“We are inside the shield, men!” Mina called out in triumph. “You stand safe within the borders of the Silvanesti! Witness the might and power of the One True God!”
The men stood staring, unable at first to comprehend the miracle that had befallen them. They blinked and gaped, reminding Galdar of prisoners who have been locked in dark cells for most of their lives, suddenly released to walk in the bright sunshine. A few exclaimed, but they did so softly, as if fearful to break the spell. Some rubbed their eyes, some doubted their own sanity, but there was the unmistakable sight of ogre backsides—ogres in retreat—to tell the soldiers that they were in their right minds, that they were not seeing things. One by one, the men fell to their knees before Mina and pressed their faces into the gray ash. They did not chant her name in triumph, not this time. This moment was too holy, too sacred. They paid Mina homage in silent awe and reverence.
“On your feet, men!” Mina shouted. “Take up your arms. This day we march to Silvanost. And there is no force in the world that can stop us!”
25
From Day to Night
aces.
Faces floating over him. Bobbing and receding on a rippling surface of pain. When Gerard rose to the surface, the faces were very close to him—strange faces, with no expression, corpses, drowned in the dark sea in which he floundered. The pain was worse closest to the surface, and he didn’t like the faceless faces so near his own. He let himself sink back into the darkness, and there was some part of him that whispered he should cease struggling and give himself to the sea and become one of the faceless himself.
Gerard might have done so, but for a firm hand that gripped his when the pain was very bad and kept him from sinking. He might have done so but for a voice which was calm and commanding and ordered him to stay afloat. Accustomed to obedience, Gerard obeyed the voice. He did not drown but floundered in the dark water, clinging to the hand that held him fast. Finally, he made his way to the shore, pulled himself out of the pain and, collapsing on the banks of consciousness, he slept deeply and peacefully.
He woke hungry and pleasantly drowsy to wonder where he was, how he came to be here, what had happened to him. The faces that had bobbed around in his delirium were real faces now, but they were not much more comforting than the drowned faces in his dreams. The faces were cold and inexpressive, passionless faces of men and women, humans, dressed in long, black robes trimmed in silver.
“How are you feeling, sir?” one of these faces asked, bending over him and placing a chill hand upon his neck to feel his pulse. The woman’s arm was covered with black cloth that fell over his face, and Gerard understood the image of the dark water in which he’d believed himself to be drowning.
“Better,” said Gerard cautiously. “I’m hungry.”
“A good sign. Your pulse is still weak. I will have one of the acolytes bring you some beef broth. You have lost blood, and the beef will help restore it.”
Gerard looked at his surroundings. He lay in a bed in a large room filled with beds, most of which were empty. Other black-robed figures drifted about the room, moving silently on slippered feet. Pungent smells of herbs scented the air.
“Where am I?” Gerard asked, puzzled. “What happened?”
“You are in a hospital of our order, Sir Knight,” the healer replied. “In Qualinesti. You were ambushed by elves, seemingly. I do not know much more than that.” Nor did she care, by her cold expression. “Marshal Medan found you. He brought you here the day before yesterday. He saved your life.”
Gerard was baffled. “Elves attacked me?”
“I know nothing more,” the healer told him. “You are not my only patient. You must ask the marshal. He will be here shortly. He has been here every morning since he brought you in, sitting by your side.”
Gerard remembered the firm hand, the strong, commanding voice and presence. He turned his body, slowly, painfully. His wounds were tightly bound, his muscles weak from lying in bed. He looked to see his armor—black armor, cleaned and polished—placed carefully on a stand near his bed.
Gerard closed his eyes with a groan that must have made the healer think he had suffered a relapse. He remembered all, or at least most, of what had happened. He remembered fighting two Neraka Knights. He remembered the arrow, remembered a third Knight, remembered challenging the Knight to fight.…
He did not remember being attacked by elves.
A young man came carrying a tray on which was a bowl of broth, a bit of bread, and a mug.
“Shall I help you, sir?” the young man asked politely.
