Margaret Weis - Dragons of Summer Flame

“Not all!” he cried in a ravaged voice. “Surely, not all!”

Steel Brightblade responded with a respectful yet dignified salute, as he had been taught. Treat all persons of rank, title, and education with respect, even if they are the enemy. Especially if they are the enemy. Always respect your enemy; thus you will never underestimate him.

“We believe that to be so, Sir Mage, though we have no way of knowing for certain. We plan to bury the dead with honor, record their names on the tomb. You are the only one who can identify them.”

“Take me to them,” the young mage demanded.

His face had the flush of fever. Splotches of blood stained his robes, some of it probably his own. One side of his head was badly bruised and cut. His bags and pouches had all been taken from him and lay on the ground to one side. Some unlucky apprentice would sort through those, risking being burned—or worse—by the arcane objects which, due to their propensity for good, only a White Robe could use.

Such objects would not be of any immediate use to a Gray Knight, for despite the Thorn Knights’ ability to draw power from all three moons, white, black, and red, each magic knows its own and often reacts violently to the presence of its opposite. A Thorn Knight might possibly be able to use an artifact dedicated to Solinari, but only after long hours of the most disciplined and intense study. The White Robe’s spell components and other captured magical objects would be held in safekeeping, to be studied, then those that could not be safely handled might be exchanged for arcane artifacts of more value—and less danger—to the Thorn Knights.

Brightblade did note, however, that the White Robe kept with him a staff. Made of wood, the staff was topped by a dragon’s claw fashioned out of silver, holding in its grip a multifaceted crystal. The knight knew enough about the arcane to realize that this staff was undoubtedly magical and probably highly valuable.

He wondered why the White Robe was permitted to retain it.

“I suppose the mage may go,” said the Nightlord ungraciously and with reluctance. “But only if I accompany him.”

“Certainly, Madam.”

Brightblade did his best to conceal his shock. This White Robe could not be of very high level. He was too young. Add to that the fact that no high-level White Robe would have ever permitted himself to be taken prisoner. Yet Lillith—head of the Thorn Knights’ order—was treating this young man with the careful caution she would have treated, say, Lord Dalamar, renowned Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.

The White Robe moved weakly, leaned heavily upon the staff. His face was drawn with pain and anguish. He winced as he walked, bit his lip to keep from crying out. He crept forward at a gully dwarf’s pace. It would take them the remainder of the day and into the night to reach the bodies, traveling at this rate. Subcommander Trevalin would not be pleased at the delay.

Steel glanced at the Nightlord. The mage was her prisoner. It was her place to offer him assistance. The Nightlord was regarding them both with a look of displeasure mingled with—oddly—curiosity, as if she were waiting to see what Steel would do in this situation. He would act as he had been taught to act—with honor. If the Nightlord didn’t like it...

“Lean on my arm, Sir Mage,” Steel Brightblade offered. He spoke coldly, dispassionately, but with respect. “You will find the going easier.”

The White Robe lifted his head and stared in amazement that quickly hardened to wary suspicion. “What trick is this?”

“No trick, sir. You are in pain and obviously find walking difficult. I am offering you my aid, sir.”

The White Robe’s face twisted in puzzlement. “But... you are one of... hers.”

“If you mean a servant of our Dark Queen, Takhisis, then you are correct,” Steel Brightblade replied gravely. “I am hers, body and soul. Yet, that does not mean that I am not a man of honor, who is pleased to salute bravery and courage when I see it. I beg you, sir, accept my arm. The way is long, and I note that you are wounded.”

The young mage glanced askance at the Nightlord, as if thinking she might disapprove. If she did, she said nothing. Her face was devoid of expression.

Hesitantly, obviously still fearing some sort of evil design on the part of his enemy, the White Robe accepted the dark knight’s aid. He clearly expected to be hurled to the ground, stomped, and beaten. He looked surprised (and perhaps disappointed) to find that he was not.

The young mage walked easier and faster with Steel’s help. The two soon moved out of the cool shadows of the trees and into the hot sun. At the sight of the landing party, the White Robe’s face registered awe and dismay.

“So many troops...” he said softly to himself.

“It is no disgrace that your small band lost,” observed Steel Brightblade. “You were vastly outnumbered.”

“Still...” The White Robe spoke through teeth clenched against the pain. “If I had been stronger...” He closed his eyes, swayed on his feet, seemed on the verge of passing out.

The knight supported the fainting mage. Glancing back over his shoulder, Brightblade asked, “Why haven’t the healers, the Knights of the Skull, attended to him, Nightlord?”

“He refused their help,” answered the Nightlord offhandedly. She shrugged. “And, being servants of Her Dark Majesty, there may have been nothing our healers could have done for him anyway.”

Brightblade had no answer for this. He knew very little of the ways of the dark clerics. But he did know how to dress battlefield wounds, having experienced a few of his own.

“I have a recipe for a poultice I’ll give you,” he promised, assisting the mage to walk once more. “My mother—“ He paused, corrected himself. “The woman who raised me taught me how to make it. The herbs are easily found. Your wound is in your side?”

The young mage nodded, pressed his hand against his rib cage. The white cloth of the mage’s robes was soaked in blood, had stuck to the wound. Probably just as well to leave the cloth where it was. It kept the wound sealed.

“A spear,” the young mage replied. “A glancing blow. My brother—”

He halted whatever he had been about to say, fell silent.

Ah, so that’s it, Steel reasoned. That’s why Solamnic Knights had a magic-user with them. One brother who fights with the sword, the other with the staff. And that is why he is so anxious to see the dead. He hopes for the best, but in his heart he must know what he will find. Should I say something to warn him? No, he might inadvertently reveal information that would help us.

Steel was not being callous. It was simply that he could not understand the young mage’s obvious anxiety over the fate of this brother. Surely, a Knight of Solamnia expected death in battle, even welcomed it! A relative of the honored dead should be proud, not grief-stricken.

But then this mage is young, Brightblade reflected. Perhaps this was his first battle. That would explain much.

They continued across the crowded beach, the knight and his prisoner receiving some curious stares. No one said anything to them, however. The Nightlord followed behind; her green-eyed gaze never left them. Steel could have sworn he felt the fierce intensity burn through his heavy metal breastplate.

The sun, dripping with red, had fully risen by the time they reached the site of the battle, where the bodies of the dead were located. The sunrise had been spectacular, a fiery display of angry reds and triumphant purples, as if the sun were flaunting its power over a blistered and dried-up world. This day would be a scorcher. Not even night would bring relief. Heat would radiate up from the sand, covering like a smothering blanket those who tried to sleep on it. Rest would come tonight only to those too exhausted to notice.