The hours passed. The wounded groaned quietly, died quietly. The sun started to fall, a blood-red sun, dropping behind its curtain of gauze. The sun was distorted and misshapen, looking like no sun Galdar had ever before seen. He shifted his gaze away. He did not like seeing the sun through the shield, wondered how the elves could stand it.
His eyes closed in spite of himself. He was nodding off, drowsing on his feet, when Captain Samuval’s voice sounded right next to him, seemed to explode over the minotaur like a fireball.
“Would you look at that!”
Galdar’s eyes flared open. He fumbled for his sword. “What? Where?”
“The sun!” Captain Samuval said. “No, don’t look at it directly. It will blind you!” He shaded his eyes with his hand, peered out from beneath the shadow. “Damn!”
Galdar looked heavenward. The light was so bright it made his eyes water, and he had to look hurriedly away. He wiped the tears from his muzzle and squinted. The sun had burned away the gauze. It shone bright and fierce upon the world as if it were a new-made sun and was exulting in its power. He lowered his gaze, half-blinded.
Mina stood before him, bathed in the blood-red light of the new-born sun.
Galdar was about to raise a shout of joy, but she laid a finger on her lips, counseling silence. The minotaur settled for a huge grin. He did not tell her he was thankful to see her. She had promised she would return to them, and he did not want her to think he doubted. In truth, he had not doubted. Not in his heart. He jerked a thumb toward the horizon.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“The shield is lowered,” Mina replied. She was pale and weary to the point of falling. She reached out her hand, and Galdar was honored and proud to support her with his arm, his right arm. “The spell is broken. As we speak, the forces of General Dogah, many thousands strong, are marching across the border of Silvanesti.”
Leaning on Galdar’s strong arm, Mina entered the cave. The men would have cheered, but she cautioned them to silence.
The men gathered around her, reached out their hands to touch her. Tired as she was, she said a word to each one of them, calling each by name. She would not eat or drink or rest until she had visited the wounded and asked the God to heal them. She prayed over every one of the dead, as well, holding the cold hands in her own, her head bowed.
Then and only then would she drink water and sit down to rest. She summoned her Knights and officers to a council of war.
“We have only to continue a little while longer in hiding,” she told them. “My plan is to meet up with the armies of General Dogah and join them in the capture of Silvanost.”
“How soon can he be here?” Samuval asked.
“Dogah and his forces will be able to march rapidly,” Mina replied. “He will meet no resistance. The elven border patrol was pulled back to deal with us. Their army is in disarray. Their general is dead. The shield has fallen.”
“How, Mina?” Galdar asked and others echoed his wonder. “Tell us how you brought down the shield?”
“I told the king the truth,” Mina said. “I told him that the shield was killing his people. Their king himself brought down the shield.”
The Knights laughed, enjoying the fine irony. They were in excellent spirits, cheered and heartened by Mina’s return and the miraculous lowering of the magical shield, which had for so long kept them from striking at their enemy.
Turning to ask Mina a question, Galdar saw that she had fallen asleep. Gently, he lifted her in his arms and carried her—she was a light as a child—to the bed he had made for her himself, a blanket spread over dried pine needles in a niche in the rock wall. He eased her down, covered her with a blanket. She never opened her eyes.
The minotaur settled himself near her, seated with his broad back against the rocky wall to guard her sleep.
Captain Samuval came to keep watch beside Galdar. The captain offered the minotaur more rat meat, and this time Galdar did not refuse.
“Why would the king lower the shield?” Galdar wondered, crunching the rat, bones and all. “Why would he bring down the elves’ only defense? It doesn’t make any sense. Elves are sneaky. Perhaps it is a trap.”
“No trap,” said Samuval. Bunching up a blanket, he shoved it beneath his head and stretched himself out on the cold cavern floor. “You will see, my friend. In a week’s time, we’ll be walking arm and arm down the streets of Silvanost.”
“But why would he do such a thing?” Galdar persisted.
