Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  After his mother’s death, the young man became a seasoned warrior under the guidance of Tanis and Flint, who adopted Sturm as they had unofficially adopted Caramon and Raistlin. Together with Tasslehoff, the travel-loving kender, and, on occasion, the twins’ wild and beautiful half-sister, Kitiara, Sturm and his friends escorted Flint on his journeys through the lands of Abanasinia, plying his trade as metalsmith.

  Five years ago, however, the companions decided to separate to investigate reports of evil growing in the land. They vowed to meet again at the Inn of the Last Home.

  Sturm had traveled north to Solamnia, determined to find his father and his heritage. He found nothing, and only narrowly escaped with his life—and his father’s sword and armor. The journey to his homeland was a harrowing experience. Sturm had known the Knights were reviled, but he had been shocked to realize just how deep the bitterness against them ran. Huma, Lightbringer, Knight of Solamnia, had driven back the darkness years ago, during the Age of Dreams, and thus began the Age of Might. Then came the Cataclysm, when the gods abandoned man, according to the popular belief. The people had turned to the Knights for help, as they had turned to Huma in the past. But Huma was long dead. The Knights could only watch helplessly as terror rained down from heaven and Krynn was smote asunder. The people had cried to the Knights, but they could do nothing, and the people had never forgiven them. Standing in front of his family’s ruined castle, Sturm vowed that he would restore the honor of the Knights of Solamnia—if it meant that he must sacrifice his life in the attempt.

  But how could he do that fighting a bunch of clerics, he wondered bitterly, the trail dimming before his eyes. He stumbled, caught himself quickly. Huma had fought dragons. Give me dragons, Sturm dreamed. He lifted his eyes. The leaves blurred into a golden mist and he knew he was going to faint. Then he blinked. Everything came sharply into focus.

  Before him rose Prayer’s Eye Peak. He and his companions had arrived at the foot of the old, glacial mountain. He could see trails twisting and winding up the wooded slope, trails used by Solace residents to reach picnic spots on the eastern side of the Peak. Next to one of the well-worn paths stood a white stag. Sturm stared. The stag was the most magnificent animal the knight had ever seen. It was huge, standing several hands taller than any other stag the knight had hunted. It held its head proudly, its splendid rack gleaming like a crown. Its eyes were deep brown against its pure white fur, and it gazed at the knight intently, as if it knew him. Then, with a slight shake of its head, the stag bounded away to the southwest.

  “Stop!” the knight called out hoarsely.

  The others whirled around in alarm, drawing weapons. Tanis came running back to him. “What is it, Sturm?”

  The knight involuntarily put his hand to his aching head.

  “I’m sorry, Sturm,” Tanis said. “I didn’t realize you were as sick as this. We can rest. We’re at the foot of Prayer’s Eye Peak. I’m going to climb the mountain and see—”

  “No! Look!” The knight gripped Tanis’s shoulder and turned him around. He pointed. “See it? The white stag!”

  “The white stag?” Tanis stared in the direction the knight indicated. “Where? I don’t—”

  “There,” Sturm said softly. He took a few steps forward, toward the animal who had stopped and seemed to be waiting for him. The stag nodded its great head. It darted away again, just a few steps, then turned to face the knight once more. “He wants us to follow him,” Sturm gasped. “Like Huma!”

  The others had gathered around the knight now, regarding him with expressions that ranged from deeply concerned to obviously skeptical.

  “I see no stag of any color,” Riverwind said, his dark eyes scanning the forest.

  “Head wound.” Caramon nodded like a charlatan cleric. “C’mon, Sturm, lie down and rest while—”

  “You great blithering idiot!” the knight snarled at Caramon. “With your brains in your stomach, it is just as well you do not see the stag. You would probably shoot it and cook it! I tell you this—we must follow it!”

  “The madness of the head wound,” Riverwind whispered to Tanis. “I have seen it often.”

  “I’m not sure,” Tanis said. He was silent for a few moments. When he spoke, it was with obvious reluctance. “Though I have not seen the white stag myself, I have been with one who has and I have followed it, like in the old man’s story.” His hand absently fingered the ring of twisted ivy leaves that he wore on his left hand, his thoughts with the golden-haired elfmaiden who wept when he left Qualinesti.

