Knights of the Sword

Chapter 7

They did not meet Jemar aboard his bannership Windsword, but in a chamber in the fortress-thick walls of a waterfront warehouse he owned through a discreet Istarian agent. Windsword was in the outer harbor, and Jemar would not have allowed a meeting that needed magical warding against unwanted listeners aboard the ship anyway.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, friend Tarothin,” the sea barbarian chief said. “The same for those who sailed with us to Crater Gulf. But there are plenty of new hands. They won’t be easy, trusting a wizard, and I wouldn’t be easy, trusting all of them to keep their mouths shut.

“Besides, I’ve grown a bit wary of spells taken to sea myself. There’s more magic wandering about the water than before, and if a ship bound by one spell hits a storm bound by another-well, I can think of two ships like that who sailed into such storms and never sailed out again.”

“I understand,” Tarothin said. “It’s the problem that some wizards have with their staff, when they want to use it for both magic and fighting. I remember once a Black Robe who tried to knock a sword out of someone’s hand with the end of his staff, and the sword had a spell bound into it that the staff released.”

“Then what happened?” Pirvan said, trying not to let his impatience show.

Sea barbarian manners required some time spent discussing family, crops, successful voyages (or other kinds), and so on. Jemar was a friend, to whom Pirvan would not wittingly be rude, but he was also a friend to whom they had come in dire need and with the hot breath of enemies all but searing the backs of their necks.

“Released slowly, nothing might have happened,” Tarothin said. “Released all at once-well, they never found either body, and the hole in the road was twenty paces wide and ten deep. A vallenwood a hundred paces away went over, too, but it might have been rotten-”

“As the gods send,” Jemar said. A servant came in with salt fish, pickled vegetables, hard cakes with hot fruit sauce, and tarberry tea, wine, and brandy. When all had served themselves, Jemar seemed to consider the demands of manners met.

“Now, it seems to me that all the uproar Istar is making concerns this mysterious minotaur. So if we find a way to end his career, we will also end Istar’s excuse for embattling the north shore.

“It won’t be only Karthay that sighs as happily as a well-loved woman when that happens. A good few honest merchants with business in Solamnia and Thorbardin will be happy not to have Istarian captains looking over their shoulders.

“It’s not so bad now, with Aurhinius commanding. He has the name of an honest man. But he also likes to lead from in front, which is another good thing about him but one likely to get him killed. An arrow or a rabbit hole, and he’d be in the family vault and in his place one of those sticky-handed merchant’s boys who know how to make war pay for everyone except the men who actually shed their blood.”

Jemar sighed and rinsed his throat with a hefty gulp of brandy. “Sorry to go on like that. Let me be silent and drink, while you speak. Lady Haimya, beauty should have first place, so if it will not offend Sir Pirvan-”

“So be it,” Pirvan said, and nodded to his wife.

“I think we should begin in Karthay, and as swiftly as the winds and tides allow us to reach it …”

* * * * *

The meeting of Pirvan and his companions with Jemar the Fair was not the only meeting that night that altered the destiny of the races of Krynn.

In the northern town of Biyerones, Aurhinius met with his principal captains. Outside, the streets of the town were silent, except for the thump of boots on cobblestones as the soldiers of the guard patrolled on foot. He hoped the citizens heard the patrolling soldiers as protection rather than menace, but could not concern himself with their opinions now.

“We shall remain here, with the cavalry thrown out as a screen from the shore south to Krovari,” Aurhinius said. “That will keep all the cavalry in the field, but there are not so many ways that a large band on foot can pass through such a screen. Small bands, the townsfolk and villagers can deal with themselves.”

“One may doubt their loyalty,” a high captain of horse said.

“One may, in private,” Aurhinius said sharply. “Say nothing of this where others may hear, however. These northern folk are stubborn. Called traitors aloud, they may take a firmer stand against us. Also, everyone with a feud with a neighbor or an appetite for a neighbor’s flocks and land will use the charge of treason as an excuse to assail that neighbor.

“Istar has not soldiers enough to bring peace to a land torn by such feuds. Nor would the city send them to us if she had them.”

The high captain craved his general’s pardon and was silent thereafter.

Aurhinius rose and strode to the map. “We defend, with both strength and skill, until the fleet comes north to secure our seaward flank. When we assail the Minotaur’s lair by land and sea, he will have no way out. We will be able to maintain the siege with small forces supplied by sea, much longer than his stronghold can endure.”

