Love and War t-3 Read online

  Love and War

  ( Tales - 3 )

  Margaret Weis

  Tracy Hickman

  Michael Williams

  Richard A. Knaak

  Harold Bakst

  Nick O

  Nancy Varian Berberick

  Laura Hickman

  Kate Novak

  Dezra Despain

  Kevin D. Randle

  Michael Williams

  Margaret Weis,Tracy Hickman, Michael Williams,Richard A. Knaak, Harold Bakst,Nick O'Donohoe, Nancy Varian Berberick,Laura Hickman,Kate Novak, Dezra Despain, Kevin D. Randle,Michael Williams

  Love and War

  A Good Knight's Tale

  Harold Bakst

  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."

&nbs
p; "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."

  "I do not wish to talk."

  "Oh, but you must make yourself. A knight such as you surely has many wonderful tales of derring-do, bravery. Why, this may be one of your few opportunities to set the record straight about your order before the world forgets."

  The knight appeared unmoved at first. But then, despite himself, he tugged contemplatively at the tip of his long moustache. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "if I do think about it "

  "Yes, do think about it!" said Aril Witherwind as he hurried to another, smaller rock, where he sat down, his bony knees pulled up. He brought forth his book and propped it open on his legs. He then took from his pouch a quill and inkwell, placing the inkwell on the ground.

  "You're a pushy one," said the knight, arching an imperious eyebrow.

  "These days, a folklorist must be," said Aril. "Now then, first thing's first: What is your name?"

  "Warrex," said the knight growing ever more interested. He even sat up. "Barryn Warrex."

  "Is Warrex spelled with one 'r' or two?"

  "Two."

  "Fine. Now what do you have for me? Some tale, I bet, of epic battles and falling castles, of heroic missions — »

  "No," said the knight thoughtfully, again pulling on his moustache, "no, I don't think so."

  "Oh? Then perhaps a tale of minotaur slaying or a duel with some fierce ogre — »

  "No, no, not those either, though I've done both."

  "Then, by all means, you must tell of them! People one day will want to read such knightly adventures — »

  "Please!" snapped Barryn Warrex, his old milky eyes flashing in anger. "I have no patience for this unless you will listen to the story that I WANT to tell!"

  "Of course, of course," said Aril, closing his eyes in contrition. "Forgive me. That is, of course, just what I want you to do."

  "To a Solamnic Knight — at least to this old Solmanic Knight — there is one thing as important — more important — than even bravery, duty, and honor."

  "More important? My, and what would that be?"

  "Love."

  "A tale of love? Well, that's good, too," said Aril Witherwind, nodding his approval and dipping his quill into the inkwell. "A knight's tale of chivalry — »

  "I did not say 'chivalry', " snarled Barryn Warrex.

  "Pardon me, I just assumed — »

  "Stop assuming, will you? This is a tale told to me when I was a mere child, long before I ever thought of becoming a knight. And though much has happened to me since, this tale has stayed with me all these years. Indeed, these days, it aches my heart more than ever."

  Aril was already scribbling in his book. "… more — than

  ever," he repeated as he wrote.

  Barryn Warrex settled back once more, calming himself. "It is about two entwined trees in the Forest of Wayreth — »

  "The Entwining Trees?" interrupted Aril, lifting his pert nose from his book and pushing his slipping glasses back up with a forefinger. "I've heard of them! You know their story?"

  "I do," returned Warrex, trying to stay calmer. "Indeed, my garrulous friend, I intend to tell it you if you would but be quiet long enough."

  "Forgive me, forgive me, it's just that this is exactly the sort of story I look for. The Entwining Trees, yes, do go ahead, please. I won't say another word."

  The knight looked at Aril Witherwind in disbelief. But, sure enough, as he had promised, the bespectacled half-elf said nothing further. He only hunched over his book, quill at the ready.

  Satisfied, Barryn Warrex rested his head back. Then an odd change came over him: His eyes glassed over with a distant look, as if they were seeing something many years ago; his ears perked as if they were likewise hearing a voice from that long ago; and when he spoke, it seemed to be in the voice of someone else — so very long ago…

  Once, when the world was younger, there lived in a small, thatched cottage on the outskirts of Gateway — where cottages were a stone's throw from each other — a certain widower by the name of Aron Dewweb, a weaver by trade, and his young daughter, Petal, who was considered, if not THE most beautiful, then certainly among the most beautiful human girls for miles in any direction. Petal was slender and delicate, with a long, elegant neck, large brown eyes, and long fair hair that reached her narrow waist.