  “You’re suggesting we follow an animal we can’t even see?” Caramon said, his jaw going slack.

  “It would not be the strangest thing we have done,” Raistlin commented sarcastically in his whispering voice. “Though, remember, it was the old man who told the tale of the White Stag and the old man who got us into this—”

  “It was our own choice got us into this,” Tanis snapped. “We could have turned the staff over to the High Theocrat and talked our way out of the predicament; we’ve talked our way out of worse. I say we follow Sturm. He has been chosen, apparently, just as Riverwind was chosen to receive the staff—”

  “But it’s not even leading us in the right direction!” Caramon argued. “You know as well as I do there are no trails through the western part of the woods. No one ever goes there.”

  “All the better,” Goldmoon said suddenly. “Tanis said those creatures must have the paths blocked. Maybe this is a way out. I say we follow the knight.” She turned and started off with Sturm, not even glancing back at the others—obviously accustomed to being obeyed. Riverwind shrugged and shook his head, scowling darkly, but he walked after Goldmoon and the others followed.

  The knight left the well-trodden paths of Prayer’s Eye Peak behind, moving in a southwesterly direction up the slope. At first it appeared Caramon was right—there were no trails. Sturm was crashing through the brush like a madman. Then, suddenly, a smooth wide trail opened up ahead of them. Tanis stared at it in amazement.

  “What or who cleared this trail?” he asked Riverwind, who was also examining it with a puzzled expression.

  “I don’t know,” the Plainsman said. “It’s old. That felled tree has lain there long enough to sink over halfway into the dirt and it’s covered with moss and vines. But there are no tracks—other than Sturm’s. There’s no sign of anyone or any animal passing through here. Yet why isn’t it overgrown?”

  Tanis couldn’t answer and he couldn’t take time to think about it. Sturm forged ahead rapidly; all the party could do was try to keep him in sight.

  “Goblins, boats, lizard men, invisible stags—what next?” complained Flint to the kender.

  “I wish I could see the stag,” Tas said wistfully.

  “Get hit on the head.” The dwarf snorted. “Although with you, we probably couldn’t tell the difference.”

  The companions followed Sturm, who was climbing with a wild kind of elation, his pain and wound forgotten. Tanis had difficulty catching up with the knight. When he did, he was alarmed at the feverish gleam in Sturm’s eye. But the knight was obviously being guided by something. The trail led them up the slope of Prayer’s Eye Peak. Tanis saw that it was taking them to the gap between the “hands” of stone, a gap that as far as he knew no one had ever entered before.

  “Wait a moment,” he gasped, running to catch up with Sturm. It was nearly midday, he guessed, though the sun was still hidden by jagged gray clouds. “Let’s rest. I’m going to take a look at the land from over there.” He pointed to a rock ledge that jutted out from the side of the peak.

  “Rest …” repeated Sturm vaguely, stopping and catching his breath. He stared ahead for a moment, then turned to Tanis. “Yes. We’ll rest.” His eyes gleamed brightly.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Sturm said absently and paced around the grass, gently stroking and smoothing his moustaches. Tanis looked at him a moment, irresolute, then went back to the others who were j
ust coming over the crest of a small rise.

  “We’re going to rest here,” the half-elf said. Raistlin breathed a sigh of relief and sank down in the wet leaves.

  “I’m going to have a look north, see what’s moving back on the road to Haven,” Tanis added.

  “I’ll come with you,” Riverwind offered.

  Tanis nodded and the two left the path, heading for the rock ledge. Tanis glanced at the tall warrior as they walked together. He was beginning to feel comfortable with the stern, serious Plainsman. A deeply private person himself, Riverwind respected the privacy of others and would never think of probing the boundaries Tanis set around his soul. This was as relaxing to the half-elf as a night’s unbroken sleep. He knew that his friends—simply because they were his friends and had known him for years—were speculating on his relationship with Kitiara. Why had he chosen to break it off so abruptly five years ago? And why, then, his obvious disappointment when she failed to join them? Riverwind, of course, knew nothing about Kitiara, but Tanis had the feeling that if he did, it would be all the same to the Plainsman: it was Tanis’s business, not his.

