Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star (25 page)

“Wait here,” Nogga growled to the baaz.

“Keep them company,” said Medan to Dumat, who nodded and almost, but not quite, smiled.

The draconian stumped down the spiral stairs. Cut out of the bedrock, the stairs were rough and uneven. The dungeons were located far underground, and they soon lost the sunlight. Medan apologized for not having thought to bring a torch with him and hinted that perhaps they should go back.

Nogga brushed that aside. Draconians can see well in the darkness, and he was having no difficulty. Medan followed several paces after the captain, groping his way in the darkness. Once, quite by accident, he stepped hard on Nogga’s tail. The draconian grunted in irritation. Medan apologized politely. They wound their way downward, finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

Here torches burned on the walls, but by some strange fluke they gave little light and created a great deal of smoke. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Nogga blinked and grumbled, peering this way and that in the thick atmosphere. Medan shouted for the gaoler, who came to meet them. He wore a black hood over his head, in the manner of an executioner, and was a grim and ghostly figure in the smoke.

“The Queen Mother,” Medan said.

The gaoler nodded and led them to a cell that was nothing more than an iron-barred cage set into a rock wall. He pointed silently inside.

An elf woman crouched on the floor of the cell. Her long golden hair was lank and filthy. Her clothes were rich, but torn and disheveled, stained with dark splotches that might have been blood. Hearing the Marshal’s voice, she rose to meet them, stood facing them defiantly. Although there were six cells in the dungeon, the rest were empty. She was the only prisoner.

The draconian approached the cell. “So this is the famous Golden General. I saw the elf witch once long ago in Neraka at the time of the fall.”

He looked her up, and he looked her down, slowly, insultingly.

Laurana stood at ease, calm and dignified. She regarded the draconian steadfastly, without flinching. Marshal Medan’s hand clasped spasmodically over the hilt of his sword.

I need this lizard alive, he reminded himself.

“A pretty wench,” said Nogga with a leer. “I remember thinking so at the time. A fine wench to bed, if one can stomach the stench of elf.”

“A wench who proved something of a disaster to you and your kind,” Medan could not refrain from observing, though he realized almost the moment the words were said that the remark had been made a mistake.

Nogga’s eyes flared in anger. His lips curled back from his teeth, the tip of his long tongue flicked out. Staring at Laurana, he sucked his tongue in with a seething breath. “By the lost gods, elf, you will not look at me so smugly when I am through with you!’

The draconian seized hold of the iron-barred door. Muscles on his gigantic arms bunched. With a jerk and a pull, he wrenched the door free of its moorings and flung the door to one side, nearly crushing the gaoler, who had to make a nimble jump to save himself. Nogga bounded inside the cell.

Caught off guard by the draconian’s sudden violent outburst, Medan cursed himself for a fool and leaped to stop him. The gaoler, Planchet, was closer to the draconian, but his way was impeded by the iron door that Nogga had tossed aside and that was now leaning at a crazy angle against one of the other cells.

“What are you doing, Captain?” Medan shouted. “Have you lost your senses? Leave her alone! Beryl will not want her prisoner damaged.”

“Bah, I’m only having a little fun,” Nogga growled, reaching out his hand.

Steel flashed. From the folds of her dress, Laurana snatched a dagger.

Nogga skidded to a halt, his clawed feet scraping against the stone floor. He stared down in astonishment to find the dagger pressed against his throat.

“Don’t move,” Laurana warned, speaking the draconian’s own language.

Nogga chuckled. He had recovered from his initial amazement. Defiance added spice to his lust, and he knocked aside the dagger with his clawed hand. The blade slit his scaled skin, spattering blood, but he ignored the wound. He seized hold of Laurana. Still holding the dagger, she stabbed at him, while she struggled in his strong grasp.

“I said let her go, Lizard!”

Locking his fists together, Medan struck Nogga a solid thwack on the back of the head. The blow would have felled a human, but Nogga was barely distracted by it. His clawed hands tore at Laurana’s dress.

Planchet finally managed to kick aside the cell door. Grabbing hold of a flaring torch, he brought it down on the draconian’s head. Cinders flew, the torch broke in half.

