can be."

"A Solamnic Knight? Here?"

"Are your ears still stuffed with the chants and incantations of your order? A Knight of Solamnia, found in the woods — and where there's one, there's more. I want the truth from him. Beware, though. He is not in the best of condition. I fear my men must have mussed him up a little bit too hard."

The cleric drew back his hood. Garrick had the brief notion that he was being visited by Death itself. The cleric was emaciated beyond normal tolerances. To the prisoner, it seemed as if Thaygan's face should crack in pieces each time the old man spoke.

As the cleric stepped toward the knight, Krynos actually blanched slightly. Garrick dimly wondered what could frighten a man of the general's reputation. That thought vanished with all others as the cleric reached down and put a hand to each side of the prisoner's head.

The knight fell down an abyss. He screamed all the way. Somewhere, he could hear a commanding voice that demanded things of him. The words meant nothing to him, though, and he kept falling.

A mighty hand came from the darkness. It glowed with a light all its own. With little effort, it caught the plummeting Garrick and held him tight. The pressure of the monstrous grip was not stifling; rather, it reassured the knight. Overwhelmed by a wave of peace and love, Garrick slid off into velvety blackness.

He awoke briefly to see two men arguing. One was incredibly ancient and looked more like an old corpse. The other was a giant who looked capable of breaking the thin man in two without trying. They seemed to be arguing about something. Occasionally, one would point at Garrick. The knight waited patiently for someone to ask him a question. When none was forthcoming, he drifted slowly back to sleep.

The golden-armored man looked down at Garrick with fondness and respect. Garrick found himself unable to look the other straight in the eyes. He did not feel worthy of the audience granted to him.

The other smiled. "It is time, Garrick, Time you joined the ranks. Time you joined Huma and the others."

For the first time, the young knight saw the ranks behind paladine. Among them stood one he knew well. From his place, Standel nodded gravely to him — and then broke out into a big smile.

Paladine bade him stand. "The time is now, Garrick."

"Time to wake, Knight!" A rough hand shook his head.

Garrick's vision was red, and he realized belatedly that blood was dripping from his forehead. His right foot felt numb, his arms burned with excruciating pain. He spat blood from his mouth.

A draconian stood next to the general. It was Ssaras and what expression was readable on the reptilian face showed that the creature was angry beyond words. The draconian's breathing was haggard, as if it had been laboring hard. Of the cleric, whom Garrick only vaguely remembered, there was no sign.

General Krynos scowled at him. "What are you made of, Knight? For three days, you've endured tortures that have turned other men into screaming maniacs! You've sat there all this time, mumbling to your god! Even Thaygan could get nothing from you!"

Garrick did not answer. There seemed no need for a reply, and his head hurt too much to think, anyway.

"You are useless to me, Knight. Whether or not your allies are out there — and I admit for the first time that you may have fooled me by giving me the truth — I will lead my army come the morrow. We will be through the pass and well on our way to the garrison by the time the day is ended. The Queen will see who among her followers is most valuable to her."

Ssaras swayed unsteadily. The general frowned. With some effort, the draconian stood straight. Its mottled color looked even more splotchy than before.

Krynos wiped the sweat from his forehead. "In all fairness, you've proved a worthy challenge. Any last request before I have Ssaras make an end of you?"

With superhuman effort, Garrick forced himself to sit straight. The glazed look was gone from his eyes. "I demand death in combat."

The general raised an eyebrow. "Combat? You can barely stand, much less fight. I will make Ssaras give you a swift, painless cut across the throat. Yes, that would be much better, much more efficient, I think."

Garrick virtually ground the words out with his teeth. "I demand death in combat — with you, unless you're afraid."

One mailed fist went for a weapon. The general was barely able to restrain himself. He slowly released his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"Very well. I shall grant your request for death."

The torturer looked at him in shock. "Master! Think what you say! This is a trick!"

"It is the request of a dead man, Ssaras! If he wishes to fight me, then so he shall. It will give me some little amusement before I begin final preparations for our departure. Untie him, Ssaras."

"Lord master Krynos, powerful warlord, I beg — »

"Untie him — unless, of course, you think that I am incapable of defeating one such as he."

Ssaras moved over to Garrick and pulled out a knife. For a brief moment, the draconian eyed the knight's unprotected throat. A frown appeared on the reptilian's face as it tried in vain to discern something.

"I'm waiting, Ssaras."

The draconian hurried about its work. The strangling bonds fell away. Slowly, carefully, Garrick rose from the chair he had been tied to for at least four days. His muscles were cramped, but he otherwise felt little pain.

He moved one foot and discovered part of the reason for such little pain. Much of his body was numb, probably permanently. Blood still trickled from a few wounds. Garrick purposely turned his mind to attaining a weapon of some sort.

"Ssaras, present him with an appropriate toy."

Scurrying to a junk pile of Garrick's own equipment, the draconian pulled out the chipped, dirty sword. In a mockery of the knights, the creature held it high and waved it three times, hissing the whole while. Krynos smirked and motioned the torturer to get on with things.

Ssaras dragged the sword over to Garrick and dropped it by the knight's feet. Garrick bent down slowly and retrieved it, each movement sending shocks through his system. If not for the medallion still hidden under his tunic, he would have given in to his pain. Only the warmth and strength it provided kept him going.

With the shadow of a smile, General Krynos pulled out his own weapon. It was a tremendous broadsword which many men would have had to handle with both hands. The general swung it around easily with only one. He saluted Garrick. "Are you ready?"

In answer, the knight held his sword before him and tested its balance. It was like holding an old friend. Somewhere to the side, by the tent entrance, Ssaras hissed displeasure.

"Ready."

The look of amusement left the face of General Krynos the moment he saw the sword coming toward him. He was barely able to block the blow. Cursing silently, he backed away to regain his balance. Garrick followed through, giving his larger opponent little time to do anything but defend. The draconian jumped up and down, hissing all the time. Sharp claws continually stroked the hilt of the knife that the creature always kept tucked in its belt for when a prisoner broke loose. The draconian's greatest fear was not knowing whether its master would approve of such initiative or cut off his servant's head.

Krynos was bleeding from three minor wounds, but Garrick's attack was slowing. The general was able to breathe and think now. The tide was turning swiftly.

All his strength left Garrick's arm with a suddenness that surprised both fighters. The knight's sword went flying toward the tent entrance, where an alert Ssaras was barely able to leap aside before the blade buried itself in the spot where the draconian had just been standing. Garrick blinked and let his hand fall to his side. Krynos moved in to finish the fight and his opponent with one thrust.

Garrick fell to the ground, untouched by the general's blade.

Krynos stood there, staring at the body. The torturer rushed over and turned the knight face up. The reptilian face moved to within an inch of Garrick's. After a quick examination, the draconian looked up at his lord.

"He is dead. His wounds must have been more than he could stand."

"It's a wonder he lived through what he did." The general sheathed his weapon. "He was half-dead when the patrol brought him in. I wonder why."

"What shall I do with him, master?"

"Bury him. He deserves that much — fool that he was."

"As you command." The draconian left the tent.

General Krynos, late of Culthairai, studied the figure sprawled before him and sighed. He had been hoping for much more from the knight. The war had grown dull.

The four soldiers that buried Garrick, Knight of Solamnia, were half-asleep. Most of them were sweating profusely, despite the cool breeze blowing. One had to be excused to seek out a cleric after he nearly fell into the hole. The remaining three continued their work, trying to finish the job quickly and get back to more important things, like their card game. In their haste, not one of them happened to notice the medallion which slipped out of hiding when the corpse was tossed in. Even as they buried it with the body, the medallion seemed to glow brighter and brighter, despite the lack of any real light.

On the following morning, the army did not move. A great number of soldiers complained about heat and great thirst. Most of them had become bedridden. The number of ill grew quickly.

The clerics were of no help whatsoever. They had been the first to be stricken and, oddly, the worst cases. Most of them died within a day.

General Krynos attempted to organize the remainder of his troops. He had the healthy separated from their fallencomrades. Yet more and more men collapsed, a total of one quarter of the army's strength in only one day.

Confusion reigned. Some soldiers attempted to sneak away. Many were caught and executed, and the rest were tracked down. Each time, they were found dead no more than a few hours from the main camp.

It was General Krynos who first understood what had happened. He had let the bait of the trap lure him into a battle with the one foe he could not defeat. Even as he himself fell victim to the plague, which by that time had claimed almost half his army, he could not understand how he and the others, especially the late cleric Thaygan, could have missed the signs.

Four days later, the plague, which Garrick had fought to a stalemate for more than a week, had wiped out all but a few scattered remnants of the once-powerful army. The tales told by the survivors would prevent any other army from coming through that way for the rest of the war. Even the clerics of the Queen refused to go near, for they could feel that the power of Paladine was involved somehow.

With time, the villagers would return, the garrison would be reinforced for an enemy that would never come. No one would remember the single knight who had kept his vow the only way he knew how.

The Exiles

Paul B. Thompson and Tonya R. Carter

He dreamed of battle. The small bed shook with theshock of phantom cavalry and the tramp of spectral men-at arms. In the midst of this dream melee a deep voice said, "Sturm, wake up. Get up, boy."

Sturm Brightblade opened his eyes. A tall, burly man, dark of eye and fiercely moustached, towered over him. The torch he carried cast smoky highlights on his steel breastplate and wolf-fur mantle.

"Father?" said the boy groggily.

"Get up, son," Lord Brightblade said. "It's time to

go"

"Go? Where, Father?"

Lord Brightblade didn't answer. He turned quickly to the door. "Dress warmly," he said before going out. "Snow is flying. Hurry, boy." The door thumped shut behind him.

Sturm sat up and rubbed his eyes. The tapers in his room were lit, but the ashes in the grate were cold. He pulled on a heavy robe, wincing when his feet touched the bare stone floor. As he stood, unsure of what to do next, he heard a knock on the door.

"Enter," he said.

