The Rose and the Skull

by Jeff Crook

  Still, no answer. Liam tensed and drew the dagger from his belt. He tried the handle of the door. It was unlocked.

  He opened it and stepped quickly inside, closing the door behind him and pressing his back against it. Quickly, he scanned the room—Lord Gunthar's private study. A huge wooden desk dominated one corner of the room, while behind it stood a great window, its sashes thrown wide and its long filmy drapes billowing in the night breeze from the courtyard. The other walls were lined with shelves of books and scrolls, battle maps, and atlases of Krynn. A few small tables stood in comfortable nooks, bearing the prizes and honored awards of Gunthar's long and distinguished career. Atop the desk, a tall red candle burned in a bronze dish. The breeze from the open window caused the candle's flame to dance, sending drips of wax running down its length to add to the pool of hardened wax already nearly filling the dish. The floor before the desk was littered with loose papers obviously blown from the desktop by the wind.

  With a sigh, Liam sheathed his dagger and began to clean up the papers from the floor. In his distraction, he failed to notice at first the nature of the documents in his hand, but as he straightened them into a proper stack on the desktop, he glanced at the contents of the top page. He read;

  While an enemy still occupies the field, the Knight of the Crown may not exit the battle unless he has been relieved to find him safely home and well by his superior forces are needed when assaulting a fortified position. The standard rule is 3-to-l, although a 2-to-l advantage has been relieved by his superior, or is unable to locate another brother or sister Knight still occupying the field, the standard of his unit, or is otherwise incapacitated and unable to maintain the Knight's horses and arms, in general, one man-at-arms and one retainer shall be granted the Knight as servants.

  Liam sank into the chair behind the desk and read the next page, finding it much the same as the first: confused, scrawling, in different hands, as though each break in the train of thought was written by a different person. Neither page was numbered or otherwise gave an indication as to their order. The text of the following page was interspersed with doodles of dragonsaddle designs and dragonlance mountings. The next sheet was covered with Gunthar's own name written again and again, each version in a bolder or more elaborate script than the last. One sheet was an unfinished letter to Gunthar's lady wife. "My dearest Belle," it began, and described events of only three days before, although she had passed away four years ago.

  Liam let the papers slide from his hands. "Four years ago today!" he whispered, stunned at this realization. He found it hard to believe that Gunthar's choice of this day, of all days, to invite the Knights of Takhisis to Sancrist was anything other than a deliberate choice. Still, perhaps the old man truly didn't remember. Liam hoped so. He looked again at the papers, noting here and there in the rambling text broken fragments of the Revised Measure of Knightly Conduct.

  Over the centuries, the original Measure written by Vinas Solamnus, the founder of the Knights of Solamnia, had been amended so often that it now filled dozens of volumes. It covered every possible aspect of the life of a Knight and how he should react in almost any given situation. It was huge, unwieldy, and rigid, and had nearly led to the destruction of the Knights in the years preceding the War of the Lance. At that time, the Knighthood had grown so dependent upon the Measure for the direction of their lives, they had forgotten the Rule that accompanied it and was the foundation for their concept of honor. Est Solarus oth Mithas. My Honor is My Life.

  In the afterdays, taking the lesson of Sturm Brightblade to heart, Gunthar began to revise the Measure, to make it more fluid, less demanding. What Sturm had taught them was that a man can be a great Knight without the strict guides of the Measure to direct his actions and define his responsibilities, that true and noble honor teaches the Knight his duty of its own accord. Brightblade had learned much of honor simply by listening to the old tales of Huma and the other great Knights as told him by his mother, and by taking them to heart and trying to emulate those heroes, he had rediscovered the true essence of Knighthood—Est Solarus oth Mithas—at a time when it was most needed. In those dark days before the War of the Lance, with enemies all around them, the Knights of Solamnia had seemed more concerned with fighting among themselves over points of honor. Political intrigue had become the order of the day, with various factions vying for the overall power of the Knighthood. Gunthar himself had not been exempt from this, as his position as leader was very much in doubt. But in the darkest hour, when it seemed the Knighthood might truly split, hope arrived in the form of Sturm Brightblade bearing a mysterious dragon orb, a hope not readily apparent to all, because the division in the Knighthood was most immediately defined by support for or against Squire Brightblade. Sturm's arrival seemed likely to deal a final blow to the order.