  When they were within sight of the Haven Road, they crawled the last few feet, inching their way along the wet rock until they came to the rim of the ledge. Tanis, looking below and to the east, could see the old picnic paths disappearing around the side of the mountain. Riverwind pointed, and Tanis realized there were creatures moving along the picnic trails! That explained the uncanny hush in the forest. Tanis pressed his lips together grimly. The creatures must be waiting to ambush them. Sturm and his white stag had probably saved their lives. But it wouldn’t take the creatures long to find this new trail. Tanis glanced below him and blinked—there was no trail! There was nothing but thick, impenetrable forest. The trail had closed behind them! I must be imagining things, he thought, and he turned his eyes back to Haven Road and the many creatures moving along it. It hadn’t taken them long to get organized, he thought. He gazed farther to the north and saw the still, peaceful waters of Crystalmir Lake. Then his glance traveled to the horizon.

  He frowned. There was something wrong. He couldn’t place it immediately, so he said nothing to Riverwind but stared at the skyline. Storm clouds massed in the north more thickly than ever, long gray fingers raking the land. And reaching up to meet them—that was it! Gripping Riverwind’s arm, Tanis stabbed his finger northward. Riverwind looked, squinting, seeing nothing at first. Then he saw it, black smoke drifting into the sky. His thick, heavy brows contracted.

  “Campfires,” Tanis said.

  “Many hundred campfires,” Riverwind amended softly. “The fires of war. That is an army encampment.”

  “So the rumors are confirmed,” Sturm said when they returned. “There is an army to the north.”

  “But what army? Whose? And why? What are they going to attack?” Caramon laughed incredulously. “No one would send an army after this staff.” The warrior paused. “Would they?”

  “The staff is but a part of this,” Raistlin hissed. “Remember the fallen stars!”

  “Children’s stories!” Flint sniffed. He upended the empty wineskin, shook it, and sighed.

  “My stories are not for children,” Raistlin said viciously, twisting up from the leaves like a snake. “And you would do well to heed my words, dwarf!”

  “There it is! There’s the stag!” Sturm said suddenly, his eyes staring straight at a large boulder—or so it seemed to his companions. “It is time to go.”

  The knight began walking. The others hastily gathered their gear together and hurried after him. As they climbed ever farther up the trail—which seemed to materialize before them as they went—the wind switched and began blowing from the south. It was a warm breeze, carrying with it the fragrance of late-blooming autumn wildflowers. It drove back the storm clouds and just as they came to the cleft between the two halves of the Peak, the sun broke free.

  It was well past midday when they stopped to rest for one more brief period before attempting the climb through the narrow gap between the walls of Prayer’s Eye Peak through which Sturm said they must go. The stag had led the way, he insisted.

  “It’ll be suppertime soon,” Caramon said. He heaved a gusty sigh, staring at his feet. “I could eat my boots!”

  “They’re beginning to look good to me, too,” Flint said grumpily. “I wish that stag was flesh and blood. It might be useful for something besides getting us lost!”

  “Shut up!” Sturm turned on the dwarf in a sudden rage, his fists clenched. Tanis rose quickly, put his hand on the knight’s shoulder, holding him back.

  Sturm stood glaring at the dwarf, moustaches quivering, then he jerked away from Tanis. “Let’s go,” he muttered.

  As the companions entered the narrow defile, they could see clear blue sky on the other side. The south wind whistled across the steep white walls of the Peak soaring above them. They walked carefully, small stones causing their feet to slip more than once. Fortunately, the way was so narrow that they could easily regain their balance by catching themselves against the steep walls.

  After about thirty minutes of walking, they came out on the other side of Prayer’s Eye Peak. They halted, staring down into a valley. Lush, grassy meadowland flowed in green waves below them to lap on the shores of a light-green aspen forest far to the south. The storm clouds were behind them, and the sun shone brightly in a clear, azure sky.

