The Cataclysm devastated Knightlund. Earthquakes split the mountains. The river overflowed its banks and, in some places, shifted course. Every settlement along the river was destroyed. Lives were lost, livelihoods ended.
The people in other regions of Solamnia were also hard-hit by the disaster. Concentrating on their own survival, they could not worry about what was happening in Knightlund. Most believed the lord of the region was dealing with the disaster.
Then survivors came stumbling out of that land, telling strange and terrible tales. The once-magnificent Dargaard Keep was destroyed, and that was not the worst of the story. Murder had been done in the keep; its mistress and her little child had died horribly in a fire that had swept through the wondrous castle, leaving it blackened and crumbling. With her dying breath, so it was said, she had called down a curse on the man who could have saved her and his child, but in his jealousy and rage, he had walked off and left them to perish in the flames.
Sir Loren Soth, once a proud and noble knight of Solamnia, was now a knight of death, doomed to live in the shadowy realm of the undead. The wailing voices of the elf women who shared his curse moaned night after night, repeating to him the tale of his tragic downfall. Warriors of fire, bone and blackened armor, stained with their own blood, were constrained by their master’s curse to mount eternal patrol atop the crumbling walls and slay in fury any living person who challenged them.
The gods of Light had doomed Lord Soth to a tormented existence, forced to constantly reflect upon his own guilt. They hoped eventually he would ask forgiveness, redemption. Takhisis wanted to claim him for her own and she gifted him with powerful magicks, hoping to persuade him to turn his back on salvation and serve her. But Soth had apparently turned his back on all gods-good and evil, for he would not march forth to terrorize the world as Takhisis had hoped. He remained in his keep, brooding and terrible, dealing merciless death to those who dared disturb him.
These were the reports from Knightlund, and few believed them at first, but more stories came out of that dark land and all told the same tale. The city of Dargaard, which had escaped the Cataclysm relatively unscathed, was abandoned; its citizens fled in terror, vowing to never go back, but with the stories of dread banshees and undead warriors came tales of fabulous treasure, wealth unimaginable stashed away in the storerooms of the keep. Many were the greedy and venturesome who traveled to Dargaard in search of fame, wealth, and glory. The only ones who ever returned were those who had been so stricken by terror at the sight of the keep’s blackened walls and broken towers that they never went closer. Such was the land’s evil repute that some grim jokester suggested the name be changed from “Knightlund” to “Nightlund”. Over time, that was how the realm became generally known, and now it was written thus on the maps.
No one had actually seen Lord Soth, or, if any person had, he had not lived to tell of it. Was the death knight a myth, a creation of mothers trying to scare children into good behavior? Perhaps it was a tale from the excited mind of some inventive kender? Or did he really exist?
Kitiara would have been the first to discount such fanciful stories but for Queen Takhisis, who had been so persistent in her urging, and for another reason. Kit’s father had traveled to Nightlund. Drawn by rumor of wealth untold and scoffing at the “granny tales,” Gregor uth Matar was one of the few to make it back alive. This happened because, as he freely admitted, his instinct for self-preservation had convinced him that no amount of money was worth the danger. He had always joked about his journey to Nightlund, but when, as a little girl, Kit had pressed him for details, Gregor had told her that some things were best forgotten. He had laughed when he said it, but there had been a shadowed look in his eye that she had never seen before, a look she had never forgotten.
And here she was, riding to this dread land, home to the living as well as the dead, a haunt for the desperate and dangerous, driven to hiding in Nightlund because they were hunted everywhere else.
As Kitiara rode that night, she thought of this, thought of her father, recalled the horror stories she had heard. Not far from Neraka, she came to a fork in the road. One highway led west. The other led north. Kit reined in her horse. She looked to the west, to Skie, who would be over his sulking fit by now and wondering what had happened to her. She was sorely tempted to take the western route, return to her troops, challenge Ariakas. Do just what he feared she would do.
She considered this option, forcing herself to examine it. Skie would side with her, she was sure of that. She would not be able to count upon the other blue dragons. Queen Takhisis, angry over Kit breaking her vow, would turn her back on her and the blue dragons would not go against their Queen. Kit’s own troops would be divided. She might rally half of them to her cause. The others would desert. Handsome Bakaris would join her, but he was not all that trustworthy. He’d turn on her in an instant if the money was good enough.
Kitiara shifted in the saddle. There was one other reason, the most important, why she would not ride west. She might break her vow to her Queen, but Kitiara uth Matar could not break a vow to herself. She had vowed to return to Ariakas in triumph, strong and powerful, so strong he would not dare cross her. To accomplish that, she needed a strong and powerful ally-an ally such as Lord Soth. It was either victory or death.
Kitiara rode north.
Day dawned, bright and cold, and Kit realized the horse was going to be a problem. The magnificent stallion with his jet-black glossy coat, his long mane, sweeping tail, and powerfully muscled body was obviously a valuable animal. People stopped and stared at him in admiration. Their gaze shifted to his rider, to Kit, clad once more in her gambeson. She had used the poignard to slash the threads’ embroidered design off the quilted fabric of her gambeson, already worn from much use. She had no cloak in this cold weather and that made her look even more down-at-the-heels. Everyone who saw that horse would instantly wonder how a shabby sellsword such as herself had managed to acquire the rare and noble beast. Everyone she met would be certain to remember the expensive horse and its beggarly rider.
