“Bringing with her a troop of armed soldiers,” Kiryn said dryly.
“You will see, Cousin,” Silvan predicted. “You will see that I am right. I’ll prove it to you.” He rounded on Kiryn. “Do you know what I did? I went last night to set her free. I did! I cut a hole in her tent. I was going to unlock her chains. She refused to leave.”
“You did what?” Kiryn gasped, appalled. “Cousin—”
“Never mind,” said Silvan, turning away, the flame flaring out, the ice reforming. “I don’t want to discuss it. I shouldn’t have told you. You’re as bad as the rest. Get out! Leave me alone.”
Kiryn thought it best to obey. He put his hand on the tent flap and was halfway out when Silvan caught hold of him by the shoulder, gripped him hard.
“Are you going to run to tell Konnal what I told you? Because if you are—”
“I am not, Cousin,” Kiryn said quietly. “I will keep what you have said in confidence. You need not threaten me.”
Silvan appeared ashamed. Mumbling something, he let loose of Kiryn’s sleeve, turned his back on him.
Grieved, worried, afraid, both for his people and for his cousin, Kiryn stood outside the king’s tent and tried to think what to do. He did not trust the human girl. He did not know much about the Knights of Neraka, but he had to believe that they would not promote someone who served them reluctantly or unwillingly to the rank of commander. And though no elf could ever speak well of a human, the elven soldiers had talked grudgingly of the enemy’s tenacity in battle, their discipline. Even General Konnal, who detested all humans, had admitted that these soldiers had fought well, and though they had retreated, they had done so in good order. They had followed the girl through the shield and into a well-defended realm, where surely they must have known they would march to their deaths. No, these men did not serve an unwilling, treacherous commander.
It was not the girl who was bewitched. It was the girl who had done the bewitching. Silvan was clearly enamored of her. He was of an age when elven men first begin to feel the stirrings of passion, the age when a man falls in love with love itself. An age when he may become drunk with adoration. “I love to love my love,” was the first line of a chorus of a popular elven song. A pity that fortune had thrown the two of them together, had literally tossed the exotic and beautiful human girl into the young king’s arms.
Silvan was plotting something. Kiryn could not imagine what, but he was sick at heart. Kiryn liked his cousin. He considered that Silvanoshei had the makings of a good king. This folly could ruin him. The fact that he had tried to free this girl, their mortal enemy, was enough to brand him a traitor if anyone came to know of it. The Heads of House would never forgive Silvan. They would declare him a “dark elf” and would exile him as they had exiled his mother and his father. General Konnal only wanted an excuse.
Kiryn did not for a moment consider breaking his vow to the king. He would not tell anyone what Silvan had told him. He wished very much that Silvan had never spoken of it. Kiryn wondered unhappily what his cousin planned, wondered what he could do to prevent Silvan from acting in some foolish, hotheaded, impulsive manner that would end in his ruin. The best, the only thing he could do would be to keep close to his cousin and be ready to try to stop him.
The sun hung directly overhead, its single eye glaring down through the gauzy curtain of the shield as if frustrated that it could not gain a clearer view. The watery eye shown upon the bloody field being readied for yet another wetting. The sun gazed unwinking upon the sowers of death, who were planting bodies in the ground, not seeds. The Thon-Thalas had run red with blood yesterday. None could drink of it.
The elves had searched the woodlands to find a fallen tree that would be suitable for use as a stake. The Woodshapers crafted it so that it was smooth and sturdy and straight. They thrust the stake deep into the ground, hammered it into the soil, drove it deeply so that it was stable and would not fall.
General Konnal, accompanied by Glaucous, took the field. He wore his armor, carried his sword. The general’s face was stern and set. Glaucous was pleased, triumphant. Officers formed the elven army into ranks in the field, brought them to attention. Elf soldiers surrounded the field, forming a protective barrier, keeping a lookout for the humans, who might take it into their heads to try to rescue their leader. The Heads of House assembled. The wounded who could drag themselves from their beds lined up to watch.
Kiryn took his place beside his uncle. The young man looked so unwell that Konnal advised him in a low voice to return to his tent. Kiryn shook his head and remained where he was.
