“Now he decides that!” Kit fumed. “Now, after the knights are talking of sending troops to reinforce the tower. And if Solamnia is suddenly so important, why does he talk of sending me to Flotsam, to the other side of the continent on some secret mission? Bah! The man is losing his grip!”
Skie flicked his tail in agreement and dropped down on his belly so that Kitiara could climb up on his back. Skie had brought with him the blue armor and helm of a Dragon Highlord, given to him by Ariakas on the off-chance that Skie should find her. Kitiara put on her armor with relish. She felt herself vindicated. She placed the helm on her head and vowed that Ariakas would one day come to regret his treatment of her. She was not yet strong enough to challenge him. That day would come, however, maybe sooner than later if she succeeded at Dargaard Keep. Clad once more in her armor, Kitiara felt strong enough for anything, even a death knight.
His Blue Lady restored to him, the dragon was also in excellent humor. His blue scales rippled and he dug his claws into the ground, ready to take off.
“Where do we go?” he asked. “Solamnia or Flotsam?”
Kitiara sucked in a deep breath. This was going to be difficult.
“Her Majesty didn’t tell you?” she hedged.
“Who? Tell me what?” Skie swiveled his head around, suddenly suspicious.
“We fly north,” Kit said. “To Dargaard Keep.”
Skie stared at her, then said flatly, “You’re joking.”
“No,” said Kitiara calmly. “I’m not.”
“Then you’re crazy!” the dragon snarled. “If you think I’m going to fly you to your death—”
“I promised Queen Takhisis I would undertake this,” Kitiara said. “What did you think I was doing here in Nightlund anyway?”
“Traipsing after the half-elf maybe. How in the Abyss should I know?” Skie flared.
“Trust me, I have forgotten all about Tanis Half-elven,” Kitiara assured the dragon. “I’ve had more important things on my mind, such as trying to figure out some way to live through this encounter.”
She explained the vow she had made to Queen Takhisis.
“You know our Queen,” Kit added. “I can’t back out now. It would be as much as my life was worth.”
Skie did know Takhisis, and he had to admit facing Takhisis in her wrath was something the mightiest dragon would go out of his way to avoid. Still he didn’t like Kit’s plan and he let her know it.
“I cannot believe you were going to go without me!” Skie boomed. “As it is, with me along, you have at least a chance of surviving. I will blast the keep into rubble, bring it down on top of him. The death knight can’t be killed, but I can at least weaken him, give him something to think about, like crawling out from several tons of rock.”
Kitiara wrapped her arms around the dragon’s neck, gripped him tightly, and ordered him to take off.
His idea was good. She didn’t want to tell him it wasn’t going to work.
2
A Night at Dargaard Keep.
kie flew over the forests and swamps, rivers and hills, ruined dwellings, broken roads, predators and outlaws of Nightlund, accomplishing safely in hours what would have cost Kitiara days of hard work and danger. They came within sight of Dargaard Keep late on the afternoon of the second day.
The keep was built high upon a cliff, most of it carved from the cliff’s peak. The only way to reach the keep was by climbing up a road that wound around and around the cliff face. Kit might have considered this path, but one look at the road made her thankful she had Skie. The road was split and cracked and in some places huge chunks had fallen off, gone sliding down the mountainside. What remained was strewn with rock and boulders and rubble from the ruined keep.
The beauty of Dargaard Keep itself had once been legendary. It had been built to resemble a rose half-open, blooming, full of promise. Now the rose was shattered, the petals blackened and ugly. The gardens, once green and flourishing, were home to malignant weeds. The only rose growing inside the crumbling garden walls bore a flower of hideous black hue, its thorns deadly to the touch.
Skie slowed his flight. The dragon feared little on Ansalon, yet he did not like the look or the feel of this place. “Should I go on?”
“Yes,” said Kitiara, and she had to repeat herself, for, the first time, the word stuck in her throat.
No sun shone on Dargaard Keep, which languished always in the shadow of the gods’ anger. The moment Kit and Skie flew above the outer wall, the sunlight vanished. The sun still shone, but it was a fiery orb burning in a black sky, and it shed no light on Dargaard Keep. The undead standing on the walls would see, far off in the distance, the sunlit world, a green and growing world, a world of life and warmth, a world lost forever to those trapped within the curse of Dargaard Keep.
