Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star (24 page)

Odila continued to talk, pointing out the sights of Solanthus on the theory that he would get to see little of the city from his cell in the dungeons. Gerard ignored her. He went over in his mind what he was going to say to the Knights’ Council, how best to portray the admittedly sinister-looking circumstances of his arrival. He rehearsed the eloquent words he would use to present the plight of the beleaguered elves. He hoped against hope that someone would know him. He was forced to concede that in the irritating female’s place, he would not have believed him either. He had been a dolt for forgetting that pack.

Recalling the desperate situation of the elves, he wondered what they were doing, how they were faring. He thought back to Marshal Medan, Laurana, and Gilthas, and he forgot himself and his own troubles in his earnest concern for those who had come to be his friends. So lost in thought was he that he rode along without paying attention to his surroundings and was astonished to look up and realize that night had fallen while they were on the road and that they had reached the outer walls of Solanthus.

Gerard had heard that Solanthus was the best fortified city in all of Ansalon, even surpassing the lord city of Palanthas. Now, gazing up at the immense walls, black against the stars, walls that were only the outer ring of defenses, he could well believe it.

An outer curtain wall surrounded the city. The wall consisted of several layers of stone packed with sand, slathered over with mud and then covered with more stone. On the other side of the curtain wall was a moat. Gates in several locations pierced the curtain wall. Large drawbridges led over the moat. Beyond the moat was yet another wall, this one lined with murder holes and slits for archers. Large kettles that could be filled with boiling oil were positioned at intervals. On the other side of this wall, trees and bushes had been planted so that any enemy succeeding in taking this wall would not be able to leap down into the city unimpeded. Beyond that lay the streets of the city and its buildings, the vast majority of which were also constructed of stone.

Even at this late hour, people stood at the gatehouse waiting to enter the city. Each person was stopped and questioned by the gatehouse guards. Lady Odila was well known to the guards and did not have to stand in line, but was passed through with merry jests about her fine “catch” and the success of her hunting.

Gerard bore the jokes and crude comments in dignified silence. Odila kept up the mirth until one guard, at the last post, shouted, “I see you had to hog-tie this man to keep him, Lady Odila.”

Odila’s smile slipped. The green leaf eyes glittered emerald. She turned and gave the guard a look that caused him to flush red, sent him hastening back into the guardhouse.

“Dolt,” she muttered. She tossed her black braids, affected to laugh, but Gerard could see that the verbal arrow had struck something vital in her, drawn blood.

Odila led the horse among the crowds in the city streets. People stared at Gerard curiously. When they saw the emblem on his chest, they jeered and spoke loudly of the executioner’s blood-tipped axe.

A slight flutter of doubt caused Gerard a moment’s unease, almost a moment’s panic. What if he could not convince them of the truth? What if they did not believe him? He pictured himself being led to the block, protesting his innocence. The black bag being drawn over his head, the heavy hand pressing his head down on the bloodstained block. The final moments of terror waiting for the axe to fall.

Gerard shuddered. The images he conjured up were so vivid that he broke out into a cold sweat. Berating himself for giving way to his imagination, he forced himself to concentrate on the here and now.

He had presumed, for some reason, that Lady Odila would take him immediately before the Knights’ Council. Instead, she led the horse down a dark and narrow alley. At the end stood an enormous stone building.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“The prison house,” said Lady Odila.

Gerard was amazed. He had been so focused on speaking to the Knights’ Council that the idea that she should take him anywhere else had never occurred to him.

“Why are you bringing me here?” he demanded.

“You have two guesses, Neraka. The first—we’re attending a cotillion. You are going to be my dancing partner, and we’re going to drink wine and make love to each other all night. Either that”— she smiled sweetly— “or you’re going to lock you up in a cell.”

She ordered the horse to halt. Torches burned on the walls. Firelight glowed yellow from a square, barred window. Guards, hearing her approach, came running to relieve her of her prisoner. The warden emerged, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. They’d obviously interrupted his dinner.

“Given a choice,” said Gerard acidly, “I’ll take the cell.”

“I’m glad,” Odila said, with a fond pat on his leg. “I would so hate to see you disappointed. Now, alas, I must leave you, Sweet Neraka. I am on duty. Don’t pine away, missing me.”

“Please, Lady Odila,” said Gerard, “if you can be serious for once, there must be someone here who knows the name uth Mondar. Ask around for me. Will you do that much?”

Lady Odila regarded him for a moment with quiet intensity. “It might prove amusing, at that.” She turned away to speak to the warden. Gerard had the feeling he had made an impression on her, but whether good or bad, whether she would do what he had asked or not, he could not tell.

