by Roland Green
“Our honor demands that we fight at Istar’s side, if so.”
“If the war comes, then so be it. But the Measure also commands that justice be sought in peace, before one draws the sword. And it is commanded that if we see those to whom we are sworn doing injustice, we consider where our honor lies. You know as well as I do the times knights have refused to keep an oath that would require them to wrong the innocent—or the times they have slain themselves after obeying such a command.”
Lewin’s eyes were on the floor. Was he trying to read the smudges that had been Nuor’s map, or was he merely unable to meet Pirvan’s eyes? Or, as likely, was he just weary from a long journey and unfit to make hard decisions?
Pirvan considered the questions, turning them over in his mind like a joint on a spit over hot coals—which seemed to rather describe his situation.
The Measure of all the orders, the True Gods of Krynn, and the common sense of any man able to find the jakes when he needed them spoke against doubting another knight’s honor. His wisdom was fair game; his honor was not.
What did you do when your own honor was deeply engaged to folk whom the other knight might endanger? What if you erred on the side of charity toward him? What happened to your honor if you ended with their lives on your conscience for the remainder of your days?
What Pirvan did was decide, yearn briefly for the days of his youth when he thought the gods and even some men knew what was just, and spoke.
“Sir Lewin, I do not beg your pardon, but say it will be a pleasure to learn I have misjudged you. I have seen far too many follies these past few days, and men have died of them. I will not stand by to see more follies and more dead.
“But I promise you this: You may feel free to go where you wish, anywhere in the citadel. We are none of us safe outside it, so I cannot allow you beyond the walls.
“Within them, however, you may see whatever you wish to see, ask any questions you wish answered, of anyone you think will answer them, and otherwise do as you please as long as you do not hinder our work of defense.
“Within days, I think you will see that the tax soldiers are not serving justice, honor, or even Istar. Our oath demands that they be kept from doing further harm, not that they be aided in doing it.
“Have I your word of honor about doing no harm?”
“I thought I had already given it.”
“No one ever swore too many oaths.”
“Except at bad wine and ugly serving wenches, perhaps,” Lewin said with a flicker of a smile that now seemed to come from within. “Very well. Upon my word of honor, I will do naught that you consider hindering the defense of Belkuthas, while learning the truth of its situation. Will that suffice?”
It would. Pirvan hastily scribbled and sealed a pass for Sir Lewin. Even so, as the Knight of the Rose departed, Pirvan felt an itching between his shoulder blades and a hollow feeling in his stomach.
I do this for you, Sir Marod, more than for Sir Lewin, he thought. But none will be happier than I if he proves he can learn from his errors, and with us seek justice among all the folk of Krynn.
Pirvan’s bodyguard was waiting outside the chamber. He had ordered that they be sent up, a man-at-arms and a Gryphon warrior, before he went to meet with Nuor. He looked at them; they tried not to look at him, sensing his embarrassment. He had never been one for keeping state, or holding his life more precious than the lives of the fighters he led.
This had changed. It was not, in his opinion, a change for the better.
“Summon an escort for Sir Lewin, and then go find the Lady Rynthala.”
“The escort is on the way,” the man-at-arms said.
“Lady Rynthala is in the stables, with the pegasus,” the Gryphon said.
Pirvan frowned at both of them. He thought they were too new to the role of guards to be undertaking the management of his comings and goings, so that he never had a moment alone.
“Very well. One of you stay here until the escort arrives. The other will be enough to keep me safe between here and the stables.”
The man-at-arm’s salute was more polished than that of the Gryphon. On the other hand, the Gryphon warrior did a better job of keeping his face straight.
Pirvan had never seen a pegasus so close as he saw Amrisha when he reached the stables. Rynthala had arranged for two stables to be thrown together to provide Amrisha enough room for her wings. Now she stood tall and proud, favoring one leg as if weight on it strained her wounded flank.
