“Thank you, sir,” Gerard said. “But I’m only doing my duty by your father, a man I much admired.”
“As opposed to his son, is that it?” Palin asked. He turned and walked off a few paces, his head bowed, his arms folded in the sleeves of his dark-colored robes. He obviously considered their conversation at an end.
Tasslehoff settled himself down beside Gerard, and because a kender’s hands must always be busy doing something, he turned out all the pockets in the new shirt he’d persuaded Laurana to sew for him. The shirt was a riot of color and gave Gerard eyestrain just to look it. By the lambent light of a half-moon and many thousand stars, Tas sorted through the interesting things he’d picked up while in Laurana’s house.
No doubt about it. Gerard would be extremely glad to deposit the mage and the kender in Solace and be done with them both.
The sky above them gradually grew lighter, the stars faded away, the moon paled, but the elf did not return.
Marshal Medan and his escort reached the rendezvous appointed by the elf about an hour before dawn. He and the two Knights with him reined in their horses. Medan did not dismount. Rebel elves were known to inhabit this part of the forest. He looked intently into the shadows and the swirling mists and thought that this would make an excellent place for an ambush.
“Subcommander,” Medan said. “Go see if you can find our traitor. He said he would be waiting by those three white rocks over there.”
The subcommander dismounted. Keeping his hand on his sword, half-drawing it from its scabbard, he moved slowly forward, making as little noise as possible. He wore only his breastplate, no other metal armor.
The marshal’s horse was restive. The animal snorted and blew and pricked his ears. Medan patted the horse on the neck. “What is it, boy?” he asked softly. “What’s out there?”
The subcommander disappeared in the shadows, reappeared again as a shadowy silhouette against the backdrop of the three large white boulders. Medan could hear the man’s harsh whisper. He could not hear if there was a reply but assumed there must have been, for the subcommander nodded and returned to make his report.
“The traitor says the three are not far from here, near a clearing, where they are to meet the griffon. He will lead us there. We should walk, he says. The horses make too much noise.”
The marshal dismounted and dropped the reins with a single spoken word of command. The horse would remain where it was, would not move from the spot until ordered. The other Knight dismounted, taking from his saddle a short bow and a quiver of arrows.
Medan and his escorts crept through the forest.
“And this is what I’ve been reduced to,” Medan muttered to himself, shoving aside tree branches, stepping carefully through the undergrowth. He could barely see the man in front of him. Only the three white rocks showed up clearly and they were sometimes obscured by the dank mists. “Skulking about the woods at night like a blasted thief. Relying on the word of an elf who thinks nothing of betraying his mistress for a handful of steel. And all for what? To ambush some wretch of a wizard!”
“Did you say something, sir?” the subcommander whispered.
“Yes,” Medan returned. “I said I would rather be on the field of honorable battle lying dead with a spear through my heart than here at this moment. What about you, Subcommander?”
“Sir?” The subcommander stared at him. The man had no clue what his marshal was talking about.
“Never mind,” Medan grated. “Just keep going.” He waved his hand.
The traitor elf appeared, a glimmer of a pale face in the darkness. He raised a pallid hand, motioned for Medan to join him. The marshal drew forward, eyed the elf grimly.
“Well? Where are they?” Medan did not use the elf’s name. In Medan’s mind, the elf was not worthy of a name.
“There!” The elf pointed. “Beneath that tree. You cannot see it from here, but there is a clearing a hundred paces beyond. They plan to meet the griffon there.”
The sky was graying with the dawn. Medan could see nothing at first and then the mists swirled apart, revealing three shadowy figures. One appeared to be wearing dark armor, for though Medan could not see it clearly, he could hear it rattle and clank.
“Sir,” said the traitor, sounding nervous, “have you further need of me? If not, I should be going. My absence may be noted.”
“Leave, by all means,” said Medan.
The elf slipped away into the woods.
The marshal motioned for the knight with the bow to come forward.
“Remember, the dragon wants them alive,” Medan said. “Aim high. Shoot to cripple. Fire on my order. Not before.”
