Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

Lord Gunthar uth Wistan stroked his long mustaches—the ages-old symbol of the Knights and one that was currently much in fashion—hiding his smile. He had heard, of course, what Tanis originally said. Gunthar shook his head. Why hadn’t this matter been brought straight to the military? Now, as well as preparing for this minor flare-up of undoubtedly frustrated enemy forces, he had also to deal with black-robed wizards’ apprentices, white-robed clerics, nervous heroes, and a librarian!

Gunthar sighed and tugged at his mustaches gloomily. All he needed now was a kender... .

“Tanis, my friend, sit down. Warm yourself by the fire. You’ve had a long journey, and it’s cold for late spring. The sailors say something about prevailing winds or some such nonsense. I trust your trip was a good one? I don’t mind telling you, I prefer griffons to dragons—”

“Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said tensely, remaining standing, “I did not fly all the way to Sancrist to discuss the prevailing winds nor the merits of griffons over dragons! We are in danger! Not only Palanthas, but the world! If Raistlin succeeds—” Tanis’s fist clenched. Words failed him.

Filling his own mug from the pitcher that Wills, his old retainer, had brought up from the cellar, Gunthar walked over to stand beside the half-elf. Putting his hand on Tanis’s shoulder, he turned the man to face him.

“Sturm Brightblade spoke highly of you, Tanis. You and Laurana were the closest friends he had.”

Tanis bowed his head at these words. Even now, more than two years since Sturm’s death, he could not think of the loss of his friend without sorrow.

“I would have esteemed you on that recommendation alone, for I loved and respected Sturm like one of my own sons,” Lord Gunthar continued earnestly. “But I have come to admire and like you myself, Tanis. Your bravery in battle was unquestioned, your honor, your nobility worthy of a Knight.” Tanis shook his head irritably at this talk of honor and nobility, but Gunthar did not notice.

“Those honors accorded you at the end of the war you more than merited. Your work since the war’s end has been outstanding. You and Laurana have brought together nations that have been separated for centuries. Porthios has signed the treaty and, once the dwarves of Thorbardin have chosen a new king, they will sign as well.”

“Thank you, Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said, holding his mug of untouched ale in his hand and staring fixedly into the fire. “Thank you for your praise. I wish I felt I had earned it. Now, if you’ll tell me where this trail of sugar is leading—”

“I see you are far more human than you are elven,” Gunthar said, with a slight smile. “Very well, Tanis. I will skip the elven amenities and get right to the point. I think your past experiences have made you jumpy—you and Elistan both. Let’s be honest, my friend. You are not a warrior. You were never trained as such. You stumbled into this last war by accident. Now, come with me. I want to show you something. Come, come...”

Tanis set his full mug down upon the mantelpiece and allowed himself to be led by Gunthar’s strong hand. They walked across the room that was filled with the solid, plain, but comfortable furniture preferred by the Knights. This was Gunthar’s war room, shields and swords were mounted on the walls, along with the banners of the three Orders of Knights—the Rose, the Sword, and the Crown. Trophies of battles fought through the years gleamed from the cases where they were carefully preserved. In an honored place, spanning the entire length of the wall, was a dragonlance the first one Theros Ironfeld had forged. Ranged around it were various goblin swords, a wicked saw-toothed blade of a draconian, a huge, double—bladed ogre sword, and a broken sword that had belonged to the ill-fated Knight, Derek Crownguard.

It was an impressive array, testifying to a lifetime of honored service in the Knights. Gunthar walked past it without a glance, however, heading for a corner of the room where a large table stood. Rolled-up maps were stuffed neatly into small compartments beneath the table, each compartment carefully labeled. After studying them for a moment, Gunthar reached down, pulled out a map, and spread it out upon the table’s surface. He motioned Tanis nearer. The half-elf came closer, scratching his beard, and trying to look interested.

Gunthar rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was in his element now. “It’s a matter of logistics, Tanis. Pure and simple. Look, here are the Dragon Highlord’s armies, bottled up in Sanction. Now I admit the Highlord is strong, she has a vast number of draconians, goblins, and humans who would like nothing better than to see the war start up again. And I also admit that our spies have reported increased activity in Sanction. The Highlord is up to something. But attacking Palanthas! Name of the Abyss, Tanis, look at the amount of territory she’d have to cover! And most of it controlled by the Knights! And even if she had the manpower to fight her way through, look how long she’d have to extend her supply lines! It would take her entire army just to guard her lines. We could cut them easily, any number of places.”

Gunthar pulled on his mustaches again. “Tanis, if there was one Highlord in that army I came to respect, it was Kitiara. She is ruthless and ambitious, but she is also intelligent, and she is certainly not given to taking unnecessary risks. She has waited two years, building up her armies, fortifying herself in a place she knows we dare not attack. She has gained too much to throw it away on a wild scheme like this.”

“Suppose this isn’t her plan,” Tanis muttered.

“What other plan could she possibly have?” Gunthar asked patiently.

“I don’t know,” Tanis snapped. “You say you respect her, but do you respect her enough? Do you fear her enough? I know her, and I have a feeling that she has something in mind...” His voice trailed off, he scowled down at the map.

Gunthar kept quiet. He’d heard strange rumors about Tanis Half-Elven and this Kitiara. He didn’t believe them, of course, but felt it better not to pursue the subject of the depth of the half-elf’s knowledge of this woman further.

“You don’t believe this, do you?” Tanis asked abruptly. “Any of it?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Gunthar smoothed both his long, gray mustaches and, bending down, began to roll up the map, using extreme care. “Tanis, my son, you know I respect you—

“We’ve been through that.”

Gunthar ignored the interruption. “And you know that there is no one in this world I hold in deeper reverence than Elistan. But when you two bring me a tale told to you by one of the Black Robes—and a dark elf at that—a tale about this wizard, Raistlin, entering the Abyss and challenging the Queen of Darkness! Well, I’m sorry, Tanis. I am not a young man anymore by any means. I’ve seen many strange things in my life. But this sounds like a child’s bedtime story!”

“So they said of dragons,” Tanis murmured, his face flushing beneath his beard. He stood, head bowed, for a moment, then, scratching his beard, he looked at Gunthar intently. “My lord, I watched Raistlin grow up. I have traveled with him, seen him, fought both with him and against him. I know what this man is capable of!” Tanis grasped Gunthar’s arm with his hand. “If you will not accept my counsel, then accept Elistan’s! We need you, Lord Gunthar! We need you, we need the Knights. You must reinforce the High Clerist’s Tower. We have little time. Dalamar tells us that time has no meaning on the planes of the Dark Queen’s existence. Raistlin might fight her for months or even years there, but that would seem only days to us. Dalamar believes his master’s return is imminent. I believe him, and so does Elistan. Why do we believe him, Lord Gunthar? Because Dalamar is frightened. He is afraid—and so are we.