The sudden, terrible thought occurred to Kit that she might herself become one of those lost souls. Her undead spirit might be forced to join those warriors held in thrall to Lord Soth. Kitiara shuddered and shoved that thought hurriedly out of her mind.
She looked down over the dragon’s wings. Below, the keep was dark and deserted. No light shone from the broken windows, yet Kitiara had a sudden vision of flames blazing, bursting through the roof, ascending heavenward in a spiraling whirlwind of ash and cinders. She smelled smoke and the stench of burning flesh, and she heard a baby screaming in agony on a single, high-pitched note, screaming on and on until the scream died, horribly, away. Kitiara’s throat tightened, her stomach clenched, a muscle in her thigh spasmed. She felt a tremor shake the dragon’s body.
“An accursed house,” said Skie, his voice harsh and strained. “The living have no place here.”
Kitiara agreed whole-heartedly. She had never known fear like this; she was literally sick with terror and she had yet to put her foot inside the gate! Her stomach roiled. A horrid taste, like blood, caused her to gag. She could not take enough air into her lungs. She clung to Skie and was ready to order him to turn back, fly away as fast as he could. Facing the Dark Queen’s fury would be better than this horror. The command rattled in Kit’s throat, coming out in a croak tinged with hot and bitter bile.
“What did you say?” Skie shouted. “Should we leave?”
Kitiara drew in a shivering breath.
“Land,” she ordered, the word squeezed out of her.
Skie shook his head and spiraled down, searching for a place to settle. The only area large enough was the courtyard located directly in front of the keep’s main gates. He had to make tight turns in a steeply banking descent. He was forced to pull in his wings at the last moment, so as not to strike them on a tower; he came down hard, skidding on the cobblestones and nearly smashing into a wall.
Kit sat motionless for long moments after the bone-jarring landing. She felt as though she were being smothered, and she took off her helm. Her dark eyes narrowed. Her jaw set. She licked her lips and tried to speak, but no words would come out. Skie understood her.
“A good idea. You dismount, my lord, and find cover. I will do the world a favor and destroy this vile place!” Skie hissed his words, lightning crackling between his teeth.
Kit slid down off the dragon’s back. She did not leave, but kept her hand on his neck, loathe to let him go.
“Be careful,” she said at last, and stood back to give him room.
Skie gave a convulsive leap off his hind legs, pushing himself upward. He had to gain altitude enough with his jump to be able to spread his wings and not clip any of the stonework around him.
He cleared the keep. Spreading his wings, he prepared to circle around and blast the towers and battlements with his lightning breath. But a blast of wind, hot and seething, came roaring down from the sky and struck the dragon in the chest. He fought against it, wings flapping wildly, feet scrabbling at the air. The wind blew hard and he could make no headway against it. Then the wind picked up the dragon and began to tumble him about, pushing him away from the courtyard, carrying him away from the keep, away from th
e cliff, back into the sunlit world. There the wind suddenly died, dumping the disoriented dragon in a field.
Furious, Skie raised his head, his wings flapping defiantly. He knew quite well who had sent that wind, but he wasn’t going to give up. Kitiara needed him. Seeing him start to take off again, the wind came roaring out of the sky and slammed into him. The dragon groaned and dropped to the ground, stunned, insensible.
Kit watched in calm despair. She’d known Takhisis would not allow the dragon to interfere. Kit was on her own.
Flinging down her helm, Kit stood, shivering in the deserted courtyard, and looked around. She could see no one here, but eyes watched her. The keep was silent, and voices screamed, shrieked and moaned. No fire burned, and she could feel the heat of the flames.
All around her, the threat, the menace of the tormented dead throbbed and pulsed with horrid life. They wanted her, wanted to make her one of them. They meant to keep her here for all eternity. Corpses of the brave and the foolish who had come before her lay strewn about the courtyard. All had died of sheer terror, judging by the contortions of the limbs, the mouths gaping wide in screaming panic. None had made it as far as the front gate.