“I’ll be back to you in a moment,” Nogga promised with a snarl and flung Laurana against the wall. Teeth bared, the dra-conian turned to face his assailants.

“Don’t kill him!” Medan ordered in Elvish, and punched the draconian in the gut, a blow that doubled him over.

“Do you think there’s a chance we might?” Planchet gasped, driving his knee into the draconian’s chin, snapping his head back.

Nogga sank to his knees, but he was still trying to regain his feet. Laurana grabbed hold of a wooden stool and brought it down on the draconian’s head. The stool smashed into splinters, and Nogga slumped to the floor. The draconian lay on his belly, legs spraddled, the fight gone out of him at last.

The three of them stood breathing heavily, eyeing the draconian.

“I am deeply sorry, Madam,” said Medan, turning to Laurana.

Her dress was torn. Her face and hands were spattered with the draconian’s blood. His claws had raked across the white skin of her breasts. Drops of blood oozed from the scratches, sparkled in the torchlight. She smiled, exultant, grimly triumphant.

Medan was enchanted. He had never seen her so beautiful, so strong and courageous, and at the same time so vulnerable. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he put his arms around her, drew her close.

“I should have known the creature would try something like this,” Medan continued remorsefully. “I should never have put you at such risk, Laurana. Forgive me.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. She said a soft word of reassurance and then, ever so gently, she slipped out of his grasp, her hand drawing the tatters of her dress modestly over her breasts.

“No need to apologize, Marshal,” she said, her eyes alight with mischief. “To be truthful, I found it quite exhilarating.”

She looked down at the draconian. Her voice hardened, her hand clenched. “Many of my people have already given their lives in this battle. Many more will die in the last fight for Quali-nost. At last I feel I am doing my share, small though that may be.”

When she looked back up at him, the mischief sparkled. “But I fear we have damaged your messenger, Marshal.”

Medan grunted something in response. He dared not look at Laurana, dared not remember her warmth as she had rested, just a moment, in his arms. All these years, he had been proof against love, or so he had convinced himself. In reality, he had fallen in love with her long ago, pierced through by love for her, for the elven nation. What bitter irony that only now, at the end, had he come to fully understand.

“What do we do with him, sir?” Planchet asked. The elf was limping, favoring a sore knee.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to haul that heavy carcass of his up the stairs,” Medan said harshly. “Planchet, escort your mistress to my office. Bolt the door behind you and remain there until you receive word that it is safe to leave. On your way there, tell Dumat to come down here and bring those baaz with him.”

Planchet removed his cloak and wrapped it around Laurana’s shoulders. She held the cloak fast over her torn dress with one hand and placed her other hand on Medan’s arm. She looked up into his eyes.

“Are you certain you will be all right, Marshal?” she asked softly.

She was not talking about leaving him alone with the dracon-ian. She was talking about leaving him alone with his pain.

“Yes, Madam,” Medan said, and he smiled in his turn. “Like you, I found it exhilarating.”

She sighed, lowered her gaze, and for a moment it seemed as if she would say something else. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear her say that her heart was buried with her husband Tanis. He didn’t want to hear that he was jealous of a ghost. It was enough for him to know that she respected him and trusted him. He took hold of her hand, as it lay on his arm. Lifting her fingers, he pressed them to his lips. She smiled tremulously, reassured, and allowed Planchet to lead her away.

Medan remained in the dungeons alone, glad of the quiet, glad of the smoke-tinged darkness. He massaged his aching hand and, when he was once more master of himself, he picked up the bucket of water that they used to douse the torches and flung the filthy liquid in Captain Nogga’s face.

Nogga snuffled and spluttered. Shaking his head muzzily, he heaved himself up off the floor.

“You!” he snarled and swung round, waving his meaty fist. “I’ll have you—”

Medan drew his sword. “I would like nothing better than to drive this steel into your vitals, Captain Nogga. So don’t tempt me. You will go back to Beryl, and you will tell Her Majesty that in accord with the orders of my commander, Lord Targonne, I will turn over the elven capital of Qualinost to her. I will, at the same time, hand over the Queen Mother, alive and undamaged. Understood, Captain?”

