Chapter 40

                          The Secret
                     of Brightblade Castle

      Mai-tat was as fleet as he was beautiful, and in a
 very  short  time  the   dark  hump   of  Vingaard   Keep  sank
 below  the  southern  horizon.  With  the  stars to  guide him,
 Sturm  bore  northwest.  A  tributary  of  the  Vingaard  ъiver
 lay due north and the Verkhas Hills to the west. In the fertile
 pocket of land between the two lay Castle Brightblade.
 The  white  stallion's  hooves  drummed  a  solo  song  on  the
 plain. Several times Sturm halted his  headlong flight  to lis-
 ten for sounds of pursuit.  Aside from  the whirring  of crick-
 ets in the tall grass, the plain was silent.
 A few hours before dawn, Sturm slowed Mai-tat as they
 closed upon a shadowy ruin. It was an old hut and a land
 marker,  now  demolished. The  stump of  the marker  still bore

 the lower half of its carved name plaque. The lower  petals of
 a  rose  showed, and  beneath that  a sun  and a  naked sword.
 Bright Blade. Sturm  had come  to the  southern limits  of his
 ancestral holdings.
 4/He  clucked  his  tongue  and urged  the horse  forward. The
 fields  beyond  the marker  that he  remembered as  rich graz-
 ing  land  and  bountiful  orchards  were overgrown  and wild.
 The neat rows of apple and pear trees were little more  than a
 thicket now. Vines had  long since  reclaimed the  road. Sturm
 rode  on,  tight-lipped,  ducking  now and  then to  clear the
 sagging tree branches.
   The  orchard was  split by  a creek,  he remembered,  and so
 it was still. He steered Mai-tat into the shallow  stream. The
 creek ran a mile or so to the very base of the walls of Castle
 Brightblade. Mai-tat trotted through the cool water.
   The  east  was  brightening  to  amber  when the  gray walls
 appeared  over the  treetops. The  profile of  the battlements
 and towers brought a lump to his  throat. But  it was  not the
 same as when he left; creepers scaled the walls in thick mats,
 blocks  of stone  had toppled,  and the  towers were  naked to
 the sky, their roofs burned off years ago.
   "Come  on,"  Sturm  said  to the  horse, tapping  him gently
 with his heels.  Mai-tat cantered  through the  creek, kicking
 up founts with every  step. He  climbed the  bank on  the west
 side  and  plowed  through  the hedges.  On the  castle's west
 face  was  the  main  gate.  Sturm  clattered  up  the  grass-
 spotted,  cobblestone road  to the  entrance. Shaded  from the
 rising sun, the walls looked black.
   The  narrow  moat  was  little  more  than  a   muddy  ditch
 now;  without  the  dam to  divert the  creek, it  would never
 keep water.  Sturm slowed  Mai-tat once  they hit  the bridge.
 Belingen's  cruel  remarks  about  knights  jumping  into  the
 moat  echoed  in  Sturm's mind.  The ditch  was nothing  but a
 dark, swampy morass.
   The  gate  was  gone.  Only  the blackened  hinges remained,
 spiked to the stone  walls with  iron nails  a foot  long. The
 courtyard  was  thick  with  blown  leaves  and  charred wood.
 Sturm  looked up  at the  donjon rising  before him.  The win-
 dows  gaped blankly,  their sills  displaying tongues  of soot
 where fire had raged through. He wanted to call out,  to yell,

