Love And War (17 page)

As the cleric stepped toward the knight, Krynos actually blanched slightly. Garrick dimly
wondered what could frighten a man of the general's reputation. That thought vanished with all others as
the cleric reached down and put a hand to each side of the prisoner's head.

The knight fell down an abyss. He screamed all the way. Somewhere, he could hear a
commanding voice that demanded things of him. The words meant nothing to him, though, and
he kept falling.

A mighty hand came from the darkness. It glowed with a light all its own. With little
effort, it caught the plummeting Garrick and held him tight. The pressure of the monstrous
grip was not stifling; rather, it reassured the knight. Overwhelmed by a wave of peace and
love, Garrick slid off into velvety blackness.

He awoke briefly to see two men arguing. One was incredibly ancient and looked more like
an old corpse. The other was a giant who looked capable of breaking the thin man in two
without trying. They seemed to be arguing about something. Occasionally, one would point
at Garrick. The knight waited patiently for someone to ask him a question. When none was
forthcoming, he drifted slowly back to sleep.

THE GOLDEN-ARMORED MAN LOOKED DOWN AT GARRICK WITH FONDNESS AND RESPECT. GARRICK FOUND
HIMSELF UNABLE TO LOOK THE OTHER STRAIGHT IN THE EYES. HE DID NOT FEEL WORTHY OF THE
AUDIENCE GRANTED TO HIM.

THE OTHER SMILED. “IT IS TIME, GARRICK, TIME YOU JOINED THE RANKS. TIME YOU JOINED HUMA
AND THE OTHERS.”

FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE YOUNG KNIGHT SAW THE RANKS BEHIND PALADINE. AMONG THEM STOOD ONE
HE KNEW WELL. FROM HIS PLACE, STANDEL NODDED GRAVELY TO HIM - AND THEN BROKE OUT INTO A
BIG SMILE.

PALADINE BADE HIM STAND. “THE TIME IS NOW, GARRICK.”

“Time to wake, Knight!” A rough hand shook his head.

Garrick's vision was red, and he realized belatedly that blood was dripping from his
forehead. His right foot felt numb, his arms burned with excruciating pain. He spat blood
from his mouth.

A draconian stood next to the general. It was Ssaras and what expression was readable on
the reptilian face showed that the creature was angry beyond words. The draconian's breathing was haggard, as if it had been laboring hard. Of the cleric, whom Garrick only
vaguely remembered, there was no sign.

General Krynos scowled at him. “What are you made of, Knight? For three days, you've
endured tortures that have turned other men into screaming maniacs! You've sat there all
this time, mumbling to your god! Even Thaygan could get nothing from you!”

Garrick did not answer. There seemed no need for a reply, and his head hurt too much to
think, anyway.

“You are useless to me, Knight. Whether or not your allies are out there - and I admit for
the first time that you may have fooled me by giving me the truth - I will lead my army
come the morrow. We will be through the pass and well on our way to the garrison by the
time the day is ended. The Queen will see who among her followers is most valuable to her.”

Ssaras swayed unsteadily. The general frowned. With some effort, the draconian stood
straight. Its mottled color looked even more splotchy than before.

Krynos wiped the sweat from his forehead. “In all fairness, you've proved a worthy
challenge. Any last request before I have Ssaras make an end of you?”

With superhuman effort, Garrick forced himself to sit straight. The glazed look was gone
from his eyes. “I demand death in combat.”

The general raised an eyebrow. “Combat? You can barely stand, much less fight. I will make
Ssaras give you a swift, painless cut across the throat. Yes, that would be much better,
much more efficient, I think.”

Garrick virtually ground the words out with his teeth. “I demand death in combat - with
you, unless you're afraid.”

One mailed fist went for a weapon. The general was barely able to restrain himself. He
slowly released his grip on the hilt of his sword.

“Very well. I shall grant your request for death.”

The torturer looked at him in shock. “Master! Think what you say! This is a trick!”

“It is the request of a dead man, Ssaras! If he wishes to fight me, then so he shall. It
will give me some little amusement before I begin final preparations for our departure.
Untie him, Ssaras.”

“Lord master Krynos, powerful warlord, I beg - ”

“Untie him - unless, of course, you think that I am incapable of defeating one such as he.”