Mistress Carin, handmaid to his mother, the Lady Ilys, bustled in. Her usually cheery face was pale under a close flannel hood.

"Are you not yet dressed, Master?" she asked. "Your mother sent me to speed your packing. Do hurry!"

Sturm rubbed his nose in confusion. "Hurry, Mistress? Why? What's happening?"

"It's not for me to tell you, young lord." She hastened across the narrow room to a black wooden chest and began tossing clothing out of it. "This, and this. Not that. This, yes," she muttered. She glanced at the puzzled boy and said, "Well, get your bag!" Sturm pulled a long leather bag from under the bed. He was big for his eleven years, but the bag was nearly as long as he was tall. As clothing rained on his bed, Sturm gathered each item and folded it neatly into the bag.

"No time for that," Carin declared. "Just fill the bag, Sturm."

He threw a single woolen stocking aside. "Where are we going, Mistress?" he demanded. "And why are we going?"

Carin looked away. "The peasants," she said.

"The people of Avrinet? I don't understand. Father said they were suffering from the hard winter, but — »

"There's no time for talk, young lord. We must hurry." Carin shook her head and dug into the half-empty chest again. "It's a terrible thing when people forget their place…"

Sturm was still methodically folding every article of clothing when the maid took it away from him and stuffed in the last few remaining items.

"There," she said. "All done." She dragged the bag to the door. "Someone will come for that. In the meantime, finish dressing. Wear your heaviest cloak — the one with the fur hood."

"Mistress Carin?" Sturm's lost tone halted the woman. "Are you coming with us?"

She drew her short, round body up proudly. "Where my lady goes, so go I." And then she was gone.

The main hall of Castle Brightblade was in a hushed tumult. Only a few candles burned in the wall sconces, but by their troubled light Sturm saw that the entire household was astir. In recent days, many of the servants had fled, taking tools and petty valuables with them. Sturm had only the vaguest notion of how things were beyond the castle walls.

Armed men stood at every door, pikes at the ready. Sturm fell into a stream of rushing servants and was carried with them to the door of the guardroom. His father was there, with another large man who lifted his head when the boy entered. Sturm recognized his father's good friend and fellow knight, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan.

"I'm packed, Father," Sturm said.

"Eh? Good, good. Go to your mother, boy. You'll find her in the north corridor." He looked back to the map spread on the table before him. Sturm bowed his head and withdrew, his heart heavy. He leaned against the outside of the guardroom door.

"He's only a boy, Angriff," he heard Lord Gunthar say. "Not yet a man, much less a knight."

Lord Brightblade replied, "Sturm is the son and grandson of Solamnic Knights. Our blood goes back to Berthal the Swordsman. He must learn to cope with hardship."

Sturm lifted his chin and strode away. Following the line of burning torches along the corridor, he ran a finger in a joint of mortared stones, as he had every day since becoming tall enough to do so. This might be the last time Sturm would trace the crack. He slowed his pace to make the feeling linger.

Overhead, a loophole shutter banged loose in the wind. Sturm mounted the narrow steps to the loophole and reached out into the cold to catch the wayward shutter. Through the silently falling snow he saw a red glow on the horizon. It was too early for dawn.

"Close that shutter!"

Sturm whirled. Soren Vardis, sergeant of the household guard, was striding toward him. He took the steps two at a time. Soren reached easily over Sturm's head and closed the shutter, letting the bolt fall in its slot with a loud clank.

He smiled at the boy. "There are bowmen in the woods," he said. "A face in a lighted window makes an excellent target."

"Sergeant, what will the villagers do?"

A crack in the shutter let in the red glow. It striped Soren's face with a streak of blood. He looked at Sturm, standing so straight and proper. "I suppose you have a right to know," he said. "The peasants are in arms. They've set fire to the north wood and burned the fallow pastures east and south. Your father's cattle have been stolen and slaughtered. Some of my men were killed in Avrinet, but not before reporting that the villagers were preparing to attack."

"They can't get in the castle," Sturm said in a pleading tone.

"Alas, young lord, they can. I have less than a hundred men to defend all of the wall, and of those I trust not twenty."

Sturm could not fathom these revelations. "Why are they doing this, Soren? Why? My father never used them harshly."

"The common folk, here as throughout Krynn, blame the knights for not calling down the aid of Paladine in the dark times." Soren shook his head in sor row. "In their mad anger they have forgotten all that the knights have done for them."

They descended the steps. "So Father will fight our way out?" asked Sturm.

Soren cleared his throat. "My Lord Brightblade will remain behind to defend his home and lands."

"Then I shall stay, too!"

The sergeant paused and rested a battle-hardened hand on the boy's shoulder. "No, young lord. Your father has given orders that you and the Lady Ilys be sent to far Solace for safety. Our duty is to obey." He knelt in front of Sturm and scrubbed away the tears with his rough thumbs. "None of that now, lad. Your mother will need all your strength to make this journey. It will fall to you to be the Brightblade man of the party, you know."

Wind sighed through the north corridor. The double doors to the courtyard were open. A two-wheel cart waited in the calf-deep snow. Lady Ilys, splendid in a cape of white rabbit, was bidding farewell to her husband.

"May the gods go with you," Lord Brightblade said, clasping her hands between his own. "You will always be my lady."

Their cheeks touched. "And you, my lord," said Lady Ilys.

The sniffling from the front of the cart was Mistress Carin. Sturm and Soren halted before Lord Brighblade. The sergeant saluted. The master of Brightblade Castle clapped the guardsman on his ironclad shoulders.

"My best man-at-arms," he said. "Keep them safe, Soren Vardis."

"Aye, my lord."

He faced his son. "Sturm, heed what your mother and the sergeant tell you."

"Yes, sir." How he ached for just one embrace! But that was not his father's way, not even at a time of parting.

Soren lifted him into the back of the cart, then mounted his own horse. Mistress Carin snapped the reins, and the cart jerked forward. Sturm buried his face in his sleeve. He couldn't bear to leave. In spite of Soren's admonition, the bitter tears returned.

At the west gate, torches were doused before the portal opened. The guardsman and the cart moved into the night. The castle was quickly lost from sight in the swirling snow.

The road west was high-centered and paved with stone, a relic of the great days before the Cataclysm.

Sturm and his mother were nestled among the soft heaps of baggage. Though warmed and rocked by the easy motion of the cart, neither could find sleep. The boy could hear the sharp clat-clat of the war-shod hooves of Nuitari, Soren's black gelding. The sergeant kept to a measured pace as he watched the road ahead for trouble. As soon as was practical, they would leave the well-marked, well-paved track for a less conspicuous route. If the peasants had a mind to pursue them, they would be harder to find that way.

Soren reined up short. He snagged the carthorse's bridle and pulled the beast off the road. No sooner was the party screened by a stand of cedars than Sturm heard a low rumble of voices. His heart beat quickly as he peeked through the slatted side of the cart.

A band of rough-looking men came slogging through the snow. Some wore fresh, hairy hides over their backs, hides with the Brightblade brand.

"I'm cold!" one declared loudly.

"Shut your gob, Bron. We'll all be warm enough when we put the torch to the knights' hall!" Ugly laughter greeted the boast. Sturm heard his mother praying quietly to Paladine.

Soren led them back onto the road. Thev reached the fork the sergeant wanted. Mistress Cann hauled back the reins, and the cart slipped off the stones into a narrow, muddy rut. The naked, black arms of leafless trees closed over their heads. At last Sturm dropped into a light and troubled sleep.

He awoke to the sound of weeping. "Mother?" he said.

She put a hand over his mouth. "Quiet, child." He saw the tracks of tears on her face. He sat up and saw what was making her cry.

Below, across a snow-gilt field, three houses burned. Against the curtain of flame dark figures moved. Cows and calves bawled in pain as cudgels beat them to the ground. Angry, starving men tore them to pieces with billhooks and hand scythes.

"They would do the same to us," said Lady Ilys.

Sturm looked to the sergeant in helpless anger. Soren was afoot, his back to Nuitari, sword drawn. The fire displayed his blue eyes burning under the brim of his helmet. There was nothing he could do against twenty. And there were the women and boy to protect.

They slipped away as if they were the brigands. The snow continued until dawn, when the sun split the dense gray clouds. Their hearts did not lighten with the sky. They ate cold bread and cheese, and sipped tepid melted snow from the sergeant's pigskin water-bag.

Sturm spelled Mistress Carin on the reins. He simply kept them clear of the traces, as the old carthorse was content to follow the rutted path without guidance. Carin fussed over Lady Ilys, trying to screen her from the new sun and cold wind. Sturm knew the woman was exhausted. He wondered why his mother let her carry on with needless niceties of castle protocol.

Sturm stayed at the reins until midday, when Soren halted again for food and a consultation.

"As I recall," he said, chewing on a strip of dried beef, "the way forks again not far ahead. If we go straight, we'll end up in the mountains along the coast. Should we bear south, we'll reach the coast in a day's steady ride."

"Where on the coast?" asked Lady Ilys.

"Near the port of Thel, where ships on the Inland Sea often call."

"Ships, yes… a sea voyage would be more comfortable than rolling in this cart," she said. "Could we find passage to Abanasinia in Thel?"

"Easily, my lady. 'Tis a thickly traveled route."

"Then we shall proceed to Thel, then take ship."

The carthorse wheezed and shivered. "I pray the beast holds out till then," said Soren.

The beast did not. By the time they reached the fork, the poor carthorse collapsed in harness, never to rise again.

"Oh, lady, what shall we do?" Carin wailed.

"Nuitari will have to serve," said Lady Ilys. Soren could only obey in silence. He loosed the tracings from the dead animal and dragged the carcass aside. Then he backed theblack, straight-limbed Nuitari between the poles of the over burdened cart. Soren patted the horse's nose consolingly.

"There's no shame in it," he said in a low voice, though Sturm was near and heard him. "We all must serve beneath our worth sometime, my friend."

