The War of the Lance t2-3

by Margaret Weis

  Jastom shook the wrinkles out of his cape and cocked his feathered cap at an outrageous angle. "You there," he called out to a man in the crowd, donning a charming smile as easily as another man might don a hat. "Might I ask you a question? How did — "

  The lieutenant whirled his jet black mount sharply and rode beside the wagon. "If you have questions, healer, address them to me." Durm's voice was a sword's edge draped with a silken cloth.

  "You — You have so many soldiers in this camp," Jastom gulped, doing his best to sound as if he were simply making casual conversation. "How did they come to be here?"

  A faint smile touched Durm's lips, but it was not an expression of mirth. Jastom fought the urge to shiver. "What tales do the knights tell in Solamnia?" Durm asked. "That they swept the dragonarmies from the face of Krynn? Well, as you can see, they have not. I will grant the Whitestone armies this — they have won an important battle. But if the Knights of Solamnia believe this war is truly over, then they are as foolish as the tales tell them to be." Durm gestured to the camp about them as he rode. A line of soldiers, holding their swords at ready, marched by in formation, saluting Durm as they passed.

  "In truth, this is but a small outpost," Durm went on. "Far more of our forces lie to the east. All the lands between this place and the Khalkist Mountains belong to the Highlord of the Blue Dragonarmy. And the other dragonarmies hold still more lands, to the north and east. Already the Dark Lady — my Highlord and master — draws her plans for a counterstrike against the knights. It will be a glorious battle." For the first time Jastom thought he saw a flash of color in Durm's pale eyes.

  "So do not despair, Jastom Mosswine, that the Dragon Highlord now owns you," Durm went on in his polite, chilling tone. "Soon she will own all of Ansalon."

  Jastom started to ask another question, but Durm held up a hand, silencing him. They came to halt before a tent so large it might more properly be called a pavilion. A banner flew from its highest pole, a blue dragon rampant across a field of black. Two soldiers stood at the tent's entrance, hands on the hilts of their swords.

  An ancient-looking cottonwood tree spread its heavy, gnarled limbs above the tent. A half-dozen queer-looking objects dangled from several of the branches. Some seemed to be no more than large, tattered backpacks, but a few of them had a shape that seemed vaguely familiar to Jastom. Suddenly a faint breeze ruffled through the tree's green leaves, and the dangling bundles began to spin on their ropes. Several pale, bloated circles came into view.

  Faces.

  Jastom quickly averted his eyes, slapping a hand to his mouth to keep from spilling his guts. Those weren't bundles hanging in the tree. They were people. Each seemed to stare mockingly down at Jastom with dark sockets left empty by the crows.

  "Reorx!" muttered Grimm. "What've you gotten us into?"

  "Those are the healers that have been here before you," the lieutenant said flatly. "The first among them was our cleric, Umbreck. It seemed his faith in the Dark Queen was not great enough. She closed her ears to his prayers. All of them failed to heal Commander Skaahzak."

  Jastom swallowed hard, the sour taste of fear in his throat. But he forced his lips into a smile. "Fear not, lieutenant," he said boldly. "We will not fail. Remember, Mosswine's Miraculous Elixirs heal all."

  Grimm choked at that but, thankfully, said nothing.

  Jastom and the dwarf climbed down from the wagon's bench, and Durm led them into the dimness of the tent. A rotten, sickly-sweet odor hung thickly upon the air, almost making Jastom gag. Herbs burning on a sputtering bronze brazier did little to counter the foul reek.

  The tent was sparsely furnished. There was a table scattered with maps and scrolls of parchment and a rack bearing weapons of various kinds — sabres, maces, spears — all dark and cruel-looking. A narrow cot stood in one comer of the tent, and upon it lay — not a man — but a draconian. Commander Skaahzak.

  Jastom did not need to be a true healer to see that the commander was dying. His scaly flesh was gray and withered, clinging tightly to the bones of his skull. His yellow eyes flickered with a hazy, feverish light, and his clawed hands clutched feebly at the twisted bed covers. His left shoulder had been bound with a thick bandage, but the cloth was soaked with a black, oozing ichor.

  "Commander Skaahzak was wounded a fortnight ago, in a skirmish with a roving patrol of Solamnic Knights," Durm explained. "At first the wound did not seem dire, but it has festered. You will work your craft upon him, healer. Or you will join the rest outside."

