Dragons of the Highlord Skies

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Fear—the stench of it had been rank in the meeting hall. Fear that Solamnia would fall to the force of the dragonarmies. Fear that the ruler of Solamnia would no longer be the Knights who had governed this land since the days of their founder, Vinus Solamnus. Fear of the man who was now calling himself “Emperor of Ansalon”. Most of all, fear of the dragons.

  The dragonarmies had a distinct and terrible advantage over the knights—dragons. Two red dragons could wipe out a force of a thousand men-at-arms in a matter of moments. Brian knew that even if Lord Gunthar had sent those reinforcements, Castle Crownguard would have fallen. Derek probably knew it, too, but he had to keep denying it or be forced to face the bleak truth: no matter what the knights did, Solamnia would eventually fall. They could never win against such overwhelming odds.

  The two men rode in silence for a long while, letting their horses graze on the late autumn grass that, blessed by the warmth of the sea breezes, was still green, though the trees were losing their fall colors.

  At length, Brian said, “I find something about this war very strange.”

  “What is that?” Derek asked.

  “They say the dragonarmies go into battle with prayers and hymns to their dark goddess. I find it strange to think the forces of evil march under a banner of faith, while we, who are on the side of good, deny the gods even exist.”

  “Faith!” Derek snorted. “Superstitious claptrap is nearer the mark. False ‘priests’ perform a few flashy tricks they term miracles, and the gullible moan and wail and fall on their ugly faces in worship.”

  “So you don’t believe the goddess Takhisis has returned to the world and brought this war upon us?”

  “I believe men brought this war on us,” said Derek.

  “Then you don’t believe there were ever gods,” Brian said. “Back in the old days. Gods of Light such as Paladine and Kiri-Jolith?”

  “No,” said Derek shortly.

  “What about the Cataclysm?”

  “A natural phenomenon,” said Derek, “like an earthquake or a cyclone. Gods had nothing to do with it.”

  “Huma believed in the gods—”

  “Who, these days, believes in Huma?” Derek asked with a shrug. “My little son does, of course, but he is only six.”

  “We never used to believe in dragons either,” Brian remarked somberly.

  Derek grunted, but made no reply.

  “The Measure speaks of faith,” Brian continued. “The role of the High Clerist is as important as that of the High Warrior. Knights of the Rose, such as yourself, could once cast divine spells, or so history tells us. The Measure speaks of how knights of old could use their prayers to heal those wounded in battle.”

  Brian was curious to see how Derek would respond to this argument. Derek was devoted to the Measure. He knew many parts of it by heart. He lived his life based on it. How could he reconcile the Measure’s admonition that a knight should be faithful to the gods with his avowed lack of faith?

  “I have read the Measure very carefully on this,” said Derek, “and I have also read the writings of the eminent scholar Sir Adrian Montgomery, who points out the fact that the Measure says simply a knight must have faith. The Measure does not say that a knight must have faith in gods, nor does the Measure speak of any god by name, which those who codified it would certainly have done if they thought the gods were an important aspect of a knight’s life. Sir Adrian contends that when faith is mentioned in the Measure, it refers to having faith in oneself, not in some omnipotent, omniscient, immortal being.”

  “What if there is no naming of gods in the Measure because it did not occur to the writers that the gods needed to be named?” Brian argued.

  Derek frowned. “Are you being flippant?”

  “No, of course not,” said Brian hastily. “What I mean is this: what if the knowledge of the gods and belief in the gods was so pervasive that the writers never imagined a day would come when the gods would not be known to the knights? There was no need to mention the gods by name, because everyone knew them.”

  Derek shook his head. “That seems unlikely.”

  Brian wasn’t so sure. “What about healing? Does Sir Montgomery explain—”

  He was interrupted by a shout coming from behind them.

  “My lord!”

  Both men turned in their saddles to see a rider galloping down the road, yelling and waving his hat in his hand.

  “My squire,” said Derek, and he rode to meet him.

  “My lord,” said the young man, “I was bidden seek you out to give you this.”

