Knights of the Sword Read online

  Haimya was a thing of beauty and terror alike as she made a thrust at full stretch, driving the point of her sword into the base of the attacker’s skull. Even in the darkness, Pirvan saw life go out of the man’s eyes—and also a fallen attacker roll over and grip Haimya’s ankles.

  Caught off balance, she staggered, and another man came at her with two daggers, getting inside her guard before Pirvan could even open his mouth for a warning. But a sailor stamped down hard on the clutching hands, and as they released their grip Haimya flung herself to one side, cushioning her fall on the man who’d thrown her off balance.

  The sailor’s sword ended the second man’s threat to Haimya.

  Then Pirvan’s mouth went dry, as running feet thudded from the direction of the harbor. He turned, knowing that the wall at his back would buy him only time and hoping Haimya would fight close enough to him for a last word or two, if they could not hope for a touch—

  From the Creators of the

  DRAGONLANCE® Saga

  WARRIORS

  Knights of the Crown

  Roland Green

  Maquesta Kar-Thon

  Tina Danieli

  Knights of the Sword

  Roland Green

  KNIGHTS OF THE SWORD

  DRAGONLANCE® The Warriors • Volume III

  ©1995 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Jeff Easley

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6337-9

  640-A1719000-001-EN

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  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Unarmored, Sir Marod of Ellersford had never been a great burden for a horse. He was a head taller than the average, but also a span narrower. One who had trained him in youth was said to have jested:

  “Think you to defeat all archers, by standing sideways? Think again, young Marod!”

  That was forty years ago. Now Marod was no longer young, but a Knight of the Rose in the ranks of the Knights of Solamnia. Still he remained lean.

  So his mount had easy work, carrying him up to the crest of a hill not far from Dargaard Keep. He did not look at the great mass of stone and the outbuildings that sprawled about it but instead westward, toward the sunset.

  Low but spike-crested hills rose there, where thousands of years of rain and wind had worn away soft outer rock from around harder cores. Some of the spikes rose against the crimson and gold blazing across part of the sky. Others were lost in spreading blue-grayness where storm clouds gathered.

  A storm at this time of the spring could be great or small, doing much or little. Rather like the condition of the Knights of Solamnia—one reason that Sir Marod of Ellersford had been doing for some fifteen years the task that he hoped the True Gods would allow him to do for as long again.

  That task was simple enough to put into words. It was to find for the knights resources of men, weapons, wealth, and skill not known to the priests who ruled in Istar the Mighty. It was also to keep those resources hidden from those priests—and insofar as Honor, Oath, and Measure allowed, from those knights who did not need to know of them.

  The world did not fare so ill under the rule of Istar the Mighty that this was a matter of life or death. Even those lands that refused all but the most nominal allegiance to Istar did so politely (except the minotaurs, and they were no ruder to Istar than they were to anyone else, which Marod supposed was in some degree a gesture of honor). Istar ruled, peace prevailed, and men grew sleek in the arts of peace.

  The Knights of Solamnia, given from youth to the arts of war, had little place in this snug world. Few came forward to fill their ranks; many left those ranks as soon as they lawfully could.

  If the priests of Istar had not openly rejoiced in this, Marod might have been less uneasy. But it seemed to him that the priests rejoiced at the weakening of the knights as they would rejoice at the weakening of a would-be rival. Marod distrusted those who could not bear rivals.

  An educated man, he knew well enough that even among the True Gods there were Good, Neutral, and Evil to keep the balance of the universe. Men, needing balance even more than the gods, needed to be careful about letting any among them gather too much power.

  The knights would weigh in the balance against the priests merely by existing. Marod hoped earnestly that none of his and others’ fears of harsher work ahead would prove true. Yet it was already known that the priests called against justice for races other than humankind, or at least for looking the other way when injustice was done.

  There was also the chief among the priests openly calling himself the kingpriest, implying that he ruled both the worship of the gods and the daily affairs of the folk of Istar. And there were rumors, to which Sir Marod did not wish to give time, let alone credence—but which chilled him to the marrow when they did intrude on his thoughts.

  What intruded on his thoughts now was the sound of a horse mounting the path at a trot, then blowing as its rider reined it in. Marod turned in his saddle to see Sir Lewin of Trenfar grinning at him.

  Sir Lewin was a good load for a horse even when he wore only tunic and hose, cloak, sword, and dagger. Fortunately he had the means to support mounts of a size equal to bearing him. His own house was of the lower grades of Solamnian nobility, but it was related to half a dozen of the greater houses and at least one petty king. He had not needed to stint himself since he finished his training.

