Knights of the Rose

by Roland Green

  Pirvan had been commanded to take with him Sir Darin Waydolson, Knight of the Sword. He would have done so without command. Indeed, he would have more gladly walked from Istar to Dargaard Keep and back in his bare feet than left the young knight behind. He had sponsored Sir Darin after the death of the minotaur Waydol, Darin’s foster father; he knew the qualities of the man.

  Pirvan also knew that his own teaching had little to do with those qualities, and Waydol’s teaching much.

  Grimsoar was leaner than he had been during his years of striding a deck, but no shorter. Darin was the size of a full-grown minotaur, as if Waydol had, by some whim of the gods, been his father by blood as well as by nurture.

  Desert-bred horses average about fourteen hands high. They had found one that topped fifteen, for Darin. They had tried to find a second, for Grimsoar. No such beast was to be found, nor any that could safely be worked on by magic to increase its strength.

  “My spells have little power over beasts,” their Red Robe companion, Tarothin, had said. “Nor is this for want of learning or effort. Even if I did command the proper spells, they have a way of making the enspelled beasts drop dead suddenly, usually when you are three days’ walk from water, or worse, riding for your life.”

  Regardless, it would be good to be past the desert portion of their journey before the high summer heat struck. It would be still better to be all the way to the borderlands before anyone in Istar learned of their intent.

  “Never mind,” Darin said, at last. “If Grimsoar is fit to walk as much as one day in three, he and I can share the same mount.”

  Serafina, Grimsoar’s young wife, threw Darin a look that would have gelded him if it had been steel. “He is fit for this journey at all only because he wishes it and I will not hold him back. As for walking all the way to Silvanesti—”

  “Very well,” Darin said. “Then Grimsoar can have the big roan gelding. I will load all of my gear save my sword and dagger on a mule. Then I can go afoot.”

  Pirvan had many years ago given over being astounded by anything Darin could do or say. His mouth hung wide only briefly before he shook his head.

  “We need not go that far. Let us find two horses of common size, so that Grimsoar can ride each one on alternate days. Then you can take the roan, put your gear on a mule as you suggested, and still ride.”

  “There seems little need for me to burden a horse,” Darin said. “It is not as if I am slow afoot.”

  Given that much of Darin’s immense height was in his legs, this was probably true. Pirvan had seen the man keep pace with a cantering horse for miles. However, a time might come when the band needed to gallop, and then a man afoot would have to be left behind.

  He said as much to Darin, who flushed like a boy and looked at Pirvan’s wife, Lady Haimya, as if in appeal. She shook her head.

  “The will to sacrifice oneself is a two-edged weapon,” Haimya added. “It needs careful handling.”

  “I submit to your judgment, Sir Pirvan, Lady Haimya,” Darin said.

  Will he ever address us without our titles? Pirvan asked himself. Perhaps the day after we find him roistering in a house of amusement.

  Darin did ride, but not every day. The strength he thus saved, he used to do more than his share of the camp chores. This sat well with Serafina, who was half her husband’s age and had been groom of her father’s large livery stable when she found herself wed to a lung-fevered sea captain. She had been less than pleased with his going on this quest at all, and was grateful to Darin for the time given her to nurse Grimsoar.

  Darin’s labors were less pleasing to Pirvan and Haimya’s daughter, Eskaia, named after Jemar’s widow. She was seventeen, had been steward of Tirabot Manor in all but name for three years, and had expected to hold the same place on this, her long-awaited first quest in the company of her parents.

  The sun was a swollen sphere of fire on the dust-hazed horizon when One-Ear turned to Hawkbrother.

  “They are halting on the rim of Dead Ogre Canyon,” he said. “Perhaps you were right.”

  “Perhaps I was, in part. But they may be desert-wise after all, as you say. There are places where the canyon wall lets one go down for water, leaving the mounts and camp up above. That is what I would do, were I they.”