“She hasn’t tried to spread the wounded wing yet,” Rynthala said. “I hope Belot can at least exercise her in the courtyard within a day or two.” She looked at Pirvan in appeal, and the knight would have sworn the appeal was echoed in Amrisha’s almost luminous green eyes.
A shrug would have been as accurate an answer as any number of words. But Pirvan knew the requirements of courtesy.
“One—company, or maybe alliance of companies—has had a bloody nose. The other two seem to have lost their chiefs. They’ll be back, but we may be able to find fresh water supplies and evacuate the refugees while they’re sorting themselves out.”
“So said Darin.” Rynthala cocked her head to one side, a curiously girlish gesture considering that Pirvan had to look up to meet her eyes. “Is that the truth, or are you knights conspiring to deceive us—not only me, but my parents?”
“We’re only conspiring to avoid raising false hopes or throwing people into despair without reason,” Pirvan said, more sharply than he had intended. “Either kind of folly has overthrown more fortresses than siege engines, dragons, and spells put together.”
“I am sure you know better than we do,” Rynthala said. “Perhaps even as well as you think you do.” She turned and walked away. Her hips swayed naturally as she walked, rather as Haimya’s had done—and indeed, Rynthala was built like a younger, taller version of Haimya. The elven slenderness of both her parents had given way to a more human solidity of bone and fullness of hip and breast.
If she wed anyone of her own stature or taller, they might breed up a race of giants.
Meanwhile, Pirvan had completely forgotten what he had come down to the stables to say. He resolved to see if Sirbones or Tarothin could do anything to further speed the pegasus’s healing. If they could do anything for the flying mare … after they had healed the day’s wounded among both defenders and prisoners, without needing healing themselves!
The dwarves seemed to interpret “nightfall” rather generously. The sun had barely touched the horizon and the evening coolness had yet to flow over Belkuthas when Pirvan felt the ground quiver faintly.
“Good for the dwarves,” Tharash said, coming up on the wall behind Pirvan.
“I thought that was a secret,” the knight snapped.
“From men, maybe. From elves—elves with my kind of hearing, at least …” He shrugged.
“Let’s talk of this somewhere else,” Pirvan said. He tried to moderate his tone, but today his tongue seemed to have a will of its own and an edge like a razor.
Tharash followed him down the stairs and across the courtyard, past the refugees, toward the living quarters.
“Not all of those folk can shift for themselves in the forest,” the old elf said. “They’ll need guarding, maybe a few rangers to hunt for them. While they’re out, the rangers can also hunt sell-swords, I should think.”
“You are asking to lead the rangers?”
“Well …”
“If Rynthala consents, I may also.”
“If Lady Rynthi doesn’t consent, I won’t go.”
Once upon a time, long, long ago, Pirvan had read in one of the knights’ books on the principles of war about something known as “unity of command.” This apparently meant having one undoubted leader, to say yea or nay, in each body of fighters.
Pirvan wondered what the writer would have thought of the situation at Belkuthas. He hoped the man would have at least found it worthy of laughter. As for himself, he had not much laughter left.
“Knight!”
They turned, to see Lauthin marching toward them. He could certainly stride out finely, considering his age and long robes (if now somewhat smeared with smut). He bore his staff of office and wore a look on his face that drove the last traces of laughter from Pirvan. Tharash looked none too happy either.
“My name is Sir Pirvan of Tirabot,” the knight said. If Lauthin was determined to fight for dominance like a none-too-shrewd wolf, Pirvan had no intention of baring throat.
“Are you conspiring with this dark elf to seduce my guards away from their duty?”
The question actually had Pirvan goggling like a dying fish, until Tharash gripped his arm and pointed. Lauthin had brought some of his guards with him. Four of them, with short swords at their belts.
“I think we could discuss what has been done or left undone in a less public place,” Pirvan said.
“That may be your wish or your way. We of Silvanesti do justice in the light, so that all can see.”
“Well, then,” Tharash said. “The light’s going fast, and I always heard that justice should be swift to be sure. So, speak your piece, my lord judge.”
