The Lioness
( Dragonlance - Age of Mortals - 2 )
Nancy Varian Berberick
In the embattled kingdom of Qualinesti, a realm firmly in the power of the green dragon Beryl and the dragon's Dark Knights, a mysterious Kagonesti woman warrior know as The Lioness leads a loyal band of resistance fighters against the forces of evil. Original.
Nancy Varian Berberick
The Lioness
(Dragonlance - Age of Mortals – 2)
Chapter One
Sir Chance Garoll looked ahead at his fellow Knights, five in all, and he the sixth. He looked behind him and sighted down the wide road, flattened earth, dun and sun dappled, straight as a shaft through the woodland. The overarching trees gave him the uncomfortable feeling of riding through a tunnel, one closing behind, opening ahead.
One of his fellows hawked and spat then looked over his shoulder at Chance. “Headsman,” he called, “keep up!”
Headsman. The others laughed, one pulled hard on the reins, making his broad-shouldered mount snort and curvet. “What’s the count, Chance?”
Sir Chance-Headsman Chance-hefted the sack hung from his saddle’s pommel. Blood dripped, staining the ground. When he closed his eyes, Chance could see the killing ground, the sunny green swale in the forest where he and his companions had fallen upon a den of elf highwaymen. The Knights had run through the hapless robbers like death’s own horsemen, swords flashing in whistling descent to swipe off heads.
Sometimes. Chance thought as he recalled the slaughter, the death-scream had howled out of a rolling head’s gaping mouth.
“A dozen,” he said, settling the sack again. His tall mount’s brown shoulder was black with blood. Blood etched a thin trail down the steed’s foreleg. Trained to battle, inured to the scent of death, the great beast flung up his head at the thick, coppery scent, an eager light in his eyes.
Headsman, they had named him. He grinned. Not a bad name. He had not taken all the heads, but he’d taken most of them and collected them all. The orders from Lord Thagol had come to him directly; he considered it his duty to bring back the trophies. Chance shuddered, recalling how the brief moments in the Skull Knight’s presence had seemed like hours. He’d have to spend time with Lord Thagol again, and here, far away from the Knight, he dared hope and wish it wouldn’t be a long time.
Iron-shod hoofs fell heavily on the road. One of the Knights lifted his helm from his head and hung it on his saddle. The other five had a farther road to take than Sir Chance. With the Headsman, they would go down to Qualinost, then they would leave him and ride on to Mira-nost near the border between Qualinesti and the free land of Abanasinia.
Though the dragon Beryl held the elf kingdom in thrall, there were still ways past the borders of Qualinesti. The main roads had long been warded by Dark Knights who kept the elves in and intruders from any of the Free Realms out. Traders with the proper passes could cross the checkpoints, for these were a source of Qualinestj’s wealth and so a resource for the greedy dragon who had her tribute from every steel coin earned. Other ways in and out of the elf land existed, all those that existed before the Dragon Purge and the coming of the great Green, Beryllinthranox.
Headsman Chance lifted in the stirrups, searching high ahead. He caught sight of a shimmer through the trees hut decided that must he a glimpse of wishful thinking, for they were yet a three hour ride from the capital of the elf kingdom. No shining tower could be seen yet. He settled to ride, moving in unconscious rhythm with his mount’s gait. It was a time before he noticed that in the wake of the passage of the dark Knights, silence flowed.
At the highest point of noon, no birds sang, squirrels did not dart and scold, rabbits did not leap aside and freeze in the bracken. In the sky, far above the arching green canopy of trees, hawks hung, wondering. Six humans armored in ebony steel rode through the Qualinesti Forest, Knights of an order once dedicated to a dark goddess now departed, warriors now in the pay of a dragon just as ruthless. Mail chiming, bridles and bits jingling, the six followed the south-running arm of the White-Rage River.
Though he had been posted to Qualinesti for five years now, Sir Chance had never experienced a silence on these roads like this today. A following silence, as though something he did not see-could never see-came after.
“Anyone hear that?” he said.
The tallest of his companions turned, Grig Gal from out of Neraka itself where lived great garrisons of Dark Knights, ogres, and fierce draconians. Grig sweated in his mail and breastplate, and his thick black gloves hung from his belt.
