Love And War (18 page)

“I'm packed, Father,” Sturm said.

“Eh? Good, good. Go to your mother, boy. You'll find her in the north corridor.” He looked
back to the map spread on the table before him. Sturm bowed his head and withdrew, his
heart heavy. He leaned against the outside of the guardroom door.

“He's only a boy, Angriff,” he heard Lord Gunthar say. “Not yet a man, much less a knight.”

Lord Brightblade replied, “Sturm is the son and grandson of Solamnic Knights. Our blood
goes back to Berthal the Swordsman. He must learn to cope with hardship.”

Sturm lifted his chin and strode away. Following the line of burning torches along the
corridor, he ran a finger in a joint of mortared stones, as he had every day since
becoming tall enough to do so. This might be the last time Sturm would trace the crack. He
slowed his pace to make the feeling linger.

Overhead, a loophole shutter banged loose in the wind. Sturm mounted the narrow steps to
the loophole and reached out into the cold to catch the wayward shutter. Through the
silently falling snow he saw a red glow on the horizon. It was too early for dawn.

“Close that shutter!”

Sturm whirled. Soren Vardis, sergeant of the household guard, was striding toward him. He
took the steps two at a time. Soren reached easily over Sturm's head and closed the
shutter, letting the bolt fall in its slot with a loud clank.

He smiled at the boy. “There are bowmen in the woods,” he said. “A face in a lighted
window makes an excellent target.”

“Sergeant, what will the villagers do?”

A crack in the shutter let in the red glow. It striped Soren's face with a streak of
blood. He looked at Sturm, standing so straight and proper. “I suppose you have a right to
know,” he said. “The peasants are in arms. They've set fire to the north wood and burned
the fallow pastures east and south. Your father's cattle have been stolen and slaughtered.
Some of my men were killed in Avrinet, but not before reporting that the villagers were
preparing to attack.”

“They can't get in the castle,” Sturm said in a pleading tone.

“Alas, young lord, they can. I have less than a hundred men to defend all of the wall, and
of those I trust not twenty.”

Sturm could not fathom these revelations. “Why are they doing this, Soren? Why? My father
never used them harshly.”

“The common folk, here as throughout Krynn, blame the knights for not calling down the aid
of Paladine in the dark times.” Soren shook his head in sor row. “In their mad anger they
have forgotten all that the knights have done for them.”

They descended the steps. “So Father will fight our way out?” asked Sturm.

Soren cleared his throat. “My Lord Brightblade will remain behind to defend his home and
lands.”

“Then I shall stay, too!”

The sergeant paused and rested a battle-hardened hand on the boy's shoulder. “No, young
lord. Your father has given orders that you and the Lady Ilys be sent to far Solace for
safety. Our duty is to obey.” He knelt in front of Sturm and scrubbed away the tears with
his rough thumbs. “None of that now, lad. Your mother will need all your strength to make
this journey. It will fall to you to be the Brightblade man of the party, you know.”

Wind sighed through the north corridor. The double doors to the courtyard were open. A
two-wheel cart waited in the calf-deep snow. Lady Ilys, splendid in a cape of white
rabbit, was bidding farewell to her husband.

“May the gods go with you,” Lord Brightblade said, clasping her hands between his own.
“You will always be my lady.”

Their cheeks touched. “And you, my lord,” said Lady Ilys.

The sniffling from the front of the cart was Mistress Carin. Sturm and Soren halted before
Lord Brighblade. The sergeant saluted. The master of Brightblade Castle clapped the guardsman on his ironclad shoulders. “My best man-at-arms,” he said. “Keep them safe Soren Vardis.“ ”Aye, my lord.“ He faced his son. ”Sturm, heed what your mother and the sergeant tell you.“ ”Yes, sir.” How he ached for just one embrace! But that was not his father's way, not even at a time of parting. Soren lifted him into the back of
the cart, then mounted his own horse. Mistress Carin snapped the reins, and the cart jerked forward. Sturm buried
his face in his sleeve. He couldn't bear to leave. In spite of Soren's admonition, the
bitter tears returned.

At the west gate, torches were doused before the portal opened. The guardsman and the cart
moved into the night. The castle was quickly lost from sight in the swirling snow.

The road west was high-centered and paved with stone, a relic of the great days before the
Cataclysm.