Day passed and night came. The two bright moons rose, shone their faces on Krynn, and set again. Mistress Carin drove all night, and Sturm noticed that his mother parted with one of her fine scarves so that her maid might have some protection from the facing wind.

The air warmed with day, and the ice on the track changed to mud. It gripped the cart wheels and the sergeant's boots with fervor, but neither Soren nor the brave Nuitari complained. They climbed a long, grassy hill to an ancient ring of standing stones. Strange images were graven on the triliths. Sturm knew dark forces were abroad in the land. He held close to his mother when they stopped amid the ruined circle.

Soren advanced to the crest of the hill. He pointed down to a vista Sturm could not see. "It is Thel," he said.

Thel was a modest town of five-hundred souls, but toSturm's eye, it was a complete city. Some of the half timbered houses had three stories — not so tall as the towers of Castle Brightblade, but so full of people! Sturm was fascinated.

Soren walked the cart along the high street. The toll of four days and nights on the road was obvious. Even Lady Ilys was bedraggled, her fair face chapped by raw wind and her soul weighed down with bitterness and hurt.

The Thelites paid them no large attention as they passed. Strangers and refugees were common in the town. Lady Ilys, for her part, ignored them in turn.

"Rabble. Riff-raff," she said through pursed lips. "Remember, Sturm, you are the son of a knight. Do not speak to these people unless they address you properly, with the deference due us."

Soren found an inn off the waterfront. He went in to dicker with the owner, leaving the women and boy in the cart. Sturm climbed atop the baggage and watched the passing crowds with total absorption.

One fellow in particular caught Sturm's eye: he was short and slender, a green mantle draped over his shoulders. His ears drew back in sharp points, and his eyes slanted down at the corners. He walked with smooth, unconscious grace.

"There's elf blood in him," Mistress Carin said knowingly.

Across the street, a hulking figure loafed in an open doorway. A shaggy mane of hair did little to conceal his ugliness, and his lips could not hide the jagged teeth protruding from his outthrust jaw.

"Half-orc," said Carin.

Soren returned. "My lady," he said. "The innkeeper has a small private room for you and Master Sturm. Mistress Carin may have a place by the kitchen hearth, and I a bench in the beerhall. All this for four silver pieces."

"Four! That's outrageous!"

"I chaffered him down from seven."

"Very well," she said. "If it is the best we can do." She sniffed the moist, salty air. "I suppose there are ELVES and things in there?"

"No, lady. In the cold season, such folk generally go to warmer climes."

"Let us be thankful for that, at least." Lady Ilys took four coins from her purse. Soren helped her down from the cart and escorted her and Sturm into the inn.

The innkeeper was a fat, bald man who grinned through rotten teeth. He bobbed his head and waved Lady Ilys to the stairs. Before Sturm reached the steps, the innkeeper let out a howl.

"Put that back, you two-legged rat! Don't tell me you found it; I know you stole it!" he cried. A diminutive manlike creature, a head shorter than Sturm, silverware poking out of his pockets, stood by a beer keg. When the innkeeper yelled again, the little man put his fingers in his ears and stuck out his tongue. Spoons, coins, and buttons cascaded from his clothes onto the floor.

"I'll swat you good, you roach!" the innkeeper bawled. He reached for a stout broom. The tiny fellow — a kender, according to Carin — stooped to retrieve his booty. The broom's first swipe was a miss, but the innkeeper caught the kender by the seat of his pants and swept him out the door.

"My 'pologies, ma'am," the fat man said. "I never allow them kender in here, but they slip in sometimes when I'm not watchful."

Lady Ilys gave the man a glacial look and dropped only three silver coins in his palm. The man was too flustered to protest. He bowed and backed away. Soren hoisted two bags on his shoulders and went up the steps, chuckling.

The room was small, and the beds were stacked one above the other. Sturm was delighted and climbed nimbly up the ladder to the top bunk.

"We will need more money for the voyage," Soren said. "May I have my lady's approval to sell the cart for what it will bring?"

"Nuitari too?" asked Sturm, aghast. Soren nodded curtly.

"See to it, Sergeant. We shall not stir till your return," said Lady Ilys.

It was long dark before Soren came back. He thumped on the door. Mistress Carin admitted him. Soren bore a wide trencher of food. He'd intercepted the innkeeper's wife on the stair and taken the heavy platter off her hands. Soren set the trencher down on the lone table and announced, "We have a ship."

Sturm stabbed a slab of boiled mutton with his knife. A stern look from his mother froze him at once.

"What ship? And where bound?" asked Lady Ilys.

"The good ship Skelter is bound directly for Abanasinia and the Hartshorn River," said Soren. "From there we can go upriver to Solace itself."

"Who is master of this Skelter ?"

"One Graff, a mariner of many years' experience on these seas."

"Very good, Sergeant. And when do we sail?"

"With the morning tide, my lady."

With the morning tide. Sturm repeated those words over and over in his head. Since leaving the castle, he had imagined their quick deliverance. He would hear a sharp tattoo of hoofbeats behind, and Lord Bright-blade would gallop over the hill at the head of a troop of horsemen. "Come back! All is well!" he would shout. How would his father ride to them across the sea? The answer was clear, and Sturm did not like it.

The good ship Skelter lay fast against a long wooden pier. Short and round, she was freshly caulked and painted. Sturm wondered what exotic cargoes had been carried under the green planking of her hull.

Dark-skinned sailors clung to the rigging, doing mysterious things with lengths of rope and bundles of sailcloth. Sturm never took his eyes off them as he trailed after his mother and Soren down the pier. The captain of the Skelter greeted them at the foot of the gangplank. He clasped his own hands across his belly and bowed shortly to Lady Ilys.

"Captain Graff, at yer service, ma'am," he said. His beard was plaited in intricate braids, and a dull gold bead hung from one earlobe. "We'll be weighing anchor ere the sun strikes the housetops of Thel. Will ye board now?"

She made only the slightest nod of assent. Mistress Carin went ahead, and two husky sailors fell upon their baggage. Soren stood aside, one hand on the pommel of his sword. Sturm stayed by him, taking in the busy spectacle of a ship being readied for sea.

"Will it be a long voyage, Sergeant?" asked the boy.

"Depends on the sea and the wind, young lord. And the skill of the mariners."

"Couldn't we wait a while longer? For news from Father?" asked Sturm.

Soren did not reply. He stared at the housetops of the town, waiting for the pink sky beyond them to blaze yellow, then blue. Vapor steamed from his nostrils in the chill air.

"Sergeant, I shall board now," Lady Ilys said. Soren offered his arm. "Come along, Sturm," she said. The boy responded with a sigh. He dragged his feet up the worn plank, looking back often to the barren hills east of town.

Lines fell from the ship to the water. Gangs of sailors manned two broad sweeps and rowed Skelter out of Thel harbor. Open pilot boats guided them past the bar into the Inland Sea. Sturm watched them turn back as Skelter's single sail was raised.

Captain Graff rigged a screen of hides below the sterncastle for Lady Ilys and Carin. Barrels and crates of trade goods were pushed aside to create a space for the women under the castle platform. A smoky oil lamp was lit, and Mistress Carin set to making pallets for her lady and Sturm.

The ship rolled with a steady motion to which Sturm quickly adapted. He wanted to go on deck and watch the sailors at their work, but Lady Ilys forbade him. The strain of recent days was bearing on her hard, and she wanted most of all to rest.

"Stay by me, Sturm," she said. "I need a strong man at my side while I rest. I won't feel safe otherwise."

She took off her fur cape and lay down, pulling the soft wrap around her as a blanket. Sturm lay down, his back to hers, vigilant as a knight and wary as a Brightblade — for all of ten minutes. Then he, too, lapsed into heavy slumber.

He sensed a change. The ship's motion had lessened. The air in the hide enclosure was close and hot. Sturm rolled to his feet, tightened the drawstring of his pants, and went out on deck.

A cold, thick, white fog had settled on the warmer sea. The Skelter glided under a feeble following wind. They were far out in the midst of the Inland Sea. No land was visible; indeed, nothing could be seen ten paces beyond the ship's rail.

Sturm prowled the waist of the ship, scampering out of the way of the sailors as they tightened the mainsail tackle. The big square of canvas hung limply in the misty air, flopping only rarely when a stray gust struck it.

Soren was on the poop. The steersman leaned on one leg behind the sergeant, shifting the thick black staff of the rudder with practiced ease. Timbers and rigging creaked as Skelter eased across the flat, languid water.

The weather was no fairer the second day at sea, Captain Graff and his first mate — a squat, dwarvish fellow with yellow eyes — put their heads together by the mast. Naturally, Sturm was on hand to listen.

"Do ye think it's for the wind cord?" asked the mate. Sturm was fascinated by the brass tooth in the front of the man's mouth.

"Nay, 'tis not the time. This cursed mist may rise soon, and the natural wind will spring up," said Graff.

Sturm asked Soren what the mate meant by 'wind cord.'

"Magic," he said. "Mariners often buy wind from seaside warlocks. They keep the wind bound in knots of magical cord. When the ship's master needs a breeze, he unknots as much of a blow as he dares."

"Is there much magic on the sea?" Sturm asked, wide eyed.

Soren wiped mist from his helmet brim before it could drip off. "Far too much to suit me, young lord. This fog seems too clinging to be nature's work."

Midday was no brighter than dawn. The sea flattened out like the puddled wax around Sturm's study candle in Castle Brightblade. The lapping waves fell silent, and the sail stayed slack against the mast. Captain Graff emerged from below deck with a length of rawhide two spans long. Sturm peered through the sterncastle rail as the captain crossed the waist and mounted the steps to the poop.

"Sargo," he said to the helmsman. "I'm loosing a knot."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Graff put one end of the cord in his teeth. There were a dozen knots along its length. The idea of a magic cord intrigued and repelled Sturm at the same time. Such power was forbidden to the knightly orders.