  In the end, however, the arrival of the young Knight brought about a cascade of events which led to the consolidation of Gunthar's power, a turn in the fortunes of those arrayed against the forces of Takhisis, and an eventual end to the war. Sturm's ultimate sacrifice at the High Clerist's Tower helped to heal the cancer threatening to choke the Knighthood, teaching them by its example the true meaning of honor.

  Liam Ehrling had been one of the Knights there that eventful day at the High Clerist's Tower, when the dragonarmies of Takhisis attacked. As a Knight of the Crown, he had served under Sturm's command and had taken part in the trap set for the blue dragons attacking them. He never forgot his pain at the realization that their victory had been purchased with the life of a man he'd admired since the first day they met. On a personal level, Sturm's example had helped make Liam the man he was today. Where before he'd been less than serious about his training and his duty, after that fateful day when the tide of the war turned, Liam devoted himself to becoming the best Knight he could possibly be. Once frivolous and given to jollity, he became serious and focused, almost single-minded in his pursuit of excellence, and absolutely devoted to the protection and preservation of the Knighthood Sturm Brightblade had given his life to save.

  And now it seemed the deterioration of Gunthar's mental capacity threatened to undermine everything. Was it not enough that he had set the Knighthood on its ear by proposing and moving forward with the merging with the Knights of Takhisis, but the very document meant to help lay the foundation for the future Knighthood seemed no nearer completion than if it had never been written. Gunthar had promised its delivery by the end of the year, and Yule was swiftly approaching, only three short months away! If the state of the entire work was like that of the few sheets scattered across Gunthar's desk, the future of the Revised Measure looked bleak indeed. Liam tore at his mustaches in his frustration, glancing around the room for some sign of a more complete manuscript. The stack of papers on the desk must be Lord Gunthar's early notes, he surmised optimistically.

  He heard a voice outside the door and recognized it as Lord Gunthar's, mumbling as usual. He heard him say, "Mulled wine?" as though to someone he was inviting to join him within.

  "Damn, he has company," Liam softly swore. "Probably Lord Tohr." He rose from behind the desk and slipped swiftly to the window as the door opened. Liam stepped outside onto the battlements, but rather than return to his own room, he remained a moment, hidden by the curtain. He'd hoped to have a private word with his master, but now he considered the opportunity to listen to what the leaders of the two orders were planning.

  The door shut, and he heard Gunthar cross the room to his bedchamber. In a few moments, he returned. There was a creaking noise, as of someone settling into one of the large comfortable leather chairs in the study.

  "Risk! Nonsense, my boy!" Gunthar said, apparently in response to some comment Liam had failed to hear. He stepped closer to the window, careful so the curtain wouldn't reveal him if it blew aside.

  "Many were the times your father threw his shield in front of me and stood over me, protecting me when I was down," Gunthar said.

  So that's it! Liam thought. Tohr Malen'
s father was a Knight of Solamnia! No wonder Gunthar trusts him!

  "Have you failed in the past, Sturm?" Gunthar asked his guest.

  Liam's breath caught, and he wondered if he had heard right. Did Gunthar just call Tohr Malen 'Sturm?' He shuddered at such a show of mental weakness before their enemy.

  "Then I have no fear for the future," Gunthar said.

  Throughout all of this, Liam had not heard a single response. Tohr Malen had not struck him as being a softspoken man. Liam began to wonder just exactly to whom Gunthar was speaking.

  Almost in answer to this unspoken question, Gunthar quickly followed with, "I pledge your good fortune in battle, Sturm Brightblade."

  "Brightblade?" Liam gasped. He stepped into the room and found Gunthar standing alone before an empty chair, a mug raised in toast.

  At Liam's sudden entrance, Gunthar turned. Without any apparent change or surprise, he said, "Ah, Liam. I was just having a little warm milk before bed. Care to join me?"

  "Milord, I was… passing on the battlements and heard your voice. To whom were you speaking?" Liam asked. He walked over to the chair and examined it, finding it entirely empty.