“And then?” It was another captain, one with a reputation for both valor and cruelty.

“Then we may have a real minotaur’s skull for the Warrior’s Gate, or we may have at least two prisoners who can teach us something of war. I think this-Waydol-has come to our shores at the behest of minotaurs of the highest rank. It never hurts, in war, to learn how much one’s enemy knows about one, or by what methods they seek to spy one out.”

* * * * *

Also in the north, but somewhat farther to the west, a minotaur and his human heir sat on a rock overlooking the sea. Only Lunitari shone clear of clouds, tinting a path across a sea hardly rougher than a millpond.

Waydol shifted in his seat. Over the years, his weight and tough hide had worn a virtual saddle in the rock. Then he drew a katar, a vial of oil, and a whetstone from a pouch at his belt and began sharpening the huge dagger.

As if it was not already sharp enough to shave with, Darin thought. But he knew that Waydol needed something to do with his hands when his thoughts ran in disturbing directions. Darin would throw no stones at Waydol for being uneasy, considering how ill he had slept since returning with Aurhinius’s golden helmet. He had even thought of asking Sirbones for a healing spell to bring restful sleep!

“If Istar comes against us with all the force it can muster, it may go ill with us,” Waydol said at last.

“Not without their paying a price, in more than red-faced generals,” Darin said.

Waydol’s laughter was a sharp, low-pitched boom rather than the long rumble. “I would have given a horn to see Aurhinius’s face after his two attendants fell on him and drove him into the mud. But there is no pleasure without a price, and I think we are about to pay for ours.”

Darin was silent, knowing that Waydol was less seeking advice and counsel than trying to define his thoughts by speaking aloud. It would not be the first time that Darin had played a sympathetic ear, for he had known since he was no more than eight that Waydol’s lot was harsher than his heir’s ever would be. Darin might die in battle tomorrow, but he would not have spent twenty-odd years before that battle alone on a foreign shore, with no sight of any other being of his own race.

Waydol was also silent for a while, so only the sigh of the wind and the distant murmur of waves disturbed the night. At last Waydol turned and looked at his heir. For the first time, Darin saw a pale clouding at the corner of Waydol’s right eye, and vowed to speak to Sirbones about this, with or without Waydol’s permission.

“I have taught you the minotaur way of war,” Waydol said. “At least I have tried. How would you describe that way?”

For a moment, Darin thought he was more likely to be able to sprout wings and fly than to answer that question. Then before shame could silence him for even longer, his lips found words.

“To always be fit and armed. To use all the strength needed in a fight, which is not the same as all one’s strength. To never begin a fight which is dishonorable, and to never yield to a foe who has done so, or who asks your honor as the price of your life.”

This time, Waydol’s laughter raised echoes from the cliffs all around the hidden bay. He clapped an arm across Darin’s shoulders, and for a moment Darin was sure his spine was jarred from neck to waist and several of his ribs cracked. It was a while before he could breathe easily again.

Meanwhile, Waydol sat on the rock, while looking rather as if he wanted to dance, caper, fling his arms about, and sing to the moon like a satyr. As Darin drew his first deep breath in a while, Waydol gave a gusty sigh.

“Well, Darin. I asked many years ago if I could raise you with the soul of a minotaur and the soul of a human in the same body. I forget what I vowed if this prayer was granted, and I know I have not kept those vows.

“Yet somehow, some gods-yours, or mine, or some who care not what shape of body a soul inhabits-granted my wish. This night, I do not think there is a more content being on Krynn than I.”

Waydol stood up and rested a massive hand on Darin’s forehead, then rumpled his hair. “Go down and sleep well, Heir. I think it is best that I keep a vigil tonight, before we talk of whether Aurhinius is an honorable foe or not.”

Darin saw there was no disputing or cajoling Waydol, so he went down to his hut and wrapped himself in stone-warmed furs. He expected another restless night, but it was as if Waydol’s touch had been the sleeping spell from Sirbones. Darin slept without dreams until the sun was well above the horizon.

* * * * *

In Istar, the Conclave of Wizards met once more beneath the Tower of High Sorcery, without accomplishing much. Tarothin was absent, which everyone expected and no one remarked on.

Rubina was also absent, which no one had expected, and on which more than a few people did remark, even at length.

Also in Istar, the kingpriest met with a certain priest who served Zeboim the Sea Queen. At least the man was said to be a priest, and not a renegade mage.

