Darkness and Light

Chapter 17

The last loop of cord gave way, and Sturm's hands were free. He snatched the dagger from Cutwood and quickly worked through the ropes around his ankles. The hemp from the Tarvolina was old and quickly parted. Sturm leaped to his feet.

"Lead me back to the audience hall!" he said to the gnomes atop the wall. Fitter waved and ran all the way around the room before veering off for the king's audience chamber. Roperig and Wingover trotted behind him.

"Come on, Cutwood," Sturm shouted, hoisting the gnome on his shoulders.

The sun was going down. Sturm thanked Paladine for that. Without sunlight, the hordes of tree-men loyal to the mad Rapaldo would soon revert to rooted plants.

He passed through another opening in the wall and found himself facing a dozen armed tree-men. They presented a solid front, barring his progress. Sturm had only Kitiara's dagger to oppose their long glass swords.

"Hold on, Cutwood," he said. The gnome gripped Sturm's head tightly.

Flat shadows climbed the walls. The sun was sinking fast.

Already the lower halves of the Lunitarians were in shade; soon their feet would fix where they stood. A tree-man thrust the forty-inch span of his scarlet glass sword at

Sturm. Though the guard was slow, the blade flickered past

Sturm's chin, far outreaching his twelve-inch dagger.

Woodenness began to claim the Lunitarians' lower bodies, and they took root. The edge of night was midway up their trunks now. The tree-men's arms wavered in slow motion, like weeds beneath the surface of a pond. The guard that Sturm faced snagged the tip of his sword on

Sturm's fur hood and ripped through the hide and hair. That was the tree-man's last act. Bark closed over his eyes, leav ing him and the others featureless and inert.

Wingover appeared atop the wall. "Master Brightblade!

Come quickly! Something terrible has happened!" Before the human could ask what, the gnome ran back the way he'd come.

"He was weeping," Cutwood. noted in astonishment.

"Wingover never weeps."

Sturm thrust his arms and shoulder between the trunks of the tree-men and heaved himself through. Their bark scraped and pulled at him, but he struggled on until he broke out of the rear rank of guards. The passage ahead was clear.

Sturm and Cutwood burst into the audience hall. The knight looked first to Kitiara. Was it her? Was she hurt, dying, or dead? The woman and the two gnomes were locked tightly in the embrace of their now-immobile guards.

Blood stained the knotty fingers of the one that held Bell crank.

Bellcrank was dead. Rapaldo was nowhere to be seen.

"Kit! Are you all right?" Sturm called.

"Yes, and Sighter, too, but Bellcrank — "

"I see. Where's Rapaldo?"

"He's nearby. Be wary, Sturm, he's got that axe."

The room was thick with immobile tree-men. The gather ing darkness made the audience hall a forest of shadows.

Out of the uncertain dark came Rapaldo's snickering laugh.

"Who has a lamp to light you to bed? Who has a chopper to chop off your head?"

"Rapaldo! Face me and fight!" Sturm cried.

"Heh, heh, heh."

Something moved overhead. From the wall, Wingover shouted, "He's up there! Duck, Sturm!"

Sturm dropped to the floor just as the axe blade whisked through the place his head had been. "Kit, where's your sword? Rapaldo has mine!"

"On the floor in front of Sighter," she said.

Sturm scrambled forward on his belly as Rapaldo flitted through the tops of the tree-men. Kitiara called to Sturm, explaining the crazed king's ability to levitate.

"He's dropped part of his weights," Sighter added. "He's floating about six feet off the ground."

Sturm's hand closed over Kitiara's sword handle and was up in a flash. Her blade was light and keen, and seemed to slice the air with a will of its own".' Sturm saw Rapaldo's tat tered pants' legs and rope sandals stepping on the heads of the tree-men. Sturm slashed at him, but only succeeded in chipping off bits of the Lunitarian that Rapaldo was stand ing on. The king of Lunitari bounded away, giggling.

"I can't see him!" Sturm complained. "Wingover, where is he?"

"On your left — behind — " Sturm ducked the axe blow and cut at Rapaldo. He felt the tip of Kitiara's sword snag cloth and heard the cloth tear.

"Close, very close, Sir Sturmbright, but you're too heavy on your feet," Rapaldo said, chortling.

"Kit, I'd welcome any tactical suggestions you might want to make," Sturm said, his chest heaving in the chill night air.

"What you need is a crossbow," Kitiara hissed. She strained against the enfolded limbs of solid wood that held her. Because her arms were pinned at her sides, she could not get any leverage. Kitiara tried to twist her shoulders from side to side. The tree-man's arms groaned and cracked, but held firm.

Sturm shifted the dagger to his right hand and put the sword in his left. The hall was very quiet. The gnomes, who had been crying for their fallen colleague, ceased all noise.

Sturm crouched low and moved to the ramshackle throne.

He climbed up on the chair and stood erect. "Rapaldo!

Rapaldo, I'm on your throne. I spit on it, Rapaldo! You're a petty, lunatic carpenter who dreams he is a king."