Ssaras moved over to Garrick and pulled out a knife.

For a brief moment, the draconian eyed the knight's unprotected throat. A frown appeared
on the reptilian's face as it tried in vain to discern something.

“I'm waiting, Ssaras.”

The draconian hurried about its work. The strangling bonds fell away. Slowly, carefully,
Garrick rose from the chair he had been tied to for at least four days. His muscles were
cramped, but he otherwise felt little pain.

He moved one foot and discovered part of the reason for such little pain. Much of his body
was numb, probably permanently. Blood still trickled from a few wounds. Garrick purposely
turned his mind to attaining a weapon of some sort.

“Ssaras, present him with an appropriate toy.”

Scurrying to a junk pile of Garrick's own equipment, the draconian pulled out the chipped,
dirty sword. In a mockery of the knights, the creature held it high and waved it three
times, hissing the whole while. Krynos smirked and motioned the torturer to get on with
things.

Ssaras dragged the sword over to Garrick and dropped it by the knight's feet. Garrick bent
down slowly and retrieved it, each movement sending shocks through his system. If not for
the medallion still hidden under his tunic, he would have given in to his pain. Only the
warmth and strength it provided kept him going.

With the shadow of a smile, General Krynos pulled out his own weapon. It was a tremendous
broadsword which many men would have had to handle with both hands. The general swung it
around easily with only one. He saluted Garrick. “Are you ready?”

In answer, the knight held his sword before him and tested its balance. It was like
holding an old friend. Somewhere to the side, by the tent entrance, Ssaras hissed
displeasure.

“Ready.”

The look of amusement left the face of General Krynos the moment he saw the sword coming
toward him. He was barely able to block the blow. Cursing silently, he backed away to
regain his balance. Garrick followed through, giving his larger opponent little time to do
anything but defend. The draconian jumped up and down, hissing all the time. Sharp claws
continually stroked the hilt of the knife that the creature always kept tucked in its belt
for when a prisoner broke loose. The draconian's greatest fear was not knowing whether its
master would approve of such initiative or cut off his servant's head.

Krynos was bleeding from three minor wounds, but Garrick's attack was slowing. The general
was able to breathe and think now. The tide was turning swiftly.

All his strength left Garrick's arm with a suddenness that surprised both fighters. The
knight's sword went flying toward the tent entrance, where an alert Ssaras was barely able
to leap aside before the blade buried itself in the spot where the draconian had just been
standing. Garrick blinked and let his hand fall to his side. Krynos moved in to finish the
fight and his opponent with one thrust.

Garrick fell to the ground, untouched by the general's blade.

Krynos stood there, staring at the body. The torturer rushed over and turned the knight
face up. The reptilian face moved to within an inch of Garrick's. After a quick
examination, the draconian looked up at his lord.

“He is dead. His wounds must have been more than he could stand.”

“It's a wonder he lived through what he did.” The general sheathed his weapon. “He was
half-dead when the patrol brought him in. I wonder why.”

“What shall I do with him, master?” “Bury him. He deserves that much - fool that he was.”
“As you command.” The draconian left the tent. General Krynos, late of Culthairai, studied
the figure sprawled before him and sighed. He had been hoping for much more from the knight. The war
had grown dull.

The four soldiers that buried Garrick, Knight of Solamnia, were half-asleep. Most of them
were sweating profusely, despite the cool breeze blowing. One had to be excused to seek
out a cleric after he nearly fell into the hole. The remaining three continued their work,
trying to finish the job quickly and get back to more important things, like their card
game. In their haste, not one of them happened to notice the medallion which slipped out
of hiding when the corpse was tossed in. Even as they buried it with the body, the
medallion seemed to glow brighter and brighter, despite the lack of any real light.

*****

On the following morning, the army did not move. A great number of soldiers complained
about heat and great thirst. Most of them had become bedridden. The number of ill grew
quickly.

The clerics were of no help whatsoever. They had been the first to be stricken and, oddly,
the worst cases. Most of them died within a day.

General Krynos attempted to organize the remainder of his troops. He had the healthy
separated from their fallen comrades. Yet more and more men collapsed, a total of one-
quarter of the army's strength in only one day.

