Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star (41 page)

Gerard’s helm saved him from a killing stroke. The blade glanced off the metal and cut open Gerard’s cheek. He felt no pain and knew he’d been hit only because he could taste the warm blood that flooded his mouth. The man caught hold of Gerard’s sword hand in a clench of iron, began trying to break his fingers to force him to drop his weapon. Gerard struck the man in the face, breaking his nose. Still the man hung on, grappled with Gerard. Flinging the man backward, Gerard kicked him in the gut, sent the man sprawling. Gerard moved to finish him, but the man scrambled to his feet and ran. Gerard was too exhausted to pursue him.

Gerard stood gasping for breath. His head hurt now, hurt abominably. Holding a sword was painful, and he shifted the weapon to his left hand, although what he would do with it there was open to question, since he’d never attained the skill to fight with both hands. He could at least use it as a club, he supposed.

Odila’s armor was dented and blood-covered. He could not tell if she was hurt, and he lacked the breath to ask. She sat on her horse, looking around her, sword poised, waiting for the next assault.

Gerard realized suddenly that he could see trees silhouetted against the stars. He could see other knights, some mounted, some standing on the ground, some kneeling, some fallen. He could see stars, he could see the walls of Solanthus, gleaming white in the bright moonlight, with one terrible exception. An enormous section of wall was missing, a section near the gate. A huge pile of blasted rock lay in front.

“What happened?” Odila gasped, snatching off her helm to see better. “Who did this? Why did the gates not open? Who barred them?” She stared at the walls that were silent and empty. “Where are our archers? Why have they left their posts?”

In an answer that seemed almost personal, so nearly did it coincide with Odila’s question, a lone figure came to stand atop the city’s outer walls above the gates that had had remained closed and barred against their own defenders.

The dead soldiers of Solanthus lay stacked in front of the city gate, an offering before an enormous altar. An offering to the girl Mina, whose black armor was sleek in the moonlight.

“Knights of Solamnia. Citizens of Solanthus.” Mina addressed them, her voice ringing so that none on that bloody field had to strain to hear. “Through the might of the One God, the city of Solanthus has fallen. I hereby claim the city of Solanthus in the name of the One God.”

Hoarse cries of shocked anger and disbelief rose from the battlefield. Lord Tasgall spurred his horse forward. His armor was dark with blood, his right arm hung limply, uselessly at his side.

“I do not believe you!” he shouted. “Perhaps you have won the outer walls, but you cannot fool me into thinking you have conquered the entire city!”

Archers appeared on the walls, archers wearing the emblems of Neraka. Arrows landed all around him; stuck, quivering, in the ground at his feet.

“Look to the heavens,” said Mina.

Reluctantly, Lord Tasgall raised his head, his gaze searching the skies. He did not have to search long to see defeat.

Black wings slid over the stars, blotting them from view. Black wings sliced across the face of the moon. Dragons wheeled in the air, flying in low victorious circles over the city of Solanthus.

Dragonfear, awful and debilitating,, shook Lord Tasgall and all the Solamnic Knights, caused more than one to quail and fling up his arm in terror or grip his weapon with hands that sweat and trembled.

No arrows from Solanthus fired at the dragons. No machines spewed forth flaming oil. One horn call alone had sounded the alarm at the start of battle, and that had been silenced in death.

Mina had spoken truly. The battle was over. While the Solamnic Knights had been held hostage by the dead and ambushed by the living, Mina and the remainder of her forces had flown on dragonback unimpeded into a city that had been emptied of most of its defenders.

“Knights of Solamnia,” Mina continued, “you have witnessed the power of the One God, who rules the living and the dead. Go forth and carry word of the One God’s return into the world with you. I have given the dragons orders not to attack you. You are free to leave. Go where you will.” She waved her hand in a graceful, magnanimous gesture. “Even to Sanction. For that is where the gaze of the One God turns next. Tell the defenders of Sanction of the wonders you have seen this night. Tell them to fear the One God.”

The Lord Knight sat unmoving in his saddle. He was in shock, stunned and overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events. Other Knights rode or walked or limped to stand at his side. They gathered around him. Judging by their raised voices, some were demanding that they ride to the attack.

Gerard snorted in derision. Let them, he thought. Let this horde of dragons come down and snap off their fool heads. Idiots like that don’t deserve to live and should certainly never father progeny. One had only to look up into the sky to see that there was nothing left for the Solamnic Knighthood in Solanthus.

