Darkness & Light

by Paul B. Thompson

  Sturm folded his hands and regarded them carefully. "Virtue is a hard master, Kit. The Measure and the Oath were never meant to be easy burdens to bear. A knight carries them like ponderous stones on his back, and their weight makes him strong and upright." He lifted his gaze until their eyes met. "You will never understand, because all you want from life is to give your burden over to someone else. A lover, a servant, even a brass dragon. As long as someone else can bear the burden of honor for you, you don't have to feel guilt, or face the consequences of your acts."

  Color drained from her face. No one had ever spoken to her like that, not even Tanis. "Then this is the end," she said coldly. "From the moment this soap bubble touches the ground, we're finished."

  Kitiara left him watching the canopy of trees unroll. They did not speak to each other again.

  * * * * *

  "Careful! Careful! Watch those branches!"

  The Cloudmaster pushed into a forest clearing. Elm, ash, and birch branches clawed at them. Wingover was atop the deckhouse, trying to direct the landing. Flash and Birdcall had opened the neck of the ethereal air bag, letting some of the lifting power out. The flying ship had scraped over a few bald hills before the wind carried it down. Sturm stood at the bow, fending off dangerous limbs with the boat hook from the Werival - his only souvenir of the perilous hours on the cursed ship. They had no anchor, no grapnel to fix them in place, only timing and control of the air bag. Flash and Birdcall clung to the rope that held the half-empty bag shut.

  Branches scraped the length of the deck, snapping when the gaping windows of the deckhouse caught them. Birds fled, chirping, when the ship disturbed their treetop homes.

  "Clearing ahead!" Sturm called.

  "Get ready!" Wingover cried.

  The bow dipped once the trees were out of the way. The keel gently touched the meadow's grass, dragged a few yards, and stopped. Sturm jammed the boat hook into the ground and swung over the rail. He landed on the soil of Krynn with both feet.

  "Praise Paladine!" he said. "Solid ground at last!"

  The boarding ramp fell, and seven gnomes boiled out.

  Wingover was inhaling deep breaths and patting himself on the chest when he heard Birdcall whistle questioningly.

  "Can we open the bag now?" asked Flash.

  "Yes, yes, we're landed!"

  The two gnomes pulled the zigzag stitching loose. A gust of sulfurous air fled the bag, and the exhausted craft settled, finally and heavily.

  Kitiara descended the ramp and dumped what belongings she had left on the ground. In spite of the bitterness of their parting, Sturm couldn't stop his eyes from following her.

  She paid no one the slightest heed, but stood a ways off, hanging her water bottle and leather pouch on opposite hips to balance the load. She slung her bedroll over one shoulder by its strap. Sturm had an urge to speak, to say something conciliatory, but her hard expression forestalled him.

  "Well, Wingover, it's been a long, strange voyage," Kitiara said, shaking the little man's hand. "I'll never forget it."

  "We couldn't have made it without you, lady."

  She moved on to Cutwood, Sighter, Birdcall, and Flash.

  "Keep thinking up new ideas," she said amiably, "That way the world will never get dull." She turned to Roperig and Fitter and chucked the littlest gnome under the chin. "So long, boys. Stick together - you make a good team."

  "We will," said the two in unison.

  Finally, she approached Rainspot and Stutts. "You're a very lucky fellow, Stutts," she said warmly. "Not many people get to realize their life's dream as completely as you have. Keep flying, old fellow. I hope you will have many more adventures."

  "My," said Stutts. "It d-doesn't seem likely. I have so many reports to write and s-so many lectures to give. After all, the Gnomish Patent Office must be satisfied that we have d-done what we have done." He bowed formally. "Farewell, Mistress. You were a t-tower of strength."

  "I was, wasn't I?"

  "Where are you off to?" Wingover asked.

  "Wherever the trail takes me," she replied.

  Kitiara's crooked smile almost appeared. She squinted into the sky. It was not yet noon. The sun warmed her face.

  Sturm stood apart from her leave-taking. He felt the weight of his own resolve and knew that what Kitiara had said was true. They were finished. And yet, he knew he would miss the old Kit, the brash, fun-loving companion.