  "We… uh… we have to prepare an elixir," Jastom said, doing his best to keep his voice from trembling.

  Durm nodded stiffly. "Very well. If you require anything in your task, you have only to request it." With another faint smile, devoid of warmth, the lieutenant left them to their task.

  When Jastom and Grimm were alone in the cluttered space inside their wagon, the dwarf shook his head.

  "Have you gone completely mad, then, Jastom?" he whispered. "You know very well we sold our last potion in Fax-fail, and yet you go offering one up like we can conjure them out of thin air."

  "Well, I couldn't think of anything else to say," Jastom returned defensively. After Faxfail, they had planned to head for Kaolyn to buy ingredients so Grimm could brew another batch of dwarf spirits.

  "Besides," Jastom went on, "there must be something we can do. If we don't come out of here with an elixir, and soon, Durm's going to feed the crows with us." He began rummaging around the boxes, pots, and jars strewn about the inside of the wagon. "Wait a minute," he said excitedly, "there's still something left in the bottom of this cask." He tipped the cask over an empty purple bottle. A thick, brown, gritty-looking fluid oozed out.

  "You can't give the commander that!" Grimm cried hoarsely, trying to snatch the purple bottle away.

  "Why not?" Jastom asked, holding the bottle up out of the dwarf's reach.

  Grimm glowered, stubby hands on his hips. "That's pure mash — goblin's gruel, my grandpappy always called it. The dregs left over after distilling the dwarf spirits. That stuff makes the rest of the batch seem like water. Oh, it'll make him happy — might say quite happy for a while — but in the end…" Grimm shook his head.

  "A while! That's all the time we need to get away," Jastom said desperately, stoppering the bottle.

  Grimm shook his head dubiously. "We're going to make a fine feast for the crows."

  The draconian Commander Skaahzak moaned as he thrashed in his fevered sleep. Jastom held the small bottle filled with the goblin's gruel. Grimm stood beside him. Durm watched the two from across the commander's bed, his expression stony. With a flourish of his cape, Jastom lifted the purple bottle and unstoppered it. No sense in sparing the dramatics.

  Jastom nodded to Grimm. The dwarf grabbed the draconian's twisting head and held it steady, forcing the monster's jaws open with strong fingers. Jastom tipped the bottle and poured the thick contents past the draconian's lolling forked tongue and down his gullet. Grimm let Skaahzak's jaws snap back shut. Jastom waved his hand, and the empty bottle seemed to vanish into thin air. Durm never even blinked an eye.

  Jastom took a deep breath, searching for something suitably dramatic to say. But before he could, the fetid air of the tent was shattered by a blood-curdling shriek.

  Skaahzak.

  The draconian shrieked again, writhing upon the bed. Jastom and Grimm gaped at the creature. In a flash, Durm drew his sword and levelled it at Jastom's heart.

  "It seems you have failed," Durm spoke softly, almost as a father might chide an erring son, except that his voice was so deathly cold.

  Abruptly, the draconian commander leapt from the bed and knocked Durm's sword aside. The goblin's gruel was coursing through the creature's blood, lighting him aflame. The gray tinge had left Skaahzak's flesh, and if his wound was causing him any pain he did not show it. His yellow eyes glowed brightly now.

  "Stop this foolishness, Durm," Skaahzak hissed. "I will have your head if you dare strike either of th
ese most skillful healers."

  Jastom's head was spinning. But he was not about to let this opportunity go to waste. He doffed his cap and bowed deeply. "It gladdens my heart to see milord in such excellent health," he proclaimed in a deeply-felt tone. He surreptitiously kicked Grimm's knee, and the dwarf toppled forward in clumsy imitation of Jastom's graceful bow.

  "You have done me a great service, healer," Skaahzak said in his dry, reptilian voice, donning a crimson robe that an attendant soldier offered him.

  "I am overjoyed that I could restore such a brilliant commander to health," Jastom said. Grimm muttered something inaudible under his beard.

  "That you have," Skaahzak hissed. Suddenly he spun about wildly, a ferocious, toothy grin on his face. "I've never felt better in my life!" He lurched dizzily and would have fallen but for Durm's strong hands steadying him.

  There was no doubt about it. The draconian was riproaring drunk.

