Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [164]
“Who knows?” Shrugging her slender shoulders, Kit lay back in Tanis’s arms. “You’re shivering. Here, this will warm you.” She kissed his neck, running her hands over his body. “We were just told the most important thing we could do to end this war in one swift stroke is to find this man.”
Tanis swallowed, feeling himself warming to her touch.
“Just think,” Kitiara whispered in his ear, her breath hot and moist against his skin, “if we found him—you and I—we would have all of Krynn at our feet! The Dark Queen would reward us beyond anything we ever dreamed! You and I, together always, Tanis. Let’s go now!”
Her words echoed in his mind. The two of them, together, forever. Ending the war. Ruling Krynn. No, he thought, feeling his throat constrict. This is madness! Insanity! My people, my friends.… Yet, haven’t I done enough? What do I owe any of them, humans or elves? Nothing! They are the ones who have hurt me, derided me! All these years, a cast-out. Why think about them? Me! It’s time I thought about me for a change! This is the woman I’ve dreamed of for so long. And she can be mine! Kitiara … so beautiful, so desirable …
“No!” Tanis said harshly, then, “No,” he said more gently. Reaching out his hand, he pulled her back near him. “Tomorrow will do. If it was him, he isn’t going anywhere. I know.…”
Kitiara smiled and, with a sigh, lay back down. Tanis, bending over her, kissed her passionately. Far away, he could hear the waves of the Blood Sea of Istar crashing on the shore.
10
The High Clerist’s Tower.
The knighting.
By morning, the storm over Solamnia had blown itself out. The sun rose, a disk of pale gold that warmed nothing. The knights who stood watch upon the battlements of the Tower of the High Clerist went thankfully to their beds, talking of the wonders they had seen during the awful night, for such a storm as this had not been known in the lands of Solamnia since the days after the Cataclysm. Those who took over the watch from their fellow knights were nearly as weary; no one had slept.
Now they looked out upon a plain covered with snow and ice. Here and there the landscape was dotted with flickering flames where trees, blasted by the jagged lightning that had streaked out of the sky during the blizzard, burned eerily. But it was not to those strange flames the eyes of the knights turned as they ascended the battlements. It was to the flames that burned upon the horizon—hundreds and hundreds of flames, filling the clear, cold air with their foul smoke.
The campfires of war. The campfires of the dragonarmies.
One thing stood between the Dragon Highlord and victory in Solamnia. That “thing” (as the Highlord often referred to it) was the Tower of the High Clerist. Built long ago by Vinas Solamnus, founder of the Knights, in the only pass through the snow-capped, cloud-shrouded Vingaard Mountains, the Tower protected Palanthas, capital city of Solamnia, and the harbor known as the Gates of Paladine. Let the Tower fall, and Palanthas would belong to the dragonarmies. It was a soft city—a city of wealth and beauty, a city that had turned its back upon the world to gaze with admiring eyes into its own mirror.
With Palanthas in her hands and the harbor under her control, the Highlord could easily starve the rest of Solamnia into submission and then wipe out the troublesome Knights.
The Dragon Highlord, called the Dark Lady by her troops, was not in camp this day. She was gone on secret business to the east. But she had left loyal and able commanders behind her, commanders who would do anything to win her favor.
Of all the Dragon Highlords, the Dark Lady was known to sit highest in the regard of her Dark Queen. And so the troops of draconians, goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, and humans sat around their campfires, staring at the Tower with hungry eyes, longing to attack and earn her commendation.
The Tower was defended by a large garrison of Knights of Solamnia who had marched out from Palanthas only a few weeks ago. Legend recalled that the Tower had never fallen while men of faith held