Seven archers had been chosen to make up the death squad. They formed a single line about twenty paces from the stake. They nocked their arrows, held their bows ready.
A trumpet sounded announcing the arrival of His Majesty the Speaker of the Stars. Silvanoshei walked alone, without escort, onto the field. He was extremely pale, so pale that the whispered rumor ran among the Heads of House that his majesty had suffered a wound in the battle, a wound that had drained his heart’s blood.
Silvan halted at the edge of the field. He looked around at the disposition of the troops, looked at the stake, looked at the Heads of House, looked at Konnal and at Glaucous. A chair had been placed for the king on one side of the field, at a safe distance from where the prisoner must make her final walk. Silvan glanced at the chair, strode past it. He took up his place beside General Konnal, standing between Konnal and Glaucous.
Konnal was not pleased. “We have a chair for Your Majesty. In a place of safety.”
“I stand at your side, General,” Silvan said, turning his gaze full upon Konnal. “I can think of nowhere I would be safer. Can you?”
The general flushed, flustered. He cast a sidelong glance at Glaucous, who shrugged as much as to say, “Don’t waste time arguing. What does it matter?”
“Let the prisoner be brought forth!” Konnal ordered.
Silvan held himself rigid, his hand on his sword hilt. His expression was fixed, set, gave away nothing of his inner thoughts or feelings.
Six elven guards with swords drawn, their blades flashing white in the sunlight, marched the prisoner onto the field. The guards were tall and accoutered in plate mail. The girl wore a white shift, a plain gown, unadorned, like a child’s nightclothes. Her hands and feet were manacled. She looked small and frail, fragile and delicate, a waif surrounded by adults. Cruel adults.
A murmur swept among some of the Heads of House, a murmur of pity and dismay, a murmur of doubt. This was the dread commander! This girl! This child! The murmur was answered with an angry growl from the soldiers. She is human. She is our enemy.
Konnal turned his head, silenced the dismay and the anger with a single baleful glance.
“Bring the prisoner to me,” Konnal called, “so that she may know the charges for which her life is forfeit.”
The guards escorted the prisoner, who walked slowly, due to the manacles on her ankles, but who walked with regal bearing—straight back and lifted head and a strange, calm smile upon her lips. Her guards, by contrast, looked exceedingly uncomfortable. She stepped lightly over the ground, seemed to barely touch it. The guards slogged across the churned-up dirt as if it were rough going. They were winded and exhausted by the time they escorted their charge to stand before the general. The guards cast watchful, nervous glances at their prisoner, who never once looked at them.
Mina did not look at Silvanoshei, who was looking at her with all his heart and all his soul, willing her to give him the sign, ready to battle the entire elven army if she but said the word. Mina’s amber-eyed gaze took in General Konnal, and though he appeared to struggle against it for a moment, he could not help himself. He joined the other insects, trapped inside the golden resin.
Konnal launched into a speech, explaining why it was necessary to go against elven custom and belief and rob this person of her most precious gift—her life. He was an effective speaker and produced many salient points. The speech would
have gone over well if he had given it earlier, before the people were allowed to see the prisoner. As it was, he had now the look of a brutal father inflicting abusive punishment on a helpless child. He understood that he was losing his audience; many in the crowd were growing restless and uneasy, reconsidering their verdict. Konnal brought his speech to a swift, if somewhat abrupt, end.
“Prisoner, what is your name?” he barked, speaking Common. His voice, unnaturally loud, bounded back at him from the mountains.
“Mina,” she replied, her voice cool as the blood-tinged Thon-Thalas and with the same hint of iron.
“Surname?” he asked. “For the record.”
“Mina is the only name I bear,” she said.
“Prisoner Mina,” said General Konnal sternly, “you led an armed force into our lands without cause, for we are a peace-loving people. Because there exists no formal declaration of war between our peoples, we consider you to be nothing but a brigand, an outlaw, a murderer. You are therefore sentenced to death. Do you have aught to say in answer to these charges?”
“I do,” Mina replied, serious and earnest. “I did not come here to make war upon the Qualinesti people. I came to save them.”
Konnal gave a bitter, angry laugh. “We know full well that to the Knights of Neraka ‘salvation’ is another word for conquering and enslavement.”