  One-Ear nodded. The Free Riders were not great archers, good bow wood being scarce over much of their lands, but every war band had a few. Even without a bow, a man on the rim of a canyon had the edge over a man on the bottom.

  “If they stay on the rim, no large band can scout them out before darkness,” One-Ear said. He began undoing his belt, the first step toward stripping to his loincloth and knife.

  Hawkbrother put a hand on the older warrior’s shoulder. “Be not so hasty, my friend. I need my most trusted man to remain within hearing distance of the canyon’s rim. That man, too, should have, within hearing distance, a band of men he trusts.

  “I will carry my whistle,” the chief’s son added. “I hope age has not addled your memory so that you forget all our old calls?”

  One-Ear grabbed one of Hawkbrother’s braids and pretended to bite off the opposite ear. “Insult those who really are too old to challenge you, worm! With the rest of us, waste no time or breath.”

  Hawkbrother recognized in One-Ear’s tone reluctant agreement to his proposal. Now it was his turn to undo his belt.

  The canyon stretched away for miles in either direction. The far ends of the vista were veiled in twilight and mist. Pirvan contemplated the hues of the rock in the canyon walls: ocher and red, saffron and an unnaturally dark blue that was almost black, and a dozen others.

  To his right, wood scraped on rock. A sledge loaded with filled waterskins rose over the rim of the canyon. Serafina whispered something to her lead mule, and the four stopped hauling. Pirvan raised both hands, the signal to the watering party below that the sledge was safely up.

  It had been simple enough to decide not to enter the canyon, where shade, shelter, and easy water beckoned people into what could easily become a deathtrap. It had been only a trifle less simple to devise safe ways of watering the party.

  The disassembled sledge packed for use in the mountains was unpacked and assembled. A stout harness hitched it to four mules. Four men carried it down to the nearest spring; others carried all the empty waterskins. As fast as the skins were filled, they were lashed to the sledge. Then came Serafina’s shrewd cajoling (and an occasional crack of the whip), and the strength of the mules did the rest.

  Darin commanded the sentries, Gerik the watering party, and Grimsoar and Eskaia those setting up the tents. Tarothin kept a magical vigil, in so far as his strength allowed—although he had the look of a man who should not have been out of bed at all.

  Pirvan and Haimya found themselves almost idle. As his lady sat down on the rock beside him, Pirvan slipped an arm around her.

  “Shall we go seek if the spring broadens into a pool somewhere down-canyon?” he said, grinning.

  Haimya pulled his arm tighter about her waist and squeezed his hand, then rested her head on his shoulder. She could do that easily and gracefully, even though she was barely a finger’s breadth shorter than her husband.

  “I thank you for the thought, but I am too old for that,” she said.

  “Hardly, and not at all too old to inspire it. When I dream of swimming under the sun or the stars, I dream of—”

  “Yes?”

  “You.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “Only clear-sighted.”

  Haimya turned her head to kiss Pirvan lightly on the cheek and ear, then settled back into his embrace.

  In truth, Haimya did not look old enough to have a son ready for training with the Knights of Solamnia and a daughter who could wed lawfully. Indeed, they had already received three veiled offers of honorable marriage for Eskaia, not to mention some unveiled and less honorable offers, which Eskaia had so far dealt with herself, without involving her parents in blood feuds.

  P
irvan would not see fifty again, and Haimya was only four years younger. This first quest as a family might well be their last, even if they all survived. Rubina, their daughter who had just turned ten, might quest with her brother and sister, but not with her parents, though she had wailed like a dragon with a toothache at being left behind.

  And before long, Sir Marod’s orders to search the highways and byways of Krynn would go to younger men. Gerik could be one of those, if he could make up his mind whether or not to enter training for the knights. Meanwhile, there was Darin, as firm in honor as he was in muscle, and as fertile in invention as he was terrible in battle.

  Waydol had raised his heir well, and the knights would reap the harvest of the minotaur’s good work.

  “Last load’s coming up!” Gerik called from below.

