Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (4 page)

faces dead white in the moonlight, they stared at Galdar, stared at

the arm, stared at Mina.

Galdar ordered his fingers to open and clench, and they

obeyed. He reached out with his left hand, trembling, and

touched the arm.

The skin was warm, the fur was soft, the arm was flesh and

bone and blood. The arm was real.

Galdar reached down the hand and drew his sword. His fin-

gers closed over the hilt lovingly. He was suddenly blinded by

tears.

Weak and shivering, Galdar sank to his knees. "Lady," he

said, his voice shaking with awe and wonder, "I do not know

what you did or how you did it, but I am in your debt for the rest

of my days. Whatever you want of me, I grant you."

"Swear to me by your sword arm that you will grant me what

I ask," Mina said.

"I swear!" Galdar said harshly.

"Make me your commander," said Mina.

Galdar's jaw sagged. His mouth opened and closed. He swal-

lowed. "I . . . I will recommend you to my superiors. . ."

"Make me your commander," she said, her voice hard as the

ground, dark as the monoliths. "I do not fight for greed. I do not

fight for gain."I do not fight for power. I fight for one cause, and

that is glory. Not for myself, but for my god."

"Who is your god?" Galdar asked, awed.

Mina smiled, a fell smile, pale and cold. "The name may not

be spoken. My god is the One God. The One who rides the storm,

the One who rules the night. My god is the One God who made

your flesh whole. Swear your loyalty to me, Galdar. Follow me to

victory."

Galdar thought of all the commanders under whom he'd

served. Commanders such as Ernst Magit, who rolled their eyes

when the Vision of Neraka was mentioned. The Vision was fake,

phony, most of the upper echelon knew it. Commanders such as

the Master of the Lily, Galdar's patron, who yawned openly

during the recitation of the Blood Oath, who had brought the

minotaur into the Knighthood as a joke. Commanders such as the

current Lord of the Night, Targonne, whom everyone knew was

skimming funds from the knightly coffers to enrich himself.

Galdar raised his head, looked into the amber eyes. "You are

my commander, Mina," he said. "I swear fealty to you and to no

other."

Mina touched his hand again. Her touch was painful, scalded

his blood. He reveled in the sensation. The pain was welcome.

For too long now, he'd felt the pain of an arm that wasn't there.

"You will be my second in command, Galdar." Mina turned

the amber gaze upon the other Knights. "Will the rest of you

follow me?"

Some of the men had been with Galdar when he had lost his

arm, had seen the blood spurt from the shattered limb. Four of

these men had'held him down when the surgeon cut off his arm.

They had heard his pleas for death, a death they'd refused to

grant him, a death that he could not, in honor, grant himself.

These men looked at the new arm, saw Galdar holding a sword

again. They had seen the girl walk through the murderous, un-

natural storm, walk unscathed.

These men were in their thirties, some of them. Veterans of

brutal wars and tough campaigns. It was all very well for Galdar

to swear allegiance to this strange woman-child. She had made

him whole. But for themselves. . .

Mina did not press them, she did not cajole or argue. She ap-

peared to take their agreement for granted. Walking over to

where the corpse of the talon leader lay on the ground beneath

the monolith, the body partially wrapped in the tent, Mina picked

up Magit's breastplate. She looked at it, studied it, and then, slid-

ing her arms through the straps, she put on the breastplate over

her wet shirt. The breastplate was too big for her and heavy.

Galdar expected to see her bowed down under the weight.

He gaped to see instead the metal glow red, reform, mold

itself to her slender body, embrace her like a lover.

The breastplate had been black with the image of a skull upon

it. The armor had been hit by the lightning strike, apparently,

though the damage the strike had done was exceedingly strange.

The skull adorning the breastplate was split in twain. A lightning

bolt of steel sliced through it.

"This will be my standard," said Mina, touching the skull.

She put on the rest of Magit's accoutrements, sliding the brac-

ers over her arms, buckling the shin guards over her legs. Each

piece of armor glowed red when it touched her as if newly come

from the forge. Each piece, when cooled, fit her as if it had been

fashioned for her.

She lifted the helm, but did not put it on her head. She handed

the helm to Galdar. "Hold that for me, Subcomrnander," she said.

He received the helm proudly, reverently, as if it were an arti-

fact for which he had quested all his life.

Mina knelt down beside the body of Ernst Magit. Lifting the

dead, charred hand in her own, she bowed her head and began to

pray.

None could hear her words, none could hear what she said or

to whom she said it. The song of death keened among the stones.

The stars vanished, the moon disappeared. Darkness enveloped

them. She prayed, her whispered words bringing comfort.

Mina arose from her prayers to find all the Knights on their

knees before her. In the darkness, they could see nothing, not each

other, not even themselves. They saw only her.

"You are my commander, Mina," said one, gazing upon her as

the starving gaze upon bread, the thirsty gaze upon cool water. "I

pledge my life to you."

"Not to me," she said. "To the One God."

"The One God!" Their voices lifted and were swept up in the

song that was no longer frightening but was exalting, stirring, a

call to arms. "Mina and the One God!"

The stars shone in the monoliths. The moonlight gleamed in

the jagged lightning bolt of Mina's armor. Thunder rumbled

again, but this time it was not from the sky.

"The horses!" shouted one of the knights. "The horses have

returned."

Leading the horses was a steed the likes of which none of

them had ever seen. Red as wine, red as blood, the horse left the

others far behind. The horse came straight to Mina and nuzzled

her, rested its head over her shoulder.

"I sent Foxfire for the mounts. We will have need of them,"

said Mina, stroking the black mane of the blood-colored roan.

"We ride south this night and ride hard. We must be in Sanction

in three days' time."