  The grin had become habitual only since last year, when Lewin uncovered a plot among certain petty landowners farther east to turn robber baron. He had done this both at the risk of his life and by the sweat of his brow, and thus met any reasonable requirements for elevation to Knight of the Rose, the h
ighest rank among the Knights of Solamnia.

  One of those reasonable requirements, by the Measure, was the consent of all other Knights of the Rose. This included Sir Marod, and his consent had been readily forthcoming. Not without some doubt that the honor was being thrust upon his pupil a trifle too soon, but not enough to justify withholding consent.

  The gods made all of us a mixture, from the days of Vinas Solamnus to now, and because a less savory part of the mixture is uppermost one day does not mean a man has gone over to evil.

  Sir Lewin unpinned his cloak and offered it to the older knight. “It is heavier than yours.”

  “My years have not thinned my blood as much as you think, young knight,” Marod said with a frosty smile. “And you have worked up a sweat, riding as you have. Take off your cloak and you risk taking a chill, for which there is but one cure.”

  Lewin’s face twisted in mock horror. “No, not Guliana’s tisane!” The White Robe healer was notorious for her belief that only through suffering could one win back to health.

  “None other.”

  Lewin hastily wrapped his cloak back about his own shoulders. “I have read the letters you left for me. None seem to require action or even a reply, save to keep the writers content that we hear them.”

  Marod allowed himself no more expression than the marble of a temple staircase. Lewin frowned.

  Marod knew that he was testing the younger man, and the younger man knew that he was being tested and would fail the test if he needed to ask which letter might require more than a formal reply. Both knights would be glad when this almost daily ritual was done.

  “What of the rumors that Karthay intends to enlarge its fleet?” Lewin finally said.

  Marod was not going to allow him that easy escape.

  “What of them, indeed?”

  “Our man in Karthay speaks of them as street tales. But he does not say which streets.”

  “Does that make a difference?” Marod knew the answer; he was playing Evil’s advocate.

  “More than a trifle. If it is a tale spreading along the harborfront streets—any sailor will talk of his dreams after the second cup. A larger fleet would be a dream for many sailors of Karthay, put ashore by Istar’s traders.”

  “One sees. And if it is a tale spreading along the streets leading out from the Square of the Captains?”

  Lewin frowned. The expression marred his good looks, of which he was prouder than a knight really ought to be, though not to the extent of violating any part of the Measure. Marod understood why the younger man usually grinned or at least smiled, even when there seemed little to smile about.

  “One could read that in more than one way, like most auguries. Those who live on the streets beyond Temple Hill have wealth and rank. A larger fleet would need their consent. If they talk of it, that might prove its truth.”

  Lewin shrugged, then went on. “However, it is nowhere written in the Measure—or anywhere else I have looked—that wealthy men cannot dream of what will not be. So perhaps we should write those who have ears in Karthay, to listen to where the rumor runs, before we believe or deny.”

  “Very fine reasoning, Sir Lewin. We shall make a finished intriguer of you yet.”

  “Is that an honorable state for a Knight of the Rose?”

  “A knight of any rank must serve his Honor, Oath, and brethren all at the same time. Nothing in the Oath of Knighthood says that this must be easy. Much in our history says otherwise.”

  The silence that followed Sir Marod’s last words was unbroken, save by the breathing of the horses, until a distant rumble of thunder bid them leave the hilltop to meet the storm from drier vantage.

  Chapter 1

  He was twenty-two years old, six and a half feet tall, and strong in proportion. He bore the name Darin, because Waydol, the minotaur who had raised him, said that he ought to have a human name. However, he mostly referred to himself as “Heir to Waydol,” or even “Heir to the Minotaur.” That last title might not always be sufficient, if more than one minotaur came to inhabit this stretch of the northern coast of Istar.

  Other minotaurs sailed along the coast, though fewer now since they faced death with scant hope of honor at the hands of Istar’s fleet and coast garrisons. Beyond the sea lay all the lands of the minotaurs.

  But when one spoke of “the Minotaur” in this land, one spoke of Waydol.

  At this moment Darin spoke neither of Waydol nor of anything else. He wished to be as silent as one of the trees of the forest and as invisible as the breeze that crept through them. Even though the furtive breeze in the forest left him sweating and allowed the insects free play with his skin, he neither wiped away the sweat nor batted at the insects.

  The call of a sunwing, three times repeated, made him turn his head. In the shadow between two immense pines was a darker shadow. Darin nodded.