Graff picked at the first knot with his blunt fingernails. In the stagnant air, each of his mutters was clear.

"Come loose, you son of a snake," he said.

Soren moved suddenly off the rail to the sternpost. He gazed into the fog. "Captain Graff," he said calmly. The master of the SKELTER cursed some more at the tough loopin the cord. "Captain!" Soren barked, using the parade ground voice that Sturm had heard so often from the training yard. The old seaman looked up.

"Don't bother me, lad; I'm engaged," he said.

"There's a ship out there," Soren said. "It's coming toward us."

"What? Eh? Do ye have the second sight?"

"No, just two good ears. Listen!"

Graff put a hand to his ear. Sturm came up on Soren's left and listened, too.

There… a faint knocking sound… like two blocks of wood slapping together.

"By the gods, yer right!" Graff said. "Those are oars beating, or I'm a thieving kender!"

Idle sailors collected in the stern to hear the approaching ship. Soren backed out of the press, drawing Sturm with him.

"You must go and tell your mother what is happening," he said.

"What IS happening, Soren?"

"A galley, a ship rowed by many men, is close upon us. I fear they mean us mischief."

"Pirates?" asked the boy, half-fearful, half-delighted.

"Mayhap, or rogues of a darker stripe. Run to your mother and tell her this."

Sturm slipped down a stayrope, as he'd often seen the sailors do, and dropped to the deck outside his mother's enclosure. He pulled back the flap. It was dim and smoky inside, but he spied Mistress Carin tending a small fire in a copper pan.

"Mother! Mother!" he called.

"What is it?" Lady Ilys said from the shadows.

"Sergeant Soren says a rowing ship is coming for us. It may be pirates!"

Mistress Carin gasped. Lady Ilys's face appeared out of the darkness. She was very pale, and her expression was grim.

"Why would pirates bother so small a ship as this?" she asked.

"It's so foggy, my lady, Paladine wouldn't know us for who we are," Carin said.

"Sturm, fetch the sergeant to me. I want a soldier's view of the matter." The boy bowed hastily to his mother and ran out to find Soren.

The thump and swish of oars was clearer now, even to Sturm's young ears. The fog swallowed the sound, dispersing it, making it hard to tell from what quarter the galley approached. Definitely astern; that was certain.

"Sergeant! Sergeant!" Sturm shouted. He found the guardsman on the poop deck, whetting the blade of his broadsword. The Skelter's crew of lean, raffish seamen nervously shifted hatchets and cutlasses from hand to hand. Only Captain Graff and Sargo, the aged helmsman, were calm.

"Sergeant, my mother wishes to speak to you," Sturm said.

"I honor your noble mother, but I regret I cannot leave the deck just now," Soren said. "The enemy, it enemy they be, is near."

"Where? Where?"

"Treading on our heels."

Sturm strained to see. The oars pounded ceaselessly…

"Ship on the port stem!" sang out a man in the rigging. Out of the white murk came a massive object wrought in bronze. To Sturm it looked like the head of a mace.

"The galley's ram," Soren told him.

"Hard a-starboard!" cried the captain. Sargo put the tiller over, but the becalmed Skelter scarcely noticed. Graff ordered the helm kept over. He held the wind cord aloft and undid the knot he'd worked so hard to loosen. "Elementals of the air, I release you!" he exclaimed.

The sail snapped out with a crack, and the deck dropped from under Sturm's feet. Skelter heeled sharply to starboard just as the phantom galley charged through the dead water where the roundship once plodded.

Wind freed from the cord sang in the rigging. "How long will it last?" Soren asked the captain. Graff rubbed his ears and shrugged, a confession of total ignorance.

Skelter bounded over the waveless sea, tearing the fog apart like rotted cheesecloth. The galley trailed them, trying to draw nearer. Sturm held on the port rail, the wind in his eyes, as the galley swept clear of the mist. The bronze ram gave way to a black timber hull that cut the water in spurts with each dip of the oars. The galley's upperworks were daubed blood red. Movement on the deck suggested men behind the red planking, and a hedgehog of spears bristled in the air. Below them, blending back into the fog, were the oars, black with water, rising and falling in time with a muffled drum.

"Keep back from the rail, lad," the captain told Sturm. "They may have archers."

The boy forgot his mother's request and stood with Sergeant Soren on the port quarterdeck. The magic wind pushed the roundship without falter for one notch of the candle. At one notch and a half, the galley ran its oars in.

The Skelter's crew cheered. Sturm said, "Have we bested them, Captain?"

"Not yet, lad, not yet."

Sturm saw dark triangles billow from the galley's masts. Their pursuers were taking to sail, using Skelter's own wind to keep up with them.

The sun burned a hole in the clouds. Details of the black galley stood out at once. A pennant whipped from the foremast. Sargo squinted his good eye at it.

"That be no pirate," he said. "That be a ship of Kernaf."

"Who is Kernaf?" asked Sturm.

" 'What' be more like it — the isle of Kernaf. That's a ship of their navy," Graff said.

As Sturm watched, the magic wind diminished, and the Skelter slowed. The galley wallowed in the press of sail and drew along their port side.

"Hail, ship of Kernaf!" Graff shouted through his hands. "What would ye want with us?"

"Heave to! We mean to board!" was the reply. Sturm could see men massing on the forecastle.

"We're a free trader out of Solamnia. What business have ye with us?" bawled Graff.

"You are sailing in waters claimed by our great Sea Lord," the Kernaf spokesman said. "Heave to, or we'll take you by force."

Oars sprouted from the galley's sides like legs on a centipede. "Go, young lord. Go to your mother," said Soren. He plucked a dagger two spans long from his belt. "You must defend her when all else is lost."

Sturm accepted the iron blade. It was heavy and keen, and in the guardsman's hand it could easily pierce a single thickness of mail. Sturm darted across the deck to the hide enclosure. Mistress Carin and Lady Ilys stood together by the starboard bulwark, amid the wine casks and clay pots of oil.

"Mother, I am here to defend you!" he said, brandishing the dagger.

"Come here," she said. She gathered Sturm in her arms and hugged him tightly. "My brave boy," she said. "Carin and I heard all."

Shouts from the deck: "The ram! The ram!" Skelter leaped sideways in the sea, rolling far to starboard. Lady Ilys and Carin fell back on the pots and casks. Sturm's head banged onto the deck, and the dagger flew from his hand.

Above came the sounds of fighting — heavy thuds, the ring of metal on metal, the screams of the wounded and dying. Men fell overboard with loud splashes.

A shaft of sunlight slashed into the enclosure. Kernaffi marines had cut down the hides. Sturm groped dazedly for the lost dagger. The boarders charged in. Mistress Carin bravely faced them, but the nearest man grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out on deck. Lady Ilys called for her son. By then Sturm was crawling about, searching for Soren's weapon. The Kernaffi approached Lady Ilys, but she walked out on her own and stood regally in a circle of poised javelins.

Sturm saw his mother confront the rough, kilt-wearing Kernaffi. His throat tightened when the ring of spearpoints closed in. He cast around desperately for the dagger. Back among the crates of cloth the braided handle gleamed. Sturm reached for it…

A rough hand grasped the hood of his cloak and hauled him to his feet. "KOY ESK TA?" said the Kernaffi, laughing in the boy's frightened face.

By the time Sturm was drag-marched to deck, the battle was over. The Thelite sailors were bunched together by the mast, on their knees and begging for mercy. Sheer numbers of javelin-armed Kernaffi had forced Soren back to the starboard rail. They pinned him there, spearpoints at his throat. Soren's broken sword lay at his feet, as did a good number of wounded Kernaffi.

Carin was weeping. Lady Ilys comforted her. There was a scuffle on the poop deck. Two marines in conical leather hats shoved old Captain Graff down to the main deck.

"Who commands here? I demand to see yer captain!" Graff said, rising to his feet.

"Polo Kamay !" said the Kernaffi holding Sturm. All eyes followed his glance.

Down a narrow boarding bridge came two extraordinary figures. The first, in a gilded breastplate and plumed helmet, was obviously the commander of the galley. Behind him, and taller by half a head, came a woman in mail and black leather armor. A corona of copper-colored hair shone around her conical cap.

"Which one is the ship's master?" said the woman, stepping down onto the Skelter .

"I am Graff."

"Captain, this ship is ours. Yield your cargo manifest."

"Demons take you!" he said, spitting at her feet. The woman backhanded him with one mailed fist. Graff's head snapped back, and blood ran from his split lip.

"I am Artavash, lieutenant to our great Sea Lord," said the woman in a loud, ringing voice. "You people are now his prisoners."

The plumed commander went to Lady Ilys and Carin. "What's this? Passengers?" he said. "Lady Artavash, look here!"

The tall warrior woman looked down at Lady Ilys. She ran a finger over the nap of the fine velvet dress Sturm's mother wore. "Wealthy, highborn, or both?" she said. When Lady Ilys failed to answer, Artavash drew a knife and put the point to Carin's stomach.

"It would cost me not a moment's rest to gut this lady like a chicken," she said. "Who are you?"

"Lady Ilys, wife to Lord Brightblade of Solamnia."

"And why is a great knight's lady traveling the open sea without her noble husband?"

Lady Ilys's lips set firmly until Artavesh pushed the knife tip through the first layer of Carin's dress. The maid inhaled sharply.

"We are traveling — for our health," Lady Ilys said.

Artavash laughed and translated the remark for the Kernaffi. They joined her in mocking laughter.

"Mujat ! Enough!" She turned to the galley's commander and said, "Well, Sir Radiz, how shall we treat this poor company?"

"They have nothing we want, lady. Why not let them sail on?" the beplumed Kernaffi said.

Just then, Sturm managed to slip his arms out of his cloak. He dropped on his heels and left the marine holding an empty bundle of cloth. Sturm ran to the women. He pushed the knife away from Carin and interposed himself between Artavash and his mother.

Artavash turned her strangely burning eyes on him. "Well!" said the red-haired warrior. "Here's a young hero. Another Brightblade, I'll wager."

