by Roland Green
The javelin took Rubina just below the breasts. Angling slightly upward, it pierced her heart. She barely had time to feel relief at her body’s end coming so swiftly, before she felt nothing at all.
Aurhinius tried to keep her from falling, and succeeded at the price of getting her blood on his hands and arms. He turned to Zephros, who had taken another javelin—and now promptly dropped it.
Aurhinius walked down the slope to Zephros, with a look on his face that no man who saw it ever forgot.
“You young idiot,” he said quietly.
Zephros cringed at the quiet reproach, as he would not have at a torrent of oaths.
“She was trying to kill you.”
“She was a mine of precious knowledge that you have just flooded.”
Aurhinius’s patience snapped. He gripped Zephros by both arms and thrust his face into the younger man’s.
“You can go where you please, tell what you please to whom you please. But you do not serve under me again. If I ever see you in a camp under my command again, I will kill you!”
For a moment, it seemed that Zephros’s death would not wait that long. Rage can turn a mother cat into a tigress to defend her kittens; it can also give a middle-aged human general a minotaur’s strength to tear apart foolish young captains.
Aurhinius knew that, took his hands off Zephros, and stepped back. Then he spat at the young man’s feet, a vulgar gesture he knew, but anything finer was wasted on the merchant princeling.
When Aurhinius walked off into the darkness outside the circle of torchlight, no one made to follow him.
* * * * *
Waydol died just before dawn.
It was as they had feared. The Minotaur had spent too much of his strength fighting after he was wounded, and Sirbones had spent too much of his power healing other wounded. Sirbones did what he had warned Delia against, giving what was not really in him trying to save Waydol, but it was in vain, and the priest of Mishakal nearly followed Delia and the Minotaur.
Fortunately Tarothin was sufficiently recovered, after a long sleep and a hearty meal, to come aboard Windsword and administer healing to the healer. “Now, if someone will just tie him to his bunk for a few days,” the Red Robe added, “he should be fit to heal anything from blisters to broken heads.”
They decided to bury Waydol and Delia at sea—“so that my father will in time make his homeward voyage, even if transformed,” as Darin put it. The fleet hove to, the two shrouded bodies were placed on planks, and Tarothin said appropriate blessings since Sirbones was asleep below.
Eskaia was on deck for the burial, though she looked as if she should have been in her bed. However, she had already made it clear what would happen to Jemar if he denied her permission, and everyone else had the sense to hold his tongue.
Darin spoke a few words about his father—“who will live longer than if he had ten children of his body, for all who followed him were like his children.”
Then he threw back his head and roared out a better minotaur’s mourning cry than Pirvan had expected to hear from a human throat.
But then, he had never expected to meet anyone like Darin.
The drums rolled, canvas scraped over wood, two splashes sounded alongside Windsword, and it was done.
Epilogue
The voyage to Solamnia was swift, with good sailing weather. It was not so swift that Eskaia and Sirbones did not have time to recover. When Jemar carried his lady down the gangplank, it was merely for show—and when the cheers erupted, he nearly dropped her into the water in surprise and delight.
After that, there was less celebration and a great deal more work, which Pirvan knew would continue well beyond settling Waydol’s men and Birak Epron’s sell-swords. The latter could mostly take service with the knights’ infantry, but the others ended up divided among Jemar’s ships, Kurulus’s ship (with some for other ships and post with House Encuintras), and various kinds of land-bound work.
Pirvan and Darin were so busy that they hardly had time to do more than greet each other in passing. But Pirvan noticed that hard work was slowly taking the young man somewhat out of his grief. He also noticed that Haimya had been right: Darin was turning female heads wherever he went.
Fortunately, the women were not turning his.
Minotaurs can make good teachers in more than war and honor, Pirvan thought. Then he corrected himself. One minotaur at least made a fine teacher.
Sir Marod was of the same opinion. Indeed, his opinion of Waydol was even higher than Pirvan would have dared put into words.