Mina spoke one last time. “The night wanes. The dawn approaches. You have one hour to depart in safety. Any who remain within sight of the city walls by this day’s dawning will be slain.” Her voice grew gentle. “Have no fear for your dead. They will be honored, for they now serve the One God.”

The bluster and the fury of the defeated Knights soon blew out. Those few foot soldiers who had escaped alive began to straggle off across the fields, many looking backward over their shoulders as if they could not believe what had happened and must constantly assure themselves by staring at the gruesome sight of their comrades crushed to death beneath the rubble of the once-mighty city.

The Knights managed to salvage what dignity they had left and returned to the field to pick up their fallen. They would not leave their dead behind, no matter what Mina or the One God promised. Lord Tasgall remained seated on his horse. He had removed his helm to wipe away the sweat. His face was grim and fixed, his complexion as white as that of the ghosts.

Gerard could not look at him, could not bear to see such suffering. He turned away.

Odila had not joined the rest of the Knights. She had not appeared even to see what was transpiring. She sat her horse, staring at the wall where the girl Mina had been standing.

Gerard had planned to go assist the other Knights with the wounded and dead, but he didn’t like the expression on Odila’s face. He grasped hold of her boot, jogged her foot to gain her attention.

She looked down at him and didn’t seem to recognize him.

“The One God,” Odila said. “The girl speaks the truth. A god has returned to the world. What can mortals do against such power?”

Gerard looked up to where the dragons danced in the heavens, flying triumphant amidst ragged wispy clouds that were not clouds, but the souls of the dead, still lingering.

“We do what she told us to do,” Gerard said flatly, glancing back at the walls of the fallen city. He saw the minotaur standing there, watching the Solamnic Knights’ retreat. “We ride to Sanction. We warn them of what is coming.”

31

The Red Rose

In the dark hours before the dawn, on the day the dragon Beryl had appointed for the destruction of Qualinost, Mar-I shal Medan took his breakfast in his garden. He ate well, for he would need the reserves of energy food provided later in the day. He had known men unable to swallow a mouthful before a fight or those who ate and then disgorged the contents of their stomachs shortly after. He had disciplined himself long ago to eat a large meal before a campaign and even to enjoy it.

He was able to accomplish this by focusing on each single minute as it happened, looking neither ahead to what must come or behind to what might have been. He had made his peace with the past last night before he slept—another discipline. As to what brief future might remain to him, he put his trust in himself. He knew his limits; he knew his strengths. He knew and trusted his comrades.

He dipped the last of the season’s strawberries in the last of his elven wine. He ate olive bread and soft white cheese. The bread was hard and a week old, for the bakery fires had not been lighted these many days, the bakers either having left Qualinost or gone into hiding, working toward this day. Still, he relished the taste. He had always enjoyed olive bread. The cheese, spread on the bread, was excellent. A simple pleasure, one he would miss in death.

Medan did not believe in life beyond the grave. No rational mind could, as far as he was concerned. Death was oblivion. Each night’s short sleep prepares us for the final night’s long one. Yet he thought that even in oblivion, he would miss his garden and the soft cheese on the fragrant bread, he would miss moonlight shining on golden hair. He finished the cheese, scattered bread crumbs to the fish. He sat for another hour alone in the garden, listening to the sparrow sing her mournful song. His eyes misted for a moment, but that was for the birdsong that would for him be silenced, and for the beauty of the late-blooming flowers that he also would miss. When his eyes misted, he knew it was time to depart.

The Dark Knight Dumat was on hand to assist Medan into his armor. The Marshal would not wear full plate this day. Beryl would notice and find it suspicious. The elves had been killed, driven out, vanquished. The elven capital city was being delivered to her without a fight. Her Marshal was here to greet her in triumph. What use did he have for armor? Besides that, Medan needed to be free to move swiftly, and he was not going to be encumbered by heavy plate or chain mail. He wore his ceremonial armor—the highly polished breastplate with the lily and the skull, and his helm—but he dispensed with all the rest.

Dumat helped fasten the long, flowing cloak around Medan’s shoulders. The cloak was made of wool that had been dipped in black dye and then in purple. Trimmed in gold braid, the cloak reached to the floor and weighed nearly as much as a chain-mail shirt. Medan despised it, never wore it except on those days when he had to make a show for the Senate. Today, though, the cloak would come in handy, for it covered a multitude of sins. Once he was attired, he experimented with the cloak to make certain it would perform as required.