Kit left the main road, seeking shelter in the woods. She searched until she found a shallow depression where she could tether the horse. Worn out from her exhausting ordeal, she needed sleep. Kit’s mind was busy with the problem of the horse as she drifted off. She had named him Windracer and she needed his strength, power and stamina to carry her to Nightlund. She needed his speed in case Ariakas’s forces closed in on her. She had to find some way they could ride openly on the road and not call attention to themselves.
Her mind worked as she slept, and Kit woke refreshed in the early evening, with what she hoped was a solution to her problem.
Leaving the horse concealed in the forest, Kit made herself even more disreputable-looking. She smeared dirt on her face, shook her hair over her eyes, then returned to the highway. She was still too close to Neraka for comfort, and her heart beat rapidly when a troop of goblin soldiers marched past on their way into the city. She crouched behind a tree and the goblin soldiers passed by her, never noticing she was there.
A merchant caravan approached, but it was guarded by several well-armed mercenaries and she allowed it to pass. After that, with night closing in, the number of travelers dwindled. Kit was starting to grow frustrated and impatient. She was wasting valuable time, and she had just about decided to risk riding as she was when the traveler she had been hoping to meet came along-a priest of Takhisis, obviously of high rank, probably a spiritor. A large medallion of faith dangled ostentatiously from a heavy golden chain around his neck. He wore black velvet robes and a lamb’s wool cloak of fine quality. His fingers were adorned with rings of jet and onyx set in gold. His saddle and trappings were expensive hand-tooled leather.
He was a short man, of stout build with a ruddy complexion. Unlike the dark priests of the Temple, he obviously enjoyed his dinner and his wine. He carried no weapon other than a riding crop. Kit waited for his armed escort to appear, but no one came. She hear
d no sound of hoofbeats. Though he was riding the roads near Neraka alone, the priest did not seem worried or nervous. Kit should have wondered about this odd circumstance but she was in haste and this victim was too perfect to pass up.
As the priest’s horse drew near, Kit rose from her place by the tree. Keeping her head lowered to conceal her features, she limped up to the priest, her hand extended.
“Please, dark father,” she said, her voice harsh, “spare a steel coin for a soldier wounded in the service of our Queen.”
The priest cast her a baleful glance and raised his riding crop in a threatening manner.
“Wretched cur, I have nothing to give you,” he said churlishly. “It is unseemly for one of our troops to be caught begging. Take your miserable carcass off the public road!”
“Please, father…” Kitiara whined.
The priest lashed out at her with the riding crop, striking for her head. The blow missed, but Kit gave a cry and fell back as though it had landed.
The priest rode on without a look. Kit waited a moment to be certain he was alone and no guards were following at a distance. Seeing no one else on the road, she ran lightly and silently after him. She leaped, vaulted onto the back of the horse, and wrapped her arm around the priest’s neck. She put her knife to his throat.
The priest was taken completely by surprise. At the touch of cold steel, he gasped and went stiff in the saddle.
“I asked you nicely the first time, dark father,” Kit said reproachfully. “You refused to give me anything, so now I’m insisting. It’s only because you are a servant of the Dark Queen that I don’t slit your throat, so you might want to thank her. Now get down off the horse.”
She shifted the knife to the man’s ribs and gave him a prod. She could feel his pudgy body quivering, and she assumed it was with fear. The dark priest sullenly dismounted. Kitiara slid deftly off the horse to land on the ground behind him. He started to turn. She kicked his knees out from under him, and he sagged to the ground with a groan.
“Hand over your money-” Kit began.
To her astonishment, the priest surged to his feet. Grasping his medallion, he held it out in front of him and cried out in fury, “May Queen Takhisis hear my prayer and shrivel your heart. May she flay your flesh from your bones, suck the breath from your body, and destroy you utterly!”
His flabby body shook with rage, his voice resounded with confidence. He had no doubt that the dark goddess would answer him, and for a terrifying moment, neither did Kitiara. The night air crackled with the power of his prayer and she cringed, waiting for the wrath of Takhisis to immolate her.
Nothing happened.
The crackling subsided and dwindled away. Kitiara’s flesh remained intact. Her heart continued to beat. She kept right on breathing.
Kit raised her head. The priest was still holding the medallion, but he was starting to look uneasy. “Takhisis!” he cried, and now there was a note of panic in his voice, “shrivel this miscreant’s heart and flay the flesh-”
Kitiara burst out laughing.
“You are calling on the wrong god if you want to stop me, dark father. Next time, try praying to Paladine. Now strip off those robes. I want your belt, your jewelry and that fat purse of yours. Quickly!”
She emphasized her words with her knife, prodding him in the midriff. The priest tore off his chain and his rings and flung them to the ground at her feet. Then he stood there, glowering, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Dark father, the only reason I don’t gut you is that I don’t want to ruin those warm robes,” Kit told him.