  For the first time, they found their cloaks too heavy, except for Raistlin who remained huddled in his red, hooded cape. Flint had spent the morning complaining about the rain and now started in on the sunshine, it was too bright, glaring into his eyes. It was too hot, beating down on his helm.

  “I say we throw the dwarf off the mountain,” growled Caramon to Tanis.

  Tanis grinned. “He’d rattle all the way down and give away our position.”

  “Who’s down there to hear him?” Caramon said, gesturing toward the valley with his broad hand. “I bet we’re the first living beings to set eyes on this valley.”

  “First living beings,” Raistlin breathed. “You are right there, my brother. For you look on Darken Wood.”

  No one spoke. Riverwind shifted uncomfortably; Goldmoon crept over to stand beside him, staring down into the green trees, her eyes wide. Flint cleared his throat and fell silent, stroking his long beard. Sturm regarded the forest calmly. So did Tasslehoff. “It doesn’t look bad at all,” the kender said cheerfully. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, a sheaf of parchment spread out on his knees, he was drawing a map with a bit of charcoal, attempting to trace their way up Prayer’s Eye Peak.

  “Looks are as deceptive as light-fingered kender,” Raistlin whispered harshly.

  Tasslehoff frowned, started to retort, then caught Tanis’s eye and went back to his drawing. Tanis walked over to Sturm. The knight stood out on a ledge, the south wind blowing back his long hair and whipping his frayed cape about him.

  “Sturm, where is the stag? Do you see it now?”

  “Yes,” Sturm answered. He pointed downward. “It walked across the meadow; I can see its trail in the tall grass. It has gone into the aspens there.”

  “Gone into Darken Wood,” Tanis murmured.

  “Who says that is Darken Wood?” Sturm turned to face Tanis.

  “Raistlin.”

  “Bah!”

  “He is magi,” Tanis said.

  “He is crazed,” Sturm replied. Then he shrugged. “But stay here rooted on the side of the Peak if you like, Tanis. I will follow the stag—as did Huma—even if it leads me into Darken Wood.” Wrapping his cloak around him, Sturm climbed down the ledge and began to walk along a winding trail that led down the mountainside.

  Tanis returned to the others. “The stag’s leading him on a straight path right into the forest,” he said. “How certain are you that this forest is Darken Wood, Raistlin?”

  “How certain is one of anything, Half-Elven?” the mage replied. “I am not certain of drawing my next breath. But go ah
ead. Walk into the wood that no living man has ever walked out of. Death is life’s one great certainty, Tanis.”

  The half-elf felt a sudden urge to throw Raistlin off the side of the mountain. He stared after Sturm, who was nearly halfway down into the valley.

  “I’m going with Sturm,” he said suddenly. “But I’ll be responsible for no one else in this decision. The rest of you may follow as you choose.”

  “I’m coming!” Tasslehoff rolled his map up and slipped it into his scroll case. He scrambled to his feet, sliding in the loose rock.

  “Ghosts!” Flint scowled at Raistlin, snapped his fingers derisively, then stumped over to stand beside the half-elf. Goldmoon followed unhesitatingly, though her face was pale. Riverwind joined the group more slowly, his face thoughtful. Tanis was relieved—the barbarians had many frightening legends of Darken Wood, he knew. And finally, Raistlin moved forward so rapidly he took his brother completely by surprise.

  Tanis regarded the mage with a slight smile. “Why do you come?” he couldn’t help asking.

  “Because you will need me, Half-Elven,” the mage hissed. “Besides, where would you have us go? You have allowed us to be led this far, there can be no turning back. It is the Ogre’s Choice you offer us, Tanis—‘Die fast or die slow.’ ” He set off down the side of the Peak. “Coming, brother?”

  The others glanced uneasily at Tanis as the brothers passed. The half-elf felt like a fool. Raistlin was right, of course. He’d let this go far beyond his control, then made it seem as if it were their decision, not his, allowing him to go forward with a clear conscience. Angrily he picked up a rock and hurled it far down the mountainside. Why was it his responsibility in the first place? Why had he gotten involved, when all he had wanted was to find Kitiara and tell her his mind was made up—he loved her and wanted her. He could accept her human frailties as he had learned to accept his own.