Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [174]
Tasslehoff, bursting into tears, stood up and flung himself on them, sobbing wildly. They stared at him in astonishment.
“Tas, what is it?” Laurana asked, alarmed.
“It’s all my fault! I broke one! Am I doomed to go around the world breaking these things?” Tas wailed incoherently.
“Calm down,” Sturm said, his voice stern. He gave the kender a shake. “What are you talking about?”
“I found another one,” Tas blubbered. “Down below, in a big empty chamber.”
“Another what, you doorknob?” Flint said in exasperation.
“Another dragon orb!” Tas wailed.
Night settled over the Tower like a thicker, heavier fog. The knights lighted torches, but the flame only peopled the darkness with ghosts. The knights kept silent watch from the battlements, straining to hear or see something, anything.…
Then, when it was nearly midnight, they were startled to hear, not the victorious shouts of their comrades or the flat, blaring horns of the enemy, but the jingle of harness, the soft whinny of horses approaching the fortress.
Rushing to the edge of the battlements, the knights shone torches down into the fog. They heard the hoofbeats slowly come to a halt. Sturm stood above the gate.
“Who rides to the Tower of the High Clerist?” he called.
A single torch flared below. Laurana, staring down into the misty darkness, felt her knees grow weak and grabbed the stone wall to support herself. The knights cried out in horror.
The rider who held the flaming torch was dressed in the shining armor of an officer in the dragonarmy. He was blonde, his features handsome, cold, and cruel. He led a second horse across which were thrown two bodies—one of them headless, both bloody, mutilated.
“I have brought back your officers,” the man said, his voice harsh and blaring. “One is quite dead, as you can see. The other, I believe, still lives. Or he did when I started on my journey. I hope he is still living, so that he can recount for you what took place upon the field of battle today. If you could even call it a battle.”
Bathed in the glare of his own torch, the officer dismounted. He began to untie the bodies, using one hand to strip away the ropes binding them to the saddle. Then he glanced up.
“Yes, you could kill me now. I am a fine target, even in this fog. But you won’t. You’re Knights of Solamnia”—his sarcasm was sharp—“and your honor is your life. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man returning the bodies of your leaders.” He gave the ropes a yank. The headless body slid to the ground. The officer dragged the other body off the saddle. He tossed the torch down into the snow next to the bodies. It sizzled, then went out, and the darkness swallowed him.
“You have a surfeit of honor out there on the field,” he called. The knights could hear the leather creak, his armor clang as he remounted his horse. “I’ll give you until morning to surrender. When the sun rises, lower your flag. The Dragon Highlord will deal with you mercifully—”
Suddenly there was the twang of a bow, the thunk of an arrow striking into flesh, and the sound of startled swearing from below them. The knights turned around to stare in astonishment at a lone figure standing on the wall, a bow in its hand.
“I am not a knight,” Laurana called out, lowering her bow. “I am Lauralanthalasa, daughter of the Qualinesti. We elves have our own code of honor and, as I’m sure you know, I can see you quite well in this darkness. I could have killed you. As it is, I believe you will have some difficulty using that arm for a long time. In fact, you may never hold a sword again.”
“Take that as our answer to your Highlord,” Sturm said harshly. “We will lie cold in death before we lower our flag!”
“Indeed you will!” the officer said through teeth clenched in pain. The sound of galloping hooves was lost in the darkness.
“Bring in the bodies,” Sturm ordered.
Cautiously, the knights opened the gates. Several rushed out to cover the others who gently lifted the bodies and bore them inside. Then the guard retreated back into the fortress