She was nervous, fearing someone might come. She walked forward, the point of her blade darting at his neck.
“But if you force me-”
The priest tossed his purse at her head, then, cursing her to every dark god he could think of, he dragged his robes off over his head. Kit made a bundle, tying up the money and the jewels inside the robes and cloak. She slapped his horse’s rump, so that the animal bounded off down the road, leaving the dark priest to stand shivering in his breeches, still calling down imprecations on her.
Chuckling, Kit entered the forest, wending her way through the thick underbrush to where she had Windracer concealed. The last she saw of the priest, he was running down the road, yelling loudly for his horse. Kit had seen the slash marks made by his riding crop on the animal’s neck, and she guessed the horse was not going to be inclined to stop and wait for him.
Kitiara pulled on the sumptuous black velvet robes of a high ranking priest over her own clothes. She draped the golden chain with the Queen’s medallion around her neck. The rings he’d worn were too big for her fingers. She put them in the purse that was filled with steel coins.
“How do I look?” she asked Windracer, modeling for the horse, who appeared to approve. Perhaps he, too, could foresee the best inns, the finest oats, the warmest stables.
Kitiara was transformed from a lowly sellsword into a wealthy priest of Takhisis. No one would think to question how she came to be in possession of such a valuable horse. She could ride the main roads by day. She could sleep in real beds, not spend her nights in ravines. Her pursuers would be searching for a renegade Highlord, a warrior woman. They would never think to look for a high-ranking spiritor. The wretched priest would tell his tale to the first sheriff he encountered, but as far as he knew, he’d been attacked by a beggar or perhaps, since she’d mentioned Paladine, a servant of the God of Light.
Kitiara laughed heartily. She ate a good meal-the priest’s own dinner-and then mounted her horse. She rode on, heading north. She had left one danger behind.
Unfortunately, that left her plenty of time to reflect upon the truly appalling danger that lay ahead.
11
The frostreaver. The making of a squire. aurana’s idea for the attack on Ice Wall Castle caused an uproar. The knights were opposed, her friends were in favor, while Harald was dubious but interested. They spent that night and the next day arguing about it. Harald eventually agreed to go along with it, mainly because Raggart the Elder approved it, but partly because Derek was opposed to it. Derek said tersely that no military man of any sense would go into battle armed with only faith in gods who, if they existed at all, had proved themselves faithless. He would have no part of it.
Brian had to admit that on this issue he sided with Derek. Laurana’s plan was ingenious, but it depended on the gods, and even Elistan said that he could not guarantee the gods would join the battle.
“Yet you are willing to risk your life because you believe the gods, on the off-chance, might come to your aid,” Aran pointed out, politely offering his flask around before taking a drink himself.
“I did not say that. I said I have faith the gods will aid us,” Elistan replied.
“But in the next breath, you say you can’t promise they will do so,” Aran argued good-naturedly.
“I would never presume to speak for the gods,” Elistan said. “I will ask them humbly for their help, and if they deem it right, they will grant it. If for some reason they refuse to give their aid, then I will accept their decision, for they know what is best.”
Aran laughed. “You’re giving the gods a break. If they help you, they get the credit, but if they don’t, you supply them with excuses.”
“Let my try to explain,” said Elistan, smiling. “You told me that you have a dearly loved nephew who is five years old. Let us say this child begs you to allow him to play with your sword. Would you give him what he wants?”
“Of course not,” said Aran.
“You love your nephew very much. You want him to be happy, yet you would deny him this. Why?”
“Because he is a child. For him, a sword is a toy. He does not yet have the mental capacity to understand the danger he would pose to himself and others around him.” Aran grinned. “I see what you are saying, sir. You claim this is the reason the gods do not give us everything we ask for. We might cut ourselves to ribbons.”
“Grantin
g us all our wishes and desires would be the same as allowing that little child to play with your sword. We cannot see the gods’ eternal plan and how we fit into it. Thus, we ask in faith and hope we will be given what we want, but if not, we have faith that the gods know what is best for us. We accept the will of the gods and move forward.”
Aran considered this, washing it down with a pull from the flask, but he still shook his head.
“Are you a believer in these gods?” he asked, turning to Sturm.
“I am,” Sturm replied gravely.
“Do you believe that the gods truly know what is best for you?”
“I have proof,” Sturm said. “When we were in Thorbardin, searching for the Hammer of Kharas, I prayed to the gods to give the hammer to me. I wanted the sacred hammer to forge the legendary dragonlances. At least, that is what I told myself. I was angry with the gods when they saw fit to give the hammer to the dwarves.”
“You’re still angry about that!” Flint said with a shake of his head.
Sturm gave a wry smile. “Perhaps I am. I do not to this day understand why the gods saw fit to leave the hammer in the dwarven kingdom when we need it so sorely. But I do know why the gods did not give the hammer to me. I came to realize I did not want the hammer for the good of mankind but for my own good. I wanted the hammer because it would bring me glory and honor. To my shame, I even went so far as to agree to participate in a dishonorable scheme to keep the hammer and defraud the dwarves.
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