Lord Soth (7 page)

But at last the presentation of gifts came to an end.

Guests finished their meals and suddenly became eager to walk the grounds surrounding the keep, or else loosen the waistbands of their britches so that they might more easily partake in the rest of the day’s planned activities.

But before the feast could be officially concluded, Lord Reynard Gladria and his wife Leyla had to make the presentation of Lady Korinne’s dowry. Rumors had been circulating for weeks about the size and contents of the dowry, but specific details had yet to be divulged.

At last, all would know.

Leyla Gladria stepped up before the table, holding her
aged husband by the left arm, while Eiwon van Sickle, a Knight of the Sword from Palanthas who had escorted the Gladrias to Dargaard Keep, held firmly onto the man’s left.

When they were in place, a chair was brought for Reynard Gladria while Lady Gladria made the presentation standing up.

“Dearest daughter,” she said, then turning to Lord Soth. “And my new
son …
”

Soth wasn’t sure the woman was saying the word affectionately or sarcastically, but he nevertheless nodded graciously.

“My husband and I have awaited this day for many, many years. And I know I speak for my husband when I say that we couldn’t have wished for a more suitable man for our precious daughter than the heralded Lord Loren Soth, Knight of the Rose.”

Lady Gladria reached over and took Soth’s hand in hers, squeezing it tight.

“And with our daughter married, we find that we are no longer in need of much of our holdings. Therefore, it is with great pleasure that we present to you the deeds to the lands surrounding Maelgoth as well as those spanning the northern edge of the Plains of Solamnia. This will extend Knightlund’s western border across the Vingaard River, bridging much of the gap between Palanthas and Knightlund, and making the distance between our homeland and the new home of our daughter a much shorter one to traverse.”

For the second time in a very short while, Soth was at a loss for words. So too was Lady Korinne, for all she was able to offer in response to her parent’s gift were tears of joy.

At last Soth got up from the high table and walked down the slight slope to thank his new in-laws for their extremely generous gift.

He approached Reynard Gladria first, kneeling by the seated man and bowing his head deeply. “Thank you
milord,”
he said, using the word somewhat improperly in
order to show the extent of his gratitude.

The elderly man smiled, exposing a gap-toothed row of teeth. He placed a frail and bony hand on Soth’s shoulder and said, “Quite all right, my boy.” His voice wheezed out the words like a steelsmith’s bellows clogged with coal dust. “There’s no one I’d rather see have it than a Knight of the Rose.”

Soth nodded again, then stood up. He waited for Lady Korinne to finish thanking her mother, then he moved over and knelt before the woman. “Thank you,
milady.”

The elder Gladria remained stern faced. “Treating my daughter well will be thanks enough, young man.”

Soth looked at her, realized that she was now his mother-in-law, and simply said, “Yes, milady.”

Leyla Gladria nodded her approval.

A breeze blew down off the Dargaard Mountains, cooling the early evening air and making it more comfortable for the assembled knights to continue their games and amusements.

At the foot of the mountains, on the south side of the keep, several knights were busy testing their skills against one another by fighting mock battles commonly referred to as “friendlies.”

“Knights prepare!” cried Oren Brightblade, the honorary referee for the evening’s contests.

The two opponents stood up and entered the large circle drawn upon the ground. Wearing a red sash on his right arm was Meyer Seril, a Knight of the Crown. Wearing the blue sash was Caradoc, also a Knight of the Crown.

Although the winner and loser of each friendly neither gained nor lost any standing in the order, the Knights of Solamnia were a proud group and none took losing such contests lightly. As a result, many of the friendlies between knights were as fiercely contested as many of the
battles they fought against their usual foes such as the ogres or minotaurs.

“May the best knight win,” said Seril, smiling at his opponent.

Caradoc nodded and smiled politely. “May the winner be the best knight.”

The combatants touched swords and stepped back so that their footmen could give the lightweight ringmail and leather armor covering the upper parts of their bodies a final check.

A moment later, the two men stood at the ready.

“Hup!” cried Oren Brightblade.

Suddenly the air rang with the clink and clang of steel against steel as each of the knight’s thin, lightweight practice swords slashed through the air in search of a weakness in their opponent’s defenses.

Whether Caradoc was tired from the long day of ceremony and festivities, or Meyer Seril was a more nimble fighter, was unclear. What was clear however, was that Seril was by far the better swordsman. He was able to block most of Caradoc’s attempted blows and easily knocked Caradoc off-balance by slapping him gently on his arms and legs with the flat side of his broadsword, which was the primary object of the whole contest.

As the two knights continued to battle, other knights, those slightly older and perhaps more battle-weary, looked on, cheering on the combatants between gulps of frosty ale.

The time limit on the bout was close to running out and it was obvious to everyone present that Knight Seril would be declared the winner as he had easily outscored Caradoc by a margin of four-to-one.

But suddenly Caradoc faltered, as if he had been hurt by Seril’s most recent blow to his armorless thigh.

“Caradoc, are you all right?” asked Seril, dropping his guard for a moment and leaving the right side of his body open to attack.

Caradoc rose up, swung his sword in a short and powerful arc and caught Seril on the shoulder with the sharp leading edge of his blade. The ringmail connecting the patches of leather armor covering Seril’s arm broke away allowing Caradoc’s sword to cut a long, gash across Seril’s upper arm.

“Stop the friendly!” called Oren Brightblade. “Put down your swords!”

Seril grabbed his bleeding arm and fell to one knee. “If I didn’t know you better, Knight Caradoc,” he said. “I would have thought you did that on purpose.”

“Who’s to say he didn’t?” called Arnol Kraas, Seril’s squire and a recent supplicant to the Order of the Crown. Although it was not his place to pose such a question, none of the assembled knights objected to it. Perhaps many of them had been thinking the very same thing.