“I came to save your people,” said Mina quietly, gently, “and I will do so.”
“She makes a mockery of you, General,” Glaucous whispered urgently into Konnal’s left ear. “Get this over with!”
Konnal paid no attention to his adviser, except to shrug him off and move a step away from him.
“I have one more question, Prisoner,” the General continued in portentous tones. “Your answer will not save you from death, but the arrows might fly a little straighter and hit their target a little quicker if you cooperate. How did you manage to enter the shield?”
“I will tell you and gladly,” Mina said at once. “The hand of the God I follow, the Hand of the One True God of the world and all peoples in the world reached down from the heavens and raised the shield so that I and those who accompany me could enter.”
A whisper like an icy wind blowing unexpectedly on a summer’s day passed from elf to elf, repeating her words, though that was not necessary. All had heard her clearly.
“You speak falsely, Prisoner!” said Konnal in a hollow, furious voice. “The gods are gone and will not return.”
“I warned you,” Glaucous said, sighing. He eyed Mina uneasily. “Put her to death! Now!”
“I am not the one who speaks falsely,” Mina said. “I am not the one who will die this day. I am not the one whose life is forfeit. Hear the words of the One True God.”
She turned and looked directly at Glaucous. “Greedy, ambitious, you colluded with my enemies to rob me of what is rightfully mine. The penalty for faithlessness is death.”
Mina raised her hands to the heavens. No cloud marred the sky, but the manacles that bound her wrists split apart as if struck by lightning and fell, ringing, to the ground. The chains that bound her melted, dissolved. Freed of her restraints, she pointed at Glaucous, pointed at his breast.
“Your spell is broken! The illusion ended! You can no longer hide your body on the plane of enchantment while your soul walks about in another form. Let them see you, Cyan Bloodbane. Let the elves see their ‘savior.’ ”
A flash of light flared from the breast of the elf known as Glaucous. He cried out in pain, grappled for the magical amulet, but the silver rope that held it around his neck was broken, and with it broke the spell the amulet had cast.
The elves beheld an astonishing sight. The form of Glaucous grew and expanded so that for the span of a heartbeat his elven body was immense, hideous, contorted. The elf sprouted green wings. Green scales slid over the mouth that was twisted in hatred. Green scales rippled across the rapidly elongating nose. Fangs thrust up from the lengthening jaws, impeding the flow of vile curses that were spewing from his mouth, transforming the words into poisonous fumes. His arms became legs that ended in jabbing claws. His legs were now hind legs, strong and muscular. His great tail coiled, prepared to lash out with the deadly power of a whip or a striking snake.
“Cyan!” the elves cried in terror. “Cyan! Cyan!”
No one moved. No one could move. The dragonfear paralyzed their limbs, froze hands and hearts, seized them and shook them like a wolf shakes a rabbit to break its spine.
Yet Cyan Bloodbane was not yet truly among them. His soul and body were still joining, still coming together. He was in mid-transformation, vulnerable, and he knew it. He required seconds only to become one, but he had to have those few precious seconds.
He used the dragonfear to buy himself the time he needed, rendering the elves helpless, sending some of them wild with fear and despair. General Konnal, dazed by the overwhelming horror of the destruction he had brought down upon his own people, was like a man struck by a thunderbolt. He made a feeble attempt to draw his sword, but his right hand refused to obey his command.
Cyan ignored the general. He would deal with that wretch later. The dragon concentrated his fury and his ire upon the one, true danger—the creature who had unmasked him. The creature who had somehow managed to break the powerful spell of the amulet, an amulet that permitted body and soul to live apart, an amulet given to the dragon as a gift from his former master, the infamous wizard Raistlin Majere.
Mina shivered with the dragonfear. Not even her faith could guard her against it. She was unarmed, helpless. Cyan breathed his poisonous fumes, fumes that were weak, just as his crushing jaws were still weak. The lethal gas would immobilize this puny mortal, and then his jaws would be strong enough to tear the human’s heart from her breast and rip her head from her body.
Silvan was also consumed with dragonfear—fear and astonishment, horror and a terrifying realization: Cyan Bloodbane, the dragon who had been the curse of the grandfather, was now the curse of the grandson. Silvan shuddered to think what he might have done at Glaucous’s bidding if Mina had not opened his eyes to the truth.