Dumat assisted him to arrange the folds so that cloak fell over his left shoulder, concealing beneath those folds the sword he wore on his left hip. The sword he wore now was not the magical sword, not the Lost Star. For now, his customary sword would serve his purpose. He had to remember to make certain he held fast the cloak’s edge with his left hand, so that the wind created by the dragon’s fanning wings would not cause it to billow out. He practiced several times, while Dumat watched with a critical eye.

“Will it work, do you think?” the Marshal asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Dumat replied. “If Beryl does catch a glimpse of steel, she will think it is only your sword, such as you always wear.”

“Excellent.” Medan let fall the cloak. He unbuckled his sword from its belt, started to set it aside. Then, thinking better of it, he handed the weapon to Dumat. “May it serve you well as it has served me.”

Dumat rarely smiled, and he did not smile then. He removed his own sword—that was regulation issue—and buckled on the Marshal’s, with its fine, tempered steel blade. He made no show of gratitude, other than a muttered thanks, but Medan saw that his gift had pleased and touched the soldier.

“You had better leave now,” Medan said. “You have a long ride back to Qualinost and much to do this morning before the appointed time.”

Dumat started to salute, but the Marshal extended his hand. Dumat hesitated, then grasped Medan’s hand, shook it heartily in silence. Dumat took his leave. Mounting his horse, he headed at a gallop back to Qualinost.

Medan went over the plan again in his mind, checking and rechecking to see if he had missed anything. He was satisfied. No plan was perfect, of course, and events rarely went as one hoped, but he was confident he and Laurana had anticipated most contingencies. He shut his house and locked it up. He wondered, idly, if he would be returning to unlock it or if they would carry his body back here to bury him in his garden as he had requested. In the afterdays when the elves came back to their homeland, would anyone live in this house? Would anyone remember?

“The house of the hated Marshal Medan,” he said to himself with half a smile. “Perhaps they’ll burn it to the ground. Humans would.”

But elves were not like humans. Elves did not take satisfaction in such petty revenge, knowing that it would serve no purpose. Besides, they would not want to harm the garden. He could count on that.

He had one more task to perform before he left. He searched the garden until he found two perfect roses—one red, one white. He plucked them both and stripped the white one of its thorns. He placed the red rose, thorns and all, beneath his armor, against his breast.

The white rose in hand, he left his garden without a backward look. What need? He carried the sight and the fragrance in his mind, and he hoped, if death took him, that his last thought would wend its way back here, live forever in beauty and peace and solitude.

In her house, Laurana was doing much the same thing as the Marshal, with a few exceptions. She had managed to swallow only a few mouthfuls of food before putting aside the plate. She drank a glass of wine to give her heart, then retired to her room.

She had no one to assist her to dress and arm herself, for she had sent her maidservants away to safety in the south. They had gone reluctantly, separating from their mistress with tears. Now, only Kelevandros remained with her. She had urged him to leave, as well, but he had refused, and she had not pressed him. He wanted to stay, he said, to redeem his family’s honor that had been besmirched by the treachery of his brother.

Laurana understood, but she was almost sorry he had done so. He was the perfect servant, anticipating her wants and needs, unobtrusive, a hard and diligent worker. But he no longer laughed or sang as he went about his tasks. He was quiet, distant, his thoughts turned inward, rebuffing any offers of sympathy.

Laurana wrapped around her waist the leather skirt that had been designed for her years ago when she was the Golden General. She had just enough feminine vanity to note that the skirt was a little tighter on her than it had been in her youth and just enough sense of the absurd to smile at herself for minding. The leather skirt was slit up the side for ease of movement and served well as protective armor whether standing or riding. When this was done, she started to summon Kelevandros, but he had been waiting outside and entered the room as his name formed on her lips.

Without speaking, he fastened on her the breastplate, blue with golden trim, she had worn those long years ago, then she draped a cloak around her shoulders. The cloak was oversized.

She had made it specially for this occasion, working on it day and night so it would be ready in time. The cloak was white, of finely carded wool, and was fastened in the front by seven golden clasps. Slits had been placed in the side for her arms. She studied herself critically in the looking glass, moving, walking, standing still, making certain that no hint of leather or glint of metal gave her away. She had to look the part of the victim, not the predator.

Because the cloak restricted the movement of her arms, Kele-vandros brushed and arranged her long hair around her shoulders. Marshal Medan had wanted her to wear her helm, arguing that she would need its protection. Laurana had refused. The helm would look out of place. The dragon would be suspicious.

“After all,” she had said to him, half-teasing, wholly serious, “if she attacks, I don’t suppose a helmet will make much difference.”

