Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [168]
Sturm smiled absently, his thoughts far away. When he spoke, it was obvious he hadn’t heard a word the dwarf said.
“Flint,” he began, his voice soft and subdued, “we need only one day of warm weather to open the road. When that day comes, take Laurana and Tas and leave. Promise me.”
“We should all leave if you ask me!” the dwarf snapped. “Pull the knights back to Palanthas. We could hold that town against even dragons, I’ll wager. Its buildings are good solid stone. Not like this place!” The dwarf glanced around the human-built Tower with scorn. “Palanthas could be defended.”
Sturm shook his head. “The people won’t allow it. They care only for their beautiful city. As long as they think it can be saved, they won’t fight. No, we must make our stand here.”
“You don’t have a chance,” Flint argued.
“Yes, we do,” Sturm replied, “if we can just hold out until the supply lines can be firmly established. We’ve got enough manpower. That’s why the dragonarmies haven’t attacked—”
“There’s another way,” came a voice.
Sturm and Flint turned. The torchlight fell on a gaunt face, and Sturm’s expression hardened.
“What way is that, Lord Derek?” Sturm asked with deliberate politeness.
“You and Gunthar believe you have defeated me,” Derek said, ignoring the question. His voice was soft and shaking with hatred as he stared at Sturm. “But you haven’t! By one heroic act, I will have the Knights in my palm”—Derek held out his mailed hand, the armor flashing in the firelight—“and you and Gunthar will be finished!” Slowly, he clenched his fist.
“I was under the impression our war was out there, with the dragonarmies,” Sturm said.
“Don’t give me that self-righteous twaddle!” Derek snarled. “Enjoy your knighthood, Brightblade. You paid enough for it. What did you promise the elfwoman in return for her lies? Marriage? Make a respectable woman of her?”
“I cannot fight you—according to the Measure—but I do not have to listen to you insult a woman who is as good as she is courageous,” Sturm said, turning upon his heel to leave.
“Don’t you ever walk away from me!” Derek cried. Leaping forward, he grabbed Sturm’s shoulder. Sturm whirled in anger, his hand on his sword. Derek reached for his weapon as well, and it seemed for a moment that the Measure might be forgotten. But Flint laid a restraining hand on his friend. Sturm drew a deep breath and lifted his hand away from the hilt.
“Say what you have to say, Derek!” Sturm’s voice quivered.
“You’re finished, Brightblade. Tomorrow I’m leading the knights onto the field. No more skulking in this miserable rock prison. By tomorrow night, my name will be legend!”
Flint looked up at Sturm in alarm. The knight’s face had drained of blood. “Derek,” Sturm said softly, “you’re mad! There are thousands of them! They’ll cut you to ribbons!”
“Yes, that’s what you’d like to see, isn’t it?” Derek sneered. “Be ready at dawn, Brightblade.”
That night, Tasslehoff—cold, hungry, and bored—decided that the best way to take his mind off his stomach was to explore his surroundings. There are plenty of places to hide things here, thought Tas. This is one of the strangest buildings I’ve ever seen.
The Tower of the High Clerist sat solidly against the west side of the Westgate Pass, the only canyon pass that crossed the Habbakuk Range of mountains separating eastern Solamnia from Palanthas. As the Dragon Highlord knew, anyone trying to reach Palanthas other than by this route would have to travel hundreds of miles around the mountains, or through the desert, or by sea. And ships entering the Gates of Paladine were easy targets for the gnomes’ fire-throwing catapults.
The High Clerist’s Tower had been built during the Age of Might. Flint knew a lot about the architecture of this period—the dwarves having been instrumental in designing