Lauthin actually gobbled wordlessly for a moment. The four guards stepped forward. Pirvan resolved that if they drew their swords, he would disarm them without bloodshed, if possible. He doubted it would be. Elves had good reason to be proud of their swiftness.
Tharash moved first. He sidestepped, then whirled on one leg, kicking out with the other. The foot hooked the high judge’s staff of office, sending it flying. Tharash dived for it, snatched it up, rolled, sprang to his feet, then rested it on his shoulder like a spear.
For all his years, Tharash had been so swift that only one of Lauthin’s guards even tried to draw his sword. Pirvan slapped the elf’s wrist with the flat of his own blade, and Tharash pushed the fallen weapon back to its owner with the end of the staff.
“Lauthin,” Tharash said. “I am no Silvanesti elf, so your high and mighty judgeship means nothing to me. I will give back your staff, though, when I have spoken.
“Lauthin, some of those elves who fought on the walls today want to go into the forest because they’re afraid you’ll punish them. Some of them just don’t like the sell-swords. I don’t blame them.
“Other elves are ashamed of staying out of Rynthala’s fight, or have lovers and friends among those going. They want to go. Oh, you can try to keep them there, and maybe they won’t desert the way humans would. Some will, though, wandering out in twos and threes, likely to their deaths.
“If you force them to that, Lauthin, their blood will be on your hands and their kin before your seat, demanding that you step down from it. If you don’t see that, you are the biggest fool the gods ever allowed to walk the face of Krynn!”
Lauthin stepped back as if slapped, his mouth working. After a while a sound came out, then words.
“How many?”
“A good half. They’ll need folk who know the land with them, but I and my lads and the dwarves could help them there.”
“Half,” Lauthin murmured. “My embassy—it needs to be guarded.”
“Your precious person may need guarding, but you do not here and now have an embassy. Until somebody comes along who’s interested in talking rather than shooting, your guards can do better guarding what’s more useful than you, which is just about everything and everybody in Belkuthas, starting with the midden-heap gully dwarves!”
Tharash sagged, rather out of breath and to Pirvan’s eyes somewhat astounded at his own boldness. Then he handed the staff back to Lauthin, who nearly let it drop to the trampled ground from nerveless fingers. He finally gripped it with one hand, and used a corner of his robe to wipe off the smears of dirt.
He stood motionless for a time, hardly even breathing. Then he turned and marched off, striking his staff rhythmically on the ground ahead of him. His four guards fell in behind him, although Pirvan saw one look briefly back; he could almost imagine that the elf had winked.
Perhaps he had. Perhaps Lauthin would see reason. His archers would certainly be taking to the walls and the woods whether he did or not. Even Silvanesti elves could not forever pass by those in need. Even Silvanesti elves could succumb to the love of a good fight.
If there was such a thing. Pirvan remembered the face of one of the men he’d killed today—hardly more than a boy, and too slender to really wear armor. The soldier hadn’t worn anything except a helmet, which helped him not at all when Pirvan’s dagger ripped open his neck—
He remembered another dead opponent—a man who was as much too old for the field as the boy had been too young. Gray in his beard, wrinkles on the face above the beard, probably a sell-sword to keep his farm or earn a dowry for his daughter … No dowry now, and his family turned out on the road like the refugees, without dwarves or elves or Knights of Solamnia to help them.
Before a third face could present itself, Pirvan turned and stumbled blindly toward the stairs to the keep. He wanted to be alone for a while …
… alone when somebody brought him the news that Threehands and Rynthala had come to blows and needed him to counsel peace!
Haimya found Pirvan, sitting on the bed in the dark chamber. His hands dangled between his knees, and his eyes stared at the floor, or perhaps at nothing.
“Pirvan?”
He recognized the name and even the voice, but the name was not his, and the voice was a stranger’s.
“Pirvan. The dwarves have almost finished the tunnel. Tarothin helped them.”
Tarothin? He was a Red Robe wizard, wasn’t he? Where was this tunnel?
