Dragons of a Fallen Sun, page 39
The sub commander charged head-on like a snorting bison, swinging his sword with murderous strength. The Solamnic parried the blow, met it with such force that sparks glittered on the steel blades. The subcommander held on, swords locked, trying to drive his opponent into the ground. The Solamnic was no match for such strength. He recognized this and changed tactics. He staggered backward, leaving himself temptingly open.
The sub commander fell for the ruse. He leaped to the attack, slashing with his blade, thinking to make a quick kill. He managed to wound the knight in the left upper arm, cutting through the leather armor to open a great bleeding gash.
The Solamnic took the blow and never winced. He held his ground, watched for his opportunity and coolly drove his sword into the subcommander’s belly.
The subcommander dropped his sword and doubled over with a horrible, gurgling cry, clutching himself, trying to hold his insides in. The Solamnic yanked his sword free. Blood gushed from the man’s mouth. He toppled over.
Before Medan could stop him, the bowman had lifted his bow, shot an arrow at the Solamnic. The arrow plunged deep into the Knight’s thigh. He cried out in agony, stumbled, off-balance.
“You cowardly bastard!” Medan swore. Snatching the bow, he slammed it against the rock, smashing it.
The archer then drew his sword and ran to engage the wounded Solamnic. Medan considered halting the battle, but he was interested to see how the Solamnic handled this new challenge. He watched dispassionately, glorying in a battle-to-the-death contest such as he had not witnessed in years.
The archer was a shorter, lighter man, a cagier fighter than the subcommander. He took his time, testing his opponent with jabbing strikes of his short sword, searching for weaknesses, wearing him down. He caught the Solamnic a glancing blow to the face beneath the raised visor. The wound was not serious, but blood poured from it, running into the Solamnic’s eye, partially blinding him. The Solamnic blinked the blood out of his eye and fought on. Crippled and bleeding, he grimaced every time he was forced to put weight on his leg. The arrow remained lodged in his thigh. He had not had time to yank it out. Now he was on the offensive. He had to end this fight soori, or he would not have any strength to pursue it.
Lightning flashed. The rain fell harder. The men struggled together over the cbrpse of the subcommander. The Solamnic jabbed and slashed, his sword seeming to be everywhere like a striking snake. Now it was the archer who was hard-pressed. He had all he could do to keep that snake’s fang from biting.
“Well struck, Solamnic,” Medan said softly more than once, watching with pleasure the sight of such skill, such excellent training.
The archer slipped in the rain-wet grass. The Solamnic lunged forward on his wounded leg and drove his sword into the man’s breast. The archer fell, and so did the Solamnic, collapsing on his knees onto the forest floor, gasping for breath.
Medan left his boulder, walked out into the open. The Solamnic, hearing him coming, staggered to his feet with a wrenching cry of pain. His wounded leg gave out beneath him. Limping, the Solamnic placed his back against a tree trunk to provide stability and raised his sword. He looked at death. He knew he could not win this last battle, but at least he would die upright, not on his knees.
“I thought the flame had gone out in the hearts of the Knighthood, but it lives on in one man seemingly,” said Medan, facing the Solamnic. The marshal rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it.
The Solamnic’s face was a mask of blood. Eyes of a startling, arresting blue color regarded Medan without hope, but without fear.
He waited for Medan to strike.
The marshal stood in the mud and the rain, straddling the bodies of his two dead subordinates, and waited.
The Solamnic’s defiance began to waver. He realized suddenly what Medan was doing, realized that he was waiting for the Solamnic to collapse, waiting to capture him alive.
“Fight, damn you!” The Solamnic lurched forward, lashed out with his sword.
Medan stepped to one side.
The Solamnic forgot, put his weight on his bad leg. The leg gave way. He lost his balance, fell to the forest floor. Even then, he made one last opportunity to try to struggle to his feet, but he was too weak. He had lost too much blood. His eyes closed. He lay face down in the muck alongside the bodies of his foes.
Medan rolled the Knight over. Placing his hand on the Knight’s thigh for leverage, the marshal took hold of the arrow and yanked it out. The Knight groaned with the pain, but did not regain consciousness. Medan took off his cloak, cut the material into strips with his sword, and made a battlefield tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. He then wrapped the Knight warmly in what remained of the cloak.
“You have lost a lot of blood,” Medan said, returning his sword to its sheath, “but you are young and strong. We will see what the healers can do for you.”
Rounding up the two horses of his subordinates, Medan threw the bodies unceremoniously over their saddles, tied them securely. Then the marshal whistled to his own horse. The animal came trotting over in response to his master’s summons to stand quietly at Medan’s side.
Medan lifted the Solamnic in his arms, eased the wounded Knight into the saddle. He examined the wound, was pleased to see that the tourniquet had stopped the flow of blood. He relaxed the tourniquet a notch, not wanting to cut off the blood flow to the leg completely, then climbed into the saddle. Seating himself behind the injured Knight, Medan put his arm around the man and held him gently but firmly in the saddle. He took hold of the reins of the other two horses and, leading them behind, began the long ride back to Qualinost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE DEVICE OF TIME JOURNEYING
The wild and terrifying flight from the dragon ended in blue sky and sunshine. The flight took longer than usual, for the griffon had been blown off course by the storm. The beast made landfall somewhere in the wilds of the Kharolis Mountains to feed on a deer, a delay Palin chafed at, but all his pleas for haste went unheeded. After dining, the griffon took a nap, while Palin paced back and forth, keeping a firm grip on Tasslehoff. When night fell, the creature stated that it would not fly after dark. The griffon and Tasslehoff slept. Palin sat fuming and waiting for the sun to rise.
They continued their journey the next day. The griffon landed Palin and Tasslehoff at midmorning in an empty field not far from what had once been the Academy of Sorcery. The stone walls of the academy still stood, but they were black and crumbling. The roof was a skeleton of charred beams. The tower that had once been a symbol of hope to the world, hope that magic had returned, was nothing but a pile of rubble, demolished by the blast that had torn out its heart.
Palin had once planned to rebuild the academy, if for no other reason than to show his defiance for Beryl. When he began to lose the magic, began to feel it slip away from him like water falling from cupped palms, he discarded the idea. It was a waste of time and effort. Better far to spend his energies searching for artifacts of the Fourth Age, artifacts that still held the magic inside and could still be used by those who knew how.
“What is that place?” Tasslehoff asked, sliding down from the griffon’s back. He stared with interest at the destroyed walls with their gaping, empty windows. “And what happened to it?”
“Nothing. Never mind,” Palin said, not wanting to enter into long, explanations involving the death of a dream. “Come along. We have no time to was—”
“Look!” Tas cried, pointing. “Someone’s walking around there. I’m going to go look!”
He was off, his bright shirt tail fluttering behind him, his topknot bouncing with glee.
“Come back—” Palin began and then realized he might as well save his breath.
Tas was right. Someone was indeed walking around the ruins of the academy and Palin wondered who it might be. The residents of Solace considered the place cursed and never went there for any reason. The person was wearing long robes; Palin caught a glimpse of crimson fabric beneath a gold-trimmed beige cloak. This could, of course, be some former student, come back to gaze in nostalgia at his wrecked place of learning, but Palin doubted it. By the graceful walk and the rich dress, he realized that this was Jenna.
Mistress Jenna of Palanthas had been a powerful red-robed wizardess in the days before the Chaos War. An extraordinarily beautiful woman, she was reputed to have been the lover of Dalamar the Dark, pupil of Raistlin Majere and once Master of the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas. Jenna had earned her living by running a mageware shop in Palanthas. Her shop had done moderately well during the Fourth Age, when magic had been a gift granted to people by the three gods, Solinari, Lunitari, and Nuitari. She carried the usual assorted spell components: bat guano, butterfly wings, sulphur, rose leaves (whole and crushed), spider eggs, and so forth. She had a good supply of potions and was known to have the best collection of spell scrolls and books outside the Tower of Wayreth, all to be had for a price. She was particularly renowned for her collection of magical artifacts: rings, bracers, daggers, swords, pendants, charms, amulets. These were the artifacts on display. She had other, more potent, more dangerous, more powerful artifacts, which she kept hidden away, to be shown only to serious customers and that by appointment.
When the Chaos War came, Jenna had joined Dalamar and a white-robed mage on a perilous mission to help defeat the rampaging Father of the Gods. She never spoke of what befell them on that terrible journey. All Palin knew was that on their return Dalamar had been critically wounded. He had lain near death in his tower for many long weeks.
Jenna had been his constant companion and nurse until the day when she walked out of the tower, never to return. For on that night, the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas was destroyed in a magical blast. No one ever saw Dalamar again. After many years had passed and he had not returned, the Conclave pronounced him officially dead. Mistress Jenna reopened her mageware shop and discovered that she was sitting on a treasure trove.
With the magic of the gods vanished, desperate mages had sought ways to hold onto their power. They discovered that magical artifacts crafted in the Fourth Age retained their power. The only drawback was that sometimes this power was erratic, did not act as expected. A magical sword, once an artifact of good, suddenly began to slay those it was meant to protect. A ring of invisibility failed its owner at a critical moment, landing the thief five years in a Sanction dungeon. No one knew the reason. Some said the unreliability was due to the fact that the gods no longer had influence over them, others said that it had nothing to do with the gods. Artifacts were always known to be tricky objects to handle.
Buyers were more than willing to take the risk, however, and the demand for Fourth Age artifacts soared higher than a gnomish steam-driven mechanical flapjack-flipping device. Mistress Jenna’s prices rose to match. She was now, at the age of sixty-something, one of the wealthiest women in Ansalon. Still beautiful, though her beauty had ripened, she had retained her influence and power even under the rule of the Knights of Neraka, whose commanders found her charming, fascinating, mysterious, and accommodating. She paid no attention to those who termed her “collaborator.” Jenna had long been accustomed to playing both ends against the middle, knew how to fool the middle and the ends into thinking each was getting the best of the bargain.
Mistress Jenna was also the acknowledged expert in Ansalon on Fourth Age magical artifacts.
Palin could not go immediately to greet her. The griffon complained again of hunger. The beast was, in fact, eyeing the kender avariciously, obviously considering Tas a toothsome morsel. Palin promised he would send back a haunch of venison. This satisfied the griffon, who began to preen herself, pleased at having reached her destination.
Palin went off in pursuit of Tasslehoff, who was happily picking his way through the rubble, turning over rocks to see what was underneath and exclaiming over every find. Jenna had been strolling around the grounds of the ruined academy. Curious herself to see what the kender had discovered, she walked over to look.
Tas lifted his head, stared at the mage for long moments and then, with a glad cry, he jumped up and ran straight for her with arms outstretched.
Jenna quickly extended both hands, palms outward. Light flashed from one of several rings she wore, and Tas stumbled backward as if he’d run headlong into a brick wall.
“Keep your distance, Kender,” she said calmly.
“But, Jenna!” Tas cried, rubbing his nose and eyeing the rings with interest, “don’t you recognize me? It’s Tasslehoff! Tasslehoff Burrfoot. We met in Palanthas during the Chaos War, only a few days ago for me, but I guess for you its been years and years ‘cause you’re a lot older now. A lot older,” he added with emphasis. “I came to your mageware shop and. . .” Tas prattled on.
Jenna kept her hands stretched outward, regarding the kender with amusement— a pleasant distraction. She obviously did not believe a word he was saying.
Hearing footsteps crunch on rock, Jenna turned her head quickly. “Palin!” She smiled to see him.
“Jenna.” He bowed in respect. “I am pleased you could find the time to come.”
“My dear, if what you intimated to me is true, I would not have missed this for all the treasure in Istar. You will excuse me if I do not shake hands, but I am keeping this kender at bay.”
“How was your journey?”
“Long.” She rolled her eyes. “My ring of teleportation” —she indicated a large ring of sparkling amethyst set in silver that she wore on her thumb— “used to take me from one end of the continent to another in a flash. Now it takes me two days to travel from Palanthas to Solace.”
“And what are you doing here at the academy?” Palin asked, glancing around. “If you’re looking for artifacts, don’t bother. We salvaged what we could.”
Jenna shook her head. “No, I was just taking a walk. I stopped by your house,” she added with an arch glance. “Your wife was there, and she was not overly pleased to see me. Finding the reception a bit chilly indoors, I decided I would prefer a walk in the sunshine.” She looked around in her turn, shook her head sadly.
“I had not been here since the destruction. They did a thorough job. You’re not going to rebuild?”
“Why should I?” Palin shrugged. His tone was bitter. “What use does anyone have for an Academy of Sorcery if there is no more sorcery? Tas,” he said abruptly, “Usha is at home. Why don’t you go surprise her?” Turning, he pointed to a large house which could barely be seen for the tall trees surrounding it.
“There is our house—”
“I know!” Tasslehoff said excitedly. “I was there the first time I went to Caramon’s funeral. Does Usha paint wonderful pictures like she did then?”
“Why don’t you go ask her yourself?” Palin said irritably.
Tas glanced at the rubble and appeared undecided.
“Usha would be very hurt if you didn’t go to see her,” Palin added.
“Yes, you’re right,” Tas replied, making up his mind. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. We are great friends. Besides, I can always come back here later. Good-bye, Jenna!” He started to extend his hand, thought better of it. “And thanks for magicking me. That hasn’t happened to me in a long time. I really enjoyed it.”
“Odd little fellow,” remarked Jenna, gazing after Tas, who was running pell-mell down the hillside. “He looks and talks very much like the kender I knew as Tasslehoff Burrfoot. One would almost think he is Tasslehoff.”
“He is,” said Palin.
Jenna shifted her gaze to him. “Oh, come now.” She scrutinized him more closely. “By the lost gods, I believe that you are serious. Tasslehoff Burrfoot died—”
“I know!” Palin said impatiently. “Thirty-odd years ago. Or thereabouts. I’m sorry, Jenna.” He sighed. “It’s been a long night. Beryl found out about the artifact. We were ambushed by Neraka Knights. The kender and I barely escaped with our lives, and the Solamnic who brought Tas to me didn’t escape at all. Then we were attacked in the air by one of Beryl’s greens. We escaped the dragon only by making a harrowing flight into a thunderstorm.”
“You should get some sleep,” Jenna advised, regarding him with concern.
“I can’t sleep,” Palin returned, rubbing his eyes, which were red-rimmed and burning. “My thoughts are in turmoil, they give me no rest. We need to talk!” he added in a kind of frantic desperation.
“That’s why I am here, my friend,” Jenna said. “But you should at least eat something. Let us go to your house and drink a glass of wine. Say hello to your wife, who has just returned herself from what I gather was a very harrowing journey herself.”
Palin grew calmer. He smiled at her wanly. “Yes, you are right, as usual. It’s just. . .” He paused, thinking what to say and how to say it. “That is the real Tasslehoff, Jenna. I’m convinced of it. And he has been to a future that is not ours, a future in which the great dragons do not exist. A future where the world is at peace. He has brought with him the device he used to travel to that future.”
Jenna gazed at him searchingly and intently. Seeing that he was in earnest, utterly serious, her eyes darkened, narrowed with interest.
“Yes,” she said at last. “We do need to talk.” She took his arm, they walked side by side.
“Tell me everything, Palin,” she said.
The Majeres’ house was a large structure that had once belonged to a Master Theobald, the man who had taught Raistlin Majere magic. Caramon had purchased the house at the master’s death, in memory of his brother, and had given the house as gift to Palin and Usha when they were married. Here their children had been born and grown up, going off on adventures of their own. Palin had transformed the classroom where the young Raistlin had once droned through his lessons into a studio for his wife, a portrait painter of some renown throughout Solamnia and Abanasinia. He continued to use the master’s old laboratory for his studies.