The man spoke wisely and well, but not even the kingpriest, let alone those who ushered the man to and from the kingpriest’s chambers, could look unmoved on the visitor’s mask.

It was made in the shape of a gigantic turtle’s head, the beak studded with barbed fangs. To be sure, the Sea Queen took the form of a giant turtle when she moved through the waters, but when she did, she brought evil and destruction.

Also, whatever shone in the eyeholes of the mask, it was not wholly the priest’s own eyes.

* * * * *

Clouds had swept across most of the sky, effacing Lunitari and most of the stars, when Pirvan and his companions came out of Jemar’s warehouse. Tarothin remained behind, promising to join them in the morning after visiting certain friends from the towers.

The harborfront streets were narrow and ill-lit at the best of times, and not improved by the darkness the clouds had spread across Istar. Pirvan took his bearings from the masthead lights of ships tied along the wharves, then turned on to a street that proclaimed itself Glad Girls’ Lane. This close to the harbor, Pirvan suspected that he knew when and why the girls were glad.

They were three streets up from the water, and only two streets from the better-lighted avenues, when Pirvan held up a hand to halt the band. Then he cocked his head, seeking to pick human sounds from the rising wind.

“I think we’re being followed,” he whispered. “Grow eyes in the backs of your heads, and be ready to run at my command. But don’t be separated.”

Their men-at-arms and Haimya nodded. After a moment, so did Grimsoar One-Eye and his two sailors from Sea Leopard. The hesitation made Pirvan uneasy. Treachery in Grimsoar was unthinkable-or was it? Every man had his price, and with the stakes as high as they were someone might have been able to put forward-

The darkness came alive, but it was the darkness ahead of them.

That and silence gave the attackers surprise at the outset, and they did not waste it. One man-at-arms died with his throat gaping, and the second gurgled with steel between his ribs. But he did not die before his own blade flew clear and thrust up under his killer’s chin, to drive onward into the brain.

This left the two sailors, one with a purse from Jemar, as well as Grimsoar, Pirvan, and Haimya, fighting against at least thrice their numbers. Grimsoar cut down the odds somewhat by chopping down one attacker with a sideways cut that nearly severed the man at the waist. Then he slowed a second man by kicking him in the knee and opening his cheek with a dagger.

Pirvan thrust low to find his dagger point grating on armor under the ragged workingman’s clothes, then brought his knee up into his opponent’s groin. That doubled him over, bringing his head down far enough that Pirvan could slam the hilt of his sword across the back of the man’s neck. The knight leaped back as the man fell, twisting in midair so that he landed with his back against a solid wall.

One sailor was slowed by the weight of the purse, but his reach was long enough and his arm strong enough that he kept himself safe for a while without changing position. Then an attacker worked around behind him and raised a short sword to thrust the sailor through, but Haimya saw the man even before Pirvan, and she was closer.

She was a thing of beauty and terror alike as she made a thrust at full stretch, driving the point of her sword into the base of the attacker’s skull. Even in the darkness, Pirvan saw life go out of the man’s eyes-and also a fallen attacker roll over and grip Haimya’s ankles.

Caught off balance, she staggered, and another man came at her with two daggers, getting inside her guard before Pirvan could even open his mouth for a warning. But the sailor stamped down hard on the clutching hands, and as they released their grip Haimya flung herself to one side, cushioning her fall on the man who’d thrown her off balance.

The sailor’s sword ended the second man’s threat to Haimya.

Then Pirvan’s mouth went dry, as running feet thudded from the direction of the harbor. He turned, knowing that the wall at his back would buy him only time and hoping Haimya would fight close enough to him for a last word or two, if they could not hope for a touch-

A man only slightly smaller than Grimsoar One-Eye loomed in the alley, a sword in hand and a steel cap on his head. His sailor’s beard was plaited with two yellow ribbons. Behind him a dozen more men, all in sailor’s garb, all well armed, crowded forward.

Grimsoar embraced the newcomers’ leader. “Well, Kurulus, if you ever want a place with Jemar-”

Pirvan stared. Kurulus had been Mate of the Tops aboard Golden Cup, the ship that had carried the companions of the quest to Crater Gulf most of the way to their destination. His reward from House Encuintras for a stout fighting arm and sound seamanship had been his own command.

