“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.
“When I realized what I had done, I asked the gods for forgiveness. I like to think I would have used the hammer for good, but I am not sure. If I was willing to sink so low to obtain it, perhaps I would have sunk even lower. The gods did not give me what I thought I wanted. They gave me a greater gift—knowledge of myself, my weakness, my frailties. I strive daily to overcome these faults, and with the help of the gods and my friends, I will be a better man.”
Brian looked at Derek as Sturm was speaking, especially the part about wanting the hammer for his own glory. But Derek wasn’t listening. He was still arguing with Harald, still trying to persuade the chief to go along with his scheme. Perhaps it was just as well Derek did not hear Sturm’s admission. Derek’s opinion of Sturm, already low, would have dropped below sea level.
Aran continued to question Elistan about the gods, asking their names and how Mishakal differed from Chislev, and why there were gods of neutrality, such as Lillith had talked about, and how the balance of the world was maintained. Aran listened to Elistan’s responses attentively, though Brian guessed that Aran’s interest in these newfound gods was purely academic. Brian couldn’t imagine the cynical Aran embracing religion.
Derek’s voice rose sharply, stopping the discussion.
“You expect me to entrust the success of my mission to the ravings of a couple of old men and the foolish notions of a girl? You are mad!”
Harald stood up and gazed down at Derek.
“Mad or not, if you want my people to attack the castle, Sir Knight, then we do it my way—or rather, the way of the elf woman. Tomorrow morning at dawn.”
Harald walked out. Derek fumed, frustrated, but ultimately impotent. He had to either take this offer or forego his mission. Brian sighed inwardly.
An unwelcome thought suddenly crossed Brian’s mind. No one knew anything about this dragon orb. What if it turned out to be an artifact of evil? Would Derek still take it back to Solamnia just to realize his own ambition? Brian had the unhappy feeling Derek would.
Brian looked at Sturm, a man who had freely admitted he’d been weak, who spoke openly of his flaws and faults. Compare that to Derek, a Knight of the Rose, tested and proven in battle, confident, sure of himself—a man who would scorn to admit he had faults, would refuse to acknowledge any weakness.
Are you sure he’s a knight? the kender had asked.
In many ways, Sturm Brightblade was a truer knight than Derek Crownguard. Sturm, with all his weaknesses, flaws, and doubts, strove every day to live up to the high ideal of knighthood. Sturm had not come on this quest seeking the dragon orb. He had come because Derek had commandeered the kender, and Sturm would not abandon his friend. Whereas Brian knew quite well that Derek would sacrifice the kender, the Ice Folk, everyone, including his friends, to gain what he wanted. Derek would say (and perhaps he would believe) he was doing this for the good of all mankind, but Brian feared it was only for the good of Derek Crownguard.
Derek left the chieftent in a rage. Aran went after Derek to try to calm him down. Harald, Raggart, and Elistan, along with Gilthanas and Laurana, removed to a tent that Raggart had now dedicated to the gods to discuss their plans for assaulting the castle on the morrow. Tasslehoff had not been seen in hours, and Flint, certain the kender had fallen into a hole in the ice, said he was going to see if he could locate him.
Brian had an idea regarding Brightblade. Derek would be furious and likely turn against Brian forever, but he felt this could be the right thing to do. Brian had just one doubt about Sturm, one question to ask him before putting his plan in motion. Sturm was about to go with Flint to search for the kender, when Brian stopped him.
“Sturm,” said Brian, “could I speak to you a moment in private?”
Flint said he could find the dratted kender on his own and left Sturm alone with Brian. Brian’s tent being occupied, Brian asked Sturm if they could go to his.
“I have a question for you,” Brian said, once they had settled themselves among the furs. “This is none of my business, and my question is impertinent. You have every right to be angry with me for asking. If you are, that’s fine. I will understand. I will also understand if you refuse to answer.”
Sturm looked grave, but indicated Brian could go ahead.