"Sanction!" Galdar gaped. "But, girl-I mean, Talon Leader-

the Solamnics control Sanction! The city is under siege. Our post-

ing is in Khur. Our orders-"

"We ride this night to Sanction," said Mina. Her gaze turned

southward and never looked back.

"But, why, Talon Leader?" Galdar asked.

"Because we are called," Mina answered.

CHAPTER TWO

SILVANOSHEI

The strange and unnatural storm laid siege to all of Ansa-

lon. Lightning walked the land; gigantic, ground-shaking

warriors who hurled bolts of fire. Ancient trees-huge

oaks that had withstood both Cataclysms-burst into flame and

were reduced to smoldering ruin in an instant. Whirlwinds raged

behind the thundering warriors, ripping apart homes, flinging

boards, brick, and stone and mortar into the air with lethal aban-

Idon. Torrential cloudbursts caused rivers to swell and overflow

their banks, washing away the young green shoots of grain strug-

gling up from the darkness to bask in the early summer sun.

In Sanction, besieger and besieged alike abandoned the ongo-

ing struggle to seek refuge from the terrible storm. Ships on the

.. high seas tried to ride it out, with the result that some went under,

never to be seen or heard from again. Others would later limp

home with jury-rigged masts, telling tales of sailors swept over-

board, the pumps at work day and night.

In Palanthas, innumerable cracks appeared in the roof of the

Great Library. The rain poured inside, sending Bertrem and the

monks into a mad scramble to staunch the flow, mop the floor

and move precious volumes to safety. In Tarsis, the rain was so

heavy that the sea which had vanished during the Cataclysm re-

turned, to the wonder and astonishment of all inhabitants. The

sea was gone a few days later, leaving behind gasping fish and an

ungodly smell.

The storm struck the island of Schallsea a particularly devas-

tating blow. The winds blew out every single window in the Cozy

Hearth. Ships that rode at anchor in the harbor were dashed

against the cliffs or smashed into the docks. A tidal surge washed

away many buildings and homes built near the shoreline. Count-

less people died, countless others were left homeless. Refugees

stormed the Citadel of Light, pleading for the mystics to come to

their aid.

The Citadel was a beacon of hope in Krynn's dark night.

Trying to fill the void left by the absence of the gods, Goldmoon

had discovered the mystical power of the heart, had brought

healing back to the world. She was living proof that although Pal-

adine and Mishakal were gone, their power for good lived on in

the hearts of those who had loved them.

Yet Goldmoon was growing old. The memories of the gods

were fading. And so, it seemed, was the power of the heart. One

after another, the mystics felt their power recede, a tide that went

out but never returned. Still the mystics of the Citadel were glad

to open their doors and their hearts to the storm's victims, provide

shelter and succor, and work to heal the injured as best they could.

Solamnic Knights, who had established a fortress on

Schallsea, rode forth to do battle with the storm-one of the most

fearsome enemies these valiant Knights had ever faced. At risk of

their own lives, the Knights plucked people from the raging

water and dragged them from beneath smashed buildings,

working in the wind and rain and lightning-shattered darkness

to save the lives of those they were sworn by Oath and Measure

to protect.

The Citadel of Light withstood the storm's rage, although its

buildings were buffeted by fierce winds and lancing rain. As if in

a last ditch attempt to make its wrath felt, the storm hurled hail-

stones the size of a man's head upon the citadel's crystal walls.

Everywhere the hailstones struck, tiny cracks appeared in the

crystalline walls. Rainwater seeped through these cracks, trickled

like tears down the walls.

One particularly loud crash came from the vicinity of the

chambers of Goldmoon, founder and mistress of the Citadel. The

mystics heard the sound of breaking glass and ran in fear to see if

the elderly woman was safe. To their astonishment, they found

the door to her rooms locked. They beat upon it, called upon her

to let them inside.

A voice, low and awful to hear, a voice that was Goldmoon's

beloved voice and yet was not, ordered them to leave her in

peace, to go about their duties. Others needed their aid, she said.

She did not. Baffled, uneasy, most did as they were told. Those

who lingered behind reported hearing the sound of sobbing,

heartbroken and despairing.

"She, too, has lost her power,lI said those outside her door.

Thinking that they understood, they left her alone.

When morning finally came and the sun rose to shine a lurid

red in the sky, people stood about in dazed horror, looking upon

the destruction wrought during the terrible night. The mystics

went to Goldmoon's chamber to ask for her counsel, but no

answer came. The door to Goldmoon's chamber remained closed

and barred.

The storm also swept through Qualinesti, another elven

kingdom, but one that was separated from its cousins by dis-.

tance that could be measured both in hundreds of miles and in

ancient hatred and distrust. In Qualinesti, whirling winds up-

rooted giant trees and flung them about like the slender sticks

used in Quin Thalasi, a popular elven game. The storm shook the

fabled Tower of the Speaker of the Sun on its foundation, sent

the beautiful stained glass of its storied windows raining down

upon the floor. Rising water flooded the lower chambers of the

newly constructed fortress of the Dark Knights at Newport,

forcing them to do what an enemy army could not-abandon

their posts.

The storm woke even the great dragons, slumbering, bloated

and fat, in their lairs that were rich with tribute. The storm shook

the Peak of Malys, lair of Malystrx, the enormous red dragon who

now fashioned herself the Queen of Ansalon, soon to become

Goddess of Ansalon, if she had her way. The rain formed rushing

rivers that invaded Malys's volcanic home. Rainwater flowed

into the lava pools, creating enormous clouds of a noxious-

smelling steam that filled the corridors and halls. Wet, half-blind,

choking in the fumes, Malys roared her indignation and flew

from lair to lair, trying to find one that was dry enough for her to