Before she left, Lady Odila gave a concise account of all of Gerard’s crimes—how she’d seen him fly in on a blue dragon, how he had landed far outside the city, and how the dragon had taken pains to hide himself in a cave. The warden regarded Gerard with a baleful eye and said that he had an especially strong cell located in the basement that was tailor-made for blue dragonriders.

With a parting gibe and a wave of her hand, Lady Odila mounted her horse, grabbed the reins of the pack mule, and cantered out of the yard, leaving Gerard to the mercies of the warden and his guards.

In vain Gerard protested and argued and demanded to see the Knight Commander or some other officer. No one paid the least attention to him. Two guards hauled him inside with ruthless efficiency, while two other guards stood ready with huge spiked-tipped clubs should he make an attempt to escape. They cut loose his bonds, only to replace the rope with iron manacles.

The guards hustled him through the outer rooms where the warden had his office and the jailer his stool and table. The iron keys to the cells hung on hooks ranged in neat rows along the wall. Gerard caught only a glimpse of this, before he was shoved and dragged, stumbling, down a stair that ran straight and true to a narrow corridor below ground level. They led him to his cell with torches—he was the only prisoner down on this level, apparently—and tossed him inside. They gave him to know that there was a bucket for his waste and a straw mattress for sleeping. He would receive two meals a day, morning and night. The door, made of heavy oak with a small iron grate in the top, began to close. All this happened so fast that Gerard was left dazed, disbelieving.

The warden stood in the corridor outside his cell, watching to make certain to the last that his prisoner was safe.

Gerard flung himself forward, wedging his body between the wall and the door.

“Sir!”—he pleaded—”I must speak before the Knights’ Council! Let them know Gerard uth Mondar is here! I have urgent news! Information—”

“Tell it to the inquisitor,” said the warden coldly.

The guards gave Gerard a brutal shove that sent him staggering, manacles clanking, back into his cell. The cell door shut. He heard the sounds of their feet clomping up the stairs. The torch light diminished and was gone. Another door slammed at the top of the stairs.

Gerard was left alone in darkness so complete and silence so profound that he might have been cast off this world and left to float in the empty nothingness that was said to have existed long before the coming of the gods.

18

Beryl’s Messenger

Marshal Medan sat stolidly at his desk in his office that was located in the massive and ugly building the Knights of Neraka had constructed in Qualinost. The Marshal considered the building every bit as ugly as did the elves, who averted their eyes if they were forced to walk anywhere near its hulking, gray walls, and he rarely entered his own headquarters. He detested the barren, cold rooms. Due to the humid air, the stone walls accumulated moisture and always seemed to be sweating. He felt stifled whenever he had to remain here extended periods of time and the feeling was not in his imagination. For the greater protection of those inside, the building had no windows, and the smell of mold was all-pervasive.

Today was worse than ever. The smell clogged his nose and gave him a swelling pain behind his eyes. Due to the pain and the pressure, he was listless and lethargic, found it difficult to think.

“This will never do,” he said to himself and was just about to leave the room to take a refreshing walk outside when his second-in-command, a Knight named Dumat, knocked at the wooden door.

The Marshal glowered, returned to seat himself behind the desk, and gave a horrific snort in an effort to clear his nose.

Taking the snort for permission to enter, Dumat came in, carefully shutting the door behind him.

“He’s here,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

“Who is it, Dumat?” Medan asked. “Another draco?”

“Yes, my lord. A bozak. A captain. He’s got two baaz with him. Bodyguards, I’d say.”

Medan gave another snort and rubbed his aching eyes.

“We can handle three dracos, my lord,” said Dumat complacently.

Dumat was a strange man. Medan had given up trying to figure him out. Small, compact, dark-haired, Dumat was in his thirties, or so Medan supposed. He really knew very little about him. Dumat was quiet, reserved, rarely smiled, kept to himself. He had nothing to say of his past life, never joined the other soldiers in boasting of exploits either on the battlefield or between the sheets. He had come to the Knighthood only a few years earlier. He told his commander only what was necessary for the records and that, Medan had always guessed, was probably all lies. Medan had never been able to figure out why Dumat had joined the Knights of Neraka.

Dumat was not a soldier. He had no love for battle. He was not prone to quarreling. He was not sadistic. He was not particularly skilled at arms, although he had proven in a barracks brawl that he could handle himself in a fight. He was even-tempered, though there were smoldering embers in the dark eyes that told of fires burning somewhere deep inside. Medan had never been more astonished in his life than the day almost a year ago when Dumat had come to him and said that he had fallen in love with an elven woman and wanted to make her his wife.