Gerard imagined being spoon-fed like a child. “No,” he said, and, though it cost him considerable pain, he struggled to a seated position.
The young man placed the tray on Gerard’s lap and sat down on a chair at his side to watch him eat.
Gerard dunked his bread in the broth. He drank the clear, cool water from the mug and wondered how to find out the truth.
“I take it I am a prisoner here,” he said to the young man.
“Why, no, sir!” The acolyte appeared astonished. “Why should you think that? You were ambushed by a band of elves, sir!” The acolyte was regarding Gerard with obvious admiration. “Marshal Medan told everyone the story when he brought you to us. He carried you in his arms himself, sir. He was covered with your blood. He said you were a true hero and that you were to receive the very best care, to spare no effort. We have had seven dark mystics working on you. You! A prisoner!” The young man laughed and shook his head.
Gerard shoved the bowl of soup away, uneaten. He had lost his appetite. Mumbling something to the effect that he was weaker than he’d supposed, he lay back among his pillows. The acolyte fussed over him, adjusting his bandages and checking to see if any of his wounds had ripped open. He said that they were all almost healed, then left, telling Gerard he should sleep.
Gerard closed his eyes, pretended to be asleep, but sleep was far from coming. He had no idea what was going on. He could only guess that this Medan was playing some sort of sadistic game that would end in Gerard’s torture and death.
This decided, he was at peace, and he slept.
“No, don’t wake him,” said a voice, deep and familiar. “I just came to see how he was doing this morning.”
Gerard opened his eyes. A man wearing the armor of a Knight of Neraka, with a marshal’s sash, stood by the side of the bed. The man was in his fifties. His face was sun-darkened, heavily lined, stern, and grim, but it was not a cruel face. It was the face of a commander who could order men to their deaths but who took no pleasure in it.
Gerard knew him immediately. Marshal Medan.
Laurana had spoken of the marshal with a certain grudging respect, and Gerard could now understand why. Medan had governed a hostile race for thirty years, and there had been no death camps established, no gallows set up in the marketplace, no burning and looting and wanton destruction of elven households and business. Medan saw to it that the dragon’s tribute was collected and paid. He had learned to play elven politics and, according to Laurana, he played it well. He had his spies and his informers. He dealt harshly with rebels, but he did so to maintain order and stability. He kept tight hold on his troops. No small feat in these days when the Knights of Neraka were recruited from the dregs of society.
Gerard was forced to abandon the notion that this man would use him for sport, would make a mockery of him and of his death. But if that were true, then what was Medan’s game? What was the tale of elves attacking?
Gerard pushed himself to a sitting position, made his salute as best he could with his chest and arm bound with bandages. The marshal might be the enemy, but he was a commander and Gerard was bound to give him the respect that was due his rank.
The marshal returned the salute and told Gerard to lie back, take care not to reopen his wounds. Gerard barely heard him. He was thinking of something else. He was thinking back to the attack.
Medan had ambushed them for a reason—to catch Palin and
recover the artifact. That means Medan knew exactly where to find us, Gerard said to himself. Someone told him where we were going to be and when.
Someone had betrayed them, but who? Someone in Laurana’s own household? That was hard to credit, yet Gerard thought of the elf who had left to go “hunting” and had not returned. Perhaps he had been killed by the Knights. Perhaps not.
His thoughts were in bubbling turmoil. What had happened to Palin and the kender? Had they managed to escape safely? Or were they being held prisoner, too?
“How do you feel, sir?” Medan asked, regarding Gerard with concern.
“I am much better, my lord, thank you,” Gerard replied. “I want to tell you, sir, that there is no need to continue with this pretense, which, perhaps, you do out of concern for my health. I know I am your prisoner. There is no reason why you should believe me, but I want you to know that I am not a spy. I am—”
“—a Solamnic Knight.” Medan finished, smiling. “Yes, I am aware of that, Sir—” He paused.
“Gerard uth Mondar, my lord,” Gerard replied.