Mina! He turned to find her, saw her stagger, clasp her throat, and fall backward to lie senseless on the ground in front of the dragon, whose slavering jaws were opening wide.
Fear for Mina, stronger and more powerful than the dragonfear, ran through Silvan’s veins. Drawing his sword, he leaped to stand over her, placing his body between her and the striking dragon.
Cyan had not wanted this Caladon to die so swiftly. He had looked forward to years of tormenting him as he had tormented his grandfather. Such a disappointment, but it could not be helped. Cyan breathed his poisoned gas on the elf.
Silvan coughed and gagged. The fumes sickened him, he felt himself drowning in them. Weakening, he yet managed a single wild sword swipe at the hideous head.
The blade sank into the soft flesh beneath the jaw, doing little true damage but causing the dragon pain. Cyan reared his head, the sword still embedded in the jaw, jerking the blade from Silvan’s limp hand. A shake of the dragon’s head sent blood spattering and the sword flying across the field
The dragon was whole. He was powerful. He was furious. His hatred for the elves bubbled in his gut. He intended to unleash his poison upon them, watch them die in writhing, choking agony. Cyan spread his wings and bounded into the air.
“Look upon me!” the dragon roared. “Look upon me, Silvanesti! Look upon my might and my power, and look upon your own doom!”
General Konnal saw suddenly the full extent of Glaucous’s deception. He had been duped by the dragon. He had been as much Cyan Bloodbane’s pawn as the man Konnal had despised, Lorac Caladon. In those last moments, Konnal saw the truth. The shield was not protecting them. It was killing them. Horror-stricken at the thought of the terrible fate he had unwittingly brought down upon his people, Konnal stared up at the green dragon that had been his bane. He opened his mouth to give the order to attack, but at that moment, his heart
, filled with fury and guilt, burst in his chest. He pitched forward on his face.
Kiryn ran to his uncle, but Konnal was dead.
The dragon soared higher, circling, beating the air with his great wings, letting the dragonfear settle over the elves like a thick, blinding fog.
Silvan, his vision dimming, sank to the ground beside Mina. He tried, even as he fell dying, to shield her body with his own.
“Mina,” he whispered, the last words he would ever speak, “I love you!”
He collapsed. Darkness closed over him.
Mina heard his words. Her amber eyes opened. She looked to see Silvan lying beside her. His own eyes were closed. He was not breathing. She looked about and saw the dragon above the battlefield, preparing to launch his attack. The elves were helpless, paralzyed by the dragonfear that twisted inside them, squeezing their hearts until they could not breathe or move or think of anything except the coming pain and horror. The elven archers stood staring up at death, their arrows nocked and ready to fire, but their shaking hands were limp on the bow strings, barely able to hold the weapons.
Their general lay dead on the ground.
Mina bent over Silvanoshei. Kissing him, she whispered, “You must not die! I need you!”
He began to breathe, but he did not move.
“The archers, Silvanoshei!” she cried. “Tell them to fire! You are their king! They will obey you.”
She shook him. “Silvanoshei!”
He stirred, groaned. His eyes flickered, but Mina was running out of time.
She leaped to her feet. “Archers!” she shouted in flawless Silvanesti Elvish. “Sagasto! Fire! Fire!”
Her clarion call penetrated the dragonfear of a single archer. He did not know who spoke. He heard only the one word that seemed to have been pounded into his brain with the force of an iron spike. He lifted his bow and aimed at the dragon.
“Sagasto!” Mina cried. “Slay him! He betrayed you!”
Another archer heard her words and obeyed, and then another and another after that. They let fly their arrows and, as they did so, they overcame the dragonfear within themselves. The elves saw only an enemy now, one who was mortal, and they reached swiftly to nock their arrows. The first shafts fired from fingers that still trembled flew none too straight, but their target was so immense that even the worst shot must hit its mark, though perhaps not the mark at which it had been aimed. Two arrows tore holes in the dragon’s wings. One stuck in his lashing tail. One struck the green scales on his chest and bounced off, fell harmlessly to the ground.
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 59