  Kitiara crossed the warm meadow briskly and did not look back. Sunlight burnished her black curls as she cut a swath through the high grass. Sturm bent over to shoulder his own gear. When he straightened again, Kitiara had vanished among the closely growing elms and birches at the field's far end.

  "Aren't you going after her?" said Fitter.

  "Why should I do that?" Sturm said. He tied a thready piece of twine around his bedroll and tucked it under his arm. "She can take care of herself. It's what she does best."

  "I don't understand," Fitter said, scratching his nose. "I thought you two were going to get married one day."

  Sturm dropped his cooking kit at that remark. The clay pot banged him smartly on the toe. "Where in the world did you get an idea like that?" he asked, flabbergasted.

  "We've always heard how human men and women fight and yell at each other, but always end up married and, you know -" Fitter blushed. "Having babies."

  Sturm picked up the spilled contents of his kit. "It will take a man with more riches and power than I'll ever have to claim her hand." He hung the kit bag around his neck. "The man who wins Kitiara Uth Matar had better have the patience of Paladine and the wisdom of Majere to keep her."

  The gnomes gathered around him as he adjusted the last of his equipment. "Where will you go?" asked Wingover.

  "Solamnia, as before. There are things I must investigate.

  The visions I had on the red moon have faded from my memory, but I know my father's trail begins at my ancestral home, Castle Brightblade. That is my destination."

  Small hands patted him on the back. "We wish you every bit of luck, Master Brightblade," said Cutwood. 'You're very smart, for a human."

  "That means a lot, coming from you," Sturm answered wryly.

  "W-we would offer to fly you on t-to Solamnia," Stutts said, "but we are on f-foot now ourselves."

  That hadn't occurred to him. Sturm said, "Would you like me to escort you home to Sancrist?" It seemed the least he could do.

  "No, no, we've delayed you long enough," said Sighter.

  "We'll get to Gwynned, all right. There'll be ships there for Sancrist."

  "I shall miss you," said Rainspot fondly. He held out his small hand. With great solemnity, Sturm shook Rainspot's hand and each of the other gnomes' hands in succession.

  Then he hitched up his gear and started out.

  Funny, he thought; to have traveled so far and walked so little. His feet were more tender now than before he went to Lunitari. Walking will be good penance, he decided. He could shed some of the stain of magic by walking and contemplating his transgression. Perhaps he could also come to grips with the difficult choices he faced as he tried to live by the Code and the Measure.

  "Good-bye! Good-bye!" called the gnomes. Sturm snapped out of his reverie and waved to them. They were good fellows indeed. He hoped they would not have any more trouble, but, being gnomes, they probably would.

  He entered the humid forest and plunged through thicket after thicket of dense greenery. It cheered him to see vines and bushes with honest green leaves, plants that didn't bleed or cry when he tramped over them. Lunitari was such an unnatural world.

  Two miles of woods later, he found a clear creek and filled his bottle. The water was cold, and had a mineral taste. It was a welcome change after weeks of drinking soft rain water. Sturm paralleled the creek bank for four miles, until he came to an arched stone bridge. He climbed the bank to the road that wended away north and south. A road marker was fixed to the corner of the bridge. On its south face, it read, 'Caergoth - 20 Leagues',
and on its east face,

  'Garnet - 6 Leagues'.

  Sturm laughed until tears came. The gnomes had landed in Solamnia, not twenty miles from where they'd left in the first place! And he laughed for other reasons. To be home again, not merely on Krynn (though that was good), but in Solamnia. He felt light and free, without the gnomes to worry about, without the constant apprehension of what strange things might be around the next corner - and free of his curious relationship with Kitiara. Their separation was like the pulling of an aching tooth; a definite feeling of relief, yet tinged with an underlying sense of loss, of a void in himself.

  Sturm took the road for Garnet. The roads in this prov-ince converged on the city, so it was the best way to get to the northern plains. He set himself a good pace. With his light burden and no dependents to herd, he ought to make Garnet by the next morning, he thought. As he marched, he took in the sights and sounds and smells of his native land.

