Dragonlance - Preludes 1 Vol 1 - Darkness and Light, DragonLance, Dragon Lance
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_Paul B.Thompson, Tonya R.Carter. Darkness and Light_
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("DragonLance Preludes I" #1).
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DragonLance Preludes
Volume One
Darkness & Light
written by
Paul B.Thompson and Tonya R.Carter
PDF by Ashamael
* * *
Chapter 1
Separate Ways
Autumn painted Solace in gay colors. Each porch, each window,
was filled with red, orange, and yellow foliage, for the shops and
houses of Solace were nestled among the stout branches of a vale of
vallenwood trees, well above the mossy ground. Here and there were
clearings in the treetown. These were the town's commons, where there
might be a market one week and a traveling carnival the next.
On this bright afternoon three figures stood in a sunlit
clearing -- two men and a woman. Two swords played back and forth,
flashing with fire when the sun's rays caught them. Two figures
circled warily, feinting with sudden flicks of their naked blades. The
third one stood back, watching. The swords scraped together with a
kiss of tempered steel. "Well met!" said Caramon Majere, the onlooker.
"A very neat parry, Sturm!"
The tall young man with the drooping brown mustache grunted a
brief acknowledgment. He was rather busy. His opponent sprang forward,
lunging at his chest. Sturm Brightblade cut hard at the onrushing
point, backpedaling as he swung. It missed him by a scant inch.
Sturm's foe wobbled as she came down off balance, her feet too
far apart.
"Steady, Kit!" Caramon called. His half-sister recovered with
the practiced grace of a dancer. She brought her heels together with a
smack of boot leather and presented Sturm with only her slim profile
as a target.
"Now, my friend," she said. "I'll show you the skill that comes
from fighting for pay."
Kitiara cut tiny circles in the air with her' sword tip. Once,
twice, three times -- Sturm watched the deadly motion. Caramon
watched, too, open-mouthed. At eighteen, he was the size of a
full-grown man, but he was still a boy inside. The wild and worldly
Kitiara was his idol. She had more drive and dash than any ten men.
From his place, Caramon could see every nick in the edge of
Kitiara's blade, mementoes of hard-fought battle. The flat of the
blade was shiny from frequent and expert polishing. By contrast,
Sturm's sword was so new that the hilt still showed the blue tinge
from the smith's annealing fire.
"Watch your right," said Caramon. Sturm closed his free hand
over the long pommel and awaited Kitiara's attack square on, as a
Solamnic Knight would.
"Hai!" Kitiara whirled on one leg, cleaving the air with an
upward sweep of her sword. Caramon's breath caught as she carried her
swing forward. Sturm did not move. Her sword would complete its arc at
his neck. Caramon shut his eyes -- and heard a solid ring of steel.
Feeling foolish, he opened them again.
Sturm had parried straight across, hilt to hilt, with no finesse
at all. He and Kitiara stayed locked together with their sword points
high. Kitiara's wrists shook. She stepped in and braced her sword arm
with her empty hand. Sturm forced her guard down. Her face paled, then
flushed red. Caramon knew that look. This friendly bout was not going
to her liking, and Kitiara was getting angry.
Vexed, she shifted her stance and strained against Sturm's
greater size and strength. Still her hilt fell. The knobbed quillon of
Sturm's new sword brushed her chin.
With an explosive gasp, Kitiara ceased the struggle. Both sword
points stabbed into the green sod.
"Enough," she said. "I'll buy the ale. I should've known better
than to let you bind up my guard like that! Come on, Sturm. Let's have
a tankard of Otik's best."
"Sounds good to me," he replied. He freed his blade and .
stepped back, breathing heavily. As he moved, Kitiara thrust the flat
of her weapon between his ankles. Sturm's feet tangled, and he
sprawled backward on the grass. His sword flew away, and in the next
instant Kitiara stood over him holding thirty-two inches of steel
poised at his throat.
"Combat is not always a sport," she said. "Keep your eyes open
and your sword firmly in hand, my friend, and you'll live longer."
Sturm looked up the blade at Kitiara's face. Sweat had stuck
dark curls of hair to her forehead, and her naturally dark lips were
pressed firmly together. Slowly they spread in a lopsided smile. She
sheathed her weapon.
"Don't look so downcast! Better a friend knock you down as a
lesson than an enemy cut you down for good." She extended a hand.
"We'd better go before Flint and Tanis drink all of Otik's brew."
Sturm grasped her hand. It was warm and calloused from gauntlets
and sword grips. Kitiara pulled him up until they were nose to nose.
Although a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, Sturm still felt like
a callow youth beside her. But her bright eyes and engaging smile
dispelled his anxiety.
"I see now how you've managed to prosper as a fighter," he said,
stooping to retrieve his sword. He buried the blade in its sheath.
"Thank you for the lesson. Next time I will keep my feet out of
reach!"
"Later, will you teach me some of your moves, Kit?" asked
Caramon eagerly. He carried a short sword himself, a gift from his
adventurous sister. She'd picked it up on one of her many
battlefields. Flint Fireforge, who knew metalwork as few did, said
that Caramon's sword had been made in southern Qualinesti. Only by
clues such as this did her friends know where Kit's wanderings had
taken her.
"Why not? I'll tie one hand behind my back to make it fair."
Caramon opened his mouth to retort, but Kitiara clapped a hand over
his lips. "Now, to the inn. If I don't get a draft of ale soon, I'll
perish!"
