Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (43 page)

Gilthanas borrowed a whalebone flute and played a song that seemed to bring with it the scent of spring wildflowers borne on warm, gentle breezes. So evocative was the elf’s playing that the chieftent, hazy with the smoke of the peat fires and the strong odor of fish, smelled of lilac and new grass.

When the singing and story-telling was done and they had all eaten and drunk, Raggart the Elder raised his hands for silence. This took some time, as the children (and the kender) were excited by the festivities and could not settle down. Eventually, however, a hush spread through the chieftent. The Ice Folk looked at Raggart expectantly; they knew what was going to happen. Derek muttered that he supposed they could leave now, but since neither Aran nor Brian moved, Derek was bound to stay.

Raggart the Elder reached down to an object wrapped in white fur that had been lying at his feet. He raised it up reverently in both hands and held it out in front of him. He said something softly and his grandson, Raggart the Younger, gently released the leather thongs that held the fur in place. The fur fell aside. The object glistened in the light of the fire.

The Ice Folk gave a soft sigh and all rose to their feet, as did the guests, once they understood this was expected of them.

“What is it?” Tasslehoff asked, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck. “I can’t see!”

“A battle axe made of ice,” said Sturm, marveling.

“Truly? Ice? Flint, give me a boost!” cried the kender, putting his hands on Flint’s shoulders, prepared to jump up on him.

“I will do no such thing!” said the outraged dwarf, batting away Tas’s hands.

Raggart frowned at the disruption. Sturm grabbed hold of Tas and dragged him around to stand in front, giving the kender a good view and allowing Sturm to keep firm hold of him, for he could see Tas’s fingers twitching with longing.

Raggart began to speak. “Long, long ago, when the world was new-made, our people lived in a land far from here, a land parched and scorched by the fierce young sun. There was no food, no water. Our people withered in the heat, and many died. At last, the chief could stand it no more. He begged the gods for help, and one of the gods, the Fisher God, answered. He knew of a land where fish were plentiful and fur-bearing animals abounded. He would show our people the way to that land, for he feared evil beings were trying to take it over. There was one problem—the land knew summer only briefly. It was a land of winter, a land of snow and ice.

“The chief and his people were heartily sick of the burning sun, the sweltering heat and constant hunger. They agreed to move, and the Fisher God gave them clothes suitable to the cold and taught them how to survive in the long winter. Then he lifted them in his hand and brought them to Icereach. The last gift the god gave them was the knowledge of how to make weapons of ice.

“The frostreavers were blessed by the gods, and even when the gods turned from us in their righteous anger, those of us who waited patiently for the gods to return continued to make frostreavers, and though the gods were gone, their blessing lingered as did our faith in them.

“On the eve of battle, it is tradition for the cleric who makes the frostreavers to look into the heart of each person and select the one who has the skill and courage, wisdom and knowledge to be a great warrior. To that person, the gods give the gift of a frostreaver.”

The warriors of the Ice Folk formed a line at the side of the chieftent and Harald, with a gesture, indicated their guests were to join them.

Flint frowned and shook his head. “Plain steel is good enough for Reorx and it’s good enough for me,” he said. “No offense to you or the Fish God,” he added hastily.

Raggart smiled at the dwarf and nodded. Laurana did not join the line. She remained standing beside Flint, along with Elistan. Sturm and Gilthanas took their places in line, Sturm being there mainly to keep an eye on Tasslehoff. Brian, Derek and Aran stood at the end.

Raggart, bearing the weapon swathed in white fur, walked along the line. He walked past the Ice Folk warriors, past Gilthanas and Sturm, and, to the kender’s vast disappointment, he carried the glistening weapon past Tasslehoff, who reached out to touch it.

“Ouch!” Tas snatched back his fingers. “I burned myself on ice!” he cried happily. “Look, Sturm, the ice burned me! How did that happen?”

Sturm shushed the kender.

Raggart continued on toward the three knights.

Derek muttered in disgust, “What am I going to do with a weapon made of ice? I suppose I’ll have to take it. It would insult them, otherwise. I still hope to persuade their chief to go along with my plan.”

Raggart walked past Aran, who eyed the weapon curiously and gave it a toast with his flask. The cleric walked past Brian and headed toward Derek, only to move past him.