Nogga glanced around, saw that Laurana was gone. His red eyes glinted in the darkness. He wiped a dribble of blood and saliva from his mouth, regarded Medan with a look of inveterate hatred.

“At that time, I will return,” said the draconian, “and we will settle the score that lies between us.”

“I look forward to it,” said Medan politely. “You have no idea how much.”

Dumat came running down the stairs. The baaz were right behind him, weapons in hand.

“Everything is under control,” Medan stated, returning his sword to its sheath. “Captain Nogga forgot himself for a moment, but he has remembered again.”

Nogga gave an incoherent snarl and slouched out of the cell, wiping away blood and spitting out a broken tooth. Motioning to the baaz, he made his way back up the stairs.

“Provide an honor guard for the captain,” Medan ordered Dumat. “He is to be escorted safely to the dragon that brought him here.”

Dumat saluted and accompanied the draconians up the stairs. Medan lingered a moment longer in the darkness. He saw a splotch of white on the floor, a tattered bit of Laurana’s dress, torn off by the draconian. Medan reached down, picked it up. The fabric was as soft as gossamer. Smoothing it gently with his hand, he tucked it into the cuff of his shirt sleeve, and then went upstairs to see the Queen Mother safely home.

19

Desperate Game

The great green dragon, Beryl, flew in wide circles over the forests of Qualinesti and tried to do away with her doubts by reassuring herself that all was proceeding as planned. As she planned. Events were moving forward at a rapid pace. Too rapid, to her mind. She had ordered these events. She. Beryl. No other. Therefore why the strange and nagging feeling that she was not in control, that she was being pushed, rushed? That someone at the gaming table had jostled her elbow, causing her to toss the dice before the other players had laid down their bets.

It had all started so innocently. She had wanted nothing more than what was rightfully hers—a magical artifact. A wondrous magical artifact that had no business being in the hands of the crippled, washed-up human mage who had acquired it—mistakenly at that, from some runt of a mewling kender. The artifact belonged to her. The artifact was in her territory, and everything in her territory belonged to her. All knew that. No one could dispute the point. In her quite rightful effort to acquire this artifact, she had somehow ended up sending her armies to war. Beryl blamed her cousin Malystryx.

Two months ago, the green dragon had been happily wallowing in her leafy bower with never a thought of going to war against the elves. Well, perhaps that was not quite true. She had been building up her armies, using the vast wealth amassed from the elves and humans under her subjugation to buy the loyalties of legions of mercenaries, hordes of goblins and hobgoblins, and as many draconians as she could lure to her with promises of loot, rapine, and murder. She held these slavering dogs on a tight leash, tossing them bits of elf now and again to whet their appetites. Now she had unleashed them. She had no doubt that she would win.

Yet, she sensed that there was another player in the game, a player she could not see, a player watching from the shadows, one who was betting on another game: a bigger game with higher stakes. A player who was betting that she, Beryl, would lose.

Malystryx, of course.

Beryl did not watch the north for Solamnic Knights with their silver dragons or the mighty blue dragon Skie. The silvers had purportedly vanished, according to her spies, and it was common knowledge—again among her spies—that Skie had gone mad. Obsessed with a human master, he had disappeared for a time, only to return with some story of having been in a place he called the Gray.

Beryl did not watch the east where lived the black dragon Sable. The slimy creature was content with her foul miasma. Let her rot there. As to the white, Frost, the white dragon did not live who could challenge a green of Beryl’s power and cunning. No, Beryl watched the northeast, watched for red eyes that remained constantly on the horizon of her fear like an always-setting yet never-setting sun.

Now it seemed Malystryx had made her move at last, a move that was both unexpected and cunning. The Green had discovered only days earlier that almost all her minion dragons—dragons native to Krynn, who had sworn allegiance to Beryl—had deserted her. Only two red dragons remained and she did not trust them. Had never trusted reds. No one could tell her for certain where the others had gone, but Beryl knew. These lesser dragons had switched sides. They had gone over to Malystryx. Her cousin was undoubtedly laughing at Beryl right now. Beryl gnashed her teeth and belched a cloud of noxious gas, spewed it forth as if she had her treacherous cousin in her claws.

