Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (72 page)

Gerard smiled to himself, imagining their ire if they knew they

were expending their limited energies to heal the enemy.

He occupied one wing, a wing that had been vacant until now,

for the marshal had not permitted his aides to live in his dwelling,

ever since the last man Medan had retained had been discovered

urinating in the fish pond. Medan had transferred the man to the

very farthest outpost on the elven border, an outpost built on the

edge of the desolate wasteland known as the Plains of Dust. He

hoped the man's brain exploded from the heat.

Gerard's quarters were comfortable, if small. His duties thus

far--after two days on the job-had been light. Marshal Medan

was an early riser. He took his breakfast in the garden on sunny

days, dined on the porch that overlooked the garden on days

when it rained. Gerard was on hand to stand behind the mar-

shal's chair, pour the marshal's tea, and commiserate with the

marshal's concerns over those he considered his most implacable

foes: aphids, spider mites, and bagworms. He handled Medan's

correspondence, introduced and screened visitors and carried

orders from the marshal's dwelling to the detested headquarters

building. Here he was looked upon with envy and jealousy by the

other knights, who had made crude remarks about the "upstart,"

the "toady," the "ass-licker."

Gerard was ill-at-ease and tense, at first. So much had hap-

pened so suddenly. Five days ago, he had been a guest in Lau-

rana's house. Now he was a prisoner of the Knights of Neraka,

permitted to remain alive so long as Medan considered Gerard

might be useful to him.

Gerard resolved to stay with the marshal only as long as it

took to find out the identity of the person who was spying on the

queen mother. When this was accomplished, he would pass the

information on to Laurana and attempt to escape. After he had

made this decision, he relaxed and felt better.

After Medan's supper, Gerard was dispatched to headquar-

ters again to receive the daily reports and the prisoner list-the

record of those who had escaped and who were now wanted

criminals. Gerard would also be given any dispatches that had ar-

rived for the marshal from other parts of the continent. Usually,

few came, Medan told him. The marshal had no interest in other

parts of the continent and those parts had very little interest in

him. This evening there was a dispatch, carried in the clawed

hands of Beryl's draconian messenger.

Gerard had heard of the draconians-the spawn born years

ago of the magically corrupted eggs of good dragons. He had

never seen one, however. He decided, on viewing this one-a

large Baaz-that he could have gone all his life without seeing

one and never missed it.

The draconian stood on two legs like a man, but his body

was covered with scales. His hands were large, scaly, the fingers

ending in sharp claws. His face was that of a lizard or a snake,

with sharp fangs that he revealed in a gaping grin, and a long,

lolling tongue. His--short, stubby wings, sprouting from his

back, were constantly in gentle motion, fanning the air around

him.

The draconian was waiting for Gerard inside the headquar-

ters building. Gerard saw this creature the moment he entered,

and for the life of him he could not help hesitating, pausing in the

qoorway, overcome by revulsion. The other Knights, lounging

around the room, watched him with knowing smirks that broad-

ened to smug grins when they saw his discomfiture.

Angry with himself, Gerard entered the headquarters build-

ing with firm strides. He marched past the draconian, who had

risen to his feet with a scrape of his claws on the floor.

The officer in charge handed over the daily reports. Gerard

took them and started to leave. The officer stopped him.

"That's for the marshal, too." He jerked a thumb at the dra-

conian, who lifted his head with a leer. "Groul, here, has a dis-

patch for the marshal."

Gerard steeled himself. With an air of nonchalance, which he

hoped didn't look as phony as it felt, he approached the foul

creature.

"I am the marshal's aide. Give me the letter."

Groul snapped his teeth together with a disconcerting click

and held up the scroll case but did not relinquish it to Gerard.

"My orders are to deliver it to the marshal in person," Groul

stated.

Gerard had expected the reptile to be barely sentient, to speak

gibberish or, at the best, a corrupt form of Common. He had not

expected to find the creature so articulate and, therefore, intelli-

gent. Gerard was forced to readjust his thinking about how to

deal with the creature.

"I will give the dispatch to the marshaL" Gerard replied.

"There have been several attempts on the marshal's life. As a con-

sequence, he does not permit strangers to enter his presence. You

have my word of honor that I will deliver it directly into his

hands."

"Honor! This is what I think of your honor." Groul's tongue

slid out of his mouth, then slurped back, splashing Gerard with

saliva. The draconian moved closer to Gerard, clawed feet scrap-

ing across the floor. "Listen, Knight," he hissed, "I am sent by the

exalted Berylinthranox. She has ordered me to hand this dis-

patch to Marshal Medan and to wait for his reply. The matter is

one of utmost urgency. I will do as I am ordered. Take me to the

marshal."

Gerard could have done as the draconian demanded and

saved himself what was probably going to be a world of trouble.

He had two reasons for not doing so. First, he fully intended to

read the dispatch from the dragon before handing it. over to

Medan, and that would be difficult to manage with the dispatch

clutched firmly in the draconian's claws. The second reason was

more subtle. Gerard found this reason incomprehensible, but he

felt oddly guided by it. He did not like the thought of the loath-

some creature entering the marshal's beautiful house, his clawed

feet ripping holes in the ground, tearing up the flower beds,

trampling the plants, smashing furniture with his taiL leering and

poking, sneering and slavering.

Groul held the scroll in his right hand. The creature wore his

sword on his left hip. That meant the draco was right-handed, or

so Gerard hoped, though there was always the possibility the

creatures were ambidextrous. Resolving to himself that if he lived

through this, he would take up a study of the draconian race,

Gerard drew his sword with an overdone flourish and jumped at

the draconian.