Sturm and his mother were nestled among the soft heaps of baggage. Though warmed and
rocked by the easy motion of the cart, neither could find sleep. The boy could hear the
sharp clat-clat of the war-shod hooves of Nuitari, Soren's black gelding. The sergeant
kept to a measured pace as he watched the road ahead for trouble. As soon as was
practical, they would leave the well-marked, well-paved track for a less conspicuous
route. If the peasants had a mind to pursue them, they would be harder to find that way.

Soren reined up short. He snagged the carthorse's bridle and pulled the beast off the
road. No sooner was the party screened by a stand of cedars than Sturm heard a low rumble
of voices. His heart beat quickly as he peeked through the slatted side of the cart.

A band of rough-looking men came slogging through the snow. Some wore fresh, hairy hides
over their backs, hides with the Brightblade brand.

“I'm cold!” one declared loudly.

“Shut your gob, Bron. We'll all be warm enough when we put the torch to the knights'
hall!” Ugly laughter greeted the boast. Sturm heard his mother praying quietly to Paladine.

Soren led them back onto the road. They reached the fork the sergeant wanted. Mistress
Carin hauled back the reins, and the cart slipped off the stones into a narrow, muddy rut.
The naked, black arms of leafless trees closed over their heads. At last Sturm dropped
into a light and troubled sleep.

He awoke to the sound of weeping. “Mother?” he said.

She put a hand over his mouth. “Quiet, child.” He saw the tracks of tears on her face. He
sat up and saw what was making her cry.

Below, across a snow-gilt field, three houses burned. Against the curtain of flame dark
figures moved. Cows and calves bawled in pain as cudgels beat them to the ground. Angry,
starving men tore them to pieces with billhooks and hand scythes.

“They would do the same to us,” said Lady Ilys.

Sturm looked to the sergeant in helpless anger. Soren was afoot, his back to Nuitari,
sword drawn. The fire displayed his blue eyes burning under the brim of his helmet. There
was nothing he could do against twenty. And there were the women and boy to protect.

They slipped away as if they were the brigands. The snow continued until dawn, when the
sun split the dense gray clouds. Their hearts did not lighten with the sky. They ate cold
bread and cheese, and sipped tepid melted snow from the sergeant's pigskin water-bag.

Sturm spelled Mistress Carin on the reins. He simply kept them clear of the traces, as the
old carthorse was content to follow the rutted path without guidance. Carin fussed over
Lady Ilys, trying to screen her from the new sun and cold wind. Sturm knew the woman was
exhausted. He wondered why his mother let her carry on with needless niceties of castle
protocol.

Sturm stayed at the reins until midday, when Soren halted again for food and a
consultation.

“As I recall,” he said, chewing on a strip of dried beef, “the way forks again not far
ahead. If we go straight, we'll end up in the mountains along the coast. Should we bear
south, we'll reach the coast in a day's steady ride.”

“Where on the coast?” asked Lady Ilys.

“Near the port of Thel, where ships on the Inland Sea often call.”

“Ships, yes ... a sea voyage would be more comfortable than rolling in this cart,” she
said. “Could we find passage to Abanasinia in Thel?”

“Easily, my lady. 'Tis a thickly traveled route.” “Then we shall proceed to Thel, then
take ship.” The carthorse wheezed and shivered. “I pray the beast holds out till then,” said Soren. The beast did not. By the time they reached the fork, the poor carthorse collapsed in harness, never to rise again. “Oh, lady, what shall we do?”
Carin wailed. “Nuitari will have to serve,” said Lady Ilys. Soren could only obey in silence. He loosed the tracings from the dead animal and dragged the carcass
aside. Then he backed the black, straight-limbed Nuitari between the poles of the over-
burdened cart. Soren patted the horse's nose consolingly.

“There's no shame in it,” he said in a low voice, though Sturm was near and heard him. “We
all must serve beneath our worth sometime, my friend.”

Day passed and night came. The two bright moons rose, shone their faces on Krynn, and set
again. Mistress Carin drove all night, and Sturm noticed that his mother parted with one
of her fine scarves so that her maid might have some protection from the facing wind.

The air warmed with day, and the ice on the track changed to mud. It gripped the cart
wheels and the sergeant's boots with fervor, but neither Soren nor the brave Nuitari
complained. They climbed a long, grassy hill to an ancient ring of standing stones.
Strange images were graven on the triliths. Sturm knew dark forces were abroad in the
land. He held close to his mother when they stopped amid the ruined circle.