 Father, Father, I've come home!
   But no one would hear. No one but ghosts.
   The   bailey  had   been  used   recently  to   house  animals.
 Sturm  found  the  tracks  of  massed  cattle, and  realized that
 Merinsaard's  camp  at  Vingaard  Keep  was  not  the  only  site
 where   the   invaders   were   marshaling  provisions.   A  deep
 anger  welled  in  him  at  the  thought of  the low  purpose for
 which the noble edifice of Castle Brightblade had been used.
   He  rounded  the  corner   of  the   donjon  and   entered  the
 north  courtyard.  There  was  the little  postern gate  that his
 mother  and  he  had  fled  through  that last  time he  had seen
 his  father.  He  saw  again  his father  embrace his  mother for
 the  last  time,  as  snow  fell around  them. Lady  Ilys Bright-
 blade  never recovered  from the  chill of  that parting.  To the
 end of her life, she was cold, rigid, and bitter.
   Then he saw the body.
   Sturm dismounted and led Mai-tat by the reins. He
 walked  up  to  the  body  lying  face  down  in  the  leaves and
 rolled it over. It was a man,  and he'd  not been  dead long  - a
 day  perhaps,  or  two.  He'd  been   neatly  run   through  from
 behind.  The  corpse  still  clutched  a cloth  bag in  his fist.
 Sturm  pried  open  the  fingers  and  found  that  the  bag held
 petty valuables  - silver  coins, crude  jewelry, and  some semi-
 precious  stones.  Whoever  had  killed  this  man  had  not done
 so to rob  him. In  fact, by  the dagger  and picklock  tucked in
 his belt, the dead man appeared to be a thief himself.
   Sturm  walked  on.  He  discovered  the  remains  of   a  camp-
 fire  and  some  bedding,  all  trampled  and  tangled.  Under  a
 blue  horsehair  blanket  he  found  another  body. This  one had
 died  by  sword  as  well.  The  usual  sort  of camp  items were
 scattered  about.  Copper  pan,  clay  pots,  waterskins  -  more
 silver coins and a bolt of fine silk. Had the thieves had a fall-
 ing out over their  spoils? If  so, why  hadn't the  winner taken
 everything with him?
   An  empty  doorway  yawned  nearby. To  the kitchens,
 Sturm mused. He used a broken tent pole for a stake and
 tied Mai-tat.
   Sunlight streamed into the shattered donjon, but many
 halls were still pitch black. Sturm went back to the spoiled
 robber  camp  and  made  a  torch  with  a  stick and  some rags.

 As he worked, he heard a stirring in the doorway. He
 whirled, sword ready. There was nothing there.
   The  dead  men  had  changed Sturm's  perception of  the cas-
 tle.  He'd  been  expecting a  mournful tour  of his  old home,
 and  a search  for understanding  to his  father's fate.  Now a
 more sinister air clung to the stones. No place was free of the
 probing  fingers  of  evil,  not  even the  former castle  of a
 Solamnic Knight.
   The  kitchens  were  picked clean,  plundered long  ago, even
 of  their  fire  brick  and  andirons.  Cobwebs clung  to every
 beam  and  doorway.  He  came  to  the  great  hall,  where his
 father had often dined with  great lords,  such as  Gunthar Uth
 Wistan,   Dorman   Hammerhand,   and   Drustan    Sparfeld   of
 Garnet.  The  great  oak  table  was  gone.  The  brass candle-
 holders on the walls were ripped out.  The fireplace,  with its
 carved  symbols of  the Order  of the  ъose, had  been deliber-
 ately defaced.
   There  was  that  noise  again!  Sturm was  sure that  it was
 footfalls.  "Who  are  you?  Come  out  and show  yourself!" He
 waved the  torch toward  the vaulted  ceiling. The  stone arch-
 es were cloaked in a tightly nestled layer of  bats. Disgusted,
 Sturm crossed the hall to the steps. One set led up to the pri-
 vate  rooms,  while  another  led  down  to the  cellars. Sturm
 put a foot on the lowest of the rising steps.
   "Hello...."  sighed  a  voice.  Sturm  froze. Under  the hood
 his hair prickled.
   "Who is there?" he called.
   "This way...." The voice came from below. Sword in
 his right hand, torch in his left, Sturm descended the steps.
   It was cold  down there.  The torch  flickered in  the breeze
 rising  through  the  stairwell.  The  corridor curved  away on
 either side, following the foundation of the very  ancient cit-
 adel that Castle Brightblade had been built on.
   "Which way?" Sturm called boldly.
   "This way...." whispered the voice. It seemed oddly
 familiar as it sighed down  the hall  like the  last gasp  of a
 dying man. Sturm followed it to his left.
   He had not gone fifty yards when he stumbled upon a
 third dead man. This one was different; he was no robber.
 He  was  older,  his  beard  untrimmed  and  his  face  worn by