  The squire reached into his leather belt, drew out a folded missive, and handed it to his master. Derek took the note, read it through swiftly, and looked up.

  “Who gave you this?”

  The squire flushed, embarrassed. “I am not quite certain, my lord. I was walking through the marketplace this morning when this was suddenly thrust into my hand. I looked about immediately to see who had given it to me, but the person had vanished into the crowd.”

  Derek handed the note to Brian to read. The message was short. I can make you Grand Master. Meet me at the Knight’s Helm at the hour of sunset. If you are distrustful, you may bring a friend. You should also bring 100 steel. Ask for “Sir Uth Matar” and you will be directed to my room.

  Brian handed back the note to Derek, who read it again, his brow creased in thought.

  “‘Uth Matar’,” Brian repeated. “I know that name. I can’t think why.”

  He glanced at his friend.

  “You don’t intend to go!” Brian said, astonished.

  Derek folded the note carefully and thrust it into his glove. He started riding back in the direction of Palanthas. The squire fell in behind them.

  “Derek,” said Brian, “it’s a trap—”

  “With what purpose?” Derek asked. “To assassinate me? The note says I may bring a friend to ensure against that. To rob me? Relieving me of my purse could be accomplished far more easily and efficiently by accosting me in a dark alley. The Knight’s Helm is a reputable establishment—”

  “Why arrange a meeting in a tavern at all, Derek?” Brian asked. “What knight would do such a thing? If this Sir Uth Matar has an honest proposition for you, why doesn’t he come to call upon you at your dwelling place?”

  “Perhaps because he wants to avoid being seen by Gunthar’s spies,” said Derek.

  Brian could not allow such an accusation to go unremarked. He glanced back at the squire, to make certain the lad was out of earshot, then said with quiet intensity, “Lord Gunthar is man of honor and nobility, Derek. He would as soon as cut off his hand as spy on you!”

  Derek made no comment. He said instead, “Will you accompany me tonight, Brian, or must I seek elsewhere for a true friend to watch my back?”

  “You know I will go with you,” Brian said.

  Derek gave him what passed for a smile, which was nothing more than the creasing of the firm, tight lips, barely visible beneath long blonde mustaches. The two rode back to Palanthas in silence.

  The Knight’s Helm was, as Derek stated, a reputable establishment, though not as reputable now as it had once been. The tavern was located in what was known as the Old City and its current owner liked to boast that it was one of the original buildings in Palanthas, though that claim was doubtful. The tavern was built underground, extending back into a hillside, and was snug and warm in the winter, cool and pleasantly dark in the summer months.

  Patrons entered through a wooden door set beneath a gabled roof. Stairs led down into the large common room that was lit with hundreds of candles burning in wrought iron candle holders and by the light of a fire blazing in an enormous stone fireplace.

  There was no bar. Drinks and food were served from the kitchen, which was adjacent. In back, cut deeper into the hillside, were the ale and wine cellars, several small rooms for private parties, and one large room called the “Noble Room”. This room was furnished with a massive oblong table surrounded by th
irty two high-backed chairs, all of matching wood, carved with birds and beasts, roses and kingfishers—the symbols of the knighthood. The tavern owner bragged that Vinus Solamnus, founder of the knights, used to hold revelries in this very room at this very table. Although no one really believed him, anyone using this room always left an honorary place vacant at the table for the knight’s shade.

  Prior to the Cataclysm, the Knight’s Helm was a popular meeting place for knights and their squires and did a thriving business. Following the Cataclysm, when the knighthood was in shambles, and knights were no longer welcome in Palanthas, the Knight’s Helm fell on hard times. The tavern was forced to pander to more common folk in order to pay the bills. The owner continued to welcome the knights, when few other places would do so, and the knights repaid his loyalty by frequenting the tavern when they could. The current owners kept up the tradition, and Knights of Solamnia were always treated as honored guests.