  The scrub pastures and rolling hills. Peasants ranging through the dales, chasing cattle and driving them with sticks to tumble-down pens made of fieldstone. Once the Brightblade family had owned a vast herd of cattle, but those had been quickly lost in the upheavals that toppled the great, knightly estates throughout the country. Who knew but that the scrawny, ill-tended beasts that Sturm now saw shuffling over the hills were offspring of the prime Brightblade herd?

  It wasn't cattle or land that bothered Sturm about the fall of the Solamnic Knights. Such things were not the true measure of a knight's worth. It was the injustice of it. The common folk blamed the Cataclysm and the troubles that followed on the arrogant pride of the knights, as if the Knights of Solamnia could turn the whole world on its ear and split the land asunder!

  Sturm stopped in his tracks. His hands were clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles were blanched white. He let go of his anger and slowly opened his fists. Patience, he admonished himself. A knight must have self-control, or he is no better than a barbarian berserker.

  * * * * *

  From the time Sturm gained the road at the stone bridge to late afternoon of the following day, he met no other travelers. This struck him as ominous, especially as he got nearer to Garnet. Drovers and merchant caravans always moved from town to town, timing their arrivals to the local market day. An empty road indicated that something, or someone, was keeping the travelers at home.

  The road began to rise and wind as the hills of Garnet grew out of the plain. Here he found signs of traffic: hoof prints, wheel tracks, and marks of bare and booted feet.

  The prints multiplied until it seemed a small army had marched through not long before.

  Sturm saw smoke rising from around a bend. He shifted the pommel of his sword forward to be convenient to his hand.

  He could smell the smoke now. Slowly the scene came into view. Several heavy wagons were overturned and burning in the road. From the extent of the damage already done, the fire must have started hours before.

  Crows and other carrion birds stirred at his approach.

  Between two gutted wagons, Sturm found bodies. One, thick-waisted and richly dressed, obviously was a successful merchant. He had two arrows in his chest. Beside him was a younger man with the stump of a broken mace still clutched in his hand.

  A groan brought Sturm running. A few yards away, a big, well-muscled man sat with his back against a scrub pine. He was a warrior. His body bled from a dozen wounds and arrayed at the warrior's feet were six dead goblins.

  "Water," moaned the fighter. Sturm put a hand behind the warrior's head and raised his bottle to the man's parched lips.

  "What happened here?" asked Sturm.

  "Bandits. Attacked wagons. We fought -" The big man coughed. "Too many."

  Sturm examined the fighter's wounds. He didn't have to be a healer to know the warrior was doomed, and because the man was a warrior, Sturm told him so.

  "Thank you," he said. Sturm asked if he could do anything to make the man more comfortable. "No, but Paladine bless you for your mercy."

  Something rustled behind the pine. Sturm reached for his sword, then saw the broad brown muzzle of a horse poke through the branches. The dying warrior called the animal by name. "Brumbar," he said. "Good fellow." The horse pushed through the scrub. He was an enormous animal, as black as coal. Brumbar dropped his nose to nuzzle his master's face.

  "I see that you are a man of arms," rasped the warrior to Sturm. "I beg you, take Brumbar as your mount when I am dead."

  "I will," Sturm said gently. "Is there anyone in Garnet I can tell about your fated?"

  The man slowly closed his eyes. "No one. But do not go to Garnet, if you value your life." His chin fell to his chest.

  "But why?" Sturm asked. "Why shouldn't I go to the city?"

  "Loosen my breastplate..."

  Sturm undid the sraps and pulled the steel cuirass aside.

  Beneath the armor, the man wore a quilted shirt. Embroidered over his heart was a small red rose. Sturm stared. The dying man was a knight of the Order's highest rank, the Order of the Rose! Only Solamnic Knights of noble lineage could enter that exalted brotherhood.

  "The forces that destroyed the knights control Garnet," the man said. His breath came in ragged gasps. "I know you are one of us. It would not be safe for you there... assassins... "

  "Who are you? What is your name?" Sturm asked frantically, but the Knight of the Rose would never again speak.