  "Speaking? Speaking?" Gunthar asked, confused. "Oh, I suppose I must have been talking to myself. Somehow, I've got into that habit. Sometimes I don't even know I am doing it."

  "That must have been the case," Liam answered reservedly.

  "Well, a cup of milk, then?" he asked.

  "Thank you, no. I'm off to bed," Liam said. Slowly, he moved toward the door.

  "Didn't come to try to change my mind, then?" Gunthar teased.

  "It's too late for that, isn't it, my lord?" Liam said. "We cannot send them away honorably, now that you have brought them here, not unless they do something to betray your trust."

  "Ah, Liam," Gunthar said warmly, "that is why I chose you to succeed me when I die. Your sense of honor is beyond compare."

  "You chose me, my lord?" Liam asked.

  "Of course, the Measure prescribes that a vote be taken to determine the next Grand Master, but as my wishes have been explicitly stated in my will, I doubt anyone will challenge you," Gunthar said.

  "You do me too much honor, my lord," Liam said as he bowed. He opened the door, then turned to face Gunthar. "Speaking of the Measure, how is your work progressing?"

  "Almost finished," Gunthar said, smiling hugely. "Just need to tighten things up a bit, a snip here, a cut there, for clarity's sake."

  Liam sighed, his mind wracked with doubt, but he said, "Very good, my lord. Well, good night."

  "Good night, Liam," Gunthar answered. "Pleasant dreams."

  With a frown, Liam closed the door and leaned his head against the wooden frame, his emotions torn between loyalty to his lord and duty to the Knighthood.

  From beyond the door, he heard Gunthar close the window, then ease himself into one of the chairs.

  The Measure doesn't provide for his removal from office, and he won't listen to reason. But if something isn't done soon, he'll lead the Knighthood into ruin, Liam thought.

  "Fizban!" Gunthar shouted inside the room.

  9

  During the week between their arrival and the day of the hunt, the Knights of Takhisis spent the time gingerly getting to know their Solamnic counterparts. They shared quarters and messes and turns about the watch. On the third day, a contingent of both Knights rode out to inspect several nearby castles, including Castle Kalstan, where Sir Liam Ehrling made his home when not attending Lord Gunthar. Gunthar could not help but notice Liam's scowl as his one time enemies tramped the grounds of his beloved castle, inspecting it approvingly.

  Two Knights of Takhisis were sent to Xenos to invest the castle there and to prepare for Lord Tohr's eventual arrival. Xenos was to be handed over to Tohr as the base of his operations.

  Nevertheless, aloofness remained between the once opposing orders. Gunthar and Tohr were always close by, defusing short tempers. The boar hunt would be the first true test of the Knights' unity.

  The morning of the hunt rose gray and cold with the first breath of winter. A deep icy mist lay over Castle uth Wistan, shrouding its topmost towers and transforming the great trees of the surrounding forest into shadowy wraiths of giants. Water dripping from the eaves of the castle formed pools in the cobblestone stable yard where squires and horses waited, stamping their feet in the cold. The smoke of their breath wreathed the horses' heads, their harnesses jingling in the still air whenever they moved. The hounds, crowded in the door of the kennels, sat shivering with their gully dwarves, licking their wet noses, and yawning sleepily. Garr stood aloof from them all, a simple leash of well-chewed leather dangling from his great neck, his iron-gray chin whiskers sparkling with condensed mist. Uhoh scratched his cap and chewed the tip of his beard. A rooster crowed halfheartedly.

  All the outer courtyard had already filled with people from the surrounding countryside—peasants, craftsmen, farmers, and merchants. Visitors had arrived from outlying cities and villages, from Garnet and Knas, Markennan and Gavin. They came in carriages, on horseback, and by foot, and they quickly filled the courtyard, spilling over into the open spaces between the castle and the forest. Some erected multicolored tents to shelter the wares they hoped to sell. Many came to watch the hunt, to see the Knights ride out with their hounds and their spears in all their pomp and glory, but most came to get a glimpse of the mysterious Knights of Takhisis so recently come to their island stronghold. Although it was a festive occasion, with jugglers and performers and street magicians entertaining the crowds atop hastily built stages, and merchants in their stalls hawking everything from buttons to barrels of wine, the cold and misty morning dampened all sound, while the chill fog subdued the mood of many a fair-goer. Jugglers dropped their batons and pins, troubadours forgot entire verses of even the best-known ballads, while the hawkers' cries were less than enthusiastic. Most people shook their heads in dismay, or made surreptitious signs to ward away evil.