“I’ve my own ship, Grimsoar, and you know that Jemar lets no one start save as a mate. Now let’s see if we’ve trapped the right set of rats.”

“Would somebody please explain-?” Haimya began.

Grimsoar put a finger to her lips, and nearly had it bitten off for his pains. “Later,” he rumbled, and Pirvan nodded. He did not know what the sailors might be about, but it was seldom that a knight was not allowed to defend himself from those who sought his life. A mystery, yes, but not likely a matter for a Judgment of Honor.

Half the newcomers were standing guard. The other half were helping Grimsoar and Kurulus turn over the bodies and examine them. Pirvan counted ten dead, including a couple of men whose wounds did not at first look that deadly.

A sharp hiss that turned into a whistle made all heads turn. Grimsoar was holding up a body with one hand. With the other, he’d torn open the man’s tunic. Mail showed under, and also a dark spot in the man’s exposed armpit.

“Pirvan, Haimya, you need to see this,” Grimsoar said.

The knight and his lady knelt by the body. By lantern light, the dark spot in the dead man’s armpit turned out to be a tattoo of a crown, a stylized one gruesomely different from the emblem of the Solamnic Knights of the Crown. A circle surrounded it; a closer look showed it to be a representation of one of the woven cords that senior clerics wore around their foreheads on ceremonial occasions.

Senior clerics and, so it was said, the kingpriest.

Pirvan stared at the crown-in-a-circlet tattoo, and knew that one of the uglier rumors about the kingpriests of Istar had just revealed itself as the truth.

“Did you set a trap for footpads, or was catching the Servants of Silence part of your plan?” Pirvan whispered to Grimsoar.

“I swear we were only after the Vlyby brothers and their runners,” Grimsoar said. He seemed to be talking as much to himself and Kurulus as to Pirvan. “I should have realized that you and Haimya might draw different fish.”

Grimsoar could deal with his guilt and shame later. Right now it was most unlikely that the kingpriest would look benignly on tonight’s events: ten of the men sworn, tattooed, and trained to silence his opponents dead, against only two of their prey, and those the least important. The existence of the Servants of Silence was now known to a Knight of Solamnia and other witnesses, too many to eliminate before they talked. The knight and his companions warned of their mortal danger.

In a similar situation, Pirvan knew his curses would shatter glass and crack roof tiles.

“Very well,” he said. “We have to return to Jemar and go aboard one of his ships at once, if he will still hide us.”

“He gave oath,” Grimsoar snapped. “Do not insult him by doubting.”

“He did not give oath to be our friend after we have smitten the kingpriest with the open hand,” Haimya pointed out. “We offer no insult by giving him a chance to pick which battles he shall fight.”

“Well, I say we fight this thing through,” Kurulus said. He turned to his men. “We are all sworn to House Encuintras, and they still owe a debt to these people. I suggest we pay it by going to-where were you staying, Sir Pirvan?”

“Inn of the Four Courts.”

“Right, lads. If Sir Pirvan will give us some proof of our right, and a bit of silver to grease palms, we’ll be off to the inn and back with your baggage and servants before the live temple rats stop running.

Pirvan forced sensible words out of his mouth, as reluctant as they were to come. “Ah-we were thinking of leaving everything-”

“Leave everything,” Grimsoar said, “and we leave things the kingpriest’s minions might want to get their hands on. Not to mention that Jemar’s likely to be happier taking us aboard if he also doesn’t need to equip us from the skin out.”

“Are you sure anyone owes us enough to quarrel with the kingpriest-?” Haimya began.

“Oh, hush, Lady,” Kurulus said unceremoniously. “We’re sworn to House Encuintras, and that means more than their debts being ours. It also means that who attacks us attacks them, and satyrs will turn celibate before any tower or temple picks a quarrel with House Encuintras.”

Pirvan handed over one of the room keys and a double handful of silver towers from the sailor’s purse. Kurulus divided his men, four to stay with Pirvan and his companions and eight to go to the inn. Then he led the eight off up the street at a pace that would have done honor to minotaurs.

“Pleasant to have friends,” Haimya said. Her brittle tone said that she was trying to keep up with the night’s events, but rather wished they would slow their pace a trifle.

“More than pleasant when one has enemies like the kingpriest,” Pirvan said, drawing her close. “I would call it the difference between life and death.”

* * * * *

The clouds kept their promise of more rain. As Pirvan led his companions back to the harbor, the sky opened and unleashed a downpour that turned the gutters into streams and the streets into shallow rivers.