  It came as no surprise, then, that when Petal reached marriageable age, she found at her doorstep every young bachelor who was looking for a wife. These fellows would wander by the front fence, sometimes pretending to be going on a stroll, when they'd "by chance" notice the young girl gardening in her front yard, and they'd begin chatting with her.

  "Why, hello," they'd say, for instance, "what lovely roses you have."

  Naturally, Petal was very flattered to receive so much attention, and she'd leave her gardening and go flirt with the young men, which only encouraged them.

  Now, Aron, though he had always been the kindest and happiest of fathers when Petal was growing up, turned stem and dark of expression. He stopped smiling. He grumbled a lot. He became, in a word, jealous.

  True, he tried, at first, to view the situation with pleasure. After all, the attention she was receiving was that due a young, beautiful, marriageable girl, and he tried to pretend that he was prepared for it.

  But he couldn't help himself. Whenever one of Petal's would-be suitors came calling at the front fence, offering Aron a wave and a "hello," Aron Dewweb could only grunt back, or more likely, ignore the young man and stalk into his cottage.

  Several neighbors told him, "Look, Aron, you can't keep nature from taking its course."

  Aron listened politely, but that was because his neighbors were also customers for his weaving. Really, he didn't give a damn about nature or its course or their opinions. He just couldn't bear the thought of some swain taking away his only, precious daughter. As far as he was concerned, no matter how old she got, Petal would always be that little girl who laughed and squealed when he bounced her lightly on his knee.

  So he said, "Dash it all, I don't care what anyone thinks! I don't like what's happening!" And he took to chasing off the young men with a knobby walking stick he kept handy near his loom. "Stay away!" he would cry as he came running out of his cottage toward the fence. The young man of the moment, startled by the attack, would leave Petal standing by the gate and flee. "And tell your boorish friends to stay clear, too!"

  Petal was always very embarrassed by this display. "Daddy, why can't they visit me?" she'd ask, near tears. "I'm old enough!"

  "Because!" answered Aron, his face red, his knuckles white as he clenched his walking stick. "Just — just because!" And then he'd storm back into the cottage.

  Well, «because» wasn't good enough for Petal, and she continued to encourage her suitors. A wink from her was enough to draw them back like bees to a bright, fragrant flower — though none of them dared actually enter the gate.

  From his loom — which, incidentally, was a clever, if noisy, contraption operated by various levers and pedals — the stern weaver could look out his window and see the way his daughter was behaving. And he saw the effect it had on her callers, who were growing ever bolder, some even venturing to open the gate. Apparently, waving a stick at them was no longer enough to drive them away (which was just as well since Aron was getting tired of running out every other moment). So, finally, he decided there was only one thing left to do: He would have to take Petal away from Gateway.

  This he did. He piled his loom and other possessions high on a wagon, put Petal on the seat next to him, and of
f they went, pulled by a tired, old ox, which he borrowed from a neighbor. Petal sighed deeply as she waved farewell to all her would-be lovers, who lined up along the road in front of their own cottages to see her off. They waved back, their hearts heavy.

  Aron took Petal far away. The road became unpaved and overgrown, and eventually it led to the Forest of Wayreth. There, Aron had to leave behind most of his possessions for the time being because there was no path between the trees wide enough to allow the wagon to pass. He would have to make several trips, but he loaded up his goods on his back, took Petal by her slender hand, and off they went through the sunless forest.

  When he had gone far enough — that is to say, when he became too exhausted to continue — Aron put down his load and said, "Here! Here is where we shall live!" And right on that bosky spot, he built a new cottage of sticks and thatch. He included a small room for Petal, a larger one for himself, and a still bigger one for the cooking hearth, table, chairs, and, of course, his loom, which he had the ox drag through the forest before he returned the beast to its owner.

  Convinced at last that his daughter was now where no young man would find her, or at least where she'd be too far away to be worth the bother, Aron resumed his weaving. Such a location among the reputedly magical woods was inconvenient for him, for he had to make long trips to his customers in Gateway, but it was worth the peace of mind that came from knowing that his daughter was safe from anyone who would dare try to take her from him.

  As for Petal, she cried for days and days. She wanted to go back to Gateway. She wanted to flirt with her suitors.

  But Aron said, "You'll get used to it here. Soon, things will be back the way they were before all this foolishness started."

  Petal did, in fact, stop crying, but things never quite went back to the way they were. Petal was lonely, and she never looked happy.

  "What's the matter?" Aron finally snapped one day from his loom while Petal, long-faced, was sprinkling fragrant pine needles on the floor. "I was good enough company all these years!"