Knights

"Well, actually, it is a rather interesting story," Sir Grumdish said, flattered and brightening visibly. "My great-grandfather Jugdish, you see, was trying to build a flying machine to aid the Knights of Solamnia in the great War of the Lance. He dreamed of one day becoming a Knight himself, and hoped his invention would pave the way for his admittance. Since dragons are formidable aerialists-as even I, who am sworn to slay them, must admit-he decided to model his machine on dragons, with various improvements, of course."

  "Of course," the three listeners agreed, nodding.

  "Yes, but he needed a dragon in order to obtain his measurements and design his pattern. Dragons are notoriously unwilling volunteers, having a natural dislike of being boiled down to their bones for the sake of our technological curiosity. Therefore, Jugdish determined to slay one. It became his Life Quest. After he was burned to crisp, the Life Quest passed to my father, Lugdish, and after he was frozen into a solid block of ice, it passed to me."

  "Sir Grumdish, we are all servants of the Life Quest of our race," Commodore Brigg answered fervently. "No evil has or ever shall corrupt our noble purposes, and if you come with us, you shall see that we are devoted to a quest of our own that will accrue to the further glory of the gnomish race. This I swear by the Cog and the Wheel, and the All-seeing Mobile Optical Scanning Device of Reorx, our god of old."

  The gnome's faced hardened a bit below his turban. "Those are indeed grave oaths. But be that as it may, what would you have of me? By the devices on your uniform, you are a ship's captain."

  "I am Commodore Brigg of the MNS Indestructible. This is Navigation Officer Snork, Cartographer and Chief Acquisitions Officer Razmous Pinchpocket, and Science Officer Professor Hap-Troggensbottle."

  Sir Grumdish nodded to each in turn as he was introduced. Then he turned back to the commodore, his bushy white eyebrows raised in curiosity.

  "Indestructible is a Class C Deepswimmer," Commodore Brigg said proudly.

  "A submersible!" Sir Grumdish exclaimed.

  "You've heard of them, then?"

  Sir Grumdish nodded his turbaned head. "Deathtraps," he said.

  "Yes, well…" the commodore hemmed and hawed. "Most likely, you are thinking of the Class A or Class B. We've added a number of safety features."

  "Of course," Sir Grumdish said as he stooped and grabbed his armor legs by the belt. "Pardon me. I have work to do."

  The gnomes parted to watch him struggle to drag his legs across the meadow to where the upper body armor still lay. Commodore Brigg followed after him. "And we've made the hull out of iron instead of bronze this time," he persisted.

  "That… should… help it… sink… much… faster," Sir Grumdish grunted as he tugged. Razmous and Snork each grabbed a foot and helped him carry his legs the rest of the way. With a sigh, they set the legs beside the body.

  "Thanks, lads," Sir Grumdish said as he removed his turban and used it to mop his face.

  "Our mission, if you must know, is to try to complete the voyage of the MNS Polywog," the commodore continued. "The Polywog actually completed the west-to-east leg of the journey, but it was lost during the return voyage. It is Navigator Snork's Life Quest to complete this journey."

  "Good show. Best of luck," Sir Grumdish said to Snork. "It's getting dark. I'd better be a-looking for my warhorse. Thanks for stopping by and telling me about all this." He extended one grease-grimed hand. Razmous shook it vigorously.

  "But we want you to come with us, to serve as security officer," Navigator Snork begged.

  "We were hoping for a Knight, but of course a gnomish knight is much better," Commodore Brigg added. "After all you are the only one… that is, I mean, you are a sterling example."

  "Of course! But I must confess I am not a true Knight of Solamnia," Sir Grumdish said as he retrieved his shield. "That's why I want to slay a dragon. If I can slay a dragon, the Knights of Solamnia have no more cause to deny my petition."