  The darker shadow stepped forward, turning into a man. He stepped to within arm’s reach of Darin and, with two fingers and a thumb of each hand, tapped his message onto Darin’s left forearm and hand.

  Darin had learned the handtalk Waydol had given the band almost from the time he could use words. He could understand it as swiftly as common speech.

  “The village is good prey,” the man was saying. “Log wall with towers and ditch. Solid buildings. Fat cattle. Workers in field wear clothes—even women.” If it was possible to convey disappointment in his touch, Darin felt it in the last bit of knowledge. Not that the man would do more than look; he had honor and also fear of Waydol’s and Darin’s wrath.

  Yes, a village so furnished had wealth. It would not be easy prey, and it doubtless had a protector or lord who would seek vengeance for its raiding. It might even be directly under the rule of Istar.

  Let would-be avengers thrash the forest as they pleased. Waydol’s band knew paths to their stronghold that no one else did, and not only because they had made a good many themselves. In Darin’s lifetime, the Minotaur had gathered a formidable band of the cunning and the crafty, as a legacy for his heir. He had also proved that a minotaur could lead humans, even against their own folk—something that both races doubted was possible.

  What he expected his heir to do with the band over the next twenty years, Darin had realized some time ago that he did not really know. However, it was enough for now to keep the men from growing stale.

  It would be a night raid if they waited much longer, and that Darin would not have. The only way to raid by night was to be ready to burn where one raided, to make light to find one’s way about unknown streets or paths. That, or find a wizard with a flexible conscience and command of illuminating spells.

  Darin had no scruples about the second, many about the first. There was not a magic-worker in the band, so the raiders would go in now, trusting to their own speed to confuse hostile aim as thoroughly as the gods’ darkness might in a few hours.

  The man tapped Darin’s hand again. Darin nodded, squatted, and allowed the smaller man to leap onto his shoulders. The leaper caught a low-hanging branch and started pulling himself up, as silent as ever.

  Darin remained kneeling, looking up as the man vanished in the branches with the speed of a squirrel. His name in the band was Stalker; after certain lessons, no one inquired too closely about his birth name. His birth blood was most probably sea barbarian; one seldom found that combination of agility and dark skin in other races. At last Darin heard from high above a faint whttt! That would be Stalker’s shortbow, sending a signal arrow some two hundred paces through the forest to where the rest of the band waited in two wings. Each wing of twenty raiders was now to move to a position already scouted, one on each side of the village’s fields.

  The attack would come from two directions, forcing the villagers to divide their defenses. At the same time, the two wings would be able to help one another, and between them sweep up the people in the fields before they could reach the gate.

  That was as far as Darin knew he could wisely plan. Waydol had taught him: “Never
assume your enemy agrees with your notions of how to fight the battle.”

  Darin crouched and listened for any sounds of his men moving to the attack. He heard nothing that most listeners would not have called forest noises, and knew that the underchiefs could fitly punish the noisy. After a while he ceased to listen, and finished his arming.

  A man of Darin’s size could put fear in many opponents merely by drawing himself to his full height. However, he did not disdain a shirt of fine mail, knowing that a large man was also a large target. He also donned a good round helmet with a dwarven-work tailpiece and nasal added, a sword, and a dagger.

  But Darin’s principal weapons were his forearms and fists, guarded by elbow-length gauntlets of heavy but supple leather over still finer mail. Suppleness in leather that thick had to come from magic, or perhaps there was some other story behind those gauntlets that Waydol would not tell, not on the day he had given them to Darin or ever afterward.

  Nonetheless, the gauntlets had allowed Darin to defeat a good many opponents while slaying few. He abhorred unnecessary killing even more than Waydol, and was not one to invent necessity where it was not found.

  At last Darin had nothing to do but stretch and unknot his limbs for swift movement, as he took in deep breaths of forest-scented air. The forest smelled different than it did at home, no doubt through being farther from the sea, with less salt in the soil and leaf mold—

  Chkkk!

  Darin looked up. An arrow, twin to Stalker’s, was quivering just below the second branch from the ground. A moment later Stalker slithered out of the tree, snatching the arrow from the trunk as he came.

  The two men nodded. The two wings were in position. Now all they needed was Darin and Stalker in their position, from which to give the signal to attack.

  The two men trod silently but swiftly, one behind the other, as they moved onward.

  * * * * *

  One sharp-eared villager must have heard something untoward from the forest, but courage or foolishness undid him. Or perhaps he wasn’t sure of what he’d heard and wished not to make a fool of himself with a false warning.