Beryl saw Malys’s game. The Red had tricked her. Malys had forced Beryl to enter into this war against the elves, forced her to commit her troops to the south, all the while building up her strength as Beryl expended hers. Malys had tricked Beryl into destroying the Citadel of Light—those Mystics had long been stinging parasites beneath Malys’s scales. Beryl suspected now that Malys had been the one to plant the magical device where Beryl would hear of it.

Beryl had considered calling back her armies, but she immediately abandoned that plan. Once unleashed, the dogs would never return to her hand. They had the smell, the taste of elven blood, and they would not heed her call. Now she was glad that she had not.

From her vast height, Beryl looked down in pride to see the enormous snake that was her military might winding its way through the thick forests of Qualinesti. Its forward movement was slow. An army marches on its stomach, so the saying goes. The troops could move only as fast as the heavily laden supply wagons. Her forces dared not forage, dared not live off the land, as they might have done. The animals and even the vegetation of Qualinesti had entered the fray.

Apples poisoned those who ate them. Bread made from elven wheat sickened an entire division. Soldiers reported comrades strangled by vines or killed by trees that let fall huge limbs with crushing force. This was a foe easily defeated, however. This foe could be fought with fire. Clouds of smoke from the burning forests of Qualinesti turned day into night over much of Abanasinia. Beryl watched the smoke billowing into the air, watched the prevailing winds carry it westward. She breathed in the smoke of the dying trees in delight. As her armies moved slowly but inexorably forward, Beryl grew stronger daily.

As for Malys, she would smell the smoke of war, and she would sniff in it the stench of her own doom.

“For though you may have tricked me into acting, Cousin,” Beryl told those wrathful red eyes glowering at her from the west, “you have done me a favor. Soon I will rule over a vast territory. Thousands of slaves will do my bidding. All of Ansalon will hear of my victory over the elves. Your armies will desert you and flock to my standard. The Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth will be mine. No longer will the wizards be able to hide it and its powerful magicks from me. The longer you skulk in the shadows, waiting, the stronger I grow. Soon your great ugly skull will crown my totem, and I will be the ruler of Ansalon.”

Thus Beryl began already to calculate her winnings. Still she could not rid herself of the disquieting feeling that from somewhere in the shadows, outside the circle, another player waited, another player watched.

Far, far below, eyes did watch Beryl, but they were not the eyes of a player in this game, or at least, he could not flatter himself that he was a player. His were the bones that rattled in the cup and were flung upon the table, to bounce about aimlessly until they came to rest ignominiously in a corner and the winner was declared.

Gilthas stood at the hidden entrance to one of the underground tunnels, keeping watch on Beryl. The dragon was enormous, huge, monstrous. Her scaled body, bloated, misshapen, was so ponderous that it seemed impossible her wings could lift the loathsome mass of flesh off the ground. Impossible until one noticed the thick and heavy musculature of the shoulders and the sheer width and breadth of the wingspan. Her shadow spread across the land, blotting out the haze-dimmed sun, turning bright day to horrid night.

Gilthas shivered as the shadow of the dragon’s wings swept over him, chilling him. Although the wings were soon gone, he felt as if he remained in the black shadow of death.

“Is it safe, Your Majesty?” a quivering voice asked.

No, you foolish child! Gilthas wanted to rage. No it is not safe! Nowhere in this wide world is safe for us. The dragon keeps watch on us from the sky day and night. Her army, thousands strong, marches on the land, killing, burning. They have blotted out the very sun with the smoke of death. We may delay them, at the cost of precious lives, but we cannot stop them. Not this time. We run, but where do we run to? Where is the safe haven we seek? Death. Death is the only refuge. . . .

“Your Majesty,” called the voice again.

Gilthas roused himself with an effort. “It is not safe,” he cautioned in low tones, “but for the moment the dragon is gone. Come now quickly! Quickly.”

This tunnel was one of many tunnels built by the dwarves who were helping hundreds of elven refugees escape the city of Qualinost and smaller settlements to the north, areas that had already fallen to Beryl’s army. The tunnel’s entrance was only a couple of miles south of the city proper—the dwarves had extended their tunnels to reach the city itself, and even now, as Gilthas spoke to these refugees, who had been caught above ground, other elves walked through the tunnel behind him.