“On my honor as a Knight of Solamnia, I would never consciously hurt one of my fellows.”

“You feigned being hurt—” continued Kraas.

“Enough! Enough!” interjected Brightblade. “Caradoc says the blow was accidental, and since he is bound to the Oath and the Measure, we must take him at his word.”

Kraas said no more, but was obviously dissatisfied.

The other knights also said nothing, but were seemingly more content to abide by Brightblade’s decision.

“Now, bring this man to see Istvan, the healer,” said Brightblade. “It’s only a flesh wound, but I’ve seen many a man die from less.”

Two knights quickly dropped to the ground, took hold of Knight Seril and gently lifted him up, carrying him gingerly back to the keep.

After Seril was gone, and the footman had begun preparing the two knights competing in the evening’s final friendly, Caradoc approached Brightblade and asked, “Do you declare a winner?”

Brightblade looked at Caradoc strangely. “A knight has been injured. Does it really matter who won?”

“According to the writings of Vinas Solamnus, as every battle must have a winner, so too must every friendly.”

This was true, but the knights had long ago learned that open interpretation of the writings of Vinas Solamnus was far more practical than any literal adherence to their words. They were guidelines rather than laws carved in stone. For true honor lies in the heart of each knight, not in a set of old and dusty tomes. However, if the laws were cited verbatim in situations such as this, their authority could not be questioned.

“Very well,” said Brightblade, no doubt as familiar with the thirty-seven volumes as Caradoc was. He cleared his throat and announced the winner. “Since Meyer Seril was unable to complete the friendly, Caradoc is declared winner by forfeit.”

Caradoc raised his sword to acknowledge his victory.

Few cheered.

In fact, following Seril’s wounding, many of the knights had gone inside the keep to partake of some of the evening’s more sedate celebrations or to the north end where another group of knights had gathered beneath the cool shade of a vallenwood tree. On the side of the broad trunk that faced west, a large circular patch of wood had been cut flat with an axe and its pale-colored surface had been painted with three dark red rings, each larger than the one inside it.

“Who’s next?” barked Olthar Uth Wistan, High Warrior presiding over the contest.

“I believe I shall give it a try,” said High Justice Lord Adam Caladen. “It’s been years since I’ve thrown a sword, but perhaps I’ll get lucky, eh?”

“Hear that, men?” said Lord Wistan jovially. “Stand back, give him lots of room, and remember to keep your eyes on the sword.”

A good-natured laugh coursed through the assembled knights, footmen and onlookers as Lord Caladen selected a sword from those standing upright in the rack to his left.
After finding one with a length and weight to his liking, he hefted it in his hand and practiced the movement that would soon send it hurtling through the air toward its target.

Like friendlies, swordthrowing was an amiable sort of sporting event contested by the Knights of Solamnia whenever they were gathered in sufficient numbers and had the free time to spend in good-natured competition. But unlike the friendly, which pitted knight against knight, swordthrowing tested individual knights against the strength, skill and marksmanship of the legendary Huma Dragonbane, Hero of the Lance and the greatest knight the Knights of Solamnia had ever known.

The origin of the contest came from a little known story about the fabled knight’s battle with a particularly ferocious red dragon. According to the tale, Huma’s initial attack against the dragon had knocked his dragonlance from its mount and completely out of his hands. Despite being weaponless, he brought his beloved silver dragon around for another pass. But before the dragons came into range of each other’s breath weapons, Huma drew his broadsword and flung it through the air in the direction of the red. Although not designed to be used as a throwing weapon, the sword flew true, slicing the air like an arrow and piercing the vulnerable soft spot of the red dragon’s underbelly. The wound so startled the red that it was sent into a long downward spiral from which it never recovered.

And today, the Knights of Solamnia celebrated the near-miraculous feat by throwing swords, not at a dragon, but at the symbolic red rings painted into the trunk of a sturdy vallenwood tree.

Satisfied with his weapon, Lord Caladen walked off the twenty paces from the tree then turned back around to face it. “Ready!” he said, lifting the sword to his shoulder.

The assembled knights and others in the crowd fell silent.

Lord Caladen took three steps forward and let go of the sword. Its flight was straight and unwavering, but it was
slightly off the mark, clipping the right edge of the tree trunk and sending a sliver of bark spinning through the air before landing heavily on the grass behind the tree.

Even though he’d missed, the throw had been a respectable one for such a senior knight.

“Well done, Caladen!”

“A good effort.”

The knights applauded, forcing Lord Caladen to accept their cheers with a broad smile and prideful wave, gestures that would have been more than enough acknowledgement even if he had hit the target dead center. “You’re too kind,” he said. “A lucky throw, no more.”

Just then, Lord Soth came upon the pitch. He’d been circling the keep, greeting his guests one last time before retiring for the night—his wedding night.

Seeing Soth approach, Lord Wistan put his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Perhaps the bridegroom would care to test his mettle?”

The knights turned around and, seeing Soth, beckoned him to try a throw.

“Yes, give a try.”

“Come on, Soth!”

Soth hesitated, then said, “All right, perhaps just a single throw.”

The words were followed by a rousing cheer.

A footman quickly helped Soth with his cloak, then stood back as the knight selected a sword. To no one’s surprise he lifted one of the heavier weapons into the air. Then, alter finding its center of balance, he hefted it in his hand to check its weight.

“Make room!” cried Lord Wistan.

The knights surrounding Lord Soth fanned out, clearing a path toward the tree. Soth then walked over to the tree, marched off twenty paces, and turned on his heel.

“Ready,” he said.

Lord Wistan nodded.