“Waydol could have been the minotaurs’ answer to Vinas Solamnus. When our founder saw that the notion of honor he was bound to still allowed wrong, he did not yield and do wrong. Instead, he devised his own higher standard of honor, and living up to that, changed the world.
“Alas, that Waydol could not live to do the same. I would fear the kingpriest and his ilk less if we did not also have to fear the minotaurs.”
Pirvan nodded. That was the truth by which the knight had to live as an order. He himself would find it hard ever to see a minotaur as an enemy again, unless the minotaur declared himself one.
Sir Marod also kept Pirvan active with business of the knights, so that he not only saw little of Darin but hardly more of Haimya. Indeed, the Knight of the Rose was disposed to keep Haimya at Dargaard Keep until certain matters were negotiated with Istar.
“If you wish, I can also have Sir Niebar and his knights bring your children out here to safety,” Sir Marod added.
Pirvan was fortunately able to discourage that idea, without breaching honor, Measure, or common good manners, before it reached Haimya and provoked her into saying unforgivable things about Sir Marod.
This was as well. Pirvan was not entirely sure he would have wished to silence her, once she began speaking her mind. Sir Marod had many virtues, but a knowledge of women like Haimya was not among them.
* * * * *
Near the beginning of Paleswelt, Pirvan and Haimya finally rode home to Tiradot. Tarothin went with them, to provide some wizardly assistance if needed, and Grimsoar One-Eye wanted to go. However, Jemar had promoted him to command of his own ship, and there was too much work for him.
After a painful farewell to Darin, they rode swiftly. They would have ridden more swiftly, except that Haimya discovered that she, too, was now with child, after many years of thinking young Eskaia would be her last.
Reaching home, they made what was at first a less pleasant discovery. Sir Niebar the Tall and no fewer than seven knights were in residence at Tiradot Manor.
Fortunately, they were paying their own expenses.
“Nothing worth your attention has happened—” Niebar began.
“I will be the judge of that,” Pirvan said.
“Very well. I will tell you all, later. For now, I merely say that if at any time anyone had chosen to attack the manor, they would have faced Knights of Solamnia. Then they would have had to choose between abandoning the attack and declaring war on the knights.”
Pirvan was not sure that his carefully taught men-at-arms would not have been more useful than the knights in fighting off the kind of subtle attack that was more likely than open war. Neither was he sure that he really cared for having a bodyguard of paying guests around the manor until the knights and Istar finished their negotiations. Both sides loved to quibble; neither side was apt to consider the convenience of the subjects of their negotiations.
But there was a babe growing in Haimya, a splendid harvest to be got in, his children and home to know again. Altogether, there was more than enough to keep a man from sitting and fretting in idleness.
It was early Darkember before the negotiations were completed. Word of this came from Sir Marod himself, riding up with an escort of no fewer than fifteen knights.
“We hope to visit a few of your neighbors,” the Knight of the Rose said. “Some of them may need a trifle of expianation as to why they should not trouble you.”
“Are you asking me to inform on my neighbors?” Pirvan said. He was not quite amused, but not quite angry either.
“Well, if you do not speak, Sir Niebar doubtless will—” Sir Marod began. Then he could not keep his face straight, and laughed.
“We will visit all your neighbors, but we will say nothing and you need say nothing either. The mere fact of our visit will be enough.”
Pirvan poured wine. “How fares Darin?”
“One of the matters we settled was allowing him to enter training with the knights. That was our decision alone, but some among us—I name no names—feared that it would offend Istar.”
Pirvan suggested what Istar do with its grievances.
Marod shook his head. “I would have gladly said the same, but I and the other negotiators had responsibilities that you did not. It took some while before we could persuade them that you had done nothing against Istar of your own free will, only through being bound to defend Waydol as a matter of honor and of your orders.
