Dragonlance Tales, Vol. 3 – Love and War

footmen sat here joking and spinning stories.

LOOK AROUND YOU, Breca muttered as the laughter

died again, as some of the men looked up uneasily,

skeptically, looking into the rose embroidered on my

doublet as if it were an orb of prophecy, looking at me as

though I were a messenger from another planet.

LOOK AROUND YOU. SOON ENOUGH YOU’LL SEE

THE BIRDS NO LONGER LIGHT HERE. THE NEWS HAS

A WAY OF SPREADING AMONGST THE ANIMALS, AND

NOT JUST FROM KIND TO KIND. SOON ENOUGH

YOU’LL SEE THE RATS LEAVING. THE HORSES HAVE

THE SAME INSTINCTS, BUT THEY’RE TETHERED AND

STABLED AND – he glanced at me, smiled briefly, and

stared at his pipe – AND CURRIED. ALL THAT KEEPS

ANY OF US HERE IS THE KNIGHTS, WHO THINK THEY

CAN HOLD THIS PLACE WITH HONOR ALONE.

HONOR IS WELL AND GOOD, BUT IT DON’T STOP A

SPEAR, BOYS. BEST IT CAN DO IS LEAVE A CLEANER

WOUND.

BUT DON’T FRET, BOYS, he concluded, looking

directly at me with those huge gray eyes that the folk tales

say are the sign of marksmen or madmen, I forget which.

DON’T FRET, FOR AT LEAST YOU’VE FOUND

YOURSELF A WARM PLACE TO DIE.

Not a comforting philosophy to take with you back into

the upper chambers, where there were swords and armor to

be polished, and wine and a warmer hearth, and where the

truth muttered below you, scarcely heard for the crackling

of the fire, like a ghost in the stables or the barracks.

MARKSMEN, she tells me. GRAY EYES FOR THE

MARKSMAN. Then was it green for the lunatic or for the

poet?

Instead of the legends of eyes let me talk of monotony, of

the boredom in waiting for battle. It is no quick thing, no

gap between lightning and thunder, but a long waiting in

which breastplate and sword shimmer uselessly, in which

you worry the horses into a sleek and healthy gloss, in

which you watch the sky and speculate on wonders. No

time to be slow-witted, this waiting for battle, but a time to

attend to tasks, to trivial duties, until the duties become

reflex and you return to your thoughts alone.

But even among the thoughtful and the imaginative,

there were great dangers. After all, dear brother, there was

an enemy approaching, an enemy magnified by his absence.

The dragonarmies grew larger, their atrocities greater, as we

waited and imagined. A story passed through the ranks that

the slaughter of Plainsmen had been even more horrible

than first reported, that the draconians had found a way, in

the dark recesses of lore and intricate magic, to breed more

of their kind upon the Plainswomen – a hardier strain,

maturing quickly and able to withstand extremes of climate

– and that on the plains these children grew, feeding first

upon what little provision the country offered, then turning

upon themselves in a frenzy like sharks, until only the

largest and most hardy of the brood survived. Survived to

be armed with the black bow and the terrible curved knife,

which they would carry over the miles and the snow to the

Tower of the High Clerist.

And in addition to the rumors of war, a nightmare closer

to home, for the second night in the tower the wine ceased

to flow in the quarters of the knights, and we turned to

water and to mare’s milk, knowing that those, too, would

dry in the long weeks of waiting. We were fortunate, then,

that it was cold, for the food did not spoil as readily, but

even the youngest eye could pass over the stores in the

larders and see there was less today, would be less

tomorrow. Soon it would be biscuit, parched corn. Then

horses, and some of the older footmen talked ironically of

rats, providing they are stupid enough to still be here when

the time comes down to them.

So you occupied your time upon other thoughts, in

other pursuits. The footmen wagered, exchanging coins

over the strange, many-sided dice from the east. None

wagered against Sturm’s friend the kender, who eagerly

sought to join each game, standing on tiptoe to peer over the

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