  Derek and Brian walked down the stairs and into the common room. This night, the tavern was bright with light and filled with good smells and laughter. Seeing two knights, the tavern owner himself came bustling up to greet them, to thank them for the honor they did his establishment, and to offer them the best table in the house.

  “Thank you, Master, but we were told to ask for Sir Uth Matar,” said Derek. He glanced keenly about the room.

  Brian stood behind his friend, his hand on his sword’s hilt. Both were cloaked and wore heavy leather vests beneath. It was supper time and the tavern was crowded. Most of the patrons were members of the burgeoning middle class: store owners, lawyers, teachers and scholars from the University of Palanthas, Aesthetics from the famed Library. Many in the crowd gave the two knights friendly smiles or acknowledged them with nods, then went back to their eating and drinking and talking.

  Derek leaned over to Brian to say dryly, “Looks like a den of thieves to me.”

  Brian smiled, but he continued to keep his hand on his sword.

  “Sir Uth Matar,” said the tavern owner. “Right this way.”

  He handed them each a candle, saying the hallway was dark, and directed the knights to the back part of the tavern. When they arrived at the room indicated, Derek knocked on the door.

  They heard booted feet cross the floor, and the door opened a crack. A lustrous brown eye framed by long dark lashes peered out at them.

  “Names?” the person asked.

  Brian gave a start. The voice was that of a woman.

  If this startled Derek, he gave no outward sign. “I am Sir Derek Crownguard, milady. This is Sir Brian Donner.”

  The brown eyes flashed. The woman’s lips parted in a crooked smile. “Come in, Sir Knights,” she said and opened the door wide.

  The two knights cautiously entered the room. A single lamp stood on the table. A small fire flickered in the fireplace. Used for private dining, the room was furnished with a table and chairs and a sideboard. Brian glanced behind the door before shutting it.

  “I am alone, as you see,” said the woman.

  Both men turned to face her. Both were at a loss for words, for they had never seen a woman quite like her. First and foremost, she was dressed like a man in black leather pants, a black leather vest over a long-sleeved red shirt, and black boots. She wore a sword and looked as though she was accustomed to wearing a sword and was probably skilled in its use. Her black curly hair was cut short. She faced them boldly, like a man, not demurely, like a woman. She stood staring at them, hands on her hips. No curtseying or shy lowering of the eyes.

  “We are here to meet Sir Uth Matar, Madame,” Derek said, frowning.

  “He would have come tonight,” said the woman, “but he couldn’t make it.”

  “He has been detained?” asked Derek.

  “Permanently,” the woman said, her crooked smile broadening. “He’s dead.”

  She pulled off her gloves and threw them on the table, then sat down languidly in a chair and gestured. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. I’ll send for wine—”

  “We are not here to carouse, Madame,” said Derek stiffly. “We have been brought here under false pretenses, it seems. I bid you good-night.”

  He made a cold bow and turned on his heel. Brian was already at the door. He had been opposed to this from the beginning, and he did not trust this strange woman.

  “Lord Gunthar’s man is due to meet me here at the hour of moonrise,” said the woman. Lifting a soft and supple glove, she smoothed the leather with her hand. “He is interested in hearing about what I have to offer.”

  “Derek, let’s go,” said Brian.

  Derek made a gesture, turned back.

  “What do you have to offer, Madame?”

  “Sit down, Sir Derek, and drink with me,” said the woman. “We have time. The moon will not rise for an hour yet.”

  She hooked a chair with her foot and kicked it toward him.

  Derek’s lips tightened. He was accustomed to being treated with deference, not addressed in such a free and easy manner. Gripping his sword’s hilt, he remained standing and regarded the woman with a grim countenance.

  “I will listen to what you have to say, but I drink only with friends. Brian, watch the door. Who are you, Madame?”

  The woman smiled. “My name is Kitiara Uth Matar. My father was a Solamnic Knight—”

  “Gregor Uth Matar,” exclaimed Brian, recollecting where he’d heard the name. “He was a knight—a valorous one, as I recall.”

  “He was cast out of the knighthood in disgrace,” said Derek, frowning. “I do not recall the circumstances, yet I seem to remember it had something to do with a woman.”