The clink of chain warned him — a split second later the axe bit deeply into the back of the chair and stuck there, wedged tightly by the tough oak of Krynn. Rapaldo tried frantically to free the axe, but his spindly arms and lack of leverage prevented him.

"Surrender!" Sturm demanded, presenting the point of the dagger to Rapaldo's throat.

"Ta-ra-ra!" cried the king, planting his feet on the back of the throne. He heaved the tall chair over backward, sending him, Sturm, bare sword, axe, and dagger down together in a heap. There was a mighty crash, a scream, and silence.

"Sturm!" called Kitiara.

He shook himself free of the shattered chair and stood. A gash in his cheek bled, but Sturm was otherwise unhurt.

Rapaldo was pinned to the floor, the dagger through his heart. His legs and arms floated above aimlessly. Drops of blood flowed up the dagger's hilt and detached, drifting up into the air.

Sturm found the axe in the debris. Stolidly ignoring the fact that the trees would be living beings again by morning, he chopped Kitiara and Sighter free. The other gnomes descended from the wall and helped get Bellcrank out of the wooden bonds. They laid the stout gnome gently on the floor and covered his face with their kerchiefs. Fitter began to sob.

"What shall we do?" asked Wingover tearfully.

Kitiara said, "Bellcrank is avenged. What more is there to do?"

"Oughtn't we to bury him?" said Roperig heavily.

"Yes, of course," said Sturm. He gathered Bellcrank in his arms and led the sorrowing band outside.

The gnomes stood together. The only sounds were sniffles and the scuffing of small shoes. Sighter brushed the wood chips from his clothes and strode off. The others fell in behind him. He went to the middle of the mushroom garden and stopped. Pointing to the red fluff, he declared that this was the spot.

The gnomes began to dig. Kitiara offered to help, but

Cutwood politely declined. The gnomes knelt in a circle and dug the grave with their hands. When they were satisfied,

Sturm stepped in and, with great feeling, laid the heroic

Bellcrank in his final resting place.

Sighter spoke first. "Bellcrank was a fine technician and a good chemist. Now he is dead. The engine has ceased to run, the gears have seized and stopped." Sighter tossed a handful of pale crimson soil over his friend. "Farewell, fare well."

Wingover said, "He was a skilled metallurgist," and added another handful of dirt.

"An excellent arguer," noted Cutwood, choking back emotion.

"A dedicated experimenter," Rainspot said, sprinkling his portion.

"The finest of gear makers," said Roperig sorrowfully.

When Fitter's turn came, he was too upset to think of any thing to say. "He-he was a hearty eater," the littlest gnome murmured at last. Roperig managed a fond smile and patted his apprentice on the back.

They mounded the dirt over their fallen friend. Wingover went back into the keep and returned with a piece of iron work from Rapaldo's wrecked ship. It was a gear, part of the

Tarvolina's capstan. The gnomes set this on the grave, as a monument to their colleague.

Kitiara turned her back and headed for the keep. After a moment of respectful silence, Sturm hurried after her. 'You might have found something to say to the gnomes," he chid ed.

"We have much to do before the sun rises again. We've got to gather our belongings and get as far from here as the night will let us," she said.

"Why the haste? Rapaldo is dead."

Kitiara swept an arm around. "His subjects are very much alive! How do you think they'll feel when they awaken and find their god-king dead?"

Sturm pondered this a moment, then said, "We can hide the body."

"No good," she said, crossing the outer wall. "The tree men will assume the worst if we're gone and Rapaldo's miss ing." Kitiara paused at the door to the throne room. "All the more reason to get out of here and find the Cloudmaster."

She was right. Sturm found his dented helmet and put it on. Kitiara replaced her sword and wrenched the dagger out of the dead man's chest. Seeing Rapaldo bobbing like a cork gave her a macabre idea. She knelt on one knee and unwound the remaining chain from Rapaldo's waist. They could use it when they found the flying ship.

Kitiara gripped Rapaldo's bloody shirt and guided the body toward Sturm. "Here's my idea of a quick and easy funeral," she said, letting go. The lifeless body of Rapaldo the First rose slowly, turning slightly as it went. Within min utes, it was lost from sight in the violet vault of the sky.

Sturm was aghast.

"It could just as easily have been me he killed, you know," she said flatly. "My only regret is that you got to him instead of me."

"He was a demented wretch. There was no honor in slay ing such a person."

"Honor! One day you'll face a foe without your concept of honor, and that will be the end of Sturm Brightblade."

They went back to the mushroom garden. The gnomes were waiting. Their tall expedition packs were weighed down even further with bits of metal salvaged from

Rapaldo's cache. Kitiara announced her intention to follow the path that the Micones had been on before their tracks were lost in the rocks. Sighter looked to Sturm.

"What do you say, Master Brightblade?"

"I have no better plan," he replied simply. A chill was growing in his heart. The woman who dealt so harshly with a dead foe was more and more like a stranger to him.

This was their darkest hour since leaving Krynn. One of their own was dead, buried in the cold moon soil, and a poor, insane king spiraled ever upward, a weightless corpse with no place to land. It would be a long, unhappy night.

