Margaret Weis: Love and War

In those chaotic years just after the Cataclysm, when the frightened citizens of Xak Tsaroth were fleeing their beloved but decimated city, there was among them a certain half-elf by the name of Aril Witherwind, who, while others sought only refuge, took to roaming the countryside, carrying upon his bent back a huge, black tome.

Even without his peculiar burden, which he held by a leather strap thrown across one shoulder, Aril Witherwind was, as far as half-elves went, a strange one. Though he was properly tall and willowy, and he had the fair hair, pale skin, and blue eyes typical of his kind, he seemed not at all interested in his appearance and had, indeed, a slovenliness about him: His shoes were often unbuckled, his shirt hung out of his pants, and his hair was usually in a tangle. He often went days without shaving so that fine, blond hairs covered his jaw like down. In addition to everything else, he wore thick, metal-rimmed eyeglasses.

All this, though, had a simple enough explanation:

Aril Witherwind was, by his own definition, an academic. More particularly, he was one of the many itinerant folklorists who appeared on Krynn just after the Cataclysm.

"The Cataclysm threatens to extinguish our rich past," he would explain in his gentle but enthusiastic voice to whoever gave him a moment of time. "And if peace should ever again come to Krynn, we will want to know something of our traditions before everything was destroyed."

"But this is not the time to do it!" often came the curt response from some fleeing traveler, sometimes with everything he owned in a wagon or in a dogcart or even upon his own back, his family often in tow.

"Ah, but this is exactly the time to do it," returned Aril Witherwind automatically, "before too much is forgotten by the current sweep of events."

"Well, good luck to you, then!" would as likely be the answer as the party hurried off to some hopefully safer comer of Krynn.

Undaunted, Aril Witherwind criss-crossed the countryside, traversing shadowy valleys, sun-lit fields, and sombre forests. He stopped at the occasional surviving inn, passed through refugee encampments, and even marched along with armies, all the time asking whomever he met if he or she knew a story that he could put into his big black book.

In time, it became clear to Aril that he usually had the best luck with the older folks — indeed, the older the better. These grayhairs were not only the most likely to remember a story or two, but they were the ones most likely to be interested in relating it. Perhaps it was because they welcomed the opportunity to slow down and reminisce awhile. Or perhaps it was because they had not much of a future to give to Krynn, only their pasts.

In any case, Aril Witherwind soon learned to seek them out almost exclusively, and his book slowly began to fill with stories from before the Cataclysm, when Krynn had been in what he considered its Golden Age.

He gave each story an appropriate title, and then he gave due credit to the source by adding: "… as told by Henrik Hellendale, a dwarven baker" or "… as told by Verial Stargazer, an elven shepherd" or "… as told by Frick Ashfell, a human woodchopper" and so forth.

People often asked Aril what his favorite story was, but, with the professional objectivity proper to an academic, he'd say only, "I like them all."

But, really, if you could read his mind, there was a favorite, and that was one "… as told by Barryn Warrex, a Solamnic Knight."

It had been on a particularly lovely spring day — a day, indeed, when all of nature seemed happy and unconcerned with the political upheaval miles away — when Aril, while traversing the length of a grassy and flower-dotted valley, espied a knight, kneeling at the base of the valley wall. The knight, as luck would have it, was an old one.

"Perfect," murmured Aril to himself as he strode toward the grand man, stopping several paces away.

At first, the old knight didn't seem to realize he had an audience. He simply continued his kneeling, his head bowed in either deep meditation or perhaps even in respectful prayer to the recently deposed gods of Krynn. Behind him was a low, rocky overhang, almost a cave really, which was apparently serving as his humble, if temporary, shelter — The Order of the Solamnic Knights, you see, had been destroyed in the Cataclysm and fallen into disrepute, its few remaining members scattered by the four winds.

It seemed to Aril Witherwind that such events must have taken a truly terrible toll on this fellow, maybe making him look even older than he was, for he had a drawn, haggard face; his hair, though thick, was totally white; and his hands, clenched before him, were gnarly, almost arthritic.

Still, Aril could see much in the man that boasted of the old grandeur of his order. He was dressed in his full plate armor, a great sword hanging at his side, his visorless helmet and shield resting nearby on a flat rock. And though he was kneeling, he did seem to be quite tall — that is, long of limb. But what impressed Aril Witherwind the most was his truly copious moustache, a long white one that drooped with a poignant flourish so that its tips nearly brushed the ground as he knelt there.

A lot of pride must go into that moustache, mused Aril as he waited patiently for the knight to finish whatever he was doing.

Now, all that time, the itinerant folklorist thought he was unobserved, so he was startled when the knight, not so much as lifting his head or moving a muscle, spoke up in a deep, though tired, voice:

"What do you want?"

"Oh! Pardon me," said Aril Witherwind, stepping ahead, bent forward as if he were bowing, though, in fact, he was merely carrying his heavy tome. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything. Only, if you are done, I would like to speak with you."

"I am in meditation."

"So you are. But perhaps you could return to it in a moment," suggested Aril. "This will not take long."

The old knight sighed deeply. "Actually, you're not interrupting much," he said, his body slumping from its disciplined pose. "I no longer have the concentration I once did."

"Then we can talk?"

The knight began to rise to his feet, though it clearly took some effort. "Ach, it's getting so I can't distinguish between the creaking in my armor and the creaking in my bones."

"I believe it was your armor that time," said Aril with a smile.

At his full height, the knight indeed proved to be a very tall man, as tall as Aril, who himself, when he did not carry his book, was a gangly fellow. And when the knight faced him fully, Aril got goosebumps because engraved upon the knight's tarnished breastplate was a faint rose, the famous symbol of his order.

"On the other hand, I do not feel much like talking," said the knight sullenly, walking right past the half-elf and seating himself upon a large rock where he leaned back against another and gazed languidly up at the blue sky and white clouds bracketed by the opposing walls of the valley. "I am a man of action only."

"I quite understand," said Aril, following. "But it does seem to me you are at the moment — um — between actions. The thing is, I am a folklorist — »

"Aril Witherwind."

"Yes, that's right. You've heard of me? I'm flattered."

The knight squinted at the gangly blond person with the large book upon his back. "You are indeed a strange one."

"It takes all kinds," said Aril Witherwind, again with a smile. "In any case, you know why I'm here."