“Why else?” Samuval said, yawning until his jaws cracked. “You saw the way he looked at her. You saw her take him captive. He did it for love of her, of course.”
Galdar settled himself. He considered the answer, decided that his comrade was right. Before he slept, he whispered the words softly to the night.
“For love of Mina.”
Epilogue
ar from where Mina slept, guarded by her troops, Gilthas watched from a window of the Tower of the Speaker of the Sun as the sun lifted higher into the sky. He imagined its rays gilding the spears of the armies of Beryl as that army marched across the border into Qualinesti. The Solamnic, Gerard, had suggested a plan, a desperate plan, and now he and Marshal Medan waited for Gilthas to make a decision, a decision that would either mean salvation for his people or would end in their ultimate destruction. Gilthas would make that decision. He would make it because he was their king. But he would put off the decision for the moment. He would spend this moment watching the sun shimmer on the green leaves of the trees of his homeland.
On Schallsea, Tasslehoff and Palin watched Beryl and her minions fly closer and closer. They heard the trumpets blasting, heard people crying out in terror. They heard them cry for Goldmoon, but she was gone. The broken bits of the magical Device of Time Journeying lay scattered on the floor, the light of the jewels dimmed by the shadows of the wings of dragons.
Goldmoon did not see the sun. She did not see the dragons. She was far beneath the ocean, wrapped in its darkness. The gnome expostulated and sweated and raced here and dashed there, mopping up water, sopping up oil, cranking cranks and pumping bellows. Goldmoon paid no attention to him. She had been absorbed by the darkness. She traveled northward with the river of the dead.
Silvanoshei stood alone in the Garden of Astarin, beside the dying Shield Tree, and watched the new-made blazing sun wither the tree’s roots.
Poised on the borders of Silvanesti, General Dogah of the Knights of Neraka watched the sun emerge from the crysallis of the fallen shield. The next morning, when the sun had mounted into the sky, when it shone clear and bright, General Dogah gave his army the order to march.
Chapter 1
Night of Blood
okun Es-Kalin, first cousin of the emperor, Ship Master of the House of Kalin’s merchant fleet …
They found Zokun at his estate on the wooded, northern edge of the imperial capital of Nethosak. He was fast asleep in his plush, down-filled bed. Although in command of a mighty fleet of some two hundred ships, he himself had not gone to sea for years and had no desire to do so. Zokun preferred the rewards of power to the work, and many of his tasks were handled by well-trained subordinates who knew their proper place in the imperium.
A bottle of rich and heady briarberry wine, one of the finest produced in the empire and coveted even by the lesser races beyond, stood empty next to three others previously drained. A slim, brown form beside the fat, snoring minotaur turned over in her sleep. This was not his mate, Hila, but a younger female who hoped soon to take Hila’s place.
And so she did, dying along with the Ship Master. The helmed assassins dispatched her with one stroke—compared to the four needed to gut her drunken lover. Both perished swiftly.
No servants heard them cry out. None of Zokun’s family came to his aid. Most of the former had been rounded up and taken away. The latter, including Hila, had been slain at exactly the same time as the venerable Ship Master and his mistress.
The feminine hand took t
he long quill pen, dipped it in a rich, red ink, and drew a line through Zokun’s name. The wielder of the quill took care not to spill any of the ink on her silky gold and sable robes. She moved the pen to another name—
Grisov Es-Neros, councilor to the emperor and patriarch of the house most closely allied with that of Kalin …
Grisov was a scarred, thin minotaur whose fur was almost snow white. His snout had a wrinkled, deflated appearance, and over the years his brow had enveloped his eyes. Despite his grizzled countenance, the patriarch was hardly infirm. His reflexes were still those of the young champion of the Great Circus he had been years before the bloody war against the aquatic Magori. His well-schooled, well-paid healers encouraged him to sleep at a proper hour, but Grisov continued to take his late-night walks, a cherished tradition to him and others in this area of Nethosak. Grisov liked to survey his fiefdom, reminding himself that, as long as Chot was kept in power, the children of Neros would profit. He had no qualms about what part he had played over the years in propping up the emperor; the strongest and most cunning always triumphed.