The Knight nodded and took his place in the brush. He fit an arrow to his bow string and looked to the marshal.
Medan watched and waited.
Gerard heard a flapping sound, as of immense wings. He’d never before seen a griffon, but this sounded like what he expected a griffon would sound like. He jumped to his feet.
“What is it?” Palin lifted his head, startled by the Knight’s sudden movement.
“I think I hear the griffon, sir,” Gerard replied.
Palin drew back his hood to hear better, looked toward the clearing. They could not see the griffon yet. The beast was still among the treetops, but the wind from its wings was starting to scatter dead leaves and kick up dust.
“Where? Where?” Tasslehoff cried, hastily gathering up all his valuables and stuffing them into whatever location presented itself.
The griffon came into view, huge wings stilled now, floating on the air currents to a smooth landing. Gerard forgot his irritation with the mage and his annoyance at the kender in wonder at the sight of the strange beast. Elves ride griffons as humans ride horses, but few humans did. Griffons have always had a distrust of humans, who were known to hunt and kill them.
Gerard had tried not to dwell on the fact that he would soon be trusting his life to a beast that had little reason to love him, but now he was forced to confront the idea of actually riding on the back of one of these creatures, riding it not over a road but into the air. High in the air, so that any mischance would send him plummeting to a horrible death.
Gerard steeled himself, faced this as he faced any other daunting task. He noted the proud eagle head with its white feathers, the shining black eyes, and the hooked beak that could, or so he’d heard, snap a man’s spine in two or rip his head from his neck. The front legs were those of an eagle, with rending talons; the back legs and body were those of a lion, covered in a soft brown fur. The wings were large and snow white underneath, brown on top. The griffon was taller than Gerard by at least head and shoulders.
“There is only one of them,” Gerard reported coolly, as if meeting one were an everyday occurrence with him. “At least so far. And no sign of the elf.”
“Strange,” Palin said, glancing about. “I wonder where he went? This is not like him.”
The griffon flapped its wings and turned its head, searching for its riders. The wind of the enormous wings whipped up a gale that sent wisps of morning fog swirling and lashed the tree branches. They waited another few moments, but no other griffon appeared.
“It seems there is to be only one, sir,” Gerard said, trying not to sound relieved. “You and the kender go ahead. I’ll see you off safely. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my own way out of Qualinesti. I have my horse.…”
“Nonsense,” said Palin crisply, displeased at any change in plans. “The griffon can carry all three of us. The kender counts as nothing.”
“I do, too, count for something!” Tasslehoff stated, offended.
“Sir, I really don’t mind,” Gerard began.
An arrow thunked into the tree beside him. Another arrow whizzed over his head. Gerard dropped to the ground, grabbing hold of the kender on the way down.
“Sir! Take cover!” he yelled at Palin.
“Rebel elves,” Palin said, peering through the shadows. “They have seen your armor. We ar
e friends!” he called out in elven and lifted his hand to wave.
An arrow tore through the sleeve of his robe. He stared at the hole in angry astonishment. Gerard leaped to his feet, caught hold of the mage and pulled him to cover behind a large oak tree.
“They’re not elves, sir!” he said and he pointed grimly to one of the arrows. The tip was steel and the arrow was fletched in black feathers. “They’re Knights of Neraka.”
“But so are you,” said Palin, eyeing Gerard’s breastplate, adorned with the skull and the death lily. “At least for all they know.”
“Oh, they know all right,” Gerard answered grimly. “You notice the elf never returned. I think we’ve been betrayed.”
“It’s not possible—” Palin began.
“I see them!” Tasslehoff cried, pointing. “Over there in those bushes. Three of them. They’re wearing black armor.”
“You have sharp eyes, kender,” Gerard conceded. He couldn’t see a thing in the shadows and mists of early dawn.
“We cannot stay here. We must make a run for the griffon!” Palin said, and started to stand up.
Gerard pulled the mage back down.