Raggart halted, frowning. He glanced around, and his brow cleared. He turned from the line of warriors and walked over to Laurana. With a bow, he held out the frostreaver.

Laurana gasped. “There must be some mistake!”

“I see a tall tower, a blue dragon, and a bright silver lance whose light is dimmed by great sorrow,” said Raggart. “I see an orb broken and another orb stained with the blood of evil. I see golden armor shining like a beacon-light in the forefront of the battle. The gods have chosen you, lady, to receive their gift.”

Raggart extended the frostreaver. Laurana looked about in bewilderment, silently asking what to do. Sturm smiled encouragement and nodded. Gilthanas frowned and shook his head. Elf women train for battle, as do elf men, but the women do not fight unless the situation is desperate, and no elf woman would ever put herself forward as a leader of men!

“Take it, Laurana!” Tasslehoff called out eagerly. “But be careful. It burned me. See, look at my fingers!”

“The axe is well-crafted, I’ll say that for it,” said Flint, eying the weapon critically. “Heft it, lass. See what it feels like.”

Laurana flushed. “I am sorry, Raggart. I am truly honored by this gift. But I have the strangest feeling. I fear that by taking it, I’m taking hold of destiny.”

“Perhaps you are,” said Raggart.

“But that isn’t what I want,” Laurana protested.

“We each seek our destiny, child, but in the end, it is destiny that finds us.”

Laurana still hesitated.

Derek muttered to Brian, “If there was any evidence needed that the old man is a crackpot, we now have it.”

He spoke in Solamnic and kept his voice low, but Laurana heard, and she understood. Her lips tightened. Her face set in resolute lines. She reached out her hand, and, flinching a little in anticipation of the flesh-burning, bone-chilling cold, she grasped the frostreaver and lifted it from its fur bed.

Laurana relaxed. She held the weapon with ease. Strangely, the ice was no colder than the hilt of a steel sword. She lifted it to the light, admiring the beauty. The frostreaver was made of crystal-clear ice, cut and polished so that it was smooth, its lines elegant and simple.

The weapon appeared quite large and heavy, and her friends winced a little, expecting to see her drop it or lift it clumsily. To their astonishment, when Laurana hefted it, the frostreaver was perfectly suited to her grip.

“It seems to have been made for me,” she said, marveling.

Raggart nodded as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. He instructed her on the weapon’s use and care, warning her to keep it out of direct sunlight and away from the heat of the fire.

“For,” Raggart said, “although the ice from which we craft these is blessed by the gods and is unusually thick and dense, the frostreaver will melt, though not as fast as ordinary ice.”

Laurana thanked him and the Ice Folk, and lastly she thanked the gods. She swathed the frostreaver in its fur blanket, and, her cheeks still flushed, she asked in a low voice that the celebration continue. The drumming started again, when Brian, his heart beating fast, raised his hand.

“I have something to say.”

The drums fell silent. Aran and Derek stared at him in astonishment, for they knew how much their friend hated public speaking. Everyone else regarded him warmly, expectantly.

“I … um …” Brian had to stop a moment to clear his throat and then he continued, speaking rapidly to get this ordeal over. “There is one among us whom I have come to know well on this journey. I have been witness to his courage. I have come to admire his honesty. He is the embodiment of honor. Therefore”—Brian drew in a deep breath, knowing well the reaction he was going to get—“I hereby take Sturm Brightblade, son of Angriff Brightblade, as my squire.”

Brian’s cheeks burned. The blood pounded in his ears. He was dimly aware of polite applause from the Ice Folk, who had no idea what this meant. Finally, he dared to raise his head. Sturm had gone quite pale. Laurana, seated next to him, was applauding warmly. Gilthanas played a martial flourish on the flute. Elistan said something to Sturm and pressed his hand. The color returned to Sturm’s face. His eyes shimmered in the firelight.

“Are you certain about this, my lord?” Sturm asked in a low undertone. He cast a sidelong, meaningful glance at Derek, whose face was dark, suffused with anger.

“I am,” Brian said, and he reached out to clasp Sturm’s hand. “You realize what this does for you?”