Medan had done all he could to discourage relations between elves and humans. He was in a difficult situation, dealing with explosive racial tensions, trying to retain control of a populace that actively hated its human conquerors. He had to maintain discipline over his troops, as well. He laid down strict rules against rape and those who, in the early days of the elven occupation, broke the rules were given swift, harsh punishment.

But Medan was experienced enough in the strange ways of people to know that sometimes captive fell in love with captor and that not all elf women found human males repulsive.

He had interviewed the elf woman Dumat wanted to marry, to make certain she was not being coerced or threatened. He found that she was not some giddy maiden, but a grown woman, a seamstress by trade. She loved Dumat and wanted to be his wife. Medan represented to her that she would be ostracized from the elven community, cut off from family and friends. She had no family, she told him, and if her friends did not like her choice of husband, they were no true friends. He could not very well argue this point, and the two were married in a human ceremony, since the elves would not officially recognize such a heinous alliance.

The two lived happily, quietly, absorbed in each other. Dumat continued to serve as he had always done, obeying orders with strict discipline. Thus, when Medan had to decide which of his Knights and soldiers he could trust, he had chosen Dumat as among those few to remain with him to assist in the last defense of Qualinost. The rest were sent away south to assist the Gray Robes in their continuing fruitless and ludicrous search for the magical Tower of Wayreth. Medan had told Dumat plainly what he faced, for the Marshal would not lie to any man, and had given him a choice. He could stay or take his wife and depart. Dumat had agreed to stay. His wife, he said, would remain with him.

“My lord,” said Dumat, “is something wrong?”

Medan came to himself with a start. He had been woolgathering, staring at Dumat all the while so that the man must be wondering if his nose was on crooked.

“Three draconians, you said.” Medan forced himself to concentrate. The danger was very great, and he could not afford any more mental lapses.

“Yes, my lord. We can deal with them.” Dumat was not boastful. He was merely stating a fact.

Medan shook his head and was sorry he’d done so. The pain behind his eyes increased markedly. He gave another ineffectual snort. “No, we can’t keep killing off Beryl’s pet lizard men. She will eventually get suspicious. Besides, I need this messenger to report back to the great green bitch, assure her that all is proceeding according to plan.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Medan rose to his feet. He eyed Dumat. “If something goes wrong, be prepared to act on my command. Not before.”

Dumat gave a nod and stepped aside to allow his commander to precede him, falling into step behind.

“Captain Nogga, my lord,” said the draconian, saluting.

“Captain,” said the Marshal, advancing to meet the draconian.

The bozak was enormous, topping Medan by a lizard head, massive shoulders and wing tips. The baaz bodyguards—shorter, but just as muscular—were attentive, alert, and armed to the teeth, of which they had a good many.

“Her Majesty Beryl has sent me,” Captain Nogga announced. “I am to apprise you of the current military situation, answer any questions you might have, and take stock of the situation in Qualinost. Then I am to report back to Her Majesty.”

Medan bowed his acknowledgment. “You must have had a perilous journey, Captain. Traveling through elven territory with only a small guard. It is a wonder you were not attacked.”

“Yes, we heard that you were having difficulty maintaining order in this realm, Marshal Medan,” Nogga returned. “That is one of the reasons Beryl is sending in her army. As to how we came, we flew here on dragonback. Not that I fear the pointy-ears,” he added disparagingly, “but I wanted to take a look around.”

“I hope you find everything to your satisfaction, Captain,” Medan said, not bothering to hide his ire. He had been insulted, and the draconian would have thought it strange if he did not respond.

“Indeed, I was pleasantly surprised. I had been prepared to find the city in an uproar, with rioting in the streets. Instead I find the streets almost empty. I must ask you, Marshal Medan, where are the elves? Have they escaped? Her Majesty would be most unhappy to hear that.”

“You flew over the roads,” Medan said shortly. “Did you see hordes of refugees fleeing southward?”

“No, I did not,” Nogga admitted. “However—”

“Did you see refugees heading east, perhaps?”

“No, Marshal, I saw nothing. Therefore I—”

“Did you notice, as you flew over Qualinost, on the outskirts of the city, a large plot of cleared land, freshly dug-up ground?”

“Yes, I saw it,” Nogga replied impatiently. “What of it?”

“That is where you will find the elves, Captain,” said Marshal Medan.

“I don’t understand,” Captain Nogga said.

“We had to do something with the bodies,” Medan continued offhandedly. “We couldn’t leave them to rot in the streets. The elderly, the sickly, the children, and any who put up resistance were dispatched. The rest are being retained for the slave markets of Neraka.”

The draconian scowled, his lips curled back. “Beryl gave no orders concerning slaves going to Neraka, Marshal.”