"Sturm, Angriff's son," the boy said.

Artavash smiled. "How old are you, boy?"

Sturm was put off balance by this ordinary question. That, and the smile of one who was in fact quite beautiful.

"E-eleven years," he said.

She unlaced the mitt from her right hand and ran tapered fingers through his long brown hair. "Ah, yes. Our master will be pleased to meet you."

"Lady, I do not think — " began Radiz.

"That I know," Artavash snapped. "Take the boy and the women to the Sea Raven ."

Radiz glared at Artavash, but held his temper in check. A quartet of Kernaffi shepherded the women and Sturm toward the boarding bridge. Soren started to struggle against his captors despite the naked blade at his throat. A sharp exclamation from one of the soldiers brought Artavash and Radiz up short.

"What about him?" asked Radiz.

"Kill him," said Artavash with a shrug.

"No!" cried Sturm. He ducked under a hedge of javelins and dashed to the sergeant. "Please do not harm him!"

"And why not?" demanded Artavash. "He is a man-at arms, and dangerous. I cannot take him aboard the Sea Raven as a guest."

"He is my f-friend," Sturm pleaded.

Artavash went to where the five Kernaffi held the far bigger Soren immobilized. The sergeant was the only man present tall enough to look her in the eye.

"Give me your oath," she said, "that you will be peaceful, and I will let you live."

Sturm looked up at him and his eyes said, "Please, Soren!"

"Don't do it, man!" Captain Graff shouted. "Don't trust that bloody sea witch!"

Artavash whirled and flung her knife at the old captain. It buried to the hilt in his chest. The soldier holding him let Graff sag to the deck. Sturm stared in shock at the growing stain of red soaking through the captain's coat.

Artavash stood over the dying man. "Do you think I am to be trifled with, old fool? Mine is the power of life and death here." She flung her unmailed hand at Soren. "Will you give your oath?"

"I cannot," said Soren. "While I live, I cannot willingly allow my lady or my lord to enter anyone's captivity."

Artavash smiled again. The effect on Sturm was near magic, for, in spite of her violent acts, he was charmed.

"Good, good," she said. "That's what I wanted to hear. Sir Radiz! Strip this man of his arms and armor. Set him to an oar on the SEA RAVEN, and mind you, double-chain him. It would not do to have him loose among the other slaves."

The Kernaffi hauled the belligerent sergeant to the bridge. Lady Ilys and Carin waited until the men surged by. Artavash went to Graff and rolled his limp form over with the toe of her boot. She freed her blade and wiped it clean on the captain's sleeve.

Lady Ilys and her maid started for the bridge. Sturm moved in behind his mother. Just as he was about to step up, a hand grabbed his ankle. He almost cried out in surprise, for it was the captain who held him.

"Boy," Graff whispered.

Sturm knelt. He swallowed hard and said, "Yes, sir?"

"Take…" Graff's leathery fingers were twined in the wind cord. "Take…" he gasped again. "Ver' strong…" Dry rasping filled the old man's throat, and the captain breathed his last.

Sturm stared at the dead man until a voice broke his trance.

"What have you got there?" said Radiz. Sturm showed him, his heart pounding for fear he might be punished. Radiz looked uncomprehendingly at the strip of rawhide. He rolled it between his fingers and gave it back to Sturm. "Come along," he said.

From the forecastle of the Sea Raven, Skelter seemed small and forlorn. The impact of the ram had been a glancing one, and the hull was crushed rather than torn open. The surviving Thelite sailors lined the rail as the galley backed away.

"What will happen to them?" asked Sturm.

"With luck, they can bring her in," said Radiz. "If they sink, it will be the sea god's fault, not ours."

Even at his young age, Sturm found that hard to believe.

The stern of the Sea Raven was covered by a luxurious pavilion. Walls of rosewood and cedar rose from the oak deck. Overhead was a cloth of gold canopy, and tinkling brass chimes hung from ivory ridge posts inside.

Artavash swept in and bade Lady Ilys and Sturm to sit. She unbuckled her armor and tossed the segments in an ebony chest whose hasp and hinges were of silver. A steward appeared, dressed in red velvet vest and billowing silk pantaloons.

"Wine, Dubai," Artavash said. She scratched her sides where the armor chafed, just like Sturm's father always had, and settled onto a heap of plush pillows.

Sturm strained his neck taking in the opulence of the pavilion. When Dubai returned with a silver ewer and three goblets, he had to ask, "Is this your ship, Lady?"

"Mine? No. It belongs to the Lord of the Sea. I'm not even its captain; Sir Radiz sees to our progress over the water."

The steward poured three measures of dark red wine. Artavash sipped, nodded, and allowed Dubai to offer the other two goblets to Lady Ilys and Sturm. Sturm's mother refused for the both of them.

"You offend my hospitality," Artavash said darkly.

"I would prefer to be recognized as a prisoner, rather than a guest," Lady Ilys said. Artavash sent the wine to Mistress Carin. She too declined to drink.

"Pah! Why are you northerners so haughty? Could your noble Order of knights prevent the Cataclysm? Has your devotion to Paladine brought you glory? You mystify me. Wealth and power belong to the strong. If you cling to your outdated ideals, you will all vanish like the ancient deities you serve." Artavash took a long drink, then waved for Dubai to refill her cup.

"What is to become of us?" asked Lady Ilys.

"That is for the Lord of the Sea to decide."

"We cannot be ransomed. Lord Brightblade will not pay one copper to you."

"Your knight's money means nothing to my master. Gold runs from his fingertips, and his tears are purest silver."

"If not for vulgar money, why did you take us?" Lady Ilys demanded.

Artavash leaned back, reaching out to idly stroke Sturm's hair. "My master will have a use for you, never fear."

Another measure of wine disappeared down Artavash's throat. Dubai filled her goblet automatically.

"If you do not drink with me, I shall finish the wine alone," she said.

"Drunkenness is a common fault of barbarians," said Lady Ilys.

Artavash glared and flung the silver cup at Sturm's mother. Lady Ilys closed her eyes but did not cower. The goblet hit the rosewood panel behind them, and wine splattered over them like scarlet rain. A single drop ran to the corner of Sturm's mouth. It tasted sweet and hot.

"I will not be insulted on my own ship!" Artavash declared. "Guard! Guard!" Two armed Kernaffi entered the front flap. "Escort this LADY and her servant to a cabin below. Put a watch on the door." She stood, to get the benefit of her commanding height. "Now, begone!"

Lady Ilys rose and put out a hand to her son. Sturm rose also, defiant.

"He will remain," said Artavash. Sturm could feel the tension between the two strong-willed women. This time his mother did not press her point, and instead, drew him close and kissed his forehead.

"Be wise," she said in a confidential voice. "And remember who and what you are."

Artavash sent the steward out so she and Sturm would be alone. "You are a brave boy," she said. "You might have been killed on the roundship, yet you defended your mother and friends courageously."

"Tomorrow is too late to be brave, my father says," Sturm replied.

"Hmm, just so. Your father is a wise man. Is he a great warrior as well?"

"He is a Solamnic Knight." That said it all.

Artavash held out her hand. "Come, sit by me. I wish to know you better." Sturm half-knelt in the pile of cushions by her right hand. She said, "You are educated, are you not?"

"I know my letters, and have studied the Chronicles of Huma."

"Huma? Who is that?"

"You don't know? Huma was the greatest hero of Krynn." Sturm cleared his throat and recited:

Thus Huma, Knight of Solamnia,

Lightbringer, first lancer,

Followed his light to the foot of the Khalkist Mountains,

To the stone feet of the Gods,

To the crouched silence of their temple.

He called down the lancemakers, he took on

Their unspeakable power to crush the unspeakable evil,

To thrust the coiling darkness

Back down the tunnel of the dragon's throat.

Sturm finished the canto. Artavash was smiling again. Very quietly she said, "And this demigod, this Huma; you are a descendant of his?"

"From olden times, yes," Sturm said with pride.

"I cannot wait to present you to my master," she said.

The fog dispelled and never returned. Sea Raven's oars beat day and night.

Sturm worried about Soren. There had been no sign of the sergeant since he disappeared into the dark, fetid hold of the galley two days ago. Artavash was not available, so the boy complained to Radiz.

"You will not like what you see," Radiz told him.

"I want to see Sergeant Soren," Sturm insisted. The commander agreed without any more argument.

"Perhaps it would be instructive for you to visit the benches," he mused.

The boy and the commander descended a steep set of steps into the hold. There, a long wooden walkway ran from forecastle to stern. Below on either side were the rowers' benches. Four men were chained to each oar, and twenty oars were set on each side. Hard, grim-faced men prowled the walk, lashing the rowers at random. The sight and smell of the neglected slaves was fearsome.

Soren was not hard to find. Compared to the skinny wretches around him, he was a giant. Radiz let Sturm on the catwalk to speak with his friend.

"I'm sorry, Soren!" he said, choking on disgust and angry tears. "I didn't know they'd put you in this horrible place!"

The guardsman hauled back his oar. "Don't — worry — young — lord," he panted in time to the sounding drum. "Alive — there is — hope."

"Hope is a good breakfast, but a poor supper," countered Radiz. He led Sturm away. The boy went back to his mother. He sat between Lady Ilys and Carin and said nothing to anyone for a long time.

After four days and three nights, the Sea Raven hove in sight of land. The coast of Abanasinia lay like a low, brown cloud off the port beam. Lady Ilys looked longingly at the far shore.

"So near" she said. Sturm leaned on her arm. "If I knew we were close enough, I'd throw you overboard to swim it and find help."

"I could try," he said eagerly.

She stroked his tangled hair. "No, my son. I fear you would drown."

Abanasinia receded as the Sea Raven bore south and west. A plume of smoke followed the wind away from the mountaintop.

"Kernaf is a fire-mountain," explained Artavash. "The natives call it 'Hej Maraf ,' — the Furnace."