“And I am Marshal Alexius Medan. Yes, Sir Gerard, I know you are a Solamnic.” Medan pulled up a chair, seated himself near Gerard’s bed. “I know you are my prisoner. I want you to keep your voice down.” He glanced at the dark mystics, who were moving about at the far end of the room. “These two pieces of information will be our little secret.”
“My lord?” Gerard gaped. If the dragon Beryl had plummeted out of the skies and landed in his soup, he could not have been more astonished.
“Listen to me, Sir Gerard,” Medan said, resting a firm hand on the Solaminc’s arm. “You were captured wearing the armor of a Knight of Neraka. You claim that you are not a spy, but who will believe you, do you suppose? No one. Do you know the fate that would befall you, as a spy? You would be interrogated by men skilled in the art of making other men talk. We are quite modern and up to date here in Qualinesti. We have the rack, the wheel, red-hot pincers, bone-crackers. We have the iron maiden with her painful and deadly embrace. After a few weeks of such interrogation, you would, I think, be quite glad to tell your interrogators everything you know and a lot of things you didn’t. Anything to end the torment.”
Gerard opened his mouth, but Medan exerted painful pressure on his arm and Gerard kept silent.
“What would you tell them? You would tell them about the queen mother. You would tell them that Laurana was harboring a human mage who had discovered a valuable magical artifact. Because of Laurana’s intervention, this mage and the artifact are now safely beyond Beryl’s reach.”
Gerard breathed an inward sigh. Medan was watching him closely. “Yes, I thought you might be glad to hear that,” he said dryly. “The mage escaped. The dragon Beryl was thwarted in her desire for the magical artifact. You will die. You will be glad to die. Your death will not save Laurana.”
Gerard was silent, taking this all in. He wriggled and squirmed in the grasp of Medan’s logic. The Knight could see no way out. He would have liked to think he could withstand any torture, go to his death mute and silent, but he could not be certain. He’d heard of the effects of the rack—how it pulled the joints out of the socket, left a man crippled, for the injuries would never fully heal. He had heard stories of the other torments they could inflict on a man; he recalled Palin’s twisted hands, deformed fingers. He pictured Laurana’s hands, white, slender, marred with the calluses where she had once held a sword.
Gerard cast another glance at the black-robed mystics. The Knight looked back at Medan. “What do you want me to do, my lord?” he asked quietly.
“You will go along with the tale I have concocted about the battle with the elves. In return for your heroic actions, I will take you on as my aide. I need someone I can trust,” Medan said wryly. “I believe that the life of the queen mother is in danger. I do what I can to shield her, but it may not be enough. I need an assistant who has the same regard for the queen mother as I have myself.”
“Yet, my lord,” said Gerard, bewildered, “you yourself spy upon her.”
“For her own protection,” Medan returned. “Believe me, I do not enjoy it.”
Gerard shook his head, looked up at the marshal. “My lord, here is my answer. I ask that you draw your sword and kill me. Here, where I lie in this bed. I cannot offer any resistance. I absolve you in advance of the crime of murder. My death here and now will solve all our problems.”
Medan’s grim face relaxed into a smile. “Perhaps not as many as you might think. I refuse, of course. I have taken a liking to you, Solamnic. I would not have missed seeing that fight you put up for all the jewels in Qualinesti! Most other Knights I know would have flung down their weapons and taken to their heels.”
Medan’s expression darkened, his tone grew bitter. “The days of glory for our order are long dead. Once we were led by a man of honor, a man of courage. A man who was the son of a dragonlord and Zeboim, Goddess of the Sea. Who is our leader now?” Medan’s lip curled. “An accountant. A man who wears a money belt instead of sword belt. Those he makes Knights no longer win their places through valor in battle or by deeds of bravery. They buy their rank with cold cash.”
Gerard thought of his own father and felt his skin grow flushed and hot. He had not bought his way into the Knighthood, at least he could credit himself there. But his father had certainly bought his son’s way into every soft-cushioned assignment that came along. “The Solamnics are no better,” he muttered, lowering his gaze, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sweat-soaked sheet.