“Those archers rarely miss, sir. You’ll never make it alive!”
“True, they don’t miss,” Palin retorted. “And yet they have fired three arrows at us and we live. If we have been betrayed, they know we carry the artifact! That’s what they want. They mean to capture us alive and interrogate us.” He gripped Gerard’s arm hard, his cruelly deformed fingers driving the chain mail painfully into the knight’s flesh. “I won’t give up the device. And I won’t be taken alive! Not again! Do you hear me? I won’t!”
Two more arrows thudded into the tree, causing the kender, who had poked his head up to see, to duck back down.
“Whew!” he said, feeling his top-knot anxiously. “That was close! Do I still have my hair?”
Gerard looked at Palin. The mage’s face was pale, his lips a thin, tight line. Laurana’s words came back to Gerard. Until you have been a prisoner, you cannot understand.
“You go on, sir. You and the kender.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Palin. “We leave together. They want me alive. They have a use for me. They don’t need you at all. You will be tortured and killed.”
Behind them, the griffon’s harsh cry sounded loud and raucous and impatient.
“I am not the fool, sir,” Gerard said, looking the mage in the eye. “You are, if you don’t listen to me. I can distract them, and I can defend myself properly. You cannot, unless you have some magical spell at your fingertips?”
He knew by Majere’s pale, pinched face that he did not.
“Very well,” said Gerard. “Take the kender and your precious magical artifact and get out of here!”
Palin hesitated a moment, staring at the direction of the enemy. His face was set, rigid, corpselike. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from Gerard’s arm. “This is what I have become,” he said. “Useless. Wretched. Forced to run instead of facing my enemies …”
“Sir, if you’re going, go now,” Gerard said, drawing his sword with a ringing sound. “Keep low and use the trees for cover. Fast!”
He rose from his hiding position. Brandishing his sword, he charged unhesitatingly at the Knights crouched in the brush, shouting his battle challenge, drawing their fire.
Palin rose to his feet. Crouching low, he grabbed hold of Tasslehoff’s shirt collar, jerked the kender to a standing position. “You’re coming with me,” he ordered.
“But what about Gerard?” Tas hung back.
“You heard him,” Palin said, dragging the kender forward. “He can take care of himself. Besides, the Knights must not capture the artifact!”
“But they can’t take the device away from me!” Tas protested, tugging at his shirt to free it from Palin’s grasp. “It will always come back to me!”
“Not if you’re dead,” Palin said harshly, biting the words.
Tas stopped suddenly and turned around. His eyes went wide.
“Do … do you see a dragon anywhere?” he asked nervously.
“Quit stalling!” Palin seized hold of the kender by the arm this time and, using strength borne of adrenaline, hauled Tasslehoff bodily through the trees toward the griffon.
“I’m not stalling. I feel sick,” Tas asserted. “I think the curse is working on me again.”
Palin paid no attention to the kender’s whining. He could hear Gerard yelling, shouting challenges to his enemies. Another arrow whistled past, but it fell spent about a yard away from Palin. His dark robes blended into the forest, he was a running target moving through the mists and dim light, keeping low, as Gerard had recommended, and putting the trunks of the trees between him and the enemy whenever possible.
Behind him, Palin heard steel clash against steel. The arrows ceased. Gerard was fighting the Knights. Alone.
Palin plunged grimly ahead, dragging the protesting kender along with him. The mage was not proud of himself. His fear and his shame rankled in him, more painful than one of the arrows if it had happened to hit. He risked a glance backward but could see nothing for the shadows and the fog.
He was near the griffon. He was near escape. His steps slowed. He hesitated, half-turned …
A blackness came over him. He was once again in the prison cell in the Gray Robes’ encampment on the border of Qualinesti. He crouched at the bottom of a deep, narrow pit dug into the ground. The walls of the pit were smooth. He could not climb up them. An iron grating was placed over the top. A few holes in the grate permitted the air to filter down into the pit, along with the rain that dripped monotonously and filled the bottom of the pit with water.
