Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [177]
Step … step … step … step …
Stop this! Sturm told himself angrily. You’ll soon be mad as poor Derek. Spinning abruptly on his heel to break his stride, the knight turned to find Laurana behind him. His eyes met hers, and the black thoughts were brightened by her light. As long as such peace and beauty as hers existed in this world there was hope. He smiled at her and she smiled back—a strained smile—but it erased lines of fatigue and worry in her face.
“Rest,” he told her. “You look exhausted.”
“I tried to sleep,” she murmured, “but I had terrible dreams—hands encased in crystal, huge dragons flying through stone hallways.” She shook her head, then sat down, exhausted, in a corner sheltered from the chill wind.
Sturm’s gaze moved to Tasslehoff, who lay beside her. The kender was fast asleep, curled into a ball. Sturm looked at him with a smile. Nothing bothered Tas. The kender’d had a truly glorious day, one that would live in his memory forever.
“I’ve never been at a siege before,” Sturm had heard Tas confide to Flint just seconds before the dwarf’s battle-axe swept off a goblin’s head.
“You know we’re all going to die,” Flint growled, wiping black blood from his axe blade.
“That’s what you said when we faced that black dragon in Xak Tsaroth,” Tas replied. “Then you said the same thing in Thorbardin, and then there was the boat—”
“This time we’re going to die!” Flint roared in a rage. “If I have to kill you myself!”
But they hadn’t died—at least not today. There’s always tomorrow, Sturm thought, his gaze resting on the dwarf who leaned against a stone wall, carving at a block of wood.
Flint looked up. “When will it start?” he asked.
Sturm sighed, his gaze shifting out to the eastern sky. “Dawn,” he replied. “A few hours yet.”
The dwarf nodded. “Can we hold?” His voice was matter-of-fact, the hand that held the wood firm and steady.
“We must,” Sturm replied. “The messenger will reach Palanthas tonight. If they act at once, it’s still a two-day march to reach us. We must give them two days—”
“If they act at once!” Flint grunted.
“I know …” Sturm said softly, sighing. “You should leave,” he turned to Laurana, who came out of her reverie with a start. “Go to Palanthas. Convince them of the danger.”
“Your messenger must do that,” Laurana said tiredly. “If not, no words of mine will sway them.”
“Laurana,” he began.
“Do you need me?” she asked abruptly. “Am I of use here?”
“You know you are,” Sturm answered. He had marveled at the elfmaid’s unflagging strength, her courage, and her skill with the bow.
“Then I’m staying,” Laurana said simply. Drawing the blanket up more closely around her, she closed her eyes. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered. But within a few moments, her breathing became soft and regular as the slumbering kender’s.
Sturm shook his head, swallowing a choking thickness in his throat. His glance met Flint’s. The dwarf sighed and went back to his carving. Neither spoke, both men thinking the same thing. Their deaths would be bad if the draconians overran the Tower. Laurana’s death could be a thing of nightmares.
The eastern sky was brightening, foretelling the sun’s approach, when the knights were roused from their fitful slumber by the blaring of horns. Hastily they rose, grabbed their weapons, and stood to the walls, peering out across the dark land.
The campfires of the dragonarmies burned low, allowed to go out as daylight neared. They could hear the sounds of life returning to the horrible body. The knights gripped their weapons, waiting. Then they turned to each other, bewildered.
The dragonarmies were retreating! Although only dimly seen in the faint half-light, it was obvious that the black tide