“Why did you lie to your friends about being a knight? Before you answer”—Brian admonished, raising a warning hand—“I have seen the regard and esteem in which your friends hold you. I know it wouldn’t have made any difference to them whether you were a knight or not. You agree that this is true?”
“Yes, that is true,” Sturm said in a low voice, so low Brian had to lean forward to hear him.
“And when they found out you had lied, that made no difference to them either. They still admire you, trust you, and look up to you.”
Sturm lowered his head and passed his hand over his eyes. He could not speak for his emotions.
“Then why lie?” Brian asked gently.
Sturm lifted his head. His face was pale and drawn, but he smiled when he spoke. “I could tell you that I never lied to them. You see, I never told them in so many words that I was a knight. But I led them to believe I was. I wore my armor. I spoke about the knighthood. When someone referred to me as a knight, I did not deny it.”
He paused, gazing thoughtfully into the past. “After my return, if Tanis had said to me, ‘Sturm, are you now a Knight of Solamnia?’ I think I would have found the strength to tell him that my candidacy had been turned down.”
“Unjustly,” Brian said firmly.
Sturm looked startled. He had not expected support from this quarter.
“Please go on with your explanation,” Brian urged. “Don’t think I’m asking out of smugness or idle curiosity. I’m trying to sort out some things for myself.”
Sturm appeared slightly perplexed, but he proceeded. “Tanis did not ask me that question. He took it for granted I was a knight, and so did my other friends. Before I could put things right, all hell broke loose. There was the blue crystal staff and hobgoblins and a lady to protect. Our lives changed forever in an instant, and when the time came when I could have told my friends the truth, it was too late. The truth would have caused complications.
“Then there was my pride.” Sturm’s expression darkened. “I could not have endured Raistlin’s smug triumph, his snide remarks.”
Sturm sighed deeply. His voice softened and he seemed to be speaking to himself, as though Brian were not there, “And I wanted to be a knight so badly. I could not bear to relinquish it. I vowed to be worthy of it. You must believe that. I vowed I would never do anything to disgrace the knighthood. I believed that if I lived my life as a knight, I could somehow make the lie right. I know what I did was wrong, and I am deeply ashamed. I have ruined forever my hopes of becoming a knight. I accept this as my punishment. But if the gods will it, I hope someday to stand before the Council, confess my sins, and ask their forgiveness.”
“I think you are a better knight than many of us who bear the title,” said Brian quietly.
Sturm only shoo
k his head and smiled. He started to say something, but was interrupted by Flint, who thrust his head into the tent to yell, “That blasted kender! You won’t believe the fix he’s got himself into this time! You better come.”
Sturm excused himself and hurried off to rescue Tas from his latest predicament. Brian remained in the tent, thinking things over, and at last he made up his mind. He would do it, though he thought it likely Derek would never speak to him again.
That night, the Ice Folk held a celebration to honor the gods and ask their blessing for the attack on Ice Wall Castle. Derek grumbled that he supposed he would have to attend, since otherwise it would offend his host, but he added grimly that he wouldn’t stay long. Aran stated that, for his part, he was looking forward to it; he enjoyed a good party. Brian was also looking forward to the celebration, but for a different reason.
The chieftent had been cleared of all work, leaving room for dancing. Several of the elders sat around an enormous drum, and they beat on it softly as Raggart the Elder related tales of the old gods he had heard from his father and his father before him. Sometimes chanting, sometimes singing, the old man even performed a few dance steps. Raggart the Younger then took over, relating stories of heroes in past battles to embolden the hearts of the warriors. When he was finished, Tasslehoff, sporting a black eye but otherwise fine, sang a bawdy song about his own true love being a sailing ship, which completely mystified the Ice Folk, though they applauded politely.
Gilthanas borrowed a whalebone flute and played a song that seemed to bring with it the scent of spring wildflowers borne on warm, gentle breezes. So evocative was the elf’s playing that the chieftent, hazy with the smoke of the peat fires and the strong odor of fish, smelled of lilac and new grass.