And yet, when the sun next shone over Rapaldo's garden, a giant mushroom grew out of the grave of Bellcrank.

Unlike the scarlet fungi around it, this one was pure and shining white.

Sturm had another vision. It came to him while he walked, yet his step never faltered.

A horse neighed. Sturm saw four bony beasts tied' to a charred post. It was day, but heavy shadows lay over every thing. Sturm looked up and recognized the ruined battle ments of his father's castle. Across the courtyard he saw a broken wagon lying with one wheel off. A man was lashed to the remaining wheel, his wrists cruelly bound to its rim.

Sturm closed on this desperate figure. He prayed to Pala dine that it was not his father.

The man lifted his eyes. Through the wild growth of beard and the bruises of a brutal beating Sturm recognized

Bren, his father's companion in exile. As in Sturm's last vision, Bren looked right through Sturm. The younger

Brightblade was a phantom, a thing of no substance.

Four men shuffled out of the shadows on Sturm's right.

They were lean, rough-looking men of a type Sturm had often seen on the road. Vagabonds. Brigands. Killers.

"When is we moving on, Touk?" said one of the men.

"This here castle is haunted, I tell you."

"You afraid of ghosts'" said the dirty-faced fellow with the brass earring.

"I'm afraid of anything I can't stick my billhook through."

"When are we leavin'?" asked the last brigand in line.

Dirty-Face laughed, showing yellow teeth. "When I'm sure there ain't no more swag here'bout, that's when." Touk spat in the dirt. "Let's have a word wi' our honored guest."

The bandit and two of his men stood over the prisoner.

Touk grabbed Bren by his matted hair and lifted his head.

Sturm ached to help him, but he could do nothing.

"Where's the treasure, old man?" asked Touk, flashing a wicked knife under the old soldier's chin.

"There's no treasure," Bren gasped. "The castle was sacked years ago."

"Come on! Do you take us for fools? There's always a few coins tucked away somewhere, eh? So where are they?" He pressed the tip of the blade into Bren's throat.

"I–I'll tell," he said weakly. "Below the great hall — a secret room. I can show you."

Touk removed the knife. "This better be a straight story."

"No tricks. I'll take you right to it."

They cut him loose and dragged him along. Sturm fol lowed on their heels, close enough to smell the mingled stench of sweat, grime, fear, and greed.

Bren guided them to the cellar beneath the great hall.

There, in a long corridor, he counted the torch sconces on the right side. At number eight, he said, "That's it, that's the one." One of the brigands lit the stump in the sconce with the brand he carried.

"The bracket turns," said Bren.

Touk seized the stout iron holder and shook it. It swung to the left and stayed there. A section of the tiled floor lifted with a loud grinding sound. Touk tossed his torch into the widening gap. It bounced down a steep stone staircase and came to rest, still burning, at the bottom. Something shiny gleamed in the torch light.

"Good work," Touk said, grinning. Without another word, he shoved his knife between Bren's ribs. Angriff

Brightblade's loyal man groaned and slid down the wall. His head sagged as the dark stain spread over his chest.

"C'mon, lads, let's collect our reward!" Touk led his two cronies down the steps.

Sturm bent to see Bren's face. Though his skin had gone waxen, Bren's eyes still glittered with life. "Young master," he said. Blood flecked his lips.

Sturm recoiled. Bren could see him!

Slowly, with terrible effort, the old soldier gripped the rough stone wall and dragged himself to his feet. "Master

Sturm — you've come back. I always knew you would."

Bren reached out to Sturm, hand swaying. Sturm tried to clasp his hand, but of course he had no substance. Bren's fin gers passed through him and closed on the sconce. As death claimed him, Bren fell, and his weight bore the bracket back to its original position.

The trap door lowered noisily. One robber gave a yell and dashed to safety. At the top of the steps, he stopped, riveted, staring at Sturm.

"Ahh." he screamed. "Ghost!" He stumbled back, bowl ing over Touk and the other brigand. The slab of stone descended, cutting off their screams for help.

The world went red. Sturm shook his head, where the screams of Touk and the other robbers still rang. He was plodding across the plains of Lunitari as before.

"Back with us?" asked Kitiara. Sturm made inarticulate sounds. This had been his longest vision yet, and somehow near the end, the men on Krynn had been able to see him.

He told his companions his tale.

"Hmm, it's said that dying men have second sight," Kiti ara mused. "Bren and the thief were both facing death; may be that's why they could see you."

"But I couldn't help them," Sturm complained. "I had to watch them die. Bren was a good man. He served my father well."

"Did you see or hear of your father at all?" asked Sighter.

Sturm shook his head. That very omission preyed on his mind. What had separated Bren from Lord Brightblade?

Was his father well? Where was he?

Wingover let out a yell. "I see the tracks!" he cried. Where the slabs of wine-colored sandstone broke into fingers of rock, crimson sand had drifted in between. And there were the circular prints, as regular as clockwork. Kitiara's notion had been right — the Micones had come this way.