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