  No one really expected the infamous boar, Mannjaeger, to be killed this day. Mannjaeger wasn't flesh and blood. Weapons of iron, wood, or steel couldn't harm him. Most people native to Sancrist firmly believed the boar was an evil spirit left over from the Age of Dreams. Certainly, tales of his destructive ways stretched back into legend. Just as the hills had always been here, so had Mannjaeger. Huge he was, a giant among boars, the evil ruler of all lesser boars, the stories said, standing fully as tall as the tallest horse, his great black, razorhaired back humped like the hump of a whale, his hairless haunches crawling with ticks and bearing the scars of enough spear thrusts to fell a dragon. His ivory tusks, it was said, were each fully a yard in length, dusky twin scimitars able to shear through even the mountainforged links of dwarven mail. Some stories said his hot breath turned flesh to stone, while others held that it was the hate-filled glare of his baleful red eyes that froze men's blood and turned the bravest boar hound into a whimpering cur. Arrows turned to smoking ash upon striking him, and his hooves struck sparks wherever he stepped, lighting the fires that set fire to farmers' fields and barns.

  Many were they who'd tried their luck and their courage against the terror of Mannjaeger. It was even said that Vinus Solamnus had hunted him in his time, without success. But perhaps Mannjaeger's most famous victim was Lord Gunthar uth Wistan's grandfather, old Seigfreid uth Wistan. One warm summer's day, whilst berry picking with his grandchildren, the elder lord of Castle uth Wistan surprised the boar in a thicket of whortleberry. Unarmed, he fought gamely to save the lives of his grandchildren, and paid with his life while they escaped.

  Lord Gunthar was remembering his ancestor as he made his way to the stable yard, last in a long orderly procession of strangely subdued Knights of Takhisis and Solamnia. Like those already outside, the chill and foggy weather had affected the spirits of the Knights as well. They seemed introspective as they remembered the legends and myths surrounding the creature they were about to hunt. Not that they were afraid, for most of them had faced monste
rs equally fearsome. No, more than anything else the timing of the hunt felt wrong. It seemed hurried and ill-planned, and the bad weather only helped to strengthen their feelings that the hunt should be postponed. Gunthar's greatest worry was that the icy weather would prevent his hounds from scenting the boar's trail, but he was determined to go ahead with the hunt. His Knights needed saddle time with their new comrades in arms.

  As they neared the door to the stable yard, a trumpet blared from a tower overhead. As if in answer to the fanfare of horns, the mist began to lift, unveiling banners with kingfishers, swords, and roses on fields of argent and blue hanging majestically from the towers. But for the first time, as a sign of the change, pennons of black and red also hung between those of blue, with images of skulls and lilies and wreathes of thorns emblazoned in gold upon them. At the sound of the trumpet, the Knights of both orders exited the castle, filing into the stable yard where their horses waited.

  As Lord Gunthar stepped out into the gray dawn, the other Knights were mounting their horses and awaiting his arrival. Lord Tohr Malen sat astride a magnificent black stallion given him by his host for the occasion, while Gunthar's trusted retainer, Fawkes, held the bridle of Gunthar's own steed, Traveler—a dapple gray. Sir Liam clambered into the saddle of his great horse—a bay gelding—and sat hunched with a dark cloak gripped tightly around his body and the hood pulled low over his face against the cold. His breath, floating in smoky clouds from the hood, gave him a sorcerous appearance. Gunthar felt more than saw Liam's eyes staring out from that cowl. The past week had not been easy for Gunthar, watching his favorite student and chosen successor sulk and mope about the halls of the castle, a veritable harbinger of gloom. Well, Liam was just going to have to accept that this was the way things had to be, that was all. Gunthar slapped his heavy leather gauntlets against his thigh and descended the short stair to the cobblestones below.