He lay the shield over his armored legs and paused, thoughtfully stroking his moustache. "It's funny, though. I have no interest in building a flying machine anymore, and the war's been over for many years. But I still want to become a Knight. That part of the Life Quest is still important to me." His face hardened once more as he turned back to the commodore. "In any case, I have no desire to be cooped up in a ship, or dragging drunken sailors out of portside taverns. Besides, there would be no room on your ship for my steed, Bright Dancer."

  Commodore Brigg frowned and chewed his beard in frustration. Behind him, the sun lowered behind the nearby hills, casting long shadows over the meadow. Sir Grumdish dragged his lance over to his armor and shield, aided once again by Razmous. They placed it carefully on the ground.

  Sir Grumdish straightened his back with a groan, then cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Commodore," he said sincerely. "I'm sure you understand. I have my own Life Quest to pursue."

  Professor Hap stepped forward and placed one hand on the commodore's gold epauletted shoulder. "Did we mention that we'll be diving dangerously close to the portal to the Abyss?"

  "Is that so?" Sir Grumdish said, trying not to appear intrigued.

  "Indeed!" the commodore said, brightening to this new persuasive tack. "As a matter of fact, "will be diving right down into the abyssal chasm."

  The gnomish knight raised a shaggy eyebrow, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. He then asked in a low, noncommittal voice, "You don't suppose there will be any dragons there, do you?"

  "It seems inevitable," Commodore Brigg answered.

The pounding on the door woke him from a black dream, one in which spirits crowded round him, touching him with fingers fine as spiderwebs, drawing the breath from his lungs until he didn't even have the air to scream. He awoke from the dream already rolling out of bed, his hand fumbling at the dagger under his thin pillow. He sucked air through his clenched teeth and glared about the room.

  As he gradually recognized where he was and the last tatters of his dream began to fade, he tossed the dagger on the small, filthy bed and stumbled to a small table beside the window. Atop it, a pewter ewer stood beside a battered pewter bowl. He lifted the ewer and poured a stream of brown water into the bowl, then dunked his shaved head into it. Through the water, he heard someone pound on the door again.

  He lifted his head from the bowl and listened, water streaming down his long, narrow nose. "Who is it?" he asked.

  "Messenger," came the answer from the hall outside his room. It was a woman's voice, muffled by the wooden door.

  "Messenger?" he asked suspiciously, still stooped over the bowl. With a sigh, he leaned against the small table, its rickety legs creaking under his weight as though about to collapse. "One moment. Let me dress. I just woke up."

  He glanced out the window, seeing that it was midday outside. He could almost feel the messenger's disgust at his apparent laziness, sleeping until the sun was high overhead. The city of Flotsam was a-bustle with business and trade at this hour, while he snored half the day away, dreaming of bodiless spirits. He shuddered slightly at the memory, and he could almost feel their feathery fingers upon him.

  He picked a tattered gray robe from a pile on the floor and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Not even bothering to belt it around his waist, he walked to the door, but as he reached for the door handle, he paused. He returned to the bed and, lifting his dagger from the soiled linens, tucked it into his sleeve.

  In former days, he might also have surrounded himself with a protective shell of magic strong enough to deflect almost any attack. The words of the spell came to his lips almost without thought, but they were bitter as bile, and powerless. The magic was a sluggish pool in him now, where once it had been a hot, raging river of power. The simplest spell drained him, where once he had commanded powerful magics in the service of his Dark Queen. He was a Knight of the Thorn, a gray-robed sorcerer in the armies of the once-Knights of Takhisis, now called the Knights of Neraka.

He was still a Knight, still serving the Order of the Thorn, but he had little enough magic to command these days. The Order still found him useful, though-as a knife, a hand to wield a dagger in places an army could not go. Unlike many of his fellow gray-robed Knights, he was no pasty, thin wastrel quivering under the weight of a spellbook. He might have been a warrior, a Knight of the Lily, had he applied himself, for he was very good with orders-this person to be murdered, that cargo of grain to be poisoned, a ship to be sabotaged, a noble blackmailed, a merchant kidnapped in order to bring his family into line. If the Knights of Neraka needed something done in territory not directly under their control, they always seemed to call upon him.