Sturm, who slept deep and looked as though he could wake
fast at need; Raistlin, likely walking in dreams only he
could understand; and Tas, curled like an exhausted pup
against Caramon’s back. When the dwarf spoke again, Keli
sensed that some decision was being made. He sat forward
and listened.
“Aye, Tanis, they are. But the lands are changing, lad.
I feel it in my bones that things are shifting, growing
darker. At first it was good to have them along on these
trips for their company. Lately, it’s been good having them
along because I could not ply my trade, such as it is these
days, along the old routes without them. Look at what
happened to the lad here! Goblins and bandits! And rumors
of worse and stranger things haunt the roads now.”
Tanis reached out absently to ruffle Keli’s hair. “You’ll
not keep them safe in Solace by wishing it so, old friend.”
“No, I know them better than that. And we’re partners,
you and I, have been for a long time. This isn’t a decision I
can rightly make for both of us.” Flint shook his head. A
smile warred with a scowl. The scowl won, but only barely.
“And we don’t get much done these days chasing that pesty
kender from one end of the land to the other, do we? No,
home sounds better and better to me.”
As hard as the dwarf was to read, that was how easy it
was to divine Tanis’s thought: plainly he doubted that
Solace would keep Tas or any of his friends long for all that
it seemed to be home. But aloud he only said, “All right,
then, Flint. Home it is, for Keli and for us.”
Solace won’t keep them long, Keli thought. Hawks
may grace your wrist for a time, his father had once told
him, but they do not domesticate well at all.
Now, Flint leaned forward and gently roughed the
sleepy boy’s chin. “Home, aye, lad?”
Keli smiled in the night’s shadow. “Oh, aye, home.”
By the Measure
Richard A. Knaak
His head was pounding, and his mouth was dry. He
had neither eaten nor slept for two days – not since burning
Standel after a day of mourning. Standel, his one
companion. The only other knight to accompany him on his
flight from an Order that had decayed. Brave, strong
Standel. He had never understood his own death.
Garrick scanned the terrain as well as his bleary eyes
were able. More of the same. Villagers were coming from
the south, away from the advancing army sent by the
Dragon Highlord. They were seeking protection from the
garrison at Ironrock. The knight smiled bitterly through
cracked lips. How long did they think a garrison of one
hundred men was going to hold out against an army one
hundred times its size? Not to mention the added pressure
of trying to feed several hundred refugees.
He steered Auron away from the group. The war-horse
turned reluctantly, perhaps sensing the grain the people
carried. The horse had been forced to subsist on what little
it could forage in this bleak area. Garrick sympathized with
its plight, his own last meal having consisted of a handful of
berries and some cheese and hardbread bought from the
innkeeper who had been indirectly responsible for Standel’s
death. The lands he had traveled through since offered
nothing in the way of sustenance. The inhabitants
themselves had long ago spirited away anything edible.
He could not believe what the Order had become. The
older knights smiled patronizingly at his plaints;
some of the younger ones scoffed. Some understood him,
though. Understood that even the Knights of Solamnia had
turned away from Paladine more than they admitted. The
Knights were no longer an Order that aided the repressed so
much as a petty sect living on its past glories and shunning
those they believed had turned on them. Never mind that the
Order had such black marks as Lord Soth to live down.
In his worn state, he did not notice the second group of
villagers until they were almost on him. Like so many
before, they spat at him as they passed and cursed him for