“Then, of course, they wondered aloud why the knights had given you such orders. We expressed curiosity about the kingpriest hiring assassins. What Rubina told Tarothin, the prisoner told Sir Niebar, and your kender friend Trapspringer told everybody, helped considerably.
“The kingpriest is now just barely in the good graces of the merchant lords. I foresee that it will be some years before we hear from the Servants of Silence again, or before he licenses priests of Evil to run wild by land or sea. Even the lawful priests of Zeboim were not happy to hear of their colleagues treating chaos like a toy!”
Marod reached into a belt pouch and pulled out an elaborately sealed parchment square. “All of which is leading up to the fact that the Istarians will hold their peace about this.”
Pirvan looked at the parchment, then took it without opening it.
“I did not give it to you to put in a case and hang on your wall,” Sir Marod said.
Pirvan opened it. It began with the formal salutation:
Be it Known Hereby, to All Brother Knights
and ended with the declaration:
Sir Pirvan of Tiradot, known as Pirvan the Wayward, Knight of the Crown, is hereby elevated according to the Oath and the Measure to the rank of Knight of the Sword.
It was a lucky day at Tiradot, for that evening a messenger brought word of Eskaia’s safe delivery of a healthy girl child. The celebration would have gone on much longer if Haimya had been able to drink more, but she was always sparing of wine while bearing.
She was not sparing of attention to her husband that night, however. When he finally slept, the newly made Knight of the Sword thought himself the most fortunate man in the world.
Dragons
of
Summer Flame
An Excerpt
by Margaret Weis
and Tracy Hickman
Chapter One
Be Warned …
It was hot that morning, damnably hot.
Far too hot for late spring on Ansalon. Almost as hot as midsummer. The two knights, seated in the boat’s stern, were sweaty and miserable in their heavy steel armor; they looked with envy at the nearly naked men plying the boat’s oars. When the boat neared shore, the knights were first out, jumping into the shallow water, laving the water onto their reddening faces and sunburned necks. But the water was not particularly refreshing.
“Like wading in hot soup,” one of the knights grumbled, splashing ashore. Even as he spoke, he scrutinized the shoreline carefully, eyeing bush and tree and dune for signs of life.
“More like blood,” said his comrade. “Think of it as wading in the blood of our enemies, the enemies of our Queen. Do you see anything?”
“No,” the other replied. He waved his hand, then, without looking back, heard the sound of men leaping into the water, their harsh laughter and conversation in their uncouth, guttural language.
One of the knights turned around. “Bring that boat to shore,” he said, unnecessarily, for the men had already picked up the heavy boat and were running with it through the shallow water. Grinning, they dumped the boat on the sand beach and looked to the knight for further orders.
He mopped his forehead, marveled at their strength, and—not for the first time—thanked Queen Takhisis that these barbarians were on their side. The brutes, they were known as. Not the true name of their race. The name, their name for themselves, was unpronounceable, and so the knights who led the barbarians had begun calling them by the shortened version: brute.
The name suited the barbarians well. They came from the east, from a continent that few people on Ansalon knew existed. Every one of the men stood well over six feet; some were as tall as seven. Their bodies were as bulky and muscular as humans, but their movements were as swift and graceful as elves. Their ears were pointed like those of the elves, but their faces were heavily bearded like humans or dwarves. They were as strong as dwarves and loved battle as well as dwarves did. They fought fiercely, were loyal to those who commanded them, and, outside of a few grotesque customs such as cutting off various parts of the body of a dead enemy to keep as trophies, the brutes were ideal foot soldiers.
“Let the captain know we’ve arrived safely and that we’ve encountered no resistance,” said the knight to his comrade. “We’ll leave a couple of men here with the boat and move inland.”
The other knight nodded. Taking a red silk pennant from his belt, he unfurled it, held it above his head, and waved it slowly three times. An answering flutter of red came from the enormous black, dragon-prowed ship anchored some distance away. This was a scouting mission, not an invasion. Orders had been quite clear on that point.