Startled, Groul reacted instinctively, dropping the scroll case

to the floor and reaching with his right hand for his sword.

Gerard pivoted, stooped down to the floor and snatched up the

scroll case. Rising, he drove his shoulder and elbow, with the full

weight of his armor, into the midriff of the draconian. Groul went

down with a clatter of sword and sheath, his wings flapping

wildly, his hands waving as he lost the struggle to retain his bal-

ance. He crashed into a bench, smashing it.

The sudden movement and attack on the draconian tore open

several of Gerard's wounds. Sucking in his breath against the

pain, he glared a moment at the creature floundering on the floor,

then turned and, resisting the impulse to see how badly he'd in-

jured himself, started to leave.

Hearing clawed feet scrabbling and a vicious cursing, Gerard

wheeled, sword in hand, intending to finish the fight if the crea-

ture pursued it. To Gerard's astonishment, three of the Knights

of Neraka had drawn their swords and now blocked the dracon-

ian's path.

"The marshal's aide is right," said one, an older man, who

had served in Qualinesti many years and had even taken an elven

wife. "We've heard stories of you, Groul. Perhaps you carry a dis-

patch from Beryl as you say. Or perhaps the dragon has given

orders that you are to 'dispatch' our marshal. I advise you to sit

down on what you've left of our bench and wait. If the marshal

wants to see you, he'll come himself."

Groul hesitated, eyeing the Knights balefully. Two of the

guards drew their swords and joined their officers. The draconian

cursed, and, with a snarl, sheathed his sword. Muttering some-

thing about needing fresh air, he stalked over to the window and

stood staring out of it.

"Go along," said the Knight to Gerard. "We'll keep an eye

on him."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The Knight grunted and returned to his duties.

Gerard left the headquarters with haste. The street on which

the building stood was empty. The elves never came anywhere

near it voluntarily. Most of the soldiers were either on duty or had

just come off duty and were now asleep.

Leaving the street on which the headquarters building was

located, Gerard entered the city proper, or rather the city's out-

skirts. He walked among the city's inhabitants now, and he

faced another danger. Medan had advised him to wear his

breastplate and helm, make his trip to headquarters before

darkness fell. He was conscious of beautiful faces, of almond

eyes either staring at him with open, avowed hatred, or pur-

posefully averting their gaze, so as not to disturb the loveliness

of the midsummer's twilight by adding his ugly human visage

to it.

Gerard was likewise conscious of his strangeness. His body

seemed thick and clumsy in comparison to the slender, delicate

elven frames; his straw-colored hair, a color not usually seen

among elves, was probably regarded as freakish. His scarred and

lumpish features, considered ugly by human standards, must be

looked upon as hideous by the elves.

Gerard could understand why some humans had come to

hate the elves. He felt himself inferior to them in every way- in

appearance, in culture, in wisdom, in manner. The only way in

which some humans could feel superior to elves was to conquer

them, subjugate them, torture and kill them.

Gerard turned onto the road leading to Medan's house. Part

of him sighed when he left the streets where the elves lived and

worked behind, as if he had awakened from a lovely dream to

dreary reality. Part of him was relieved. He did not keep looking

constantly over his shoulder to see if someone was sneaking up

on him with a knife.

He had a walk of about a mile to reach the marshal's secluded

house. The path wound among shimmering aspens, Roplars, and

rustling willows, whose arms overstretched a bub1:iling brook.

The day was fine, the temperature unusually cool for this time of

year, bringing with it the hint of an early fall. Reaching the

halfway point, Gerard looked carefully up the path and down the

path. He listened intently for the sound of other footfalls. Hear-

ing nothing, seeing nobody, he stepped off the trail and walked to

the brook. He squatted down on his hauncJ1es as if to drink and

examined the scroll case.

It was sealed with wax, but that was easily managed. Remov-

ing his knife, he laid the blade upon a flat rock still hot from the

afternoon sun. When the metal had heated, Gerard edged the

knife blade carefully beneath the wax seal. He removed the seal

intact, placed it on a bit of bark to keep it safe. Gerard eyed the

scroll case, started to open it, hesitated.

He was about to read a dispatch intended for his com-

mander. True, Medan was the enemy, he was not really Gerard's

commander, but the dispatch was private, meant for Medan

only. No honorable man would read another's correspondence.

Certainly no Solamnic Knight would stoop so low. The Measure

did not countenance the use of spies upon the enemy, deeming

them "dishonorable, treacherous." He recalled one paragraph in

particular.

Some say that spies are useful, that the information they gather by

low and sneaking means might lead us to victory. We knights answer

that victory obtained by such means is no victory at all but the ultimate

defeat, for if we abandon the principles of honor for which we fight, what

makes us better than our enemy?

"What indeed?" Gerard asked himself, the scroll case un-

opened in his hand. "Nothing, I guess." With a quick twist, he

opened the lid and, glancing about the forest one final time, he

drew out the parchment, unrolled it, and began to read.

A weakness came over him. His body chilled. He sank down

upon the bank, continued reading in disbelief. Completing his pe-

rusal, he considered what to do. His first thought was to bum the

terrible missive so that it would never reach its destination. He

dared not do that, however. Too many people had seen him take

it. He thought of burning it and substituting another in its place,

but he abandoned that wild idea immediately. He had no parch-

ment, no pen, no ink. And perhaps Medan was familiar with the

handwriting of the scribe who penned this message at the

dragon's injunction.

No, Gerard reasoned, sick at heart, there was nothing he could