At least it also offered some protection. While the rain was at its height, a herd of centaurs could have trotted four abreast through any street in Istar without being noticed. By the time it began to slack off, they were in one of Windsword’s boats, beating toward the outer harbor with the lateen sail up, to take advantage of the dying storm’s wind.

They made good time at the price of nearly being seasick on the way. Haimya had to rush to a shadowed section of the railing, where darkness veiled the sights and the wind the sound. When she returned, she was pale but striding proudly.

“I do hope it doesn’t take as long as it did the last time for me to get my sea legs,” she said. Then she gripped Pirvan’s arm so hard that the knight winced, and when he saw where she was pointing with her free hand, he muttered unknightly language.

Tarothin was standing at the break of the forecastle, not quite with his arm around his companion but so close that she clearly would not have protested the gesture. The companion was a woman, nearly as tall as Haimya, with black hair flying in the breeze as well as gleaming in the lantern light.

She also wore black robes.

“Of course, that might be just her traveling clothes-” Pirvan heard himself saying.

“It seems the boat ride made me sick and you witless,” Haimya said, so sharply that her words reached Tarothin and his companion. Both turned as Haimya advanced on them with the look of being ready to heave the woman overboard and the wizard after her if he protested.

Perforce, the knight followed his lady and caught up with her as the two women stared at one another. Pirvan was reminded of two wolves deciding whether or not this was the time to fight for pack rank.

The silence was broken twice over, by Tarothin’s clearing his throat and by footsteps from behind, which turned out to belong to Jemar the Fair. The Black Robe turned her gaze on Pirvan, and he suddenly felt like a satyr faced with a woman ready to amuse herself with him.

Except that “amuse” would be the wrong word, if this woman had serious notions of bringing him to her by magic. Or by any other means, his reason added, noting the vast, dark eyes, and the gleaming, dark hair that framed everything.

I suppose once a year or so she meets a man too old or too young for her to try her wiles on. Otherwise she sees us all as prey, and that has given her bad habits.

Pirvan thanked all the gods of Krynn in a single comprehensive prayer of gratitude that Haimya was with him on this quest. Then he smiled.

“My lady. I am Sir Pirvan of Tiradot, and you may have heard of me as Pirvan the Wayward.” Then he thought, Which was not what I intended to say, and may give the lady ideas-not that she needs any help in such matters.

To Pirvan’s surprise, the woman’s smile was as grave as that of a white-robed cleric. “I am Rubina, Black Robe of Karthay. I found that what I serve and what your friend Tarothin serves are much the same. So, with the permission of Jemar the Fair, I am taking passage to Karthay aboard this ship, and as much farther as I can be useful.”

From Tarothin’s way of standing and looking at her, one of her uses was too plain to require comment. Pirvan and Haimya exchanged glances. This gave Jemar time to find his voice.

“I trust you will not presume to object to whom I may carry aboard my own ship?” It was not a question.

“Do I look like that big a fool?” Pirvan asked.

“No. A wise man as well as a knight, and the two are not always the same,” Rubina said.

Haimya giggled, which she did seldom, and which seemed to put Rubina out of countenance. The woman turned and, with regal grace, put an arm around Tarothin.

“Come, my friend. I think the wind is rising, and neither of us thrives on chills and coughs.”

When the deck was empty except for sailors carefully devoting themselves to their work, Haimya burst out laughing.

“What amuses you so, my lady?” Jemar asked.

“I was jealous at first. Then I saw that she had taken Tarothin for hers and was not seeking elsewhere. But she can hardly open her mouth to a man without saying something inviting. She must waste rather a lot of time better spent on other matters.”

Pirvan looked everywhere but at his wife, and was rewarded by her fingers slipping inside his tunic and tickling him in the short ribs. When he got his breath back, he turned to Jemar.

“Old friend, I trust your judgment, but is taking this Black Robe wise or necessary?”

“Tarothin thinks so, and I know from my own eyes and ears in Karthay that she has much influence in the towers there. Have your knights told you nothing about her?”

“Not even her name.”

“The knights will be well advised to talk more with the magic workers and less with one another in the coming years,” Jemar said.

“And we will be well advised to seek a warm cabin, out of this chilly wind,” Haimya said. This time Pirvan caught her hand before it reached inside his tunic, then lifted it to his lips and kissed the sword-calloused palm.