 wind and  sun. The  dead man  sat slumped  against the  wall, a
 dagger buried in his ribs. Oddly,  his right  arm was  bent and
 resting atop his head,  a finger  stiffly pointing  down. Sturm
 studied the face. It was familiar  - in  a rush,  he recognized
 the man as Bren, one of his father's old retainers. If  he were
 here, could Sturm's father be far away?
    "What are  you pointing  at, old  fellow?" Sturm  asked the
 dead man  urgently. He  opened the  man's coat  to see  if Bren
 carried any clues to the fate of Sturm's  father. When  he did,
 the  dead  man's right  arm slid  out of  position and  came to
 rest pointing straight  up, overhead.  Sturm raised  the torch.
 There was nothing above him but an iron wall sconce -
 -   which   was   crooked.  Sturm   looked  more   closely  and
 saw a light mark  scored on  the wall  block. The  bracket piv-
 oted,  scratching  this mark.  Sturm grasped  the lower  end of
 the  sconce  and  pushed.  It  turned, following  the scratched
 path in the wall.
    The  floor  trembled,  and   a  tremendous   grinding  sound
 filled the tunnel. A section of floor rose  in front  of Sturm,
 revealing a dark cavity below. In all his  life in  the castle,
 he'd never known of such a secret room.
    "Go    down....    Go    down...."   rasped    the   phantom
 voice. Sturm felt for the first time a presence to go  with the
 voice.  He  turned  sharply  and  saw  the   apparition  behind
 him.  It  was a  dim red  figure, dressed  in what  looked like
 furs.  Sturm  stepped  forward  with  the  torch.  He  couldn't
 make out the face, but he caught  a glimpse  of a  dark, droop-
 ing mustache. The man he'd seen in the thunderstorm!
    "Come  forward,  you!"  he  shouted,  and  thrust  the torch
 into the specter's face.
    The face was his own. Sturm dropped the brand.
    "Great  Paladine!"  he  sputtered,  backing  away.  His heel
 slipped off the top step into the secret vault. "What does this
 mean?"
        "Go down...." repeated the phantom Sturm. Its lips did
 not move, but the voice was distinct. "Go...."
    "Why are you  here?" Sturm  said. He  reached for  the torch
 with trembling hands. "Where did you come from?"
    "Far away...."
    Sturm's eyes widened. The phantom repeatedly urged

 him to descend into the secret chamber.
   "I will," Sturm assured. "I will." With that, the  red figure
 vanished.
   Sturm  turned  to  the  steps, but  could see  nothing beyond
 the sphere of ruddy light  cast by  the torch.  He took  a deep
 breath and went down.
   It was cold in the secret vault, and he was glad to  be wear-
 ing  Merinsaard's  thick  tunic.  At the  bottom of  the steps,
 some eight feet  beneath the  level of  the corridor,  he found
 two  more  corpses. They  were unmarked,  but their  faces told
 too  well  how  they  had  met  their fate.  The trap  door had
 sealed them in, and  in the  ensuing hours  the men  had suffo-
 cated.
   Sturm turned from  the dead  robbers. As  he did,  his torch-
 light  gleamed  on  something  metallic.  He  walked  into  the
 velvet  darkness,  his  breath  pluming  out  before  him.  The
 glow of the torch fell over a suit of armor.
   Sturm  swallowed  hard,  trying  to  force  down the  lump in
 his  throat. With  one shaking  hand, he  reached out  to brush
 the dust from the etched steel. It was. It  was his.  Sturm had
 found  his  father's  suit  of  armor.  Breast-  and backplate,
 greaves, schildrons, and  helmet were  all there.  The superla-
 tive  war  armor  etched with  the rose  motif. The  helmet had
 high  horns  on  the  forehead,  making  Sturm's  old headgear,
 still dented from ъapaldo's axe, seem like a cheap imitation.
   The  armor  was  hung  on  a  wooden  frame.  As   Sturm  ran
 his hands over the cherished suit, he felt the soft, cold links
 of  a  chain  mail  shirt  under  the breastplate.  And hanging
 from the waist by a single  thickness of  scarlet ribbon  was a
 slip of  yellow parchment.  Inscribed in  Angriff Brightblade's
 forceful hand were the words, For My Son.
   Sturm  was  filled  with such  joy at  that moment,  he could
 scarcely  breathe.  The  mortal  shell  of  a man  could weaken
 and die,  but the  virtues that  made him  a leader  among men,
 a  Knight  of  Solamnia,  were  embodied  in  the  imperishable
 metal. Sturm's life was  half complete.  All that  remained was
 to know of his father's fate.
   He threw off Merinsaard's clothes and, dusty or not,
 began to put on the armor. It fit well, almost perfectly. The
 shoulders  were  a  bit  roomy,  but  Sturm  would   grow  into