  Sturm gave the brave fighter an honorable burial. It was well after sundown when he finished. He collected Brumbar and went through the saddlebags thrown across the horse's rump. There were dried rations in one bag, and in the other, surprisingly, were hundreds of coins, all of them small copper pieces. Sturm understood. The dead knight was living incognito because of the widespread hatred of the Order.

  He'd adopted the guise of a guard for hire, and took his wages in copper. No one would ever expect a Knight of the Rose to live so humbly.

  Sturm left the Garnet road. He chose another trail through the highlands, one not frequented by traders, or (he hoped) bandits. Garnet he passed in the night. He saw the glow of its street lamps in the distance. Reining in Brumbar, he listened. Wind whirled around the mountain passes. A wolf gave voice, far away.

  Chapter 36

  Solamnia

  His new horse was a steady plodding beast. Brumbar, in Old Dwarvish, meant 'Black Bear.' Black he was, and bearishly stolid. Sturm didn't mind. The kind of traveling he was doing now was better suited to a steady animal, rather than some excitable, fragile charger. Brumbar had a back so broad that Sturm imagined he could put his feet up on the animal's nodding neck and take a nap. Festooned with Sturm's pack and other belongings, Brumbar kept a jingling pace all day long.

  The Lemish forest thinned out to a few spindly pines, growing weakly amid the grassy undergrowth. It was hot on the plain, and very dry. Sturm began to ration his water when the streams and springs started getting fewer and farther between.

  Being off the road, he saw few people. This southernmost finger of the Solamnic Plain, thrust between the Garnet Mountains and the Lemish forest, was too dry for cattle and farming. There were no robbers here, either; there was nothing to steal.

  Alone, Sturm took time to reflect on things. Since he and Kitiara had left Solace so many weeks ago, he'd come to realize that there was danger on the horizon everywhere.

  The strange lizardlike mercenaries he had heard called draconians had been seen in port cities. Caches of weapons being moved about. Large numbers of brigands infesting the roads of the northern countries. Dark magic at work. Goblins led by a human magician. What was the common thread in all this? he wondered.

  War. Invasion. Evil magic.

  Sturm gave Brumbar a kick, and the big horse shuffled into a trot. A welter of vague impressions and shrouded memories surfaced in his mind. The visions he'd had on Lunitari were lost to him in detail, but shadows of them remained, dimly. The strongest of these was that his father was alive somewhere. There was something about the
old castle, too, and death that was somehow linked to lingering impressions of Kitiara's.

  Oh, Kit. Where are you now?

  The day's shimmering heat built towers of black clouds in the sky. Lightning danced far away, and peals of thunder crossed the grassland long after the flashes of lightning were gone. The smell of rain pulled Brumbar toward the storm, and Sturm let him go. He was thirsty, too.

  The storm seemed to retreat from them even as they rode to meet it. Brumbar splashed through gullies running fast with rainwater, The air was wet, oppressive, yet the edge of the rain receded from Sturm's approach. The lightning played about a stand of pines to the east. Sturm reined away from the dangerous display, but Brumbar had other ideas.

  Puffing hard through his dry throat, the horse headed straight for the trees.

  Light, steamy drops of rain began to hit them. Brumbar cantered heavily through the widely spaced trees. The rain fell harder. Ahead, Sturm saw a dark shape flit between the pines. He blotted water from his eyes and looked again.

  A rider in a flowing cape was weaving among the trees.

  Now and then, the pale oval of a face turned back, as if the rider were peering over his shoulder at Sturm. He seemed to have a long mustache much like Sturm's own.

  Brumbar slowed by a shallow pool of water, but Sturm spurred him on; he was curious about the other rider and wanted to catch up to him.

  "Hello!" called Sturm. "Could I talk to you?"

  A bolt from the churning sky struck the ground a score of yards away, leaving a smoking crater in the grass. The rider didn't respond to Sturm's call, but continued to weave around the pines. Sturm slapped the reins across his horse's neck, and Brumbar launched into a jarring gallop. They were closing on the stranger.

  The rider's dark hair was slicked down by the driving rain. He did indeed have a long mustache, symbol of the Knights of Solamnia.