The elves had begun to evacuate Qualinost six days ago, the day Gilthas had informed the people that their land was under attack by the forces of the dragon Beryl. He had told the elves the truth, the brutal truth. The only hope they had of surviving this war was to leave behind that which they loved most, their homeland. Even then, though they might survive as a people, Gilthas had not been able to give them any assurance that they would survive as a nation.

He had given the Qualinesti their orders. The children must leave. They were the hope of the race, and they should be protected. Caretakers for the children should go with them, be it mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Those elves who were able to fight, those who were trained warriors, were asked to stay behind to fight the battle to defend Qualinost.

He had not promised the elves that they would escape to a safe haven for he could not promise that they would find such a haven. He would not tell his people comforting lies. Too long, the Qualinesti people had slept snugly beneath the blanket of comforting lies. He had told them the truth and, with quiet fortitude, they had accepted it.

He had been proud of his people in that moment and in the sorrowful moments that came after. Mates parted, one to go with the children, the other staying behind. Those remaining kissed their children lovingly, held them close, bade them be good and be obedient. As Gilthas told his people no lies, the elven parents told their children none. Those staying behind did not promise that they would see their loved ones again. They bade them do only one thing: Remember. Always remember.

At Gilthas’s gesture, the elves who had been in hiding slipped out from the shadows of the trees, whose leafy boughs had provided them protection from Beryl’s searching eyes. The forest had been quiet with the coming of the dragon, animal noises hushed, bird song silenced. All living things crouched, trembling, until Beryl had passed. Now that the dragon was gone, the forest came alive. The elves took their children by their hands, assisting the elderly and the infirm, and slid and slipped down the sides of a narrow ravine. The tunnel’s entrance was at the bottom, concealed by a lean-to made of tree branches.

“Hurry!” Gilthas motioned, keeping watch for the dragon’s return. “Hurry!”

The elves hastened past him and into the darkness of the tunnel beyond, where they were met by dwarves, who pointed out the way to go. One of those dwarves who was gesturing and saying in Elvish, “Left, left, keep to the left, mind that puddle there,” was Tarn Bellowsgranite, King of the Dwarves. He was dressed as any dwarven laborer, his beard caked with dirt, and his boots covered in mud and crushed rock. The elves never guessed his royal stature.

The elves looked relieved at first when they reached the safety of the dark tunnel and they were glad to duck inside. As they confronted the line of dwarves, pointing and gesturing for them to move deeper below ground, relief changed to unease. Elves are not happy below ground. They do not like confined places. They like to see the sky above their heads and the branching trees and breathe the fresh air. Below ground, they feel stifled and closed in. The tunnels smelled of darkness, of black loam and the gigantic worms, the Urkhan, that burrowed through the rock. Some elves hesitated, glanced back outside, where the sun shone brightly. One older elf, whom Gilthas recognized as belonging to the Thon-Thalas, the elven Senate, turned around and started to go back.

“I can’t do this, Your Majesty,” the senator said to Gilthas in apology. He was gasping for breath, his face was pale. “I’m suffocating! I’ll die down there!”

Gilthas started to reply, but Tarn Bellowsgranite stepped forward, blocked the senator’s path.

“Good sir,” said the dwarf, cocking one eye at the elf senator, “yes, it’s dark down here and, yes, it smells bad, and, yes, the air is not the freshest. But, consider this, good sir.” Tarn raised one grubby finger. “How dark will it be inside the dragon’s belly? How bad will that smell?”

The senator looked down at the dwarf and managed a wan smile. “You are right, sir. I had not considered that particular argument. It is a cogent one, I admit.”

The senator looked back down the corridor. He looked outside, drew a deep breath of fresh air. Reaching out, he touched Gilthas on the hand, a mark of respect. Bowing to the dwarf, the elf ducked his head, and plunged into the tunnel, holding his breath, as if he would hold it for the miles he would have to travel below ground.

Gilthas smiled. “You’ve said those words before, Thane, I’ll wager.”

“Many times,” said the dwarf, stroking his beard and grinning. “Many times. If not me, then the others.” He gestured to the dwarven helpers. “We use the same argument. It never fails.” He shook his head. “Elves living below ground. Who would have thought it, eh, Your Majesty?”