  "Take your filthy paws from me!" Skaahzak spat, shrugging off the lieutenant's grip. "You, who have brought me healer after healer, cleric after cleric, all who poked, prodded, and prayed to their foul gods over me, and all who failed. I should have you flailed for letting me suffer so long." Skaahzak's expression flickered between intoxicated ecstasy and livid rage. Little seemed to separate the two emotions in this creature.

  Durm watched silently, impassively.

  "However, you did bring these most excellent healers to me," Skaahzak said, his voice crooning now. "Thus I will be merciful. I will even grant you a reward to show you the depths of my kindness." He held out his left hand. "You may kiss the ring of your master, Lieutenant Durm."

  On the draconian's clawed middle finger was a ring set with a ruby as big as a thumbnail. Jastom guessed that Skaahzak hadn't removed the ring in years. In fact, he doubted the draconian would be able to take it off at all. The monster's scaly flesh was puffy and swollen to either side of the ring. Durm did not hesitate. He knelt before Skaahzak's proffered hand.

  Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the glimmering ruby. As he did so, Skaahzak struck the lieutenant. Durm did not even flinch. Slowly, he rose to his feet. The ruby had cut his cheek, and a thin trickle of blood, as crimson as the gem, ran down his jaw. The draconian grinned.

  "There, lieutenant," Skaahzak said, his reptilian voice slurred and indistinct. "Your reward is complete."

  Durm bowed stiffly, giving Jastom a brief, indecipherable glance.

  Jastom tried to swallow his heart, but it kept clawing its way up into his throat. He cast a meaningful look at Grimm. It was time to get out of this place. The dwarf nodded emphatic agreement.

  "Well, I am delighted to see that all things appear to have been set aright," Jastom said pleasantly, placing his cap back on his head. "Thus I believe that we will be — "

  Skaahzak interrupted him.

  "I have a proclamation to make!" the draconian shouted. He sloshed some wine into a silver goblet — spilling the better portion of it on his robe — and began to weave drunkenly about the tent, stumbling over chests and pieces of furniture. One of his attendants followed behind him with a quill and parchment, taking down each word. "Be it known that, for their most excellent service, these two healers shall hereby become my personal physicians, from now until the end of all days!" He spread his arms wide in a gesture of triumph. The silver goblet he clutched struck the head of his attendant with a loud Clunk! The soldier dropped to the floor like a stone, the parchment and quill slipping from his fingers. Skaahzak did not notice.

  Jastom and Grimm exchanged glances of alarm. "Er, begging your pardon, milord," Jastom said hesitantly, "but what exactly do you mean by that?"

  Skaahzak whirled about to face Jastom, his eyes burning with the consuming fire of the goblin's gruel. "I mean that Lieutenant Durm here will show you to your new quarters," the draconian said, displaying his countless jagged teeth in a terrible smile. "You will be remaining here in this camp with me. Permanently. You are my healers, now."

  Jastom could only nod dumbly, feeling suddenly ill. Impossible as it seemed, it looked as if this time his elixir had worked too well for his own good.

  "How many soldiers are standing guard out there?" Jastom whispered.

  "Two," Grimm whispered back, peering through a narrow opening beside the canvas flap that covered the tent's entrance. "Both are draconians."

  Jastom tugged at his hair as he paced the length of the cramped, stuffy tent. The air was musty with the smell of the sour, rotten hay strewn across the floor. The only light came from a wan, golden beam of sun spilling through a small hole in the tent's canvas roof.

  "There must be a way to get past them," Jastom said in agitation, clenching his hands into fists.

  "Too bad we can't get them drunk," Grimm noted dryly.

  Jastom shot the dwarf an exasperated look. "There's always a way out, Grimm. We've been in enough dungeons before to know that. All we need is time to come up with the answer."

  Grimm shook his head, his shaggy eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. "Even now, the goblin's gruel will be burning Skaahzak from the inside out, as sure as if it was liquid fire he'd drunk. He'll be dead by morning." The dwarf paused ominously. "And I suppose we will be, too, for that matter."

  Jastom groaned, barely resisting the urge to throttle the glum-faced dwarf. His energy would be better directed toward finding a way to escape, he reminded himself. Once they were free, then he would have all the time he wanted to throttle the dwarf.