The knights sent out their patrols, dispatching some to range up and down the beach, sending others farther inland. This done, the two knights moved thankfully to the meager shadow cast by a squat and misshapen tree. Two of the brutes stood guard. The knights remained wary and watchful, even as they rested. Seating themselves, they drank sparingly of the fresh water they’d brought with them. One of them grimaced.
“The damn stuff’s hot.”
“You left the waterskin sitting in the sun. Of course it’s hot.”
“Where the devil was I supposed to put it? There was no shade on that cursed boat. I don’t think there’s any shade left in the whole blasted world. I don’t like this place at all. I get a queer feeling about this island, like it’s magicked or something.”
“I know what you mean,” agreed his comrade somberly. He kept glancing about, back into the trees, up and down the beach. All that could be seen were the brutes, and they were certainly not bothered by any ominous feelings. But then they were barbarians. “We were warned not to come here, you know.”
“What?” The other knight looked astonished. “I didn’t know. Who told you that?”
“Brightblade. He had it from Lord Ariakan himself.”
“Brightblade should know. He’s on Ariakan’s staff. The lord’s his sponsor.” The knight appeared nervous and asked softly, “Such information’s not secret, is it?”
The other knight appeared amused. “You don’t know Steel Brightblade very well if you think he would break any oath or pass along any information he was told to keep to himself. He’d sooner let his tongue be ripped out by red-hot tongs. No, Lord Ariakan discussed this openly with all the regimental commanders before deciding to proceed.”
The knight shrugged. Picking up a handful of small rocks, he began tossing them idly into the water. “The Gray Robes started it all. Some sort of augury revealed the location of this island and that it was inhabited by large numbers of people.”
“So who warned us not to come?”
“The Gray Robes. The same augury that told them of this island also warned them not to come near it. They tried to persuade Ariakan to leave well enough alone. Said that this place could mean disaster.”
The other knight frowned, then glanced around with growing unease. “Then why were we sent?”
“The upcoming invasion o
f Ansalon. Lord Ariakan felt this move was necessary to protect his flanks. The Gray Robes couldn’t say exactly what sort of threat this island represented. Nor could they say specifically that the disaster would be caused by our landing on the island. As Lord Ariakan pointed out, perhaps disaster would come even if we didn’t do anything. And so he decided to follow the old dwarven dictum, ‘It is better to go looking for the dragon than have the dragon come looking for you.’ ”
“Good thinking,” his companion agreed. “If there is an army of elves on this island, it’s better that we deal with them now. Not that it seems likely.”
He gestured at the wide stretches of sand beach, at the dunes covered with some sort of grayish-green grass, and, farther inland, a forest of the ugly, misshapen trees. “Elves wouldn’t live in a place like this.”
“Neither would dwarves. Minotaurs would have attacked us by now. Kender would have walked off with the boat and our armor. Gnomes would have met us with some sort of fiend-driven fish-catching machine. Humans like us are the only race foolish enough to live in such a wretched place,” the knight concluded cheerfully. He picked up another handful of rocks.
“It could be a rogue band of draconians or hobgoblins. Ogres even. Escaped twenty-some years ago, after the War of the Lance. Fled north, across the sea, to avoid capture by the Solamnic Knights.”
“Yes, but they’d be on our side,” his companion answered. “And our wizards wouldn’t have their robes in a knot over it.… Ah, here come our scouts, back to report. Now we’ll find out.”
The knights rose to their feet. The brutes who had been sent into the island’s interior hurried forward to meet their leaders. The barbarians were grinning hugely. Their nearly naked bodies glistened with sweat. The blue paint with which they covered themselves, and which was supposed to possess some sort of magical properties said to cause arrows to bounce right off them, ran down their muscular bodies in rivulets. Long scalp locks, decorated with colorful feathers, bounced on their backs as they loped easily over the sand dunes.