"Are you not a native?" asked Sturm.

"Me, a fish-eater? My ancestors laugh at the idea!"

Sturm peeked at Radiz. The swarthy face under the shiny helmet could not conceal annoyance at her insult.

Sea Raven gained steadily against an offshore breeze. The sea was empty of ships, even as she drew in sight of the mouth of the main harbor. From the high forecastle, the city of Kernaf spread in a half-circle around the bowl-shaped bay. Two tall, stone towers flanked the narrow harbor entrance. The tower tops were blackened by fire.

"Has someone attacked your town?" asked Sturm.

Radiz squinted into the morning glare. "No, boy. Those are signal towers. Fires were burned up there to mark the entrance for passing ships," he said.

"Don't they use them anymore?" Sturm asked. Radiz was silent.

Artavash ordered message pennants sent as the galley churned to its haven. They passed large numbers of fishing smacks moored to buoys. They were waterlogged from neglect. In the main dockyard, large merchant ships swung untended at anchor, their rigging ragged and their main yards lying rotten on their decks.

"Strange," said Lady Ilys. "Everything looks abandoned. I thought this would be a teeming port."

"Not a soul in sight," agreed Mistress Carin.

That changed when a light ketch skimmed out to meet the SEA RAVEN. A Kernaffi stood in the boat and called to the galley in his native tongue. Radiz replied at length.

"What do they say?" asked Sturm.

"Merely the greetings of our great lord to his returning ship," said Artavash. The man in the boat did not look so very pleased to Sturm.

Sea Raven dropped anchors fore and aft. The oars were run in. The pilot ketch put about and tacked back to a long stone pier. Radiz shouted orders, and all hands except slaves assembled on the main deck.

A squat barge rowed out to the galley's bow. Sturm, his mother, and Carin followed Artavash to a ramp that led down to the bobbing barge. Sturm stopped short of the ramp's end.

"What about Sergeant Soren?" he said.

"He will come ashore with the other rowers," said Radiz.

Sturm appealed to Artavash. "He must come with us," he said. She seemed willing to accommodate the boy's wishes, so she sent for the sergeant. Soren was half-carried from the hold and dumped on the ramp by Kernaffi sailors.

"You see, my lady, how four days with an oar tames the boldest warrior," Radiz said. Artavash laughed all the way down to the barge.

Sturm helped his friend stand. "Are you well, Soren?" he said.

"Well enough, my lord." His quilted tunic was in tat ters, and red welts streaked his back. The rowing master had not spared Soren the whip. The guardsman's hands were also raw from gripping the heavy oar.

The barge glided in to the pier. An honor guard awaited them. Brass horns blared as Artavash led the group up some steps to the street. A parade formed:

the warrior woman leading Sturm by the hand, followed by a grim Lady Ilys and Carin. Soren, Radiz, and the Kernaffi guard brought up the rear. Fifes shrilled and drums rumbled as they began to march.

The streets of the city were as empty as the harbor. A few people peered out their windows, and some curious loafers filled open doorways. As soon as they caught sight of Artavash, doors closed and shutters shut.

"Passing strange," Sturm said. "Harbors without ships, streets without people."

"The natives seldom venture out this time of day," Artavash replied. "They think it's too hot."

The parade turned a comer. Ahead rose an imposing facade, a palace of some sort. Before the palace was a high wooden platform covered with a golden canopy. Artavash halted Sturm ten paces from the foot of the platform. The guards ran ahead, forming a double line from Artavash to the bottom of the steps. Javelins clanked on shoulders in salute, and the music stopped.

"Hail, Lord of the Sea!" Artavash cried.

"Kai! Nam Kamay Durat!" echoed the guards.

Sturm shaded his eyes. How warm it was here! The afternoon sun glared over him, making sweat break out on his face. Maybe the natives had the right idea!

Something stirred on the platform. A thin shape, black against the dazzling light, came to the front of the platform. Two hands rose, spread in greeting.

"Welcome, beloved Artavash. Who have you brought to me?" said a high, reedy voice.

"Noble guests, my lord." She introduced Lady Ilys, Carin, and Soren. Then she pushed Sturm forward. "And this, Master, is Sturm, Angriff's son, of the house of Brightblade."

A thin, gurgling sound emanated from the platform. "So? Come closer, young fellow, that I may see you better."

Sturm cast a glance back at his mother for guidance. Artavash didn't wait; she put a hand to his back and steered him up the wooden steps. When the shade of the gilded canopy fell across his face, he saw the man known as the Lord of the Sea.

He was tall, and so thin his back bowed under the weight of his large head. The black robe he wore hung loosely from his shoulders. Long, smooth fingers were clasped together at the Sea Lord's waist. And his face — Sturm would long remember that face! Two black eyes glittered on either side of a sharp nose. The skin of his beardless face was gray and dry as autumn leaves… strange that his hands, though bony, were pink and unwrinkled. The Lord of the Sea had only a few wisps of black hair clinging to his globular skull.

"My name is Mukhari Ras," he said. His voice was like a creaking door. "I am so pleased to meet you." He extended a hand to the boy. Sturm took it uncertainly. It was dry and hot, almost feverish.

"Have I done well?" asked Artavash.

"Oh, very well, far better than I expected," said Mukhari Ras. "And you shall be rewarded. All my loyal subjects will be rewarded."

He picked up a large canvas sack, grunting from the obvious weight. Shuffling to the front of the platform, Mukhari said, "Loyal men of Kernaf! I am pleased with the guests you have brought me. Taste the gratitude of Mukhari Ras!" So saying, he dipped his hand in the sack and flung a handful of the contents into the air. A shower of gold coins fell on the soldiers below. The men broke ranks and scrambled after the money, which rang and rolled on the paving stones.

Sturm blinked. He saw coins hit the ground, but it was sand, common sand, that Mukhari threw by fistfuls from the sack.

"You — you're a magician!" he said.

"No, boy. I am no crude conjurer, but a humble acolyte of the mysteries of cosmic matter. My alchemical art has made me master of this island. Soon I shall command all the Inland Sea." Mukhari threw another handful of sand to the Kernaffi. "More! Take more! All the gold in the world is yours if you serve me!" The men dropped their weapons and crawled on all fours in the dirt. They filled their helmets with gold and laughingly chased each new coin as it struck the ground.

The sack emptied, Mukhari Ras tossed it aside. "That's done," he said, showing blackened teeth in his smile. "Artavash, my dear, bring the boy and his noble companions to the palace. I shall receive them for dinner."

Sturm, Lady Ilys, and Carin were taken to an airy suite of rooms on the east side of the palace. There, amid billowing sheets of gauze, the smell of incense, and the ever-present tinkling of wind chimes, bowls of scented water were brought for their bathing. Vested servants stood by with towels, even presuming to pat dry the Solamnians' faces and hands for them. "What odd people they are," said Carin. "That Mukhari Ras is the oddest of them all. Who could imagine a quacksalving alchemist as the ruler of an island? It's — it's contrary to nature, that's what it is," said Lady Ilys.

"Mother, what will become of us?" Sturm said once the towel was taken away from his face.

"I cannot guess," she confessed. "A man who throws gold in the street cannot desire ransom money. In truth, were it not for the violence of our being brought here, I would believe we were honored guests."

Sturm was uneasy. Why had no one else noticed that Mukhari's gold was only sand? He opened his mouth to mention it to his mother, but before he could say a word, Artavash appeared at their door.

"The table of my master is laden. Let us eat," she said.

Dinner in the palace was a major event, presented in an elaborate style. Sturm enjoyed sitting on the floor at the low table, though Lady Ilys provoked a minor crisis by insisting that a proper chair be provided for her. It was not decent, she said, for a well-born lady to squat on her haunches like the family wolfhound.

As the diners — including Sir Radiz, Artavash, and Soren

were busy hacking open their first course of melon, Lady

Ilys said, "Lord Mukhari, may I ask how you came to rule this country? Your servant," she gestured to Artavash, "admits not being native to Kernaf."

The alchemist, who sat by a plate heaped with fruit, replied, "I was marooned on the south coast of Kernaf by men of my own land."

"What land is that?" asked Sturm.

"Moranoco, or as you call it, the Plains of Dust."

"You were exiled then?" said Lady Ilys. Without looking, she handed a napkin to Sturm. The boy blotted melon juice from his chin.

"Indeed, lady; as you are now, so was I once a hard pressed refugee. By my skill in the Art, I won the loyalty and affection of the people of Kernaf. I know the straits you are in, which is why I make you welcome."

"Your servants have not always been so kind," Soren said, giving Artavash a caustic glance. The warrior woman plunged a blunt table knife into her melon and split the fruit in two.

"Ah, well! It has been explained to me that your ship refused the SEA RAVEN'S summons and resisted with blood when boarded. Is it surprising that my good Artavash resorted to stern measures to bring you here? If murder and plunder were our aims, you would not be dining with us now," Mukhari said.

Carin looked confused. Lady Ilys said, "Why do your ships stop free traders on the open sea?"

"Tribute is necessary for the maintenance of Kernaf's position," said Artavash. She popped a sliver of melon in her mouth. Sturm watched her every move with fascination.

There was silence around the table for a moment. Everyone was eating except Mukhari. Sturm wondered why he had the choicest fruit on his plate if he weren't going to eat any of it.

The alchemist fixed his black eyes on Lady Ilys. "Where were you bound, Lady?"

"Solace, in Abanasinia," she replied.

Mukhari wiped his mouth on a linen napkin, though no food had touched his lips. "Shall I put one of my ships at your disposal?"

"That would be wonderful!" said Mistress Carin.

"It is gracious of you to offer," said Lady Ilys.

Radiz interjected, "Only Sea Raven is on hand, Lord."

"When can it be ready for sea?"

"Not for nine days, Lord. The hull was strained when we rammed the roundship. The seams should be re-caulked," Artavash said. Radiz opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by her harsh glance. "No other vessel is expected back in less than a fortnight," she said.