Sturm nodded and said brokenly, “I do, my lord. I cannot tell you how much this means …” He bowed deeply. “I am honored by your regard, my lord. I will not fail you.”

Overcome with emotion, Sturm could say no more. Flint came over to congratulate him, as did Tasslehoff.

Laurana leaned over to ask Brian, “I heard you say this will do something for him. What will it do? Isn’t Sturm too old to be a squire? I thought squires were young lads who acted as servants to a knight.”

“Generally they are, though there are no age restrictions. Some men remain squires all their lives, content in that position. By making him my squire, Sturm may now apply to take his knightly trials, something he could not have done otherwise.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I have named Sturm my squire, the transgressions he committed which would have barred him from the knighthood are now expunged.”

A small frown line creased Laurana’s smooth forehead. “What transgression could Sturm have possibly committed?”

Brian hesitated, unwilling to say.

“I know he lied about being a knight,” Laurana said. “Sturm told me. Is that what you mean?”

Brian nodded, then looked up as a blast of frigid wind blew through the chieftent, causing the fires to waver. Derek had stalked out.

Laurana’s troubled gaze followed him. “You mean Derek would have used that to block Sturm’s application?”

“Oh, yes,” said Brian, nodding emphatically. “By making Sturm my squire, I’m telling the Council that I have decided his error in judgment should be forgiven and forgotten. Derek won’t even be able to bring up the fact that Sturm lied about being a knight.”

Sturm was patiently answering Tasslehoff’s questions, promising him that if he ever rode in a tourney, Tas could be the one to carry his shield, an honor that left the kender aglow with pleasure.

“I do not think Sturm lied,” said Laurana softly.

“As it happens, neither do I,” said Brian.

Aran walked over to shake Sturm’s hand and extend his congratulations, then went to Brian.

“Derek wants to see you outside,” he said in Brian’s ear.

“Is he very angry?” Brian asked.

“I figure he’s out there gnawing the edge off his sword blade,” Aran said cheerfully. He clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You did right. I’ll say as much over your grave.”

“Thanks,” Brian muttered.

The dancing started. The elders began beating out a lively rhythm on the drums and chanting. Young and old took the floor, forming a circle, joining arms, dipping and bobbing and weaving. They drew Laurana in, and even persuaded Flint, who kept falling over his own feet and tripping up the line, much to everyone’s mirth. Brian, sighing, headed for the tent opening.

Sturm stopped him. “I fear this will cause trouble between you and Derek.”

“I fear you’re right,” said Brian with a wry smile.

“Then don’t go through with it,” said Sturm earnestly. “It is not worth it—”

“I think it is. The knighthood needs men like you, Sturm,” Brian said. “Maybe more than it needs men like us.”

Sturm started again to protest. Brian unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to him. “Here, Squire. Have that weapon cleaned and polished by morning when we ride to battle.”

Sturm hesitated, then he accepted the sword with a grateful smile. “I will, my lord,” he said, bowing.

Brian walked into the icy wind blowing off the glacier. He saw pale shapes slinking outside the ring of tents—wolves, watching them. He wondered if Raggart was right, if the wolves were spies. They certainly seemed intent upon them. He shivered in the cold, and found more cold awaiting him—cold fury.

“You did that deliberately to discredit me!” Derek said accusingly. “You did it to destroy my credibility and make me look the fool!”

Brian was astonished. Whatever else he had expected, it wasn’t this. “I don’t believe it! You think I made Sturm my squire just to get back at you?”

“Of course,” Derek returned. “Why else would you do it? Brightblade is a liar, quite possibly a bastard. Ye gods, you might as well have made the kender your squire! Or perhaps you’re saving that for tomorrow night!” he snapped viciously.

Brian stared at Derek in amazement too great for words.

“I want both you and Aran in our tent before moon rise,” Derek continued. “You will need your rest for the morrow. And tell Brightblade he is to report to me then as well. As a squire, he now falls under my jurisdiction. He will obey my orders. No more siding with the elves against me. Mark my words—the first time Brightblade disobeys me will be the last.”

Derek turned and walked off toward the tent the knights shared, his boots crunching on the ice, his sword clanking at his side.

Brian, sighing deeply, went back to the warmth and merriment of the chieftent. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the wolves slinking and sidling about the outskirts of the camp.