“Hear what?” he asked, and his voice held an edge like a blade’s. Grig didn’t like the forest, and he didn’t like elves.
“The quiet,” Chance answered, feeling foolish as soon as he did. How do you hear quiet?
Grig was not much of a wordsmith himself, not one to ponder the niceties of phrasing or meaning. “I don’t hear nothing,” he grunted.
The Knights now rode shoulder to shoulder, six in three pairs. Twice on the way, elf farmers with laden carts had to pull off the road. Once a load of fat grain sacks spilled and split, pouring golden wheat into ditches.
The elves cursed. Grig casually kicked one so hard his jaw shattered on the Knight’s steel-toed boot. The elf had a voice like a banshee woman. His scream turned to high keening. To quiet the noise, Grig lopped off the unlucky one’s head.
Chance watched it fall, and yes, he heard the wailing issue from the dead one’s shattered jaw before the head finished rolling. The dead elfs fellows took to their heels, leaving spilled grain, harnessed horses, and the corpse. As blood mixed with the grain, the following silence swallowed the sounds of anger and pain. The Knights resumed their travels.
After a time, Chance looked back again, seeing only the shade and dappling sun. They rode now like thunder along roads where the greenwood gave ground to farm fields and orchards. Cows and goats grazed on the aftermath of a harvest, pigs ran at the edges of the wood in search of early fallen nuts and apples blown green from the last windy night. Farmers and their strong sons plowed on this last day of summer, preparing for the planting of winter crops. In the dooryards their wives and daughters shooed chickens into the coops. All of these, men and maids, heard the coming of the Knigb-ts as they would the coming of a storm. None, by glance or word, gave the dragon’s Knights further reason to turn aside and bring them grief, not even the young elves who, by the look of them, would rather have ignored a father’s command and pitched stones at the dark troop riding by.
The Knigb.ts desired no delay now. Past farms Chance and his companions rode, past a small village where it seemed word of their coming had flown ahead. Though the day was fine, no loungers were found in the yard of the tavern, no one walked on the streets, and in the stable yard not a horse was to be seen. They rode in silence until they came to the place where the forest fell utterly away before the deep gorge that surrounded the elven capital. Here, since ancient times, was the city’s first line of defense, a gorge no mounted man could cross, one that men on foot would be mad to try. Two bridges spanned this gorge, and these were of fast burning wood. Elves had, in ancient times, died defending that bridge, had a time or two had reason to burn it and deny the crossing to foes.
Sir Chance wiped sweat from his face and thought the elves had done a good work when they’d planned that defense. Against all but a dragon, it would hold.
“Ay!” Sir Chance shouted. “On Lord Thagol’s service! Let me in, and let my companions by!”
The guard at the wooden bridge called, “Say who you are!”
Chance shrugged and lifted the bloody sack. “You reckon you know who I am now?”
The guard laughed darkly. “Sir Chance, welcome!�
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For form, the others gave their names. Sir Grig Gal, Sir Angan Heran, Sir Welane of the Hills of Blood, Sir Dern of Dimmin, and Sir Faelt Lagar. “On to the eastern border,” Grig snarled. Before the guard could yea him or nay him, he snapped a curt order to his men, and the troop of them wheeled away from the gorge, leaving Sir Chance, thunder riding north.
Chance spurred his horse forward. Halfway across the wooden bridge, he pulled to a stop and looked back over his shoulder. Beyond the gorge, beyond the clearing, the forest shimmered, shifting before his eyes.
A heat mirage, he thought, wiping sweat again.
Chill touched him, turning sweat cold between his shoulders. Why did only the trees shimmer, the branches waver as though he were drink-addled and his eyes unable to hold sight steady? Chance felt suddenly that eyes peered at him from the shadowy depths of the Qualinesti Forest, malevolent watchers.
“What?” said the guard, looking where Chance did.
He looked, but plainly he did not see.
Chance shook his head. “Nothing. Just the heat.”