The fear grew inside her, relentless, grinding, wringing her and twisting her. Her legs wobbled and trembled. Her heart thudded painfully, erratically. She couldn’t catch her breath. Chill sweat trickled down her breast.
Fear … terror … A voice saying something … Iolanthe’s voice …
It will save you from dying from sheer terror.… The magical bracelet. Kit had tried to put it on before she entered the courtyard, but the bracelet would not fit over her riding gloves. She had taken it off and thrust it beneath her breastplate, intending to put it on when she arrived at the keep. She had been so unnerved, however, that all thought of the bracelet had fled her mind. Now Kit fumbled for the bracelet with shaking hands, found it, seized hold of it, and clutched it tightly.
Warmth potent as dwarf spirits surged through her, easing her fears. Her racing heart slowed, her stomach stopped twisting, her bowels quit cramping. She could breathe again. She started to clamp the marvelous bracelet over her wrist.
A woman’s song sounded from within the keep. The woman sang a single note, beautiful and awful, piercing, wailing, keening. The note struck Kitiara like a steel bolt. She gasped and flinched. Her hand jerked. She dropped the bracelet and it fell, clattering, to the cobblestones.
The fear surged back, crashing over her, crushing her. Panic-stricken and desperate, she dropped to her hands and knees. She couldn’t find the bracelet in the darkness, and that was maddening because she could see clearly because of the roaring fire. She groped about for it with her bare hands. The cobblestones were covered with black, greasy soot and ash. Water ran in rivulets among the cracks and crevices. Kit drew back her wet hand and saw in horror that it wasn’t water. Her palm was smeared with blood.
The light of the fire grew brighter, and she saw her bracelet lying just out of reach. Kitiara made a frantic lunge for it. She was just about to grab the bracelet when two polished black boots stepped over it, standing on either side of it. A long, ragged-edged cape fell around the boots. A gloved hand reached down and picked up the bracelet.
Kit raised terror-stricken eyes.
A knight stood over her. Eyes of fire glowed behind the eyeslits of a bucket helm. The blaze of the burning keep reflected off steel armor. A rose emblazoned on the breastplate was cracked, charred black, and smeared with blood.
Lord Soth held the bracelet in his gloved hand. The fire in the eyeslits seemed to flicker in amusement. He lifted the bracelet up for her to see, then, as she watched, he slowly closed his hand over it. There was a snapping sound, rending metal. Soth opened his fist. Silver and onyx dust trickled from between his fingers, sparkled briefly in the firelight, and dissolved into mud on the blood-wet cobblestones.
“That’s cheating,” said Lord Soth.
He turned on his booted heel. His cape flowed around him like a ripple in the fabric of darkness. He flung wide his hands.
“You are my guest this night,” Soth added. The gates to Dargaard Keep opened.
3
Kitiara’s Fight. Lord Soth’s Vow.
itiara crouched on her knees in the blood and stared into the open gates. Before her was a grand entry hall, dark, empty, and bright with candlelight flaring from a wrought-iron chandelier that hung from the ceiling and lay, broken and twisted, on the floor. If Kit did not stand up and walk into that hall, she would be just one more corpse lying in the courtyard. Skie would fly over Dargaard Keep tomorrow morning and see on the cobblestones her bones and her rotting flesh encased in the blue armor and horned helm of a Dragon Highlord. Skie would mourn her—he would be the only one to mourn her, yet he would find another rider. Ariakas would laugh when he heard and term her a fool who deserved her fate. Takhisis would despise her. Lord Soth would pick up her horned helm and add it to his trophies and that would be the end. Kitiara uth Matar would be forever a nobody. She would fade into obscurity and be forgotten.
“A little fear is healthy,” Gregor uth Matar had once told his daughter. “Too much fear makes you worthless in a fight. When you start to feel the terror beat in your throat, you’re hanging on to life too tight, daughter. Let go of what may come and live for what is—because that may be all you have …”
A soldier walked forth from the entry hall. He was clad in armor adorned with the rose, one of Soth’s men-at-arms. Flames consumed him as he walked, blackening his armor, blistering his skin. The flesh melted from his face, leaving a bloody skull. He held a sword in his smoldering hand. His eyes saw nothing but death … and her. He meant to slay her, if she did not kill him first, except that he himself was already dead.