He was alone, forced to live in his own filth. Forced to eat whatever scraps they tossed down to him. No one spoke to him. He had no guards. None were necessary. He was trapped, and they knew it. He rarely even heard the sound of a human voice for days on end. He almost came to welcome those times when his captors threw down a ladder and brought him up for “questioning.”
Almost.
The bright blazing pain seared through him again. Breaking his fingers, slowly, one by one. Ripping out his fingernails. Flailing his back with leather cords that cut through his flesh to the bone.
A shudder ran through him. He bit his tongue, tasted blood and bile that surged up from his clenching stomach. Sweat trickled down his face.
“I’m sorry, Gerard!” he gasped. “I’m sorry!”
Catching hold of Tasslehoff by the scruff of his neck, Palin lifted the kender and tossed him bodily onto the griffon’s back. “Hold on tightly!” he ordered the kender.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Tas cried, squirming. “Let’s wait for Gerard!”
Palin had no time for any kender ploys. “Leave at once!” he ordered the griffon. Palin pulled himself into the saddle that was strapped onto the griffon’s back, between the feathery wings. “The Knights of Neraka surround us. Our guard is holding them off, but I doubt he can last for long.”
The griffon glared back at the mage with bright, black eyes.
“Do we leave him behind, then?” the griffon asked.
“Yes,” said Palin evenly. “We leave him behind.”
The griffon did not argue. He had his orders. The strange habits of humans were not his concern. The beast lifted his great wings and leaped into the air, his powerful lion legs driving into the ground. He circled the clearing, striving to gain altitude and avoid the trees. Palin peered down, trying to find Gerard. The sun had cleared the horizon, was burning away the mists and lighting the shadows. Palin could see flashes of steel and hear ringing blows.
Miraculously, the Knight was still alive.
Palin turned away. He faced into the rushing wind. The sun vanished suddenly, overtaken by huge, rolling gray storm clouds that boiled up over the horizon. Lightning flickered amid the churning clouds. Thunder rumbled. A chill wind, blowing from the storm, cooled the sweat that had drenched his robes and left his
hair wringing wet. He shivered slightly and drew his dark cloak close around him. He did not look back again.
The griffon rose high above the trees. Feeling the air currents beneath his wings, the beast soared into the blue sky.
“Palin!” Tasslehoff cried, tugging urgently on the back of his robes. “There’s something flying behind us!”
Palin twisted to look.
The green dragon was distant, but it was moving at great speed, its wings slicing the air, its clawed feet pressed up against its body, its green tail streaming out behind. It was not Beryl. One of her minions, out doing her bidding.
Of course. She would not trust the Knights of Neraka to bring her this prize. She would send one of her own kind to fetch it. He leaned over the griffon’s shoulder.
“A dragon!” he shouted. “East of us!”
“I see it!” the griffon snarled.
Palin shaded his eyes to view the dragon, trying not to blink in case he should miss a single beat of the immense wings.
“The dragon has spotted us,” he reported. “It is coming straight for us.”
“Hang on!” The griffon veered sharply, made a steep, banking turn. “I’m going to fly into the storm. The ride will be rough!”
Tall, spiring clouds formed a wall of gray and purple-black on the horizon. The clouds had the look of a fortress, massive and impenetrable. Lightning flared from breaks in the clouds, like torchlight through windows. Thunder rolled and boomed.
“I do not like the looks of that storm!” Palin cried out to the griffon.
“Do you like the insides of the dragon’s belly better?” the griffon demanded. “The beast gains on us. We cannot outfly it.”
Palin looked back, hoping that the griffon might have misjudged. Huge wings beat the air, the dragon’s jaws parted. Palin met the dragon’s eyes, saw the single-minded purpose in them, saw them intent on him.
Grasping the reins with one hand and taking firm hold of a shouting Tas with the other, Palin bent low over the griffon’s neck, keeping his head and body down so that the rushing wind did not blow him off the griffon’s back. The first few drops of rain pelted his face, stinging.
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 38
