clothing when the maid took it away from him and stuffed
in the last few remaining items.
“There,” she said. “All done.” She dragged the bag to
the door. “Someone will come for that. In the meantime,
finish dressing. Wear your heaviest cloak – the one with the
fur hood.”
“Mistress Carin?” Sturm’s lost tone halted the woman.
“Are you coming with us?”
She drew her short, round body up proudly. “Where my
lady goes, so go I.” And then she was gone.
The main hall of Castle Brightblade was in a hushed
tumult. Only a few candles burned in the wall sconces, but
by their troubled light Sturm saw that the entire household
was astir. In recent days, many of the servants had fled,
taking tools and petty valuables with them. Sturm had only
the vaguest notion of how things were beyond the castle
walls.
Armed men stood at every door, pikes at the ready.
Sturm fell into a stream of rushing servants and was carried
with them to the door of the guardroom. His father was
there, with another large man who lifted his head when the
boy entered. Sturm recognized his father’s good friend and
fellow knight, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan.
“I’m packed, Father,” Sturm said.
“Eh? Good, good. Go to your mother, boy. You’ll find
her in the north corridor.” He looked back to the map spread
on the table before him. Sturm bowed his head and
withdrew, his heart heavy. He leaned against the outside of
the guardroom door.
“He’s only a boy, Angriff,” he heard Lord Gunthar say.
“Not yet a man, much less a knight.”
Lord Brightblade replied, “Sturm is the son and
grandson of Solamnic Knights. Our blood goes back to
Berthal the Swordsman. He must learn to cope with
hardship.”
Sturm lifted his chin and strode away. Following the line
of burning torches along the corridor, he ran a finger in a
joint of mortared stones, as he had every day since
becoming tall enough to do so. This might be the last time
Sturm would trace the crack. He slowed his pace to make
the feeling linger.
Overhead, a loophole shutter banged loose in the wind.
Sturm mounted the narrow steps to the loophole and
reached out into the cold to catch the wayward shutter.
Through the silently falling snow he saw a red glow on the
horizon. It was too early for dawn.
“Close that shutter!”
Sturm whirled. Soren Vardis, sergeant of the household
guard, was striding toward him. He took the steps two at a
time. Soren reached easily over Sturm’s head and closed the
shutter, letting the bolt fall in its slot with a loud clank.
He smiled at the boy. “There are bowmen in the woods,”
he said. “A face in a lighted window makes an excellent
target.”
“Sergeant, what will the villagers do?”
A crack in the shutter let in the red glow. It striped
Soren’s face with a streak of blood. He looked at Sturm,
standing so straight and proper. “I suppose you have a right
to know,” he said. “The peasants are in arms. They’ve set
fire to the north wood and burned the fallow pastures east
and south. Your father’s cattle have been stolen and
slaughtered. Some of my men were killed in Avrinet, but
not before reporting that the villagers were preparing to
attack.”
“They can’t get in the castle,” Sturm said in a pleading
tone.
“Alas, young lord, they can. I have less than a hundred
men to defend all of the wall, and of those I trust not
twenty.”
Sturm could not fathom these revelations. “Why are
they doing this, Soren? Why? My father never used them
harshly.”
“The common folk, here as throughout Krynn, blame the
knights for not calling down the aid of Paladine in the dark
times.” Soren shook his head in sor row. “In their mad anger
they have forgotten all that the knights have done for them.”
They descended the steps. “So Father will fight our way
out?” asked Sturm.
Soren cleared his throat. “My Lord Brightblade will
remain behind to defend his home and lands.”
“Then I shall stay, too!”
The sergeant paused and rested a battle-hardened hand