Confusion reigned. Some soldiers attempted to sneak away. Many were caught and executed,
and the rest were tracked down. Each time, they were found dead no more than a few hours
from the main camp. It was General Krynos who first understood what had happened. He had
let the bait of the trap lure him into a battle with the one foe he could not defeat. Even
as he himself fell victim to the plague, which by that time had claimed almost half his
army, he could not understand how he and the others, especially the late cleric Thaygan,
could have missed the signs.

Four days later, the plague, which Garrick had fought to a stalemate for more than a week,
had wiped out all but a few scattered remnants of the once-powerful army. The tales told
by the survivors would prevent any other army from coming through that way for the rest of
the war. Even the clerics of the Queen refused to go near, for they could feel that the
power of Paladine was involved somehow.

With time, the villagers would return, the garrison would be reinforced for an enemy that
would never come. No one would remember the single knight who had kept his vow the only
way he knew how.

The Exiles Paul B. Thompson and Tonya R. Carter He dreamed of battle. The small bed shook with the shock of phantom cavalry and the tramp
of spectral men-at- arms. In the midst of this dream melee a deep voice said, “Sturm, wake
up. Get up, boy.”

Sturm Brightblade opened his eyes. A tall, burly man, dark of eye and fiercely moustached,
towered over him. The torch he carried cast smoky highlights on his steel breastplate and
wolf-fur mantle.

“Father?” said the boy groggily. “Get up, son,” Lord Brightblade said. “It's time to go”
“Go? Where, Father?”

Lord Brightblade didn't answer. He turned quickly to the door. “Dress warmly,” he said
before going out. “Snow is flying. Hurry, boy.” The door thumped shut behind him.

Sturm sat up and rubbed his eyes. The tapers in his room were lit, but the ashes in the
grate were cold. He pulled on a heavy robe, wincing when his feet touched the bare stone
floor. As he stood, unsure of what to do next, he heard a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he said.

Mistress Carin, handmaid to his mother, the Lady Ilys, bustled in. Her usually cheery face
was pale under a close flannel hood.

“Are you not yet dressed, Master?” she asked. “Your mother sent me to speed your packing.
Do hurry!”

Sturm rubbed his nose in confusion. “Hurry, Mistress? Why? What's happening?”

“It's not for me to tell you, young lord.” She hastened across the narrow room to a black
wooden chest and began tossing clothing out of it. “This, and this. Not that. This, yes,”
she muttered. She glanced at the puzzled boy and said, “Well, get your bag!” Sturm pulled
a long leather bag from under the bed. He was big for his eleven years, but the bag was
nearly as long as he was tall. As clothing rained on his bed, Sturm gathered each item and
folded it neatly into the bag.

“No time for that,” Carin declared. “Just fill the bag, Sturm.”

He threw a single woolen stocking aside. “Where are we going, Mistress?” he demanded. “And
why are we going?”

Carin looked away. “The peasants,” she said.

“The people of Avrinet? I don't understand. Father said they were suffering from the hard
winter, but - ”

“There's no time for talk, young lord. We must hurry.” Carin shook her head and dug into
the half-empty chest again. “It's a terrible thing when people forget their place. . . .”

Sturm was still methodically folding every article of clothing when the maid took it away
from him and stuffed in the last few remaining items.

“There,” she said. “All done.” She dragged the bag to the door. “Someone will come for
that. In the meantime, finish dressing. Wear your heaviest cloak - the one with the fur
hood.”

“Mistress Carin?” Sturm's lost tone halted the woman. “Are you coming with us?”

She drew her short, round body up proudly. “Where my lady goes, so go I.” And then she was gone. The main hall of Castle Brightblade was in a
hushed tumult. Only a few candles burned in the wall sconces, but by their troubled light Sturm
saw that the entire household was astir. In recent days, many of the servants had fled,
taking tools and petty valuables with them. Sturm had only the vaguest notion of how
things were beyond the castle walls.

Armed men stood at every door, pikes at the ready. Sturm fell into a stream of rushing
servants and was carried with them to the door of the guardroom. His father was there,
with another large man who lifted his head when the boy entered. Sturm recognized his
father's good friend and fellow knight, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan.