Dragons of a Fallen Sun, page 52
Gerard was thankful he’d read this once. Had he not been prepared, he would not have been able to read it as calmly as he managed. As it was, his voice caught in his throat and he was forced to cover his emotions with a harsh cough. He finished reading and looked up to find Medan observing him closely.
“Well, what do you think of this?” Medan demanded.
Gerard cleared his throat. “I believe that it is presumptuous of the dragon to give you orders, my lord. The Knights of Neraka are not her personal army.”
Medan’s grim expression relaxed. He almost smiled. “That is an excellent argument, Gerard. Would it were true! Unfortunately, the High Command crawled on their bellies before the great dragons years ago.”
“She can’t mean this, my lord,” Gerard said cautiously. “She wouldn’t do this. Not an entire race of people—”
“She could and she will,” Medan replied grimly. “Look what she did to Kenderhome. Slaughtered the little nuisances by the thousands. Not that kender are any great loss, but it goes to prove that she will do what she says.”
Gerard had heard other Solamnic Knights say the same thing about the slaughter of the kender, and he recalled laughing with them. He knew some Solamnic Knights who would not be displeased to see the elves depart this world. We consider ourselves so much better, so much more moral and more honorable than the Dark Knights, Gerard said to himself. In reality, the only difference is the armor. Silver or black, it masks the same prejudices, the same intolerance, the same ignorance. Gerard felt suddenly, deeply ashamed.
Medan had begun to pace the walkway. “Damn the blasted elves! All these years I work to save them, and now it is for nothing! Damn the queen mother anyhow! If she had only listened to me! But no. She must consort with rebels and the like, and now what comes of it? She has doomed herself and her people. Unless. . .”
He paused in his pacing, hands clasped behind his back, brooding, his thoughts turned inward. His robes, of elven make, elven cut, and elven design, fell loosely about his body. The hem, trimmed with silk ribbon, brushed his feet. Gerard remained silent, absorbed with his own thoughts-a confusion of sickening rage against the dragon for wanting to destroy the elves and rage at himself and his own kind for standing idly by and doing nothing all these years to stop her.
Medan raised his head. He had made a decision. “The day has arrived sooner than I anticipated. I will not be a party to genocide. I have no compunction about killing another warrior in battle, but I will not butcher helpless civilians who have no way to fight back. To do so is the height of cowardice, and such wanton slaughter would break the oath I swore when I became a Knight. Perhaps there is a way to stop the dragon. But I will require your help.”
“You have it, my lord,” said Gerard.
“You will have to trust me.” Medan raised an eyebrow.
“And you will have to trust me, my lord,” said Gerard, smiling.
Medan nodded. A man of quick and decisive actions, he did not waste breath in further talk but seated himself at the table. He reached for pen and ink. “We must stall for time,” he said, writing rapidly. “You will deliver my answer to the draconian Groul, but he must never reach the dragon. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Gerard.
Medan completed his writing. He sprinkled sand on the paper, to help the ink dry, rolled it and handed it to Gerard. “Put that in the same scroll case. No need to seal it. The message states that I am the Exalted One’s Obedient Servant and that I will do her bidding.”
Medan rose to his feet. “When you have completed your task, go straight to the Royal Palace. I will leave orders that you are to be admitted. We must make haste. Beryl is a treacherous fiend, not to be trusted. She may have already decided to act on her own.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gerard said. “And where will you be, my lord? Where can I find you?”
Medan smiled grimly. “I will be arresting the queen mother.”
Marshal Medan walked along the path that led through the garden to the main dwelling of Laurana’s modest estate. Night had fallen. He had brought a torch to light his way. The flame singed the hanging flowers as he passed beneath them, caused leaves to blacken and curl. Bugs flew into the fire. He could hear them sizzle.
The marshal was not wearing his elven robes. He was accoutered in his full ceremonial armor. Kelevandros, who answered Medan’s resounding knock upon the door, was quick to note the change. He eyed the marshal warily.
“Marshal Medan. Welcome. Please enter. I will inform madam that she has a visitor. She will see you in the arboretum, as usual.”
“I prefer to remain where ‘I am,” said the marshal. “Tell your mistress to meet me here. Tell her,” he added, his voice grating, “that she should be dressed for travel. She will need her cloak. The night air is chill. And tell her to make haste.”
He looked intently and constantly about the garden, paying particular attention to the parts of the garden hidden in shadow.
“Madam will want to know why,” Kelevandros said, hesitating.
Medan gave him a shove that sent him staggering across the room. “Go fetch your mistress,” he ordered.
“Travel?” Laurana said, astonished. She had been sitting in the arboretum, pretending to listen to Kalindas read aloud from an ancient elven text. In reality, she had not heard a word. “Where am I going?”
Kelevandros shook his head. “The marshal will not tell me, Madam. He is acting very strangely.”
“I don’t like this, Madam,” Kalindas stated, lowering the book. “First imprisonment in your house, now this. You should not go with the marshal.”
“I agree with my brother, Madam,” Kelevandros added. “I will tell him you are not well. We will do what we have talked about before. This night, we will smuggle you out in the tunnels.”
“I will not,” said Laurana determinedly. “Would you have me flee to safety while the rest of my people are forced to stay behind? Bring my cloak.”
“Madam,” Kelevandros dared to argue, “please—”
“Fetch me my cloak,” Laurana stated. Her tone was gentle but firm, brooked no further debate.
Kelevandros bowed silently.
Kalindas went to fetch the cloak. Kelevandros returned with Laurana to the front door, where Marshal Medan had remained standing.
Sighting her, he straightened. “Lauranalanthalas of the House of Solostaran,” he said formally, “you are under arrest. You will surrender yourself peacefully to me as my prisoner.”
“Indeed?” Laurana was quite calm. “What is the charge? Or is there a charge?” she asked. She turned so that Kalindas could place the cloak about her shoulders. The elf started to do so, but Medan took the cloak himself. The marshal, his expression grave, settled the cloak around Laurana’s shoulders.
“The charges are numerous, Madam. Harboring a human sorcerer who is wanted by the Gray Robes, concealing your knowledge of a valuable magical artifact, which the sorcerer had in his possession when, by law, all magical artifacts located in Qualinesti are to be handed over to the dragon. Aiding and abetting the outlaw sorcerer in his escape from Qualinesti with the artifact.”
“I see,” said Laurana.
“I tried to warn you, madam, but you would not heed me,” Medan said.
“Yes, you did try to warn me, marshal, and for that I am grateful.” Laurana fastened the cloak around her neck with a jeweled pin. Her hands were steady, did not tremble. “And what is to be done with me, Marshal Medan?”
“My orders are to execute you, madam,” said Medan. “I am to send your head to the dragon.” Kalindas gasped. Kelevandros gave a hoarse shout and lunged at Medan, grappling for his throat with his bare hands.
“Stop, Kelevandros!” Laurana ordered, throwing herself between the elf and the marshal. “This will not help! Stop this madness!”
Kelevandros fell back, panting, glaring at Medan with hatred. Kalindas took hold of his brother’s arm, but Kelevandros angrily shook him off.
“Come, madam,” said Marshal Medan. He offered Laurana his arm. The torch smoked and sputtered. Orchids, hanging over the door, shriveled in the heat.
Laurana rested her hand on the marshal’s arm. She looked back at the two brothers, standing, white-faced with shadowed eyes, watching her being led away to her death.
Which one? she asked herself, sick at heart. Which one?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PRISON OF AMBER
The midsummer’s morning dawned unusually cool in Silvanesti.
“A fine day for battle, gentlemen,” said Mina to her assembled officers.
Galdar led the cheers, which shook the trees along the riverbank, caused the leaves of the aspens to tremble.
“So may our valor set the elves to trembling,” said Captain Samuval. “A great victory will be ours this day, Mina! We cannot fail!”
“On the contrary,” said Mina coolly. “This day we will be defeated.”
Knights and officers stared at her blankly. They had seen her perform miracle after miracle, until the miracles were now stacked up one on top of the other like crockery in a neat housewife’s cupboard. The idea that these miracles were to now come spilling out of the cupboard, come crashing down around their ears was a catastrophe not to be believed. So they did not believe it.
“She’s joking, “ said Galdar, attempting to pass it off with a laugh.
Mina shook her head. “We will lose the battle this day. An army of a thousand elven warriors has come to test us. We are outnumbered over two to one. We cannot win this battle.”
The Knights and officers looked at each other uneasily. They looked at Mina grimly, doubtfully.
“But though we lose the battle this day,” Mina continued, smiling slightly, her amber eyes lit from behind with an eerie glow that made the faces captured in them glitter like tiny stars, “this day we will win the war. But only if you obey me without question. Only if you follow my orders exactly.”
The men grinned, relaxed. “We will, Mina,” several shouted, and the rest cheered.
Mina was no longer smiling. The amber of her eyes flowed over them, congealed around them, froze them where they stood.
“You will obey my orders, though you do not understand them. You will obey my orders, though you do not like them. You will swear this to me on your knees, swear by the Nameless God who is witness to your oath and who will exact terrible revenge upon the oath breaker. Do you so swear?”
The Knights sank down on their knees in a semicircle around her. Removing their swords, they held them by the blade, beneath the hilt. They lifted their swords to Mina. Captain Samuval went down on his knees, bowed his head. Galdar remained standing. Mina turned her amber eyes on him.
“On you, Galdar, more than on anyone else rests the outcome of this battle. If you refuse to obey me, if you refuse to obey the God who gave you back your warrior’s arm, we are lost. All of us. But you, most especially.”
“What is your command, Mina?” Galdar asked harshly. “Tell me first, that I may know.”
“No, Galdar,” she said gently. “You either trust me or you do not. You put your faith in the God or you do not. Which will it be?”
Slowly, Galdar knelt down upon his knees before her. Slowly he drew his sword from its scabbard and slowly held it up as did the others. He held it in the hand the God had returned to him.
“I so swear, Mina!” he said.
The rest spoke as one.
“I so swear!”
The battleground was a large field located on the banks of the Thon-Thalas River. The elf soldiers trampled tender stalks of wheat beneath their soft leather boots. The elf archers took their places amid tall stands of green, tasseled com. General Konnal set up his command tent in a peach orchard. The arms of a great windmill turned endlessly, creaking in the wind that had a taste of autumn’s harvest in it.
There would be a harvest on this field, a dread harvest, a harvest of young lives. When it was over, the water that ran at the feet of the great windmill would run red.
The field stood between the approaching enemy army and the capital of Silvanost. The elves put themselves in harm’s way, intending to stop the army of darkness before it could reach the heart of the elf kingdom. The Silvanesti were outraged, insulted, infuriated. In hundreds of years, no enemy had set foot on this’ sacred land. The only enemy they had fought had been one of their own making, the twisted dream of Lorac.
Their wonderful magical shield had failed them. They did not know how or why, but most of the elves were convinced that it had been penetrated by an evil machination of the Knights of Neraka.
“To that end, General,” Glaucous was saying, “the capture of their leader is of the utmost importance. Bring this girl in for interrogation. She will tell me how she managed to thwart the shield’s magic.”
“What makes you think she will tell you?” Konnal asked, annoyed at the wizard and his harping on this subject alone.
“She may refuse, General,” Glaucous assured him, “but she will not have any choice in the matter. I will use the truth-seek on her.”
The two were in the general’s command tent. They had met early that morning with the elf officers. Silvan had explained his strategy. The officers had agreed that the tactics were sound. Konnal had then dismissed them to deploy their men. The enemy was reported to be about five miles away. According to the scouts, the Knights of Neraka had halted to arm themselves and put on their armor. They were obviously preparing for battle.
“I cannot spare the men who would be required to seize a single officer Glaucous,” the general added, recording his orders in a large book. “If the girl is captured in battle, fine. If not. . .” He shrugged, continued writing.
“I will undertake her capture, General,” Silvan offered.
“Absolutely not, Your Majesty,” Glaucous said hurriedly.
“Give me a small detachment of mounted warriors,” Silvan urged, coming to stand before the general. “We will circle around their flank, come in from behind. We will wait until the battle is fairly joined and then we will drive through the lines in a wedge, strike down her bodyguard, capture this commander of theirs and carry her back to our lines.”
Konnallooked up from his work.
“You said yourself, Glaucous, that discovering the means by which these evil fiends came through the shield would be useful. I think His Majesty’s plan is sound.”
“His Majesty puts himself in too much danger,” Glaucous protested.
“I will order members of my own bodyguard to ride with the king,” Konnal said. “No harm will come to him.”
“It had better not,” Glaucous said softly.
Ignoring his adviser, Konnal walked over to the map, stared down at it. He laid his finger on a certain point. “My guess is that the enemy commander will take up her position here, on this rise. That is where you should look for her and her bodyguard. You can circle around the battle by riding through this stand of trees, emerging at this point. You will be practically on top of them. You will have the element of surprise, and you should be able to strike before they are aware of you. Does Your Majesty agree?”
“The plan is an excellent one, General,” said Silvan with enthusiasm.
He was to wear new armor, beautifully made, wonderfully designed. The breastplate bore the pattern of a twelve-pointed star, his helm was formed in the likeness of two swan’s wjngs done in shining steel. He carried a new sword, and he now knew how to use one, having spent many hours each day since his arrival in Silvanost studying with an expert elf swordsman, who had been most complimentary on His Majesty’s progress. Silvan felt invincible. Victory would belong to the elves this day, and he was determined to play a glorious part, a part that would be celebrated in story and song for generations to come.
He left, ecstatic, to go prepare for battle. .
Glaucous lingered behind. Konnal had returned to his work. Glaucous made no sound, but Konnal sensed his presence, as one senses hungry eyes watching one in a dark forest.
“Begone. I have work to do.”
“I am going. I only want to emphasize what I said earlier. The king must be kept safe.”
Konnal sighed, looked up. “If he comes to harm, it will not be through me. I am not an ogre, to kill one of my own kind. I spoke in haste yesterday, without thinking. I will give my guards orders to watch over him as if he were my own son.”
“Excellent, General,” said Glaucous with his beautiful smile.
“I am much relieved. My hopes for this land and its people depend on him. Silvanoshei Caladon must Jive to rule Silvanesti for many years. As did his grandfather before him.”
“Are you certain you will not reconsider and ride with us, Kiryn? This will be a battle celebrated for generations to come!”
Silvan fidgeted under the ministrations of his squire, who was attempting to buckle the straps of the king’s damascened armor and having a difficult time of it. The leather was stiff and new, the straps refused to ease into place. Silvan’s constant shifting and moving did not help matters.
“If Your Majesty would please hold still!” the exasperated squire begged.
“Sorry,” Silvan said and did as he was told, for a few seconds at any rate. Then he turned his head to look at Kiryn, who sat on a cot, watching the proceedings. “I could lend you some armor. I have another full suit.”
Kiryn shook his head. “My uncle has given me my assignment. I am to carry dispatches and messages between the officers. No armor for me. I must travel light.”
A trumpet call sounded, causing Silvan to give such a start of excitement that he undid a good quarter of an hour’s worth of work. “The enemy is in-sight! Hurry, you oaf!”
The squire sucked in a breath and held his tongue. Kiryn added his assistance, and between the two of them the king was readied for battle.
“I would embrace you for luck, Cousin,” said Kiryn, “but I would be bruised for a week. I do wish you luck, though,” he said more seriously as he clasped Silvan’s hand in his. “though I hardly think you’ll need it.”