Uneasiness followed Chance across the bridge and along the road as the four silver bridges spanning the city came into sight, the golden towers of Qualinost rising above in the late sunlight In their bloody sack, the heads of thirteen elves, one bleeding fresher than its fellows, bounced against the horse’s broad shoulder. Passing beneath the east-facing span of Qualinost’s shining bridge, Sir Chance Garoll, Chance Headsman, looked up to the parapet running from watchtower to watchtower. North, south, and west, those parapets ran in clean, unbroken lines. This eastern one, though, bristled like a hound with its hackles up. Spears thrust up from the rampart, two dozen of them evenly spaced. Gleaming points winked at the sky. Here would rest the remains of one farmer and a dozen elf robbers killed like the worst criminals, beheaded with axe and sword. They were not more than luckless members of the scattered bands of ruffians and outlaws who had spent the summer harassing the green dragon’s Knights. Chance and his fellows had harvested these heads from as far south as Ahlanost near the border between the elf kingdom and Thorbardin of the dwarves. The orders to rout and kill these marauders came from Lord Eamutt Thagol, himself commissioned by the great Marshal Medan, the dragon’s own overlord and general, whose job it was to keep order in the elf kingdom.
A last chance for Lord Thagol, Chance thought grimly, this post to Qualinost No one ever said it out loud, but Knights did whisper that Thagol had fallen afoul of his sponsoring lords in Neraka, had become a liability. It was Medan’s faith in the man that kept Thagol from a worse posting than this one. They had once served together in the Chaos War, brothers in arms before the gods left Krynn and the world fell to the Dragon Purge.
It might be, said rumor, that Medan had his old friend posted to Qualinost, this relatively quiet place, because he’d seen or sensed the first shiverings of madness threatening the Skull Knight and wanted to get him out of the way of those who would judge him unfit to serve. Too long inside the minds of others, it was said of Eamutt Thagol, or it might be the Skull Knight had looked into the wrong skull, there in Neraka where the lord Knights of the order ruled.
When Marshall Medan heard a whisper or two in the forest, a tale in a tavern, a song newly minted about outlaw-heroes, he understood that this tinder needed only a spark for rebellion to flare, and only a man like Lord Thagol could curb such a rebellion.
The eastern bridge of Qualinost sprouted heads. Many more heads would join them as the robberies and outlawry continued. They were a stubborn and subtle people, the elves of Qualinesti, thought Headsman Chance.
Suddenly his belly clenched; his blood ran chill. He forced himself to think of something else. From Sir Eamutt Thagol few things remained long secret. Thagol Dream-walker, some named him, and such thoughts as those Chance had just entertained might well look like doubt, or worse, like insubordination. Such thoughts as these were best not framed in words, even inside the borders of his own skull.
Chapter Two
Soft, the girl with the spilling mane of honey hair slipped from her lover’s bed. She smelled of exotic spices and foreign lands, for her soaps and oils and perfumes came to her from distant Tarsis. By merchant caravan, these toiletries came, traveling the green dragon’s realm and brought to the royal residence, a king’s gift for his beloved. Just then, Kerianseray’s scented hair was her only covering, falling to her hips, thick and rippling down her back. On padding feet, she crossed the room, her footfalls making no sound on the soft thick rugs scattered around the high chamber. Woven in Silvanesti, a long time ago in the years before even the First Cataclysm, these rugs represented wealth on a scale that would have then fed a village of farmers for generations.
Kerian scooped up her clothing from the floor, the rose and purple blouse, the linen trousers, her small clothes. Lightest silk, the white camisole slid easily over her head. She stepped into silken trews of the kind that came only to above the knee and cinched the waist loosely with a drawstring of golden silk cord. In bed, the king stirred. Kerian glanced over her shoulder to see if he stirred to wake. He did not. Some dream moved him. She took a step closer, back to the bed, then another.
No sun shone in the window yet; the stars had only started to fade. Beneath a canopy of shadow, the elf king slept, and what light there was came in through the window to illuminate his face. His hair lay like gold on the pillow, his arm cradled his cheek. The son of Tanis Half-Elven, Gilthas would never have the beard his father had, for he had not the same measure of human blood in him. Still, in some lights he showed a downy cheek, the suggestion of a beard.