When the singing and story-telling was done and they had all eaten and drunk, Raggart the Elder raised his hands for silence. This took some time, as the children (and the kender) were excited by the festivities and could not settle down. Eventually, however, a hush spread through the chieftent. The Ice Folk looked at Raggart expectantly; they knew what was going to happen. Derek muttered that he supposed they could leave now, but since neither Aran nor Brian moved, Derek was bound to stay.
Raggart the Elder reached down to an object wrapped in white fur that had been lying at his feet. He raised it up reverently in both hands and held it out in front of him. He said something softly and his grandson, Raggart the Younger, gently released the leather thongs that held the fur in place. The fur fell aside. The object glistened in the light of the fire.
The Ice Folk gave a soft sigh and all rose to their feet, as did the guests, once they understood this was expected of them.
“What is it?” Tasslehoff asked, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck. “I can’t see!”
“A battle axe made of ice,” said Sturm, marveling.
“Truly? Ice? Flint, give me a boost!” cried the kender, putting his hands on Flint’s shoulders, prepared to jump up on him.
“I will do no such thing!” said the outraged dwarf, batting away Tas’s hands.
Raggart frowned at the disruption. Sturm grabbed hold of Tas and dragged him around to stand in front, giving the kender a good view and allowing Sturm to keep firm hold of him, for he could see Tas’s fingers twitching with longing.
Raggart began to speak. “Long, long ago, when the world was new-made, our people lived in a land far from here, a land parched and scorched by the fierce young sun. There was no food, no water. Our people withered in the heat, and many died. At last, the chief could stand it no more. He begged the gods for help, and one of the gods, the Fisher God, answered. He knew of a land where fish were plentiful and fur-bearing animals abounded. He would show our people the way to that land, for he feared evil beings were trying to take it over. There was one problem—the land knew summer only briefly. It was a land of winter, a land of snow and ice.
“The chief and his people were heartily sick of the burning sun, the sweltering heat and constant hunger. They agreed to move, and the Fisher God gave them clothes suitable to the cold and taught them how to survive in the long winter. Then he lifted them in his hand and brought them to Icereach. The last gift the god gave them was the knowledge of how to make weapons of ice.
“The frostreavers were blessed by the gods, and even when the gods turned from us in their righteous anger, those of us who waited patiently for the gods to return continued to make frostreavers, and though the gods were gone, their blessing lingered as did our faith in them.
“On the eve of battle, it is tradition for the cleric who makes the frostreavers to look into the heart of each person and select the one who has the skill and courage, wisdom and knowledge to be a great warrior. To that person, the gods give the gift of a frostreaver.”
The warriors of the Ice Folk formed a line at the side of the chieftent and Harald, with a gesture, indicated their guests were to join them.
Flint frowned and shook his head. “Plain steel is good enough for Reorx and it’s good enough for me,” he said. “No offense to you or the Fish God,” he added hastily.
Raggart smiled at the dwarf and nodded. Laurana did not join the line. She remained standing beside Flint, along with Elistan. Sturm and Gilthanas took their places in line, Sturm being there mainly to keep an eye on Tasslehoff. Brian, Derek and Aran stood at the end.
Raggart, bearing the weapon swathed in white fur, walked along the line. He walked past the Ice Folk warriors, past Gilthanas and Sturm, and, to the kender’s vast disappointment, he carried the glistening weapon past Tasslehoff, who reached out to touch it.
“Ouch!” Tas snatched back his fingers. “I burned myself on ice!” he cried happily. “Look, Sturm, the ice burned me! How did that happen?”
Sturm shushed the kender.
Raggart continued on toward the three knights.
Derek muttered in disgust, “What am I going to do with a weapon made of ice? I suppose I’ll have to take it. It would insult them, otherwise. I still hope to persuade their chief to go along with my plan.”
Raggart walked past Aran, who eyed the weapon curiously and gave it a toast with his flask. The cleric walked past Brian and headed toward Derek, only to move past him.