"It seems you must be my guests for nine more days," Mukhari said. "So that you will be comfortable, please feel free to roam my palace at will." He stood to leave, though the second course had yet to be served. "And now I retire to my nightly studies. Good health to you, my friends."

He waved a hand through the air. A slim glass vial appeared in his fingers. Mukhari hurled the vial to the floor. It shattered, and a coil of rose-colored smoke snaked out. The smoke enveloped Mukhari Ras. The last thing Sturm saw was the alchemist's face. In a halo of pink smoke he looked quite benign.

The cloud dispersed, and Mukhari was gone.

"Oh!" said Carin.

"Tricks," muttered Radiz.

It was hot. Sturm rolled over and pushed back the slick satin sheets. Currents of air stirred the filmy curtains, but the heat in the room was stifling. He got up, pulled on his Kernaffi-style pants and vest, and checked on his mother. Lady Ilys was sleeping soundly. Her cheek was cool and her forehead dry. So why am I sweating so? wondered Sturm.

He tip-toed through the colonnade to the main room. The cool tiles felt good under his feet. Beyond the columns was an atrium. Stars glittered overhead. As Sturm stood searching for familiar constellations, he heard footsteps and muffled voices. He went to the door and lifted the latch.

Two Kernaffi soldiers flanked a third, taller man. Chains clinked faintly from the middle man's wrists and feet. Sturm cracked the door wider. The men passed a wall torch. The fettered man was Sergeant Soren — and he was gagged, too.

Sturm shut the door quickly. His mind raced in tan dem with his heart. Why was Soren in chains? Where were they taking him? When the footsteps faded around the corner, Sturm knew he had to follow.

The massive suite door swung back without a whisper. Sturm saw the hinges were made of ruby. There seemed no limit to the wealth of the alchemist-lord. He slipped down the hall, straining to hear the last word of the Kernaffi guards and Soren. The palace was still.

He kept close to the wall, just as he did when he played 'Storm the Citadel' in Castle Brightblade. His damp palms moved stickily over the glossy wood panels. A strange, irresistible smell came to Sturm's nostrils, an odor of spice such as he had never known before. Where the corridor crossed another he stopped, uncertain which way to go. A fresh waft of spice drew him to the right. Down the hall a high, curving staircase of black marble spiraled up, following the sweep of the palace wall. Midway up, a single torch burned in an iron bracket.

Sturm mounted the steps. The odor was stronger and more compelling with every rising step. As he passed underthe torch, Sturm heard a peculiar sound — the gurgle of slow moving liquid. The steps ended at a black door studded with silver spikes. It was ajar.

Sturm's hand reached out, wavered… He could not resist. He touched the door with one finger, and it opened wide for him.

Even yellow light filled the room beyond. It was a workshop of some sort, filled with all sorts of strange things: tables laden with crystals of odd color and shape; stuffed animals with glass-bead eyes that stared knowingly back at Sturm. Shelves lined with fancy canisters and bundles of dried herbs, neatly labeled in some foreign script. And books. More books than Sturm had ever seen in his life.

He found the source of the gurgling and the spice aroma. An elaborate arrangement of clear tubes and bottles bubbled slowly on a round table in the center of the room. Beside this apparatus was a large red candle, as thick as his wrist. The odor was coming from it.

"Careful, young lord," said Mukhari Ras, appearing ghostlike from a deep alcove. "The essence still is very delicate, and I have need of it soon."

Sturm flinched and stood away from the table. The fluid in the tubes was thick and dark, very like the color of -

"Blood," said the alchemist. "Merely the unwholesome remnants of my last experiment," said the alchemist. He drew nearer even as the boy shrank from him.

"Human blood?" asked Sturm in a small voice.

"Of course," said Mukhari. "No other kind is of any use to me."

Sturm slowly pointed to the red, sweet-smelling candle. "What is this made of? It smells good."

"I am pleased you noticed. It is a very SPECIAL candle. You see, I cannot smell it at all." Sturm couldn't believe that. The spicy aroma was almost overwhelming in the close room. "Only very special people can smell it. The young and pure."

A cold hand came to rest on the back of Sturm's neck. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means, my boy, that I needed to know what sort of boy you are, to know if you were suitable for my purposes."

Sturm backed a step. "What purposes?"

"At the command of my Dark Goddess, I seek the true restorative medicine, the elixir of life. My research uncovered the formula, but to make it work, I need noble blood. Your blood."

"Mine!" cried Sturm. "Why mine?"

"You passed the test. The candle led you here."

Sturm bumped into a table. He cast about wildly for a way out. Mukhari did not seem to notice. He looked far away, musing about his experiments.

"Artavash brought me children from Kernaf, but they were imperfect, unworthy. The elixir made from their blood was only partially effective." He held out an arm and pulled back the loose sleeve to his shoulder. "See? I have the arms of a man of thirty, while the rest of me rots at sixty-six."

Fear and disgust rose sourly in Sturm's throat. "So that's why the town is empty — you murdered the children!"

"Don't be silly, boy. Most families fled, true, but they'll come back once I'm rejuvenated. They will come back and fall to their knees to worship the Goddess of Darkness who grants eternal life!"

"Life purchased at the cost of others! Paladine will not allow this!"

"And who is Paladine's representative? You?" Mukhari grinned evilly at the boy. "No matter. In two days the dark moon will rise, and the celestial conditions for the making of the elixir will be propitious."

"You will not suceed — Sergeant Soren — " Sturm began shrilly.

The alchemist clucked his tongue. "He cannot help you. Even now he lies trussed up in my dungeon. As for you, my young lord, if you give me the slightest difficulty, I shall order harm done to your mother and her maid."

"You will not!"

"Nonsense, boy. You're not in Solamnia. I am master here."

Sturm closed his hand around a smooth, cold object — a flask. He hurled the flask at Mukhari and turned to run. The aged alchemist dodged awkwardly. Mukhari, reached for a braided bell cord. Hidden chimes rang. A concealed door sprang open, and Artavash came in. Sturm rushed blindly into her grasp.

"Take charge of him, my dear," Mukhari said. "Only don't bruise him. I wouldn't want him less than perfect for processing tomorrow."

"As you command, master," said Artavash. She laid a firm hand on his neck and guided Sturm from the room.

On the stairs Sturm said, "So — so this was your plan all

along?"

"Why do you think my master had me scouring the seas?" she said. "Other ships have come and gone, seeking pure blood for Lord Mukhari's work. Noble offspring are hard to find; they're usually well guarded. It was the greatest stroke of luck that I intercepted your ship."

Sturm didn't feel at all lucky. He submitted without a struggle as Artavash took him to her chambers. All the while, even when she bound him to a heavy chair with silken sashes, he was thinking, thinking. He batted the feeling of helpless terror that gnawed at his mind. Soren a captive, his mother and Carin hostages,… and himself. To be bled dry, his life drained to further the evil work of the Queen of Darkness…

He thought of his father, standing on the battlements of Castle Brightblade with only a few loyal retainers while a mob of madmen howled around them. Lord Brightblade would meet the foe face to face, head to head, to conquer or perish. It was the knightly way. It was the Brightblade way.

The tremors in Sturm's limbs faded. In their place a heat grew in his chest. He was angry. His father had trusted him to take care of his mother, and he had failed! And who would bear the Brightblade name back to their ancestral home if not him?

"Be still, boy," Artavash said. She tipped a clay cup to her lips and drank.

"Lady Artavash?" said Sturm, his voice cracked with emotion.

"What do you want?"

"Would you help me?"

She yawned and kicked off her sandals. "Don't be silly, boy."

"All you need do is untie me. Then I'll get Soren, and together we'll take my mother and Mistress Carin — »

"You're not going anywhere. Mukhari Ras has decreed your fate." Artavash sat on her high couch and leaned back against the wall. She laid the naked blade of a shortsword across her lap.

"How can you serve a man like him? H-he is a monster who kills children!" said Sturm.

"Children die every day," she said flatly. And with that, young Sturm saw Artavash for what she was: a heartless mercenary. Her only loyalty was to her paymaster.

She drained another cupful of wine, the last of many that evening. "Now, go to sleep." Artavash slumped over a pile of pillows. Her hand went slack, and the clay cup rolled out of it.

Sturm waited until her breathing was soft and regular before he tried to shift the chair. The stout seat bumped loudly on the bare stone floor. Sturm froze. Artavash snorted and buried her face deeper in the satin cushions.

He gazed longingly at the sword Artavash had drawn, now lying point out on the couch. If he could only reach it! He strained against the sashes, but the silken knots only tightened further. Sturm relaxed and shook the damp ends of his long hair from his face.

The lamp above Artavash's couch guttered and went out. In the dense darkness, Sturm could feel his pulse throbbing in his hands and feet. He wiggled his fingers under the binding. His hands were crossed over his lap, so his left hand was over his right pocket, and vice-versa. There was a lump in his left pocket he recognized as Captain Graff's wind cord. He counted the knots. Two hands, plus one; eleven fresh gusts of magic were locked in that dirty strip of rawhide.

But it was magic. As a knight, he was forbidden by the Measure to make use of it. Still… to fight the Dark Queen…

The day dawned bright and hot. Sturm awakened from a tense, shallow sleep with the sun in his eyes. His body ached from being tied all night. Artavash did not stir until a pounding on the door compelled her to rise.

"What in thunder?" she grumbled, her voice husky and dry.

"Where is my son?" demanded Lady Ilys through the door.

"Here, Mother! I'm in here!" he shouted.

Artavash winced. She yanked a bell pull by her couch. By the time she staggered to the door and opened it, eight soldiers were waiting for her outside. Two more stood by with Soren, whose hands were chained together.

Artavash slit Sturm's sashes with the shortsword, and the young Brightblade threw his arms around his mother.

"They're going to kill me!" Sturm cried.

"This can't be true!" Lady Ilys gasped, turning to Artavash, who merely shrugged.