Again the king stirred. Kerian wondered whether he stirred in pleasant dream or in nightmare. With the latter, she had some familiarity. He was a haunted one, her lover. Outside, in corridors, voices ghosted by, whispering the day awake. Kerian turned from the king to continue dressing, crossing the room to the mirror, a long sheen of glass framed in scrolled silver. As she lifted her hair, she heard the king wake.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling at Gilthas in the mirror as he sat up. He was a little taller than most elves, for he had a human grandfather, it was whispered, a man whose name no one knew. It was said that Tanis Half-Elven, the king’s father, was a child of rape.
Gilthas gestured, one small motion of his hand, and Kerian turned, holding her hair ready to braid.
“Let me do that,” said the king of the Qualinesti elves.
“Gil, no. I have to go. If I’m missed from my quarters-”
He gestured almost imperiously. His voice, though, was a lover’s and so did not command. “Don’t worry about Kashas. He’s going to be hours dressing for the procession today. He won’t miss one servant among all those in his hall.”
So much was true. It took a king less time to prepare himself for the procession that traditionally welcomed the season of Autumn Harvest than this one proud senator. Rashas likely would not miss Kerian, a servant of the humblest station.
Kerian went to the king, holding back her hair as she sat on the end of the bed. He took the shining weight of it from her and combed it out with his fingers, separating it into three thick strands to braid. He worked gently, in silence, and bound up his work with a ribbon of rose-colored grosgrain. Finished, he gave the braid a gentle, playful tug. She turned, laughing, and he put his two hands on her shoulders, tenderly tracing the line of her collarbone with his thumbs. His forefinger outlined the tattoo on her neck, the twining vines winding round and round and down. That touch, the warming light in his eyes, she knew what these meant.
“No, Gil.” She lifted his hands. “I have to go.”
He knew it She would go in secret, threading passages few but the king himself knew about. He had designed his residence, his forest palace built not in or of a grove of tall oaks, but as part of that grove, a many-chambered mansion that did not require the felling of ancient oaks but demanded that rooms and stairways, atria and sudden secret gardens, be built in such a way as to let the grove of
trees guide the shaping. Because this royal residence had been dismissed as a moody boy-king’s amusement, few had paid attention to the planning or the building. Few knew that, here and there, secret passages lay behind seemingly innocent walls, narrow ways to take a traveler hastily from certain chambers out into an innocent garden. One of these passages lay behind the eastern wall of the king’s own bedchamber.
Reluctantly, Gilthas agreed. “You must go, for Rashas must never know about us.” As one reciting a lesson, he spoke with a thread of sulky bitterness in his tone.
Not Rashas or another person more than those who already did. Their secret was shared only by the Queen Mother, Gil’s trusted servant Planchet, and Kerian’s dearest friend in her master’s hall, Zoe Greenbriar. That secret had been kept for thirty years, for political reasons, and it was for political reasons that, later today, the king would be obliged to attend a dreary Senate meeting.
Gilthas would attend the meeting of the Thalas-Enthia, ostensibly because Senator Rashas insisted that he do so. To Rashas, indeed to nearly everyone, Gilthas seemed a weak, vacillating youth who could not determine which color hose looked well with what tunic and so could be counted on not to interfere with any serious work the senate had before it.
“The lad-ah, the king-the king is a youth and he is learning,” Rashas insisted to his fellow senators, the ladies and lords of the Thalas-Enthia. He insisted, but with seeming gentleness. “You see that our young lord is already showing wisdom in this terrible time, when the half of Krynn lives under the talons of dragons. He is showing the wisdom to wait, learn, and watch while older, wiser heads govern.” Carefully, the senator would withhold his smile and maintain gravity. “We are blessed in our king.”
Blessed in our king. Kerian knew the senator, in whose household she had been a servant for years. She knew the wily old elf’s way of thinking. Blessed in our king, our malleable puppet king. Rashas might well think so, for early in his rule Gilthas had not made a reputation for himself as a strong-willed leader. Plagued by ill health in his childhood, in his youth he’d been haunted by the chill uncertainty that he could not ever be a son worthy of parents who had fought so bravely during the War of the Lance. Who could live up to the legacy of Princess Laurana, the Golden General? What son could stand free of the legend of the storied Hero of the Lance, Tanis Half-Elven? Early in his rule, Gilthas had, indeed, been a puppet king.
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