Oh, he was in the citadel of Belkuthas, which needed water. The tunnel would bring it.
As a matter of fact, he commanded the citadel of Belkuthas. He was Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword, and this day he had with his sword slain—
“Gods!”
Pirvan wept. Presently the woman who was no longer a stranger, whom he remembered sharing joy and sorrow with for twenty years, sat down on the bed beside him. She took him in his arms and held him as he had seen her hold their children.
After what seemed half the night, the tears ended.
“Don’t talk,” Haimya said. “Unless you want to,” she added.
Pirvan knew there was one person in the world who would listen to anything he had to say. That was one more person than most people had. Moreover, she was right here on the bed with him.
He still feared to sound—not like a coward; he had heard too many noble confessions of weakness to fear that—but like a witling. Belkuthas needed him in his right senses.
He needed himself in his right senses.
Pirvan began to talk.
“It was the men I fought today—the men I killed.”
“Everyone speaks of your valor. You see it—otherwise?”
“Tonight, the word ‘valor’ chokes me.”
She stroked his hair. “Go on.”
“They started coming to me. I could see them in front of me as clearly as I can see you now. I started thinking about how each one had a life of his own that I had ended. For what I thought—I think now—is a good reason. But they’re still dead, all of them. I hoped one of them would speak.”
“To forgive you?”
“No. I—no, not that. Just to show that we could talk to each other. If—I thought of apologizing, but that would have been silly. Many of them probably couldn’t even speak Common.”
Pirvan became aware that his head had begun resting on cloth, and now rested on bare skin. Then he became aware of hands at work on his own breeches, his only garment.
“What are you doing?”
“We are going to talk in an old language, that we have spoken for twenty years. Do you remember it?”
Pirvan’s reply lacked words.
“It was the language we spoke that night, when I came to your house in the village. I said that we had stood far apart long enough and now it was time to stand close.”
Haimya pulled off the last of her husband’s garments and the last of her own. “No, we are lying down on the bed.”
On that bed, in that language, they had a long conversation. Pirvan fell asleep quickly afterward, and Haimya was slower getting to sleep only because her husband started to snore as she had never heard him do, and she had to stifle her giggles to keep from waking him.
Chapter 16
While Pirvan slept, the dwarven tunnel between the wells broke through. A line of sweating, weary, smiling soldiers and refugees began replenishing the water.
Two days later, the first party of refugees left the citadel of Belkuthas, for whatever safety the forest might offer. They were fifty, all the dwarves could promise to shelter at the moment, mostly women and children, but with enough men to keep watch and hunt.
With them also went Tharash and twenty-five scouts and rangers. They were a mixture of Lauthin’s guards and Belkuthans. It was noted that while Lord Lauthin said nothing in favor of their going, he also said nothing against it. He kept very much to his chamber, and except for the guards actually on duty there, his archers began to take their turns on the walls.
On the fifth day, the lines around the citadel drew tight again—at least tight enough to make it fortunate that the water carne in and the refugees out by means no sell-sword could discover. Some of the Gryphons thought the siege lines were so thin that a brisk mounted sortie would shatter them all over again. Then everyone could ride for home.
“This is the home of Krythis, Tulia, Rynthala, and their folk,” Pirvan reminded Threehands. “If we leave, they can only go with us by abandoning their home and becoming wanderers.”
“Yes, eldest son of Redthorn,” Hawkbrother added. “Remember also that our fighting for half-elves greatly annoys Lauthin. You once said that you would love to be a leech on a part of his body that he has probably not used for centuries. This is even better. We can be a worm in his guts.”
So there were no wild raids, only scouts slipping in and out through the tunnels and sometimes on the surface when rain or clouds made the darkness thicker than usual. The men on the walls kept the besiegers out of bow shot, the scouts took an occasional prisoner to gain recent knowledge of the world outside Belkuthas, and Tarothin and Sirbones healed the sick and the handful of wounded.