Silver chimes rang outside the house.

“Marshal Medan is here,” Laurana said. “It is time.”

Lifting her gaze, she saw that Kelevandros’s face had gone pale. His jaw tightened, his lips pressed tight. He looked at her, pleading.

“I must do this, Kelevandros,” Laurana said, laying her hand gently on his arm. “The chance is a slim on£, but it is our only hope.”

He lowered his gaze, bowed his head.

“You should leave now,” Laurana continued. “It is time you took your place in the tower.”

“Yes, Madam,” Kelevandros said in the same empty, toneless voice he had used since the day of his brother’s death.

“Remember your instructions. When I say the words, Am Qualinesti you will light the signal arrow and shoot it into the air. Fire it out over Qualinost, so that those watching for it can see it.”

“Yes, Madam.” Kelevandros bowed silently and turned to leave. “If you do not mind, I will depart through the garden.”

“Kelevandros,” Laurana said, halting him. “I am sorry. Truly sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry, Madam?” he asked, not turning, keeping his back to her. “My brother tried to murder you. What he did was not your fault.”

“I think perhaps it was,” Laurana said, faltering. “If I had known how unhappy he was . . . If I had taken time to find out . . . If I had not assumed that. . . that. . .”

“That we were happy to have been born into servitude?” Kelevandros finished her sentence for her. “No, it never occurs to anyone, does it?” He looked at her with a strange smile. “It will from now on. The old ways end here. Whatever happens this day, the lives of the elves will never be the same. We can never go back to what we were. Perhaps we will all know, before the end, what it means to be born a slave. Even you, Madam. Even your son.”

Bowing, Kelevandros picked up his bow and a quiver of arrows and started to take his leave. He was almost out the door when he turned to face her, yet he did not look at her.

“Oddly enough, Madam,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes downcast. “I was happy here.”

With another bow, he left.

“Was that Kelevandros I saw skulking through the garden?” Medan asked when Laurana opened the door to him. He looked at her intently.

“Yes,” she said, glancing in that direction, though she could not see him for the thick foliage. “He has gone to take his place in the tower.”

“You look troubled. Has he said or done something to upset you?”

“If he did, I must make allowances. He has not been himself since his brother’s death. His grief overwhelms him.”

“His grief is wasted,” said the Marshal. “That wretched brother of his was not worth a snivel, let alone a tear.”

“Perhaps,” Laurana said, unconvinced. “And yet . . .” She paused, perplexed, and shook her head.

Medan regarded her earnestly. “You have only to say the word, Madam, and I will see to it that you escape safely from Qualinost this instant. You will be reunited with your son—”

“No, I thank you, Marshal,” Laurana answered calmly, looking up at him. “Kelevandros must wrestle with his own demons, as I have wrestled with mine. I am resolved in this. I will do my part. You need me, I think, sir,” she added with a hint of mischief, “unless you plan to dress up in one of my gowns and wear a blonde wig.”

“I have no doubt that even Beryl, dense as she is, would see through that disguise,” said Medan dryly. He was pleased to see Laurana smile. Another memory for him to keep. He handed her the white rose. “I brought this for you, Madam. From my garden. The roses will be lovely in Qualinost this fall.”

“Yes,” said Laurana, accepting the rose. Her hand trembled slightly. “They will be lovely.”

“You will see them. If I die this day, you will tend my garden for me. Do you promise?”

“It is bad luck to speak of death before the battle, Marshal,” Laurana warned, partly in jest, wholly in earnest. “Our plan will work. The dragon will be defeated and her army demoralized.”

“I am a soldier. Death is in my contract. But you—”

“Marshal,” Laurana interrupted with a smile, “every contract ever written ends in death.”

“Not yours,” he said softly. “Not so long as I am alive to prevent it.”

They stood a moment in silence. He watched her, watched the moonlight gently touch her hair as he longed to touch it. She kept her gaze fixed upon the rose.

“The parting with your son Gilthas was difficult?” he asked at last.

She replied with a soft sigh. “Not in the way you imagine. Gilthas did not try to dissuade me from my chosen path. Nor did he try to free himself from walking his. We did not spend our last hours in fruitless argument, as I had feared. We remembered the past and talked of what he will do in the future. He has many hopes and dreams. They will serve to ease his journey over the dark, perilous road he must travel to reach that future. Even if we win this day, as Kelevandros said, the lives of the elves will never be the same. We can never go back to what we were.” She was pensive, introspective.