Soren advanced to the crest of the hill. He pointed down to a vista Sturm could not see.
“It is Thel,” he said.

Thel was a modest town of five-hundred souls, but to Sturm's eye, it was a complete city.
Some of the half- timbered houses had three stories - not so tall as the towers of Castle
Brightblade, but so full of people! Sturm was fascinated.

Soren walked the cart along the high street. The toll of four days and nights on the road
was obvious. Even Lady Ilys was bedraggled, her fair face chapped by raw wind and her soul
weighed down with bitterness and hurt.

The Thelites paid them no large attention as they passed. Strangers and refugees were
common in the town. Lady Ilys, for her part, ignored them in turn.

“Rabble. Riff-raff,” she said through pursed lips. “Remember, Sturm, you are the son of a
knight. Do not speak to these people unless they address you properly, with the deference
due us.”

Soren found an inn off the waterfront. He went in to dicker with the owner, leaving the
women and boy in the cart. Sturm climbed atop the baggage and watched the passing crowds
with total absorption.

One fellow in particular caught Sturm's eye: he was short and slender, a green mantle
draped over his shoulders. His ears drew back in sharp points, and his eyes slanted down at the corners. He walked with smooth, unconscious grace.

“There's elf blood in him,” Mistress Carin said knowingly.

Across the street, a hulking figure loafed in an open doorway. A shaggy mane of hair did
little to conceal his ugliness, and his lips could not hide the jagged teeth protruding
from his outthrust jaw.

“Half-orc,” said Carin.

Soren returned. “My lady,” he said. “The innkeeper has a small private room for you and
Master Sturm. Mistress Carin may have a place by the kitchen hearth, and I a bench in the
beerhall. All this for four silver pieces.”

“Four! That's outrageous!” “I chaffered him down from seven.” “Very well,” she said. “If
it is the best we can do.” She sniffed the moist, salty air. “I suppose there are ELVES and things in there?”

“No, lady. In the cold season, such folk generally go to warmer climes.”

“Let us be thankful for that, at least.” Lady Ilys took four coins from her purse. Soren
helped her down from the cart and escorted her and Sturm into the inn.

The innkeeper was a fat, bald man who grinned through rotten teeth. He bobbed his head and
waved Lady Ilys to the stairs. Before Sturm reached the steps, the innkeeper let out a
howl.

“Put that back, you two-legged rat! Don't tell me you found it; I know you stole it!” he
cried. A diminutive manlike creature, a head shorter than Sturm, silverware poking out of
his pockets, stood by a beer keg. When the innkeeper yelled again, the little man put his
fingers in his ears and stuck out his tongue. Spoons, coins, and buttons cascaded from his
clothes onto the floor.

“I'll swat you good, you roach!” the innkeeper bawled. He reached for a stout broom. The
tiny fellow - a kender, according to Carin - stooped to retrieve his booty. The broom's
first swipe was a miss, but the innkeeper caught the kender by the seat of his pants and
swept him out the door.

“My 'pologies, ma'am,” the fat man said. “I never allow them kender in here, but they slip
in sometimes when I'm not watchful.”

Lady Ilys gave the man a glacial look and dropped only three silver coins in his palm. The
man was too flustered to protest. He bowed and backed away. Soren hoisted two bags on his
shoulders and went up the steps, chuckling.

The room was small, and the beds were stacked one above the other. Sturm was delighted and
climbed nimbly up the ladder to the top bunk.

“We will need more money for the voyage,” Soren said. “May I have my lady's approval to
sell the cart for what it will bring?”

“Nuitari too?” asked Sturm, aghast. Soren nodded curtly.

“See to it, Sergeant. We shall not stir till your return,” said Lady Ilys.

It was long dark before Soren came back. He thumped on the door. Mistress Carin admitted
him. Soren bore a wide trencher of food. He'd intercepted the innkeeper's wife on the
stair and taken the heavy platter off her hands. Soren set the trencher down on the lone
table and announced, “We have a ship.”

Sturm stabbed a slab of boiled mutton with his knife. A stern look from his mother froze
him at once.

“What ship? And where bound?” asked Lady Ilys.

“The good ship SKELTER is bound directly for Abanasinia and the Hartshorn River,” said
Soren. “From there we can go upriver to Solace itself.”