 them. He finished tying  the cops  to his  boots and  lifted the
 breastplate off the crossbar.  Beneath it,  hanging from  a sin-
 gle peg, was the sword.
     The  hilt curved  toward the  point in  a graceful  are, the
 steel as clean and shiny  as when  it had  come from  the forge.
 The  long  handle  was  wrapped  in  rough  wire,  to  ensure  a
 tight   grip   even   when  soaked   with  blood.   The  almond-
 shaped  pommel  was  hard  brass,   engraved  with   the  symbol
 of the rose.
     Sturm could bear it no longer. He felt  the tears  flow over
 his  cheeks  and  made  no  move  to  wipe  them  away.  He  had
 not cried like this since the night he'd left his father behind,
 twelve years ago.
     The sword came  lightly off  its peg.  The balance  was per-
 fect, and  the handle  fit Sturm's  hand as  though it  had been
 made  for  him.  He  drew  Merinsaard's   silver-handled  weapon
 and  tossed  it,  clanging,  to  the  cold  stone  floor.  Sturm
 slipped  his  father's sword  into the  black scabbard  and hur-
 riedly  fit  the  breastplate  and backplate  over his  head. He
 was still closing the  buckles under  his arms  when he  heard a
 strange humming.
     Merinsaard's   sword   was   glowing.   The   hum   emanated
 from  it.  Sturm shoved  the stand  over on  top of  the glowing
 blade,  and  he  watched,  open-mouthed,   as  the   sword  rose
 into the air, flipping the heavy  wooden crosstree  over effort-
 lessly.  Merinsaard's  sword  drifted  toward  the  stairs,  and
 Sturm  hastily  snatched  up his  father's helmet  and followed.
 The silver sword slanted upward, out of the vault.
     The floating blade  moved unerringly  across the  great hall
 to  the despoiled  kitchen and  out the  door. There  stood Mai-
 tat, unmoving,  like a  statue of  alabaster. The  nervous stal-
 lion  had  never  been  so  quiet.  The  sword  came  on,  point
 first.  The  blade slowly  circled the  horse, its  point barely
 touching  Mai-tat's  neck. The  glow reached  out to  engulf the
 horse.  The  charger  began  to  writhe  and  shrink  within its
 white  aura.  He  stepped  forward, ready  to cut  the suffering
 animal  down,  but  the  fierce  heat  radiating from  the sword
 stopped  him.  The  glow  intensified  to  searing  level. There
 was  a  flash of  blinding light  and a  great clap  of thunder.
 Sturm  was  hurled  back  against  the  wall, the  breath driven

