Dragons of the Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis [86]
Sturm took first watch. The rest wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay on the tile floor. The knight walked through the moonlit temple, checking the quiet rooms, more from force of habit than because he felt any threat. He could hear the wind blow chill and fierce outside, sweeping out from the north. But inside it was strangely warm and comfortable—too comfortable.
Sitting at the base of the statue, Sturm felt a sweet peacefulness creep over him. Startled, he sat bolt upright and realized, chagrined, that he had nearly fallen asleep on watch. That was inexcusable! Berating himself severely, the knight determined that he would walk his watch—the full two hours—as punishment. He started to rise, then stopped. He heard singing, a woman’s voice. Sturm stared around wildly, his hand on his sword. Then his hand slipped from the hilt. He recognized the voice and the song. It was his mother’s voice. Once more Sturm was with her. They were fleeing Solamnia, traveling alone except for one trusted retainer—and he would be dead before they reached Solace. The song was one of those wordless lullabies that were older than dragons. Sturm’s mother held her child close, and tried to keep her fear from him by singing this gentle, soothing song. Sturm’s eyes closed. Sleep blessed him, blessed all of the companions.
The light from Raistlin’s staff glowed brightly, keeping away the darkness.
17
The Paths of the Dead.
Raistlin’s new friends.
The sound of metal crashing against the tile floor jolted Tanis out of a deep sleep. He sat up, alarmed, his hand fumbling for his sword.
“Sorry,” Caramon said, grinning shamefacedly. “I dropped my breastplate.”
Tanis drew a deep breath that turned into a yawn, stretched, and lay back down on his blanket. The sight of Caramon putting on his armor—with Tasslehoff’s help—reminded the halfelf of what they faced today. He saw Sturm buckling his armor on as well, while Riverwind polished the sword he had picked up. Tanis firmly put the thought of what might happen to them today out of his mind.
That was not an easy task, especially for the elven part of Tanis—elves revere life and, although they believe that death is simply a movement into a higher plane of existence, death of any creature is seen to diminish life on this plane. Tanis forced the human side of him to take possession of his soul today. He would have to kill, and perhaps he would have to accept the death of one or more of these people he loved. He remembered how he had felt yesterday, when he thought he might lose Riverwind. The half-elf frowned and sat up suddenly, feeling as if he had awakened from a bad dream.
“Is everyone up?” he asked, scratching his beard.
Flint stumped over and handed him a hunk of bread and some dried strips of venison. “Up and breakfasted,” the dwarf grumbled. “You could have slept through the Cataclysm, Half-Elf.”
Tanis took a bite of venison without appetite. Then, wrinkling his nose, he sniffed. “What’s that funny smell?”
“Some concoction of the mage’s.” The dwarf grimaced, plopping down next to Tanis. Flint pulled out a block of wood and began carving, hacking away furiously, making chips fly. “He pounded up some sort of powder in a cup