“And you did the same for him,” Sturm said. “You owe me nothing. Pledging your honor for me means that, if I fail, you will suffer. You will be stripped of your rank, your title, your lands. Derek would see to that,” he added gloomily.
As Gunthar took a deep drink of his wine, he studied the young man before him. Sturm merely sipped at his wine out of politeness, holding the mug with a hand that trembled visibly. Gunthar laid his hand kindly on Sturm’s shoulder, pushing the young man down gently into a chair. .
“Have you failed in the past, Sturm?” Gunthar asked.
Sturm looked up, his brown eyes flashing. “No, my lord.” he answered. “I have not. I swear it!”
“Then I have no fear for the future,” Lord Gunthar said, smiling. He raised his mug. ‘”I pledge your good fortune in battle, Sturm Brightblade.”
Sturm shut his eyes. The strain had been too much. Dropping his head an his arm, he wept-his body shaking with painful sobs. Gunthar gripped his shoulder.
“I understand . . .” he said, his eyes looking back to a time. Solamnia when this young man’s father had broken down and cried that same way-the night Lord Brightblade had sent his young wife and infant son an a journey into exile-a journey. from, which he would nevter see they return.
Exhausted, Sturm finally fell asleep, his head lying on the table. Gunthar sat with him, sipping the hot wine, lost in in cries off the past, until he, too, drifted into slumber.
The few days left before the army sailed to Palanthas passed swiftly for Sturm. He had to find armor-used; he couldn’t afford new. He packed his father’s carefully, intending to carry it since he had been forbidden to wear it. Then there were meetings to attend, battle dispositions to study, information on the enemy to assimilate.
The battle for Palanthas would be a bitter one, determining control of the entire northern part of Solamnia. The leaders were agreed upon their strategy. They would fortify the city walls with the city’s army. The knights themselves would occupy the High Clerist’s Tower that stood blocking the pass through the Vingaard Mountains. But that was all they agreed upon. Meetings between the three leaders were tense, the air chill.
Finally the day came for the ships to sail. The knights gathered on board. Their families stood quietly on the shore. Though faces were pale, there were few tears, the women standing as tight-lipped and stern as their men. Some wives wore swords buckled around their own waists. All knew that, if the battle in the north was lost, the enemy would come across the sea.
Gunthar stood upon the pier, dressed in his bright armor, talking with the knights, bidding farewell to his sons. He and Derek exchanged a few ritual words as prescribed by the Measure. He and Lord Alfred embraced perfunctorily. At last, Gunthar sought out Sturm. The young knight, clad in plain, shabby armor, stood apart from the crowd.
“Brightblade.” Gunthar said in a low voice as he came near him, “
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