The street did not seem as well tended as when he was young. Grisov recalled immaculate streets of white marble with nary a sign of refuse. These days, all sorts of trash littered the avenues. Bits and pieces of old food, broken ale bottles, and rotting vegetation offended the patriarch’s sensibility. One large piece of trash, a snoring, drunken sailor, snuggled against the high, spiked wall of the abode of one Grisov’s nephews, a wastrel who lived off the hard work of his uncle.
It was all the fault of the young generation. The young could be blamed for everything. They had never learned the discipline of their elders.
Two able warriors clad in thigh-length, leather-padded metal kilts, colored sea-blue and green—the official clan colors—accompanied the robed minotaur. Each carried a long, double-edged axe shined to a mirror finish and etched with the Neros symbol—a savage wave washing over rocks—in the center of the head. Grisov thought the guards a nuisance, but at least this pair knew not to speak unless spoken to. The guards knew his routine well, knew what stops their master would make, knew what comments he would murmur and how they ought to respond.
Yet, there was one change in the routine this night. Grisov had no intention of letting drunkards invade his domain.
“Kelto, see that piece of garbage on his way. I’ll not have him sully this street!”
“Aye, patriarch.” With a look of resignation, the young warrior headed toward the snoring sailor.
A whistling sound made the patriarch’s ears stiffen. Recognition of what that sound presaged dawned just a second later—a second too late.
A gurgling noise made the elder warrior turn to see his guard transfixed, a wooden shaft piercing his throat.
As the hapless warrior fell, Grisov turned to Kelto—only to find him sprawled on the ground, his blood already pooling on the street.
Peering around, the elder minotaur discovered that the drunken sailor had vanished.
A decoy.
Grisov reached for his sword and cried, “Villains! Cowards! Come to me, you dishonorable—”
Two bolts struck him from opposite directions, one piercing a lung, the other sinking deep into his back. Blood spilled over his luxurious blue robe, overwhelming the green Neros symbol on his chest.
With a short gasp, the patriarch dropped his blade and collapsed beside his guards.
A young minotaur, clad in plain, ankle-length robes of white trimmed with red, approached the senior priestess, bringing a silver flask of wine for the empty chalice sitting next to the pile of parchments. The priestess looked up briefly, then flicked her eyes toward the half-melted candle by which she checked her lists. The servant glanced that way but saw nothing. The servant finished refilling the goblet then quickly backed away.
“Tyra de-Proul?” asked the senior priestess. She was a chestnut-colored female, still attractive in the eyes of her kind. Her words were whispered to the open air. She fixed her gaze in the general direction of a lengthy silk tapestry depicting a white, almost ghostlike bird ascending to the starry heavens. “You are certain?” the priestess asked the emptiness.
A moment later, her ears twitched in clear satisfaction. She nodded, then looked over the lists. Many lines were already crossed out, but she soon located the one she desired.
A smile crossed her visage as she brought the quill down. “Another page complete.”
On the island of Kothas, sister realm to Mithas and a two-day journey from the capital, Tyra de-Proul stirred from sleep. Her mate had been due to return this evening from his voyage to Sargonath, a minor minotaur colony located on the northeastern peninsula of Ansalon, but he had not yet arrived. Feeling pensive, Tyra pushed back her thick, gray mane and rose.
Jolar’s ship might just be late. That shouldn’t bother her at all, yet some vague dread insisted on disturbing her asleep.
The tall, athletic female poured some water. As appointed administrator of the emperor’s interests, Tyra made constant sea trips between the imperial capital and this island’s principal city of Morthosak. Jolar’s lateness could readily be attributed to any number of innocent causes, even foul weather.
A muffled sound beyond her door brought her to full attention. At this hour, no one in the house other than the sentries should be awake, and the sentries knew to make their rounds without causing clamor of any sort.