 from his body.
   A  deep-throated  laugh  filled  the  courtyard. The  hair on
 Sturm's neck prickled. He coughed and rubbed  his eyes.
 Where Mai-tat had been, there now was Merinsaard, fully
 armed and full of rage.
   "So,  Brightblade!  This  is the.treasure  you traveled  so far
 to find! Is it worth dying for?" he roared.
   Sturm  fell  back  a pace,  his head  throbbing from  the shock
 of  Merinsaard's  appearance.  Finding  his  voice,  he  replied,
 "The  relics  of  a  noble past  are always  worth having.  But I
 don't expect to die just yet."
  Sturm   brought   the   Brightblade   sword   on   guard.  Merin-
 saard cut wide  circles in  the air  with his  own blade,  but he
 didn't  come  forward  to  fence.  He  raised  the  silver  sword
 high  and  declaimed,  "Do  you  know  what it  was you  so care-
 lessly  carried  forth   from  my   camp,  impudent   fool?  This
 sword is the key to all the negative  planes. It  is Thresholder,
 the  pathway  to  power!  I  allowed  you  to escape,  worm; five
 seconds  after  you  left  me bound  and gagged,  I was  free and
 plotting  how  best  to follow  you. Was  it not  convenient that
 you  should  impersonate  me,  and  ride  me  in  my  equine form
 all the way here?"
   An   unnatural  wind   sprang  up,   blowing  hot   in  Sturm's
 face. "It's a pity you did not stay a horse!" he said boldly. "In
 that form, at least you were a useful creature!"
   A ball of silver fire flew out from Thresholder's tip.  It spi-
 raled up to  the donjon's  roof and  burst there,  shattering the
 tiles  asunder.  Sturm  ducked  inside  the  kitchen   as  broken
 rock rained down where he'd been standing.
   Merinsaard  laughed.  "Flee,  little  man!  Only  now  do you
 realize with whom you have trifled!"
 merinsaard   smashed   through   the   wall.   He   whipped   his
 silver  blade  to and  fro, leaving  arcs of  crackling-hot light
 behind. Sturm dodged into  the great  hall just  ahead of  a siz-
 zling tongue of fire that scored molten ruts in the  slate floor.
 Merinsaard  was  toying  with  him.  He  could  bring  the  whole
 castle down on Sturm if he desired.
   Sturm wanted to stand and fight, but only on ground of
 his own choosing. There would be less debris to fling at him
 on  the  open  battlements,  so  Sturm  led the  maniacal warlord

 to  the  second  floor  and  down  the  narrow  corridor where
 Sturm's  bedroom  used  to be.  Sturm cleared  the end  of the
 corridor  just  as Merinsaard  entered it.  The warrior-wizard
 sent white  fire blasting  down the  empty passage,  opening a
 hole through a wall  two feet  thick. Sturm  ran on,  past the
 third and fourth floors, to the roof.
   "Come  back,  young  Brightblade!  You can't  hide forever!"
 Merinsaard taunted  him. A  miasma of  anger and  evil settled
 over the entire castle. Sturm came to a section of  wall where
 the  wooden  boarding  had  been  burned  away.   He  teetered
 along  a  charred  beam,   thinking  the   heavier  Merinsaard
 could  not  follow,  then  crouched behind  the rubble  from a
 fallen tower and tried to plan an attack.
   When  he  came  to  the burned  area, Merinsaard  folded his
 arms across his chest and muttered a spell in an ancient, gut-
 tural  tongue.  Black  clouds  collected around  the hoarding,
 and  Merinsaard  simply  walked  across  on the  vapor, chuck-
 ling fiercely as he came. Sturm pushed over a section  of bro-
 ken  wall  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  impede  the wizard's
 approach.  Thresholder  swept back  and forth,  shattering the
 tumbling blocks into gravel.
   "Where  will  you  go next?"  chortled Merinsaard.  "You are
 running  out  of  castle,  Brightblade. What  a disappointment
 you would have been  to your  father. He  was a  true warrior,
 ten  times  the man  you'll ever  be. My  men pursued  him for
 months after  they sacked  the castle.  He survived  them all,
 even the Trackers of Leereach."
   "What  was  he  to  you?" Sturm  shouted. "Why  should you
 want his death?"
   "He was a Knight and a  battle lord.  My mistress  could not
 allow him to  live if  our plan  for conquest  was to  go for-
 ward." A blast from  the silver  sword shaved  off the  top of
 the battered tower. "What  an irony  it is  that you  will die
 wearing  his  armor.  What  a  supreme  moment  for   my  Dark
 Queen!"
   He's right, Sturm thought. I've run out  of castle,  and I'm
 not  the  man  my  father  was.  A  curved  wall of  the tower
 closed  in behind  him. Sturm  looked up.  There was  no place
 to go - no place but down.
         Tiny droplets of fire burst around Stu