When they reached the base of the great vallenwood tree that
supported the Inn of the Last Home, they found their friend Flint
sitting at the bottom of the ramp. The dwarf had a split of kindling
in his massive, knobby hands and was shaving off hair-thin slices with
a single-edged knife.
"Well, you came back with your skin whole," said Flint, eyeing
Sturm. "I half-expected to see you carrying your head under your arm."
"Your confidence in me is enormous," the young man replied
sourly. Kitiara halted and draped an arm across Caramon's broad
shoulders.
"Better watch yourself, old dwarf. Our Master Sturm has an
uncommonly strong arm. Once he learns not to hold to outdated knightly
codes --"
"Honor is never outdated," said Sturm.
"Which is how you landed flat on your back with my sword at your
neck. If you would --"
"Don't start!" groaned Caramon. "If I have to hear another
debate on honor, I'll die of boredom!"
"I won't argue," Kitiara said, slapping her brother on the rump.
"I made my point."
"Come with us, Flint. Kit's buying," said Caramon. The elderly
dwarf rose on his stumpy legs, sweeping a cascade of white wood
slivers off his lap. He straightened his clothing and tucked his knife
back in his leggings.
"No ale for you," Kitiara said to Caramon with mockmaternal
sternness. 'You're not old enough to drink." Caramon ducked under her
arm, sprinted up to Sturm, and said, "I'm eighteen, Kit."
Kitiara's face showed surprise. "Eighteen? Are you sure?" Her
'little' brother was an inch or so taller than Sturm.
Caramon gave her a disgusted look. "Of course I'm sure. You just
haven't noticed that I'm a grown man."
'You're a baby!" Kitiara cried, whipping out her sword.
"Any more out of you and I'll spank you!"
"Ha!" Caramon laughed 'You can't catch me!" So saying, he dashed
up the stairs. Kitiara returned her sword and bounded after him.
Caramon's long legs covered the steep boards quickly. Laughing,
he and his sister disappeared around the tree trunk.
Flint and Sturm ascended more slowly. A light breeze rustled
through the tree, sending a shower of colored leaves across the steps.
Sturm gazed out through the branches at the other tree homes.
"In a few weeks, you'll be able to see clear to the other side
of the commons," he mused.
"Aye," said Flint. "It's strange not to be on the road right
now. For more years than you've been alive, boy, I've tramped the
roads of Abanasinia from spring to autumn, plying the trade."
Sturm nodded. Flint's announced retirement from his itinerant
metalworking had surprised them all.
"It's all behind me now," Flint said. "Time to put my feet up,
maybe grow some roses." Sturm found the image of the bluff old dwarf
tending a rose garden so unnatural that he shook his head to dispel
the thought.
At the level platform midway up to the inn proper, Sturm paused
by the railing. Flint went a few steps beyond before halting. He
squinted back at Sturm and said, "What is it, boy? You're about to
burst to tell me something."
Flint didn't miss a thing.
"I'm going away," said Sturm. "To Solamnia. I'm going to look
for my heritage."
"And your father?"
"If there is any trace of him to be found, I shall find it."
"It could be a long journey and a dangerous search," Flint said.
"But I wish I could go with you."
"Never mind." Sturm moved away from the rail. "It's my search."
Sturm and Flint entered the door of the inn just in time to
receive a barrage of apple cores. As they wiped the sticky palp from
their eyes, the room rocked with laughter.
"Who's the rascal responsible?" roared Flint. A gawky young
girl, no more than fourteen, with a head of robust red curls, handed
the outraged dwarf a towel.
"Otik pressed some new cider, and they had to have the
leavings," she said apologetically.
Sturm wiped his face. Kitiara and Caramon had collapsed against
the bar, giggling like idiots. Behind the bar, Otik, the portly
proprietor of the inn, shook his head.
"This is a first-class inn," he said. "Take your pranks outside,
if you gotta pull'em!"
"Nonsense!" said Kitiara. She slapped a coin on the bar. Caramon
wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and stared. It was a gold
coin, one of the few he'd ever seen.
"That will ease your temper, eh, Otik?" Kitiara said.
A tall, well-favored man stool up from his table and approached
the bar. His motion was oddly graceful, and his high cheekbones and
golden eyes eloquently proclaimed his elven heritage. He picked up the
coin.
"What's the matter, Tanis?" Kitiara asked. "Haven't you ever
seen gold before?"
"Not as large a coin as this," Tanis Half-Elven replied. He
flipped it over. "Where was it struck?"
Kitiara lifted her mug from the bar and drank. "I don't know,"
she said. "It's part of my wages. Why do you ask?"
"The inscription is Elvish. I would say it was minted in
Silvanesti."
Sturm and Flint came over to examine the coin. The deli cate
script was definitely Elvish, Flint said. Far-off Silvanesti had
practically no contact with the rest of Ansalon, and there was much
curiosity as to how an elvish coin managed to drift so far west.
"Plunder," said a voice from the corner of the room.
"What did you say, Raist?" asked Caramon. In a corner of the
inn's common room a pallid figure could be seen. Raistlin, Caramon's
twin brother. As usual, he was immersed in the study of a dusty
scroll. He rose and moved toward the group; the colored light
filtering through the inn's stainedglass windows gave his pale skin
odd tints.
"Plunder," he repeated. "Robbery, rapine, booty."
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