  Pirvan gave the hand signal acknowledging the message, then added the one for silence—repeated three times for emphasis. Gerik replied with his own acknowledgment, and Pirvan said no more. His son was sometimes more eager than wise, no rare thing at nineteen, and likely to be cured by both time and Darin’s example.

  Then the sledge came grating into view, and hard on its heels the watering party, with Gerik even pushing a little to speed matters—until Serafina gave him a glare that would have frozen tarberry tea steaming from the kettle.

  Pirvan looked at Serafina’s tally board. All the water sacks were filled, and they would have time at dawn to refill any emptied tonight. For one more day, they had repelled the assaults of the desert’s arsenal of heat and thirst.

  Enough more days of this, and they would be in the borderlands, fit to meet living foes. Pirvan expected to find that almost restful.

  Hawkbrother was close enough to the strangers’ camp to watch the end of their water-gathering. That and much else he saw proved that they were desert-wise. How had this come about?

  Few outside the Free Riders knew desert-wisdom. The plainsmen were accustomed to more water and grazing; their crops grew taller and their herds fatter. They could venture onto the sand, and sometimes return if they were brave and lucky, but not always.

  The dwarves in the mountains to the west sometimes came to the very edge of the sand, seeking metal ores for their forges. More often than not, the Free Riders traded with them, dried meat for finished metal, thornberries for dwarf spirits, and so on. The dwarves and Free Riders had no quarrel with each other, and most commonly kept the peace.

  The Silvanesti elves were not so well disposed toward the Free Riders, or anyone else, including their Qualinesti and Kagonesti brethren. They were also a long way from the sand. Distance kept the peace between the elven realm and the Free Riders, when willpower would not.

  The Free Riders encountered most other folk as sun-mummified bodies or bird-picked, sun-bleached bones on the sand. So it had been with most Istarians, except for a few bold traders (and the tales ran that some of those had desert blood from far-traveling warriors, or the occasional maiden carried off when she ventured too close to the towns). Certainly it had so far been that way with the Istarian tax soldiers.

  So what were these folk?

  If Hawkbrother had been a wagering man (a nineteen-year-old fourth son had little with which to wager), he would have said that some of these folk were Knights of Solamnia. The Free Riders had had little to do with the knights, save when, generations past, the knights fought “barbarians” for Istar’s gold and glory. Many knights or their bones became decorations to distant sand dunes.

  But these knights had come at the head of a good company. There were several women among them, all at least comely and one, the youngest, a rare beauty. They also had a score at least of grooms and guards, all of whom carried steel openly and looked as if they could use it.

  Entering this camp on his belly, like a slinkersnake, would be a notable feat. So notable, indeed, that if he brought back nothing to prove it, even his being the chief’s son would not save him from being named a boaster.

  That might end in the shedding of blood, which the Gryphons would better save for greater battles to come.

  So he would be sure to bring home something that would end all doubts. The fairest of the women? No, her menfolk would surely pursue until she was safe and Hawkbrother’s blood was on their steel.

  They had unsaddled and unloaded their animals, but much of their gear was piled close to where the hobbled beasts noisily fed. They had also surrounded the animals and indeed the whole camp with sentries, commanded for now by a giant who was likely one of the knights.

  To a Free Rider, all of this was a challenge, not a barrier. Hawkbrother would be in, load an animal with what he could gather up, and ride for his life before the sentries knew what was afoot.

  Hawkbrother looked at the sky. Night was swallowing the last of the sunset, and the stars and the moons marched across the zenith and onward to roof the desert. Then he looked back, toward where One-Ear would be crouching, four hundred paces away.

  Good. The older warrior could not be seen by anyone whose eyes had not learned the desert. But Hawkbrother could see him plainly enough. The chief’s son slid down behind the boulder hiding him from the strangers, and raised his left arm.

  In the fading light, the jewel on the wide arm ring winked three times—two long, one short. A long moment, and the reply came—the same signal, then two short flashes.