Raggart halted, frowning. He glanced around, and his brow cleared. He turned from the line of warriors and walked over to Laurana. With a bow, he held out the frostreaver.
Laurana gasped. “There must be some mistake!”
“I see a tall tower, a blue dragon, and a bright silver lance whose light is dimmed by great sorrow,” said Raggart. “I see an orb broken and another orb stained with the blood of evil. I see golden armor shining like a beacon-light in the forefront of the battle. The gods have chosen you, lady, to receive their gift.”
Raggart extended the frostreaver. Laurana looked about in bewilderment, silently asking what to do. Sturm smiled encouragement and nodded. Gilthanas frowned and shook his head. Elf women train for battle, as do elf men, but the women do not fight unless the situation is desperate, and no elf woman would ever put herself forward as a leader of men!
“Take it, Laurana!” Tasslehoff called out eagerly. “But be careful. It burned me. See, look at my fingers!”
“The axe is well-crafted, I’ll say that for it,” said Flint, eying the weapon critically. “Heft it, lass. See what it feels like.”
Laurana flushed. “I am sorry, Raggart. I am truly honored by this gift. But I have the strangest feeling. I fear that by taking it, I’m taking hold of destiny.”
“Perhaps you are,” said Raggart.
“But that isn’t what I want,” Laurana protested.
“We each seek our destiny, child, but in the end, it is destiny that finds us.”
Laurana still hesitated.
Derek muttered to Brian, “If there was any evidence needed that the old man is a crackpot, we now have it.”
He spoke in Solamnic and kept his voice low, but Laurana heard, and she understood. Her lips tightened. Her face set in resolute
lines. She reached out her hand, and, flinching a little in anticipation of the flesh-burning, bone-chilling cold, she grasped the frostreaver and lifted it from its fur bed.
Laurana relaxed. She held the weapon with ease. Strangely, the ice was no colder than the hilt of a steel sword. She lifted it to the light, admiring the beauty. The frostreaver was made of crystal-clear ice, cut and polished so that it was smooth, its lines elegant and simple.
The weapon appeared quite large and heavy, and her friends winced a little, expecting to see her drop it or lift it clumsily. To their astonishment, when Laurana hefted it, the frostreaver was perfectly suited to her grip.
“It seems to have been made for me,” she said, marveling.
Raggart nodded as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. He instructed her on the weapon’s use and care, warning her to keep it out of direct sunlight and away from the heat of the fire.
“For,” Raggart said, “although the ice from which we craft these is blessed by the gods and is unusually thick and dense, the frostreaver will melt, though not as fast as ordinary ice.”
Laurana thanked him and the Ice Folk, and lastly she thanked the gods. She swathed the frostreaver in its fur blanket, and, her cheeks still flushed, she asked in a low voice that the celebration continue. The drumming started again, when Brian, his heart beating fast, raised his hand.
“I have something to say.”
The drums fell silent. Aran and Derek stared at him in astonishment, for they knew how much their friend hated public speaking. Everyone else regarded him warmly, expectantly.
“I … um …” Brian had to stop a moment to clear his throat and then he continued, speaking rapidly to get this ordeal over. “There is one among us whom I have come to know well on this journey. I have been witness to his courage. I have come to admire his honesty. He is the embodiment of honor. Therefore”—Brian drew in a deep breath, knowing well the reaction he was going to get—“I hereby take Sturm Brightblade, son of Angriff Brightblade, as my squire.”
Brian’s cheeks burned. The blood pounded in his ears. He was dimly aware of polite applause from the Ice Folk, who had no idea what this meant. Finally, he dared to raise his head. Sturm had gone quite pale. Laurana, seated next to him, was applauding warmly. Gilthanas played a martial flourish on the flute. Elistan said something to Sturm and pressed his hand. The color returned to Sturm’s face. His eyes shimmered in the firelight.
Dragons of the Highlord Skies Page 39