  “Probably,” replied Kitiara. “My father could never leave the ladies alone. Yet for all that, he loved the knighthood and he loved Solamnia. He died not long ago, fighting the dragonarmies in the battle of Solanthus. It is because of him—because of his memory—that I am here.”

  “Go on,” said Derek.

  “My line of work takes me to the very best houses in Palanthas.” Lifting her booted feet, Kitiara placed them on the chair in front of her and leaned back, quite at her ease. “To be honest with you gentlemen, I am not exactly invited into these houses, nor do I enter them to search for information which might help your cause in the war against the dragonarmies. However, sometimes, while looking for such items that are of value to me, I stumble across information which I think may be of value to others.”

  “In other words,” said Derek coldly, “you are a thief.”

  Kitiara grinned and shrugged, then reached into a bag on the table and brought forth a nondescript wooden scroll case. Removing the lid, she drew out a piece of rolled paper and held it in her hand.

  “This is such an item,” she said. “I believe it will be quite helpful to the war effort. I may be a bad person,” she added modestly, “but, like my father, I’m a good Solamnic.”

  Derek rose to his feet. “You waste your time, Madame. I do not traffic in stolen goods—”

  Kitiara smiled wryly. “Of course, you don’t, Sir Derek, so let’s assume, as the kender say, that I ‘found’ it. I discovered it lying in the street in front of the house of a well known Black Robe. The Palanthian authorities have long been watching him, since they suspect he is in league with our enemies. They were going to force him to leave the city, but he forestalled them. Hearing rumors that he was to be run out of town, he left on his own. After I heard of his hasty departure, I decided to enter his house to see if he had left behind anything of value.

  “He did. He left this.” The woman placed the scroll on the table. “You can see the end is charred. He burned a large number of papers prior to his departure. Unfortunately he didn’t have time to insure that they were consumed.”

  She unfurled the scroll and held it to the light. “Since I assume you gentlemen are not the sort to buy a pig in a poke, I will read you a portion of it. The missive is a letter addressed to a person who resides in Neraka. I assume, from the tone of the letter, this person is
a fellow Black Robe. The interesting part reads, ‘Due to Verminaard’s ineptness, I feared for a time that our enemies had discovered our greatest secret, one that would encompass our downfall. You know that dread object of which I speak. If the forces of Light were ever to find out that the blank were not destroyed in the Cataclysm, but that the blank still exist, and furthermore, that one is in the possession of blank, the knights would move heaven and the Abyss to lay their hands on the prize.’”

  Kitiara rolled up the parchment and smiled charmingly at Derek. “What do you think of that, Sir Knight?”

  “I think it is useless,” said Derek, “since he does not name the object, nor does he say where it may be found.”

  “Oh, but he does,” said the woman. “I was the one who did not.” She tapped the piece of parchment on her pointed chin. “The name of the object is written here and also the name of the person who has it in his possession. One hundred steel buys this letter.”

  Derek regarded her grimly. “You ask payment for it. I thought you said you were a good Solamnic.”

  “Not that good,” Kitiara replied with a grin and a twitch of her eyebrow. “A girl has to eat.”

  “I am not interested,” said Derek shortly. He rose to his feet and started walking toward the door. Brian was already there. He had his hand on the handle and was about to open it.

  “Now that surprises me,” said the woman. She shifted her feet on the chair to a more comfortable position. “You are locked in a bitter struggle with Lord Gunthar for the position of Grand Master. If you were to recover this prize and bring it back, I guarantee that every knight in the Council would back you. If, on the other hand, Lord Gunthar’s man is the one to find this …”

  Derek halted in midstep. His fingers clenched and unclenched on his sword’s hilt. His face was set in grim lines. Brian saw his friend seriously considering this, and he was appalled.

  “Derek,” Brian said in a low voice, “we have no idea whether or not this letter is genuine. She could be making all this up. We should at least do some investigating, go to the authorities, find out if this tale of hers is true—”