  With a sigh of frustration, Jastom sat down hard on the musty straw, resting his chin in his hands. Grimm's doom-and-gloom was catching.

  The tent's entrance flap was thrown back. The two draconian guards stood against the brilliant square of afternoon sunlight, their forked tongues flickering through their jagged yellow teeth.

  "It's mealtime," one of the draconians hissed, glaring at Jastom with its disturbing yellow eyes.

  For a startled moment Jastom didn't know whose mealtime the draconian meant: Jastom's or its own. With a rush of relief, he saw the bowls that the creature carried in its clawed hands. The draconian set the two clay bowls down, their foul-smelling contents slopping over the sides. The other draconian threw a greasy-looking wineskin down with them.

  "The commander ordered that you be given the finest fare in the camp," the other draconian croaked, a note of envy in its voice. "Skaahzak must hold you in high esteem, indeed. Consider yourselves fortunate."

  After the two draconians left them alone, Jastom eyed the bowls of food warily. The lumpy, colorless liquid in one of them began to stir. A big black beetle crawled out of the gray ooze and over the rim of the bowl. Jastom let out a strangled yelp. The insect scuttled away through the straw.

  "Paugh!" Grimm spat, tossing down the rancid-smelling wineskin. "What do these beasts brew their wine out of? Stale onions?"

  Jastom felt his gorge rising in his throat and barely managed to choke it back down. "If this is the finest fare the camp has to offer, I really don't want to think about what the common soldiers are eating." He began to push the clay bowls carefully away with the toe of his boot, but then he paused. A thought had suddenly struck him.

  Quickly he rummaged about his cape until he found the secret pocket where he had slipped the empty potion bottle after pouring its contents down Skaahzak's gullet. He pulled out the cork and then knelt beside the bowl. Carefully, so as not to spill any of the putrid substance on himself, he tipped the bowl and filled the bottle partway with the slop. Then he took the wineskin and added a good measure of the acridsmelling wine to the bottle. On an afterthought he scraped up a handful of dirt from the tent's floor and added that as well. He stoppered the bottle tightly and then shook it vigorously to mix the strange concoction within.

  "What in the name of Reorx do you think you're doing, Jastom?" Grimm demanded, his gray eyes flashing. "Have you gone utterly mad? I suppose I should have known the strain of all this would be too much for you."

  "No, Grimm, I haven't gone mad," Jastom said
annoyediy, and then he grinned despite himself, tossing the bottle and deftly snatching it again from the air. "Get 'em drunk, you said."

  "But you never listen to me," Grimm protested. "And I don't think now is a good time to start!"

  "Just go along," said Jastom.

  It was sunset when the two draconians threw back the tent's flap again and stepped inside to retrieve the dishes.

  "Thank you, friends," Jastom said cheerily as the draconians picked up the empty bowls and wineskin. "It was truly a remarkable repast." In truth, he and Grimm had buried the revolting food in a shallow hole in the comer of the tent, but the draconians need not know that. The two creatures glared at Jastom, the envy glowing wickedly in their reptilian eyes.

  "You're right, Jastom," the dwarf said thoughtfully, gazing at the two draconians. "They DO look a little gray."

  The first draconian's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What does the nasty little dwarf mean?"

  Jastom nodded, a serious look crossing his honest face. "I see it, too, Grimm," he said gravely. "There's only one thing it can be. Scale rot."

  " 'Scale rot?'" The second draconian spat. "What is this foolishness you babble about?"

  Jastom sighed, as if he were reluctant to speak. "I've seen it before," he said, shaking his head sadly. "It's a scourge that's wiped out whole legions of draconians to the far south, in Abanasinia. I didn't think it had traveled across the Newsea, but it seems I was wrong."

  "Aye, I saw a draconian who had the scale rot once," Grimm said gloomily. "All we buried was a pile of black, spongy mold. He didn't die until the very end. I didn't think a creature could scream as loud as that."

  "I've never heard of this!" the first draconian hissed.

  Jastom donned his most utterly believable face. The gods themselves wouldn't know he was lying. "You don't have to believe me," he said with a shrug. "Judge for yourself. The first symptoms are so small you'd hardly notice them if you didn't know what to look for: a pouchy grayness around the eyes, a faint ache in the teeth and claws, and then.. " Jastom let his last words fade into an unintelligible mumble.