Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

Unwilling to meet the gaze of Soth’s flaming eyes, Kitiara kept her head turned away from the death knight, scowling at the vanishing, fluttering robes of the cleric.

“What fools! I detest keeping them around. Still, I suppose they come in handy now and then.”

Though it seemed perfectly healed, her hand still hurt. All in my mind, she told herself bitterly.

“Well, what do you propose I do about... about the dark elf?” Before Soth could answer, however, Kitiara was on her feet, yelling for the servant.

“Clean that mess up. And bring me another glass.” She struck the cowering man across the face.

“One of the golden goblets this time. You know I detest these fragile elf-made things! Get them out of my sight! Throw them away!”

“Throw them away!” The servant ventured a protest. “But they are valuable, Lord. They came from the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, a gift from—”

“I said get rid of them!” Grabbing them up, Kitiara flung them, one by one, against the wall of her room. The servant cringed, ducking as the glass flew over his head, smashing against the stone. When the last one left her fingers, she sat down into a chair in a corner and stared straight ahead, neither moving nor speaking.

The servant hastily swept up the broken glass, emptied the bloody water in the wash bowl, and departed. When he returned with the wine, Kitiara had still not moved. Neither had Lord Soth. The death knight remained standing in the center of the room, his eyes glowing in the gathering gloom of night.

“Shall I light the candles, Lord?” the servant asked softly, setting down the wine bottle and a golden goblet.

“Get out,” Kitiara said, through stiff lips.

The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

Moving with unheard steps, the death knight walked across the room. Coming to stand next to the still unmoving, seemingly unseeing Kitiara, he laid his hand upon her shoulder. She flinched at the touch of the invisible fingers, their cold piercing her heart. But she did not withdraw.

“Well,” she said again, staring into the room whose only source of light now came from the flaming eyes of the death knight, “I asked you a question. What do we do to stop Dalamar and my brother in this madness? What do we do before the Dark Queen destroys us all?”

“You must attack Palanthas,” said Lord Soth.

“I believe it can be done!” Kitiara murmured, thoughtfully tapping the hilt of her dagger against her thigh.

“Truly ingenious, my lord,” said the commander of her forces with undisguised and unfeigned admiration in his voice.

The commander—a human near forty years of age—had scratched and clawed and murdered his way up through the ranks to attain his current position, General of the Dragonarmies. Stooped and ill-favored, disfigured by a scar that slashed across his face, the commander had never tasted the favors enjoyed in the past by so many of Kitiara’s other captains. But he was not without hope. Glancing over at her, he saw her face—unusually cold and stern these past few days brighten with pleasure at his praise. She even deigned to smile at him—that crooked smile she knew how to use so well. The commander’s heart beat faster.

“It is good to see you have not lost your touch,” said Lord Soth, his hollow voice echoing through the map room.

The commander shuddered. He should be used to the death knight by now. The Dark Queen knew, he’d fought enough battles with him and his troop of skeletal warriors. But the chill of the grave surrounded the knight as his black cloak shrouded his charred and blood-stained armor. How does she stand him? the commander wondered. They say he even haunts her bedchambers! The thought made the commander’s heartbeat rapidly return to normal. Perhaps, after all, the slave women weren’t so bad. At least when one was alone with them in the dark, one was alone in the dark!

“Of course, I have not lost my touch!” Kitiara returned with such fierce anger that the commander looked about uneasily, hurriedly manufacturing some excuse to leave. Fortunately, with the entire city of Sanction preparing for war, excuses were not hard to find.

“If you have no further need of me, my lord,” the commander said, bowing, “I must check on the work of the armory. There is much to be done, and not much time in which to do it.”

“Yes, go ahead,” Kitiara muttered absently, her eyes on the huge map that was inlaid in tile upon the floor beneath her feet. Turning, the commander started to leave, his broadsword clanking against his armor. At the door, however, his lord’s voice stopped him.

“Commander?”

He turned. “My lord?”

Kitiara started to say something, stopped, bit her lip, then continued, “I—I was wondering if you would join me for dinner this evening.” She shrugged. “But, it is late to be asking. I presume you have made plans.”

The commander hesitated, confused. His palms began to sweat. “As a matter of fact, lord, I do have a prior commitment, but that could easily be changed—”

“No,” Kitiara said, a look of relief crossing her face. “No, that wont be necessary. Some other night. You are dismissed.”

The commander, still puzzled, turned slowly and started once again to leave the room. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the orange, burning eyes of the death knight, staring straight through him.

Now he would have to come up with a dinner engagement, he thought as he hurried down the hall. Easy enough. And he would send for one of the slave girls tonight—his favorite...

“You should relax. Treat yourself to an evening of pleasure,” Lord Soth said as the commander’s footsteps faded away down the corridor of Kitiara’s military headquarters.

“There is much to be done, and little time to do it,” Kitiara replied, pretending to be totally absorbed in the map beneath her feet. She stood upon the place marked “Sanction,” looking into the far northwestern corner of the room where Palanthas nestled in the cleft of its protective mountains.

Following her gaze, Soth slowly paced the distance, coming to a halt at the only pass through the rugged mountains, a place marked “High Clerist’s Tower.”

“The Knights will try to stop you here, of course,” Soth said. “Where they stopped you during the last war.”

Kitiara grinned, shook out her curly hair, and walked toward Soth. The lithe swagger was back in her step. “Now, won’t that be a sight? All the pretty Knights, lined up in a row.” Suddenly, feeling better than she had in months, Kitiara began to laugh. “You know, the looks on their faces when they see what we have in store for them will be almost worth waging the entire campaign.”

Standing on the High Clerist’s Tower, she ground it beneath her heel, then took a few quick steps to stand next to Palanthas.

“At last,” she murmured, “the fine, fancy lady will feel the sword of war slit open her soft, ripe flesh.” Smiling, she turned back to face Lord Soth. “I think I will have the commander to dinner tonight after all. Send for him.” Soth bowed his acquiescence, the orange eyes flaming with amusement. “We have many military matters to discuss,” Kitiara laughed again, starting to unbuckle the straps of her armor. “Matters of unguarded flanks, breaching walls, thrust, and penetration... .”

“Now, calm down, Tanis,” said Lord Gunthar good-naturedly. “You are overwrought.”

Tanis Half-Elven muttered something.

“What was that?” Gunthar turned around, holding in his hand a mug of his finest ale (drawn from the barrel in the dark corner by the cellar stairs). He handed the ale to Tanis.

“I said you’re damn right I’m overwrought!” the half-elf snapped, which wasn’t what he had said at all, but was certainly more appropriate when talking to the head of the Knights of Solamnia than what he had actually spoken.