Tyra seized her sword and scabbard, then headed toward the door. Weapon drawn, she opened it—
And was stunned to see a frantic struggle taking place between Jolar and three helmed minotaurs at the foot of the steps.
One of the intruders had a hand over her mate’s muzzle, but Jolar twisted free and shouted, “Flee, Tyra! The house is under siege! There is no—”
He gasped, a dagger in his side. Jolar fell to the floor.
Like all minotaurs, Tyra had been trained from childhood first and foremost as a warrior. As a young female, she had helped fight back the vile Magori when the crustaceans rose from the sand and surf, the destruction of all minotaurs their sole desire. Never in her life had she turned from a battle, whether on the field or in the political arena.
With a savage cry, Tyra threw herself down the steps, her sword cutting the air as she descended.
The nearest foe stumbled against her mate’s corpse. Tyra thrust the blade through the helmed assassin’s unprotected throat. Before he had even dropped to the floor, she did battle with the second, a young female who moved with the haughtiness of one who thought that before her stood merely a decrepit elder. Tyra caught the intruder’s blade and twisted it to the side. She kicked at her opponent and watched with satisfaction as the latter went flying back into a nearby wall, knocked unconscious.
In the dim illumination, she made out two dead bodies in the lower hall. One also wore a helm, but the other Tyra recognized even though he lay muzzle down.
Mykos. Her eldest son. In three days he would have become the newest addition to the Imperial Guard. General Rahm Es-Hestos, the commander of the emperor’s elite, had personally recommended Mykos, a moment of great pride for his mother.
An axe had done him in. His blood still pooled beside his hacked torso.
Tyra screamed, swinging anew at the last of her attackers. He continued to back away from her.
“Stand still so I can smite the head from your body, you dishonorable dog! My mate—my children!—demand your blood!”
Still edging away, her opponent said nothing.
Too late did the obvious occur to the outraged minotaur. Tyra de-Proul wheeled quickly, but not quickly enough.
The female assassin who she thought had been knocked unconscious stabbed Tyra through the heart.
“Stupid old cow,” the assassin muttered.
Tyra slipped to the floor and joined her mate in death.
So many names crossed out. So few remaining.
She looked over the pages, noting the survivors. Some looked to be of no major consequence
, but a handful tugged at her, urgently.
A chill wind suddenly coursed through the stone chamber that served as her private sanctum. She quickly protected the candle.
My Lady Nephera … came a voice in her head, a voice rasping and striving for breath.
Nephera glanced beyond the candle, seeing only glimpses of a shadowy figure at the edge of her vision. At times, she could make out details—such as a hooded cloak—and within the cloak a minotaur unusually gaunt of form. Of the eyes that stared back at her, she sometimes made out the whites, but this monstrous phantasm had no pupils.
The cloak hung in damp tatters with glimpses of pale flesh beneath. Whenever this particular visitor appeared, the smell of the sea always seemed to accompany him—the sea as the eternal graveyard.
As she reached for a grape from the bowl set by her side—the only sustenance she would permit herself this glorious night—the elegantly clad High Priestess of the Temple of the Forerunners waited for the ominous figure to speak again.
The shade’s decaying mouth did not move, but once more Lady Nephera heard a grating voice. Four of the Supreme Circle now join me in death.
She knew three names already, but the addition of a fourth pleased her. “Who? Name all four so that I can be certain!”
General Tohma, Boril, General Astos …
All names she had. “Who else?”
Kesk the Elder.
“Ah, excellent.” Pulling free one of the parchments, Nephera located the name and gave it a swift, inky stroke—as lethal to the council member in question as the axes and swords that had actually killed him. The elimination of the highest-ranking members of the Supreme Circle, the august governing body under the emperor, gave her immense satisfaction. They, more than most, she held responsible for all that had happened to her and her husband—and to the empire.
Thinking of her mate, the Forerunner priestess scowled. “My husband’s hand-picked warriors move quick, but not quick enough. This should be finished by now!”
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 61