“Someday,” said Gilthas in reply, “we’ll have to teach dwarves to climb trees.”

Bellowsgranite snorted, laughed at the thought. Shaking his head, he went stomping down the tunnel, shouting encouragement to the dwarves who were working to keep the passageway clear of falling rock and to make certain the braces they used to shore up the tunnel were strong and secure.

The last elves to enter the tunnel were a group of twelve, members of a single family. The eldest daughter, who had almost come into her majority, had volunteered to take the children. Father and mother—both trained warriors—would remain to fight to save their city.

Gilthas recognized the girl, remembered her from the masquerade he had held not so long ago. He remembered her dancing, dressed in her finest silken gown, her hair adorned with flowers, her eyes shining with happiness and excitement. Now her hair was uncombed and unwashed, adorned with the dead leaves in which she had been hiding. Her dress was torn and travel-stained. She was frightened and pale, but resolute and firm, not giving way to her fear, for the younger children looked to her for courage.

The journey from Qualinost had been slow. Since the day Beryl had caught a group of elves on the road and killed them all with a blast of her poisonous breath, the elves had dared not travel in the open. The elves had kept to the forests for protection, holding as still as the rabbit in the presence of the fox when the green dragon swept overhead. Thus their progress was slow, heartbreakingly slow.

As Gilthas watched, the girl picked up a toddler from a nest of leaves and pine needles. Summoning the other children to her side, she ran toward the tunnel. The children followed her, the elder children carrying the younger on their backs.

Where was she going? Silvanesti. A land that was to this girl nothing more than a dream. A sad dream, for she had heard all her life that the Silvanesti disliked and distrusted their Qualinesti cousins. Yet now she was on her way to beg them for sanctuary. Before they could even reach Silvanesti, she and her siblings would have to travel miles below ground, then emerge to cross the arid, empty Plains of Dust.

“Quickly, quickly!” Gilthas urged, thinking he caught a glimpse of the dragon above the treetops.

When the last child was inside, he reached out, grabbed the tree-branch lean-to, and dragged it across the opening, concealing it from sight.

The girl paused inside the tunnel to take a quick head count. Satisfied all her brood were with her, she managed a smile for Gilthas and, lifting her head and adjusting the toddler to more comfortable position on her back, started to enter the tunnel proper.

One of the younger boys held back. “I don’t want to go, Trina,” he said, his voice quavering. “It’s dark in here.”

“No, no, it’s not,” said Gilthas. He pointed to a globe, hanging from the ceiling. A soft warm glow shone from inside the globe, illuminating the darkness. “You see that lantern?” Gilthas asked the child. “You’ll find those lanterns all through the tunnel. Do you know what makes that light?”

“Fire?” asked the boy doubtfully.

“A baby worm,” said Gilthas. “The adult worms dig the tunnels for us, and their young light our way. You’re not afraid now, are you?”

“No,” said the young elf. His sister cast him a scandalized look, and he flushed. “I mean, no, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” said Gilthas. “Then off you go.”

A deep voice sang out in Dwarvish, repeating it in Elvish, “Make way! Worm a’coming! Make way!”

The dwarf spoke in Elvish but as if he had a mouthful of rocks. The children did not understand. Gilthas made a jump for the girl. “Get back!” he shouted to the other children. “Get back against the wall! Quickly!”

The floor of the tunnel began to shake.

Catching hold of the startled girl, he dragged her out of the center of the tunnel. She was terrified, and the child she carried began to wail in fear. Gilthas took the toddler in his arms, soothed her as best he could. The other children crowded around him, wide-eyed, staring. Some began to whimper.

“Watch this,” he said, smiling at them. “No need to be afraid. These are our saviors.”

The head of one of the gigantic worms the dwarves used for burrowing came into sight at the far end of the tunnel. The worm had no eyes, for it was accustomed to living in darkness below ground. Two horns protruded from the top of its head. A dwarf, seated in a large basket on the worm’s back, held the reins of a leather harness in his hands. The harness wrapped around the two horns and allowed the wormrider to guide the Urkhan as an elf rider guided his horse.