Let go of what may come and live for what is …
Kitiara let go of her ambition, her hopes and dreams and plans. She let go of love and hate, and, when she had nothing left inside her, she realized that fear had let go of her.
Rising to her feet, Kit drew her sword and walked forth boldly to meet the undead warrior. Her dragon armor protected her against the heat of the flames. She yelled in defiance and struck the corpse’s blade a testing blow, judging his strength, his skill. The corpse’s strength was daunting; his counter strike almost shattered her arm. She broke off, fell back, and waited for him to attack her.
But death seemed to have robbed the dead man of his brains as well as his skill. He raised his sword over his head and brought it down on her as though he were chopping wood. Kitiara dodged, then leaped and spun, slamming her foot into his chest, knocking him over backward.
He lay floundering on his back. Kit put her foot on his chest and drove her blade into his throat between his armor and his helm. The flames disappeared. The warrior lay still. He wasn’t finished, though. She couldn’t kill what was already dead.
Hearing clanging and rattling behind her, she turned around, but not fast enough. A sword struck her on the left shoulder. Her armor saved her from a broken collarbone, but the blow was powerful enough to dent the armor the Dark Queen herself had blessed. While the undead warrior recovered from his swing, Kitiara swept her blade into his neck, severing his head. That second corpse was still falling when another came lunging at her, and she heard, behind her, the first attacker clambering to his feet.
Kitiara glanced behind her and saw the first attacker aim a thrust at her back. The one in front was surging forward. She dropped to the ground. The warrior behind her stabbed the warrior in front and both fell. Kitiara crawled out from beneath the bodies to find another warrior waiting for her, jabbing at her with a spear.
Kit rolled frantically from to one side to the other. He hit a glancing blow, and Kit gasped in pain as the spearhead sliced open a gash in her thigh. Seeing an opening, she smashed both feet into his legs, kicked them out from under him. She hacked the point off the spear, but she didn’t waste her energy “killing” him. It wouldn’t make any difference. He couldn’t die.
> More undead troops came at her, so many she couldn’t begin to count them. They were jumping off the battlements, running down the stairs, trailing fire that glowed in the blades of their swords and blazed in their eyes that were empty of life but not of hatred.
Kit was wounded and exhausted. Her fear had been costly, draining her of strength, and she had to keep fighting. She risked another glance behind. The gates to Dargaard Keep stood wide open. The great hall, lit by candlelight, was empty. No warriors were inside the keep, not since the one had come forth to do battle. The undead soldiers were massing in front of her. If she could win her way inside the keep, make it through the gates alive …
Drawing her boot knife, she stabbed one warrior in the midriff, below his breastplate, and took a step backward. She drove her sword through the eyeslits of another’s helm and kept moving backward.
She had to keep the warriors from flanking her, crowding around behind her, coming between her and the open gate. She thrust her sword between the legs of a warrior and brought it upward, tearing into his crotch. He toppled forward, and Kitiara moved another step closer to the gate.
A blow knocked off one of her bracers. Blood oozed from a deep wound in her left forearm and more blood trailed down her thigh. Another blow struck her on the head and the flames wavered and swam in her vision. But she fought against the bursting pain and blinked her eyes until they focused and kept fighting. And she kept moving backward.
Her breath came in gasps. Her arms ached. Her sword was unbelievably heavy. The hand holding the dagger grew slippery with her own blood. When she lashed out with the dagger at a foe, the knife flew from her hand. She made a desperate grab for it, but booted feet trampled it and she had to let it go.
A sword thrust into her side. Her armor saved her from death, but the blow damaged her ribs and made every movement, every breath, splintered pain. She kept moving backward, kept swinging her sword, kept ducking and dodging. In front of her, the warriors jammed together, fighting without reason or skill, hitting each other as often as they hit her. What did it matter? They died, fell, and rose to fight again.
Dragons of the Highlord Skies Page 46