"My lady, your son spoke truly. These people mean to kill young Sturm," said Soren.

Lady Ilys pushed her son behind her skirt. Mistress Carin moved in on Sturm's other side. Lady Ilys declared, "No one shall move from this spot until some explanation is given for the barbarous manner in which we are being treated!"

Artavash rubbed her temples a few times and said, "The explanation is this. My master, Mukhari Ras, has need of your son's life. If you interfer in the slightest way, you, your maid, and your man will be speedily killed."

"Impudent pirate! Do you think my son is a lamb, to be butchered for that walking scarecrow's evil purposes?"

"It matters little what you say, Lady. Mukhari Ras commands it, and it will be done." She gestured to the Kernaffi soldiers. They pulled Lady Ilys and Carin apart. Artavash reached for Sturm.

Chained or not, Soren could not stand idly by as Artavash laid hands on his charges. He gathered the bond links in his hands and lashed out at the nearest man. The guard folded under the blow and bowled over his comrades. Soren lumbered forward. Artavash released Sturm and turned to meet the sergeant.

"No, Soren! Stop!" cried Sturm. Artavash nimbly dodged the guardsman's rush. She brought the flat of her blade in hard on Soren's head. The sergeant buckled and fell face down on the cool marble floor. Carin screamed.

Artavash waved the sword point under Carin's nose. "Don't shout so! My head is splitting!"

"Too much wine," said Lady Ilys coldly.

"Enough! By the gods, your tongue is sharper than a dozen swords," Artavash said. "I have no more time to dally with you. The guards will lock you in your rooms." She gave the orders in Kernaffi. Two men picked up Soren, and the rest formed in close order around the two women.

"Sturm! Sturm!" his mother called. He made a step toward her, but was collared by a grim-faced Artavash.

"The time for indulgences is past," she said. "If you resist, the two women will die."

"Mother!" he cried desperately.

"Come." Artavash seized Sturm by the wrist and dragged him away.

Radiz joined them in the main hall. He was splendid in his fine armor and plume, but his face was expressionless. He and Artavash exchanged a look Sturm could not fathom. Then the Kernaffi gave him a handkerchief.

"Dry your eyes," he said with a strange note of compassion.

Radiz and Artavash stood on either side of him as Sturm faced the steps leading up to the palace roof. Radiz, Sturm noted, kept one hand on his sword hilt all the way to the roof.

Four bearded Kernaffi priests stood to one side, offering up prayers and incense to the Dark Queen. Radiz stopped and bowed to them, but Sturm thought he detected a look of disgust on the man's face when he rose. Artavash shaded her aching eyes from the brilliant sun.

Ten paces away, Mukhari Ras worked to prepare the special table for his great experiment. His gaunt, bent figure scuttled from one side to another, reminding Sturm of the vultures that haunted the southeast tower of Castle Brightblade. The alchemist's wide black robe added to this impression.

The air was still. The sun burned fiercely over them. Sturm shivered in spite of the heat. PLEASE, PALADINE, PLEASE SAVE ME!

"Bring him over. Come, come along," said Mukhari, waving his youthful hands. Sturm rubbed his cold, sweating palms on his pants. He looked to Radiz for some sign of sympathy. The commander of the SEA RAVEN stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Halfway to Mukhari, Sturm stumbled. He heard the snick of a sword being freed from its scabbard. A strong hand grabbed the back of his vest.

"Pick up your feet, boy," said Artavash.

Mukhari was waiting, hands folded deep into his voluminous sleeves. Up close, the table was basically just a copper funnel flat enough to lie on. The legs were heavy columns of marble.

"Put him on the table," instructed Mukhari. The priests chanted louder and began to beat a brass gong.

Shouts and clangs of metal rose from the open stairwell. Radiz drew his weapon out of reflex. Artavash shovedSturm to Radiz and got her own sword ready. A death scream cut the air, and a few heartbeats later, Soren bounded up the steps, a bloody sword in his chained hand.

"Sturm Brightblade! I am here!" he roared.

"Stop that man!" quavered Mukhari.

Artavash moved out to meet Soren. His stolen blade thrust in; she parried and beat his sword out of line. Soren was severely hampered by his bonds. Only with his extraordinary strength could he even carry on such a fight. He cut hard at Artavash, one, two, three — right-left-right. She dodged, fox-quick, and struck home in the guardsman's chest. Soren staggered back. Artavash circled, circled; feinting an overhand cut, she changed direction in the wink of an eye and thrust through Soren's weakened guard. The point of her blade grew out his back.

Eye to eye, she said, "You should have stayed on your oar." Artavash recovered, and Soren collapsed.

Sturm broke free from Radiz and ran to his fallen friend. "Soren! Soren!"

His eyes were open. He said, "My lord… sound the charge."

"Leave him, boy. He's dead." Radiz was standing over Soren. Nearby, Artavash casually wiped the blood from her blade.

Sturm was numb. With leaden feet, he walked between Radiz and Artavash to the alchemist's killing table. His hope was gone. Four steps to go. Below the neck of the table's funnel was a large iron pot. Three steps. Mukhari was pale and sweating in the heat. Two steps.

He had nothing left, nothing at all but Graff's wind cord. Magic… forbidden… The last step…

Artavash swept Sturm off his feet and laid him on the table. The metal was warm from the sun. "Lie still," she warned. "Remember your mother."

She backed away. Mukhari Ras loomed above him. With both hands, Mukhari clasped a long, wickedly curved dagger. Sturm's heart missed a beat. His jaw tightened, and he said the briefest prayer of his life:

"Paladine, help me."

The dagger wavered in the frail alchemist's grasp. Artavash opened Sturm's vest and shirt. Mukhari Ras smiled down at him. "Here, then, is your destiny," he whispered. "I give you to my Queen!" He closed his eyes and raised the dagger high to strike.

Down came the blade. Sturm held out the wind cord taut between his fists. The keen edge of the dagger scraped the briefest instant against the rawhide. Mukhari felt it and opened his eyes. "What —?" was all he could say before the cord parted.

A mighty wall of wind, invisible, irresistible, blast ed across the palace roof. The emaciated alchemist, his robes filling with air like black bat's wings, was lifted off his feet. Screeching with terror, Mukhari Ras flew backward to the edge of the roof. An upward gust filled his skirt, lofting him. The Lord of the Sea soared into the sky, borne by the ensorceled wind. On and on he flew, his brittle body spread flat by the torrent of air, until he was lost in the billowing clouds and dust.

Mukhari was gone, but the danger was not yet passed. The wind blew Sturm over the table, but he managed to thrust an arm through the funnel hole. He held on dearly as the tempest howled around him. Retorts and alembics from the spirit still toppled over and were blown away. The Kernaffi priests collapsed in a heap, only to be torn from each other by the brutal wind. One by one they were swept away, the last pair clinging together even as they were carried off.

Sturm cried out in pain as the wind tore at him. He thought his arm would snap off at the shoulder, but he was able to get a relieving grip with his free hand. The table shifted and turned. Sturm pressed his face to the copper top. Dust scoured the roof, stinging the boy's exposed flesh. Just when it seemed he could endure no more, the wild fury abated.

He clung fiercely to the table, the instrument of death that had preserved his life. He heard a faint call for help. Gingerly, Sturm removed his aching arm from the funnel hole. The arm was black and blue from wrist to elbow.

The cry came again: "Help me, help…" Sturm shaded his eyes and looked around. He was alone on the roof. Everything, including Soren's body, was gone.

Radiz, his plume bent at an angle and his golden armor dented, hobbled up the steps. He stared around. The groan for help came again. Radiz and Sturm walked converging paths to the edge of the roof.

"At last, we are free!" he murmured.

Dangling from a rain gutter was Artavash. The gaping dragonmouth spout had snagged her long military cape as she fell. Now she was suspended high above the housetops of Kernaf.

"Help me!" she pleaded. The cape tore a little and Artavash begged for quick assistance.

Sturm eyed Radiz. The Kernaffi blinked dazedly. "I leave it to you, boy. If you wish, we'll bring her up. Or I can cut her free and let her fall. What do you wish?"

Her gray eyes appealed for mercy. "She killed Soren," Sturm said.

True," said Radiz. He pulled the sword from his belt.

"No," said Sturm. "The Measure teaches mercy, even to our enemy."

He dropped on his stomach and reached for her cape. Radiz took hold as well. They hauled Artavash to safety. Once securely on the roof, she rolled over on the tiles and gasped for air. Radiz took her sword and knife away.

He jerked Artavash around on to her stomach and quickly bound her arms and legs tightly. When she cursed too loudly, he drew a brightly colored scarf from his pocket and jammed it into her mouth. At last he stood and faced Sturm.

"Now, what can I do to make amends, young lord?" asked Radiz.

Sturm cradled his bruised arm and frowned with concentration. "I wish to leave," he said. "I want a ship to take my mother, Mistress Carin, and me to Solace. It was my father's wish that we go to Solace, so that is what we shall do."

Radiz nodded. As they walked slowly to the steps, the commander laid a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Whatever made you think of using the old sailor's magic string?" he asked.

"I didn't plan it," said Sturm, swallowing. "My only thought was to turn Mukhari's knife away."

"You didn't realize cutting the cord would release all the wind?"

Sturm shook his head. "I don't know anything about magic. It's not a fitting subject for knights."

Paladine would forgive him for bending the Measure…

At the top of the stairs Sturm paused. "Radiz?"

"Yes, young Sturm?"

"Would you have your men search for Sergeant Soren? He deserves an honorable burial."

"It shall be done."

They descended the steps together. Radiz remarked, "You know, Mukhari was right about one thing; you are a noble lad."

"I am my father's son," said Sturm.

The voices of the boy and the Kernaffi commander echoed through the palace halls long after the rooftop had returned to the clean air, bright sun, and nature's honest wind.

The road to exile was very long. For Sturm Brightblade, this was only the beginning.