“Indeed? I am sorry to hear that,” Medan said and he did sound genuinely disappointed. “Perhaps, in these last days, the final battle will be fought by men who choose honor instead of choosing sides. I hope so,” he added quietly, “or else I believe that we are all lost.”
“Last days?” Gerard asked, uneasily. “What do you mean, my lord?”
Medan looked about the room. The mystics had departed. They were alone, the two of them.
“Beryl is going to attack Qualinesti,” Medan said. “I don’t know when, but she is gathering her armies. When she does, I will have a bitter choice to make.” He looked at Gerard intently. “I do not want the queen mother to be part of that choice. I will need someone I can trust to help her escape.”
This man is in love with Laurana! Gerard realized, amazed. Not so surprising, he supposed. He was a little bit in love with her himself. One could not be around her without becoming enchanted by her beauty and grace. Still Gerard hesitated.
“Have I mistaken you, sir?” Medan asked, and his voice was cold. He rose to his feet. “Perhaps you are as devoid of honor as the rest.”
“No, my lord,” Gerard said emphatically. Strange as it seemed, he wanted the marshal to think well of him. “I worked to become a Knight. I read books on the art of warfare. I studied strategy and tactics. I have held my place in tourney and joust. I became a Knight to defend the helpless, to find honor and glory in battle and instead, because of my father’s influence”—Gerard paused, a shame-filled pause—“I guarded a tomb in Solace.”
Medan said nothing, looked down at him, waited for his decision.
“I accept your offer, my lord,” Gerard said. “I do not understand you, but I will do what I can to help the Qualinesti,” he said pointedly, “and the queen mother.”
“Fair enough,” said the marshal. With a curt nod, Medan turned, started to walk away. Halting, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“I joined the Knighthood for the same reasons you did, young man,” he said, and then strode to the door, his footsteps loud, his cloak sweeping behind him. “If the healers pronounce you well, you will move into my house tomorrow.”
Gerard settled back into his bed.
I do not trust him, Gerard reflected. I will not allow myself to trust him or admire him. He could be lying about the dragon. This could all be a trick. To what end, I do not know, but I will remain watchful and on my guard.
At least, he thought, feel
ing a strange sort of contentment wash through him, I’ll be doing more than freeing some damn kender who manages to lock himself in a tomb.
Medan left the hospital, well pleased with his interview. He did not trust the Solamnic, of course. Medan trusted no one these days. The marshal would watch the man closely over the next few days, see how he acquitted himself. He could always take the Solamnic up on his offer and run his sword through him.
At least, I do not doubt his courage or his loyalty to his friends, the marshal reflected. He has proven these to me already.
The marshal turned his steps toward Laurana’s house. He enjoyed the walk. Qualinesti was beautiful in all seasons, but summer was his favorite, the season of festivals, with its myriad flowers, the soft air filled with exquisite perfumes, the silvery green of the leaves and the wondrous bird song.
He took his time, pausing to lean over garden walls to admire a flaming display of day lilies lifting their orange heads to the sunshine. He lingered in the walkway to watch a shower of white blossoms shaken from a snow-ball bush by a fluttering robin. Coming upon an elf from House Woodshaper, Medan stopped the man to discuss a blight he feared had overtaken one of his rose bushes. The Woodshaper was hostile, made it clear he talked to Medan only because he was forced to do so. Medan was polite, respectful, his questions were intelligent. Gradually the elf warmed to his topic and, in the end, promised to come to the marshal’s house to treat the ailing rose.
Arriving at Laurana’s house, Medan rang the silver chimes and stood listening with pleasure to their sweet song as he waited for a response.
An elf answered the door, bowed politely. Medan looked at him intently.
“Kelevandros, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, Marshal,” the elf returned.
“I came to see—”
“Who is it, Kelevandros?” Laurana appeared, walking down the hallway. “Ah, Marshal Medan. Welcome to my home. Please come in. Will you take some refreshment?”
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 47