  One-Ear knew what Hawkbrother planned, accepted it, and would be ready. There would be no need to use the jewels again, or the whistle at all.

  Apart from the speaking jewel bracelet and the whistle, which could mimic the calls of scores of desert animals and birds, Hawkbrother was clad and armed lightly. He wore a loincloth and a headband, with the Gryphon sign dyed into the leather, a weighted sash, and a dwarven-made dagger in the Solamnic style.

  He had not, however, even thought his death song, let alone sung it. He had no intention of dying tonight.

  For that matter, Hawkbrother’s voice was such that anyone who heard him singing would seek his life, to return a decent and wholesome silence to the desert night.

  Chapter 2

  Pirvan had intended to make camp so that the people and the mounts were hard beside each other, inside a single ring of sentries. But, close to the canyon rim, there was no level spot large enough.

  The knight chose the next best solution—one spot for the people, another for the animals, and the animals closer to the canyon rim than the people. This put the people, sentries and sleepers alike, between the animals and the desert. Raiders might get in, but they would be hard put to get out safely.

  “Of course, they might think to drive the animals over the edge of the cliff to make us stay here, until their friends came,” Gerik said.

  He barely even whispered. Sound carried far in the windless desert night. Doubtless anyone within miles had seen them, but there was no need to cry their presence all night, like a seller of hot nuts in the streets of Istar.

  Both knights and Tarothin nodded approvingly at Gerik’s words. Pirvan’s son had all the wits needed to make a good knight, as well as the skill in arms. He even had the firm notions of honor.

  All he lacked was the wish.

  “True,” Darin said. “But we have left the beasts hobbled or tethered. Cutting that many leather thongs would attract the sentries. The desert folk are shrewd and cunning, but they are not shadow mastiffs.”

  A gloom passed across Tarothin’s face. It was not the square face of old times, nor was it set on the same broad, level shoulders that had allowed the wizard to keep order in his father’s inn as a young man. Tarothin had seen more years than Pirvan, and weathered them less well. The wounds from working potent spells—whether his native magely magic or the clerical spells he’d learned for healing—left no scars showing outside; all the hurts lay within. But they were real enough, and took something out of a wizard that no healer could put back.

  Pirvan recognized that look. “Let’s go see if any of the beasts need your services, my friend,” he said, taking Ta
rothin by the arm. It was not the best pretext, as the Red Robe’s healing spells were potent only for humans.

  “The horses and mules looked healthier than most of us,” Tarothin muttered, but followed Pirvan’s lead. In moments, they were out of easy hearing of the others.

  “I feel magic close at hand,” the Red Robe said.

  “What kind?”

  “It’s so weak that I can barely sense it at all, let alone tell what kind.”

  Pirvan declined to rejoice. Though weak spells could mean a weak mage, unable to harm a fly even if he wished it, they could also be the probings of someone exceedingly skilled and quite deadly. The shadow mastiffs that Darin had mentioned could be utterly silent as they followed a trail—then give voice as they leapt to surround the prey and rip its throat out.

  Pirvan felt sweat prickle around his own throat. The sensation made him still more uneasy. This was hardly the first time he had made himself and Haimya into bait to draw an enemy from his lair, even into a trap.

  But it was the first time Gerik and Eskaia had been part of the bait.

  One more change, to add to all the others that come with being a father, he thought, even for parents of children in whom anyone can take pride? What was it like for those who must endure all the changes and yet see their children falter and fail?

  So far, the True Gods had kept Pirvan from finding out. He hoped and prayed they would continue to do so.

  Meanwhile, there was the mysterious weak magic Tarothin had discovered, the kind of problem Pirvan and Tarothin had solved more times than they could count on both hands.

  A falling star flashed across the sky, for a moment outshining even the brightest of the fixed stars. Pirvan studied the constellations. All were in their places; no disorders in the heavens portended disorders on Krynn. Lunitari was also well risen; the red moon would strengthen a Red Robe like Tarothin.