“I respectfully remind you and Her Majesty that I receive my orders from Lord of the Night Targonne, not from Her Majesty. If Beryl wishes to take up the matter with Lord Targonne, she may do so. Until then, I follow my lord’s commands.”

Medan straightened his shoulders, a movement that brought his hand near his sword hilt. Dumat had his hand on his sword hilt, and he moved quietly, with seeming nonchalance, to stand near the two baaz. Nogga had no idea that his next words might be his last. If he demanded to see the mass grave or the slave pens, the only thing he would end up seeing would be Medan’s sword sticking out of his scaly gut.

As it was, the draconian shrugged. “I am acting on orders myself, Marshal. I am an old soldier, as are you. Neither of us has any interest in politics. I will report back to my mistress and, as you so wisely suggest, urge her to talk it over with your Lord Targonne.”

Medan eyed the draconian intently, but, of course, there was no way to read the expression on the lizard’s face. He nodded and, removing his hand from his sword hilt, strode past the draconian to stand in the doorway, where he could take a breath of fresh, sweet-scented air.

“I have a complaint to register, Captain.” Medan glanced over his shoulder at Nogga. “A complaint against a draconian. One called Groul.”

“Groul?” Nogga was forced to clump over to where Medan stood. The draconian’s eyes narrowed. “I intended to ask about Groul. He was sent here almost a fortnight ago, and he has not reported back.”

“Nor will he,” said Medan brusquely. He drew in another welcome breath of fresh air. “Groul is dead.”

“Dead!” Nogga was grim. “How did he die? What is this about a complaint?”

“Not only was he foolish enough to get himself killed,” Medan stated, “he killed one of my best agents, a spy I had planted in the house of the Queen Mother.” He cast a scathing glance at Nogga. “In future, if you must send draconian messengers, make certain that they arrive sober.”

Now it was Nogga’s turn to bristle. “What happened?”

“We are not certain,” Medan said, shrugging. “When we found the two of them—Groul and the spy—they were both dead. At least we have to assume that the pile of dust next to the elf’s corpse was Groul. What we do know is that Groul came here and delivered to me the message sent by Beryl. He had already imbibed a fair quantity of dwarf spirits. He reeked of them. Presumably after he left me, he fell in with the agent, an elf named Kalindas. The elf had long complained over the amount of money he was being paid for his information. My guess is that Kalindas confronted Groul and demanded more money. Groul refused. The two fought and killed each other. Now I am short one spy, and you are short one draconian soldier.”

Nogga’s long, lizard tongue flicked from between his teeth. He fiddled with his sword hilt.

“Strange,” said Nogga at last, his red-eyed gaze intent upon the Marshal, “that they should end up slaying each other.”

“Not so strange,” Medan returned dryly. “When you consider that one was soused and the other was slime.”

Nogga’s teeth clicked together. His tail twitched, scraping across the floor. He muttered something that Medan chose to ignore.

“If that is all, Captain,” the Marshal said, turning his back yet again upon the draconian and walking toward his office, “I have a great deal of work to do. . . .”

“Just a moment!” Nogga rumbled. “The orders Groul carried stated that the Queen Mother was to be executed and her head given over to Beryl. I assume these orders have been carried out, Marshal. I will take the elf’s head now. Or did yet another strange circumstance befall the Queen Mother?”

Pausing, Medan rounded on his heel. “Surely the dragon was not serious when she gave those orders?”

“Not serious!” Nogga scowled.

“Beryl’s sense of humor is well known,” said the Marshal. “I thought Her Majesty was having a jest with me.”

“It was no jest, I assure you, my lord. Where is the Queen Mother?” Nogga demanded, teeth grating.

“In prison,” Medan said coolly. “Alive. Waiting to be handed over to Beryl as my gift when the dragon enters Qualinost in triumph. Orders of Lord Targonne.”

Nogga had opened his mouth, prepared to accuse Medan of treachery. The draconian snapped it shut again.

Medan knew what Nogga must be thinking. Beryl might consider herself the ruler of Qualinesti. She might consider the Knights to be acting under her auspices, and in many ways they were. But Lord Targonne was still in command of the Dark Knights. More importantly, he was known to be in high favor with Beryl’s cousin, the great red dragon Malystryx. Medan had been wondering how Malys was reacting to Beryl’s sudden decision to move troops into Qualinesti. In that snap of Nogga’s jaws, Medan had his answer. Beryl had no desire to antagonize Targonne, who would most certainly run tattling to Malys that he was being mistreated.

“I will see the elf bitch,” Nogga said sullenly. “To make certain there are no tricks.”

The Marshal gestured toward the stairs that led to the dungeons located below the main building. “The corridor is narrow,” the Marshal said, when the baaz would have followed after their commander. “We will all be a tight fit.”