Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (55 page)

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 Qua-

linesti. I have my horse. . . ."

"Nonsense," said Palin crisply, displeased at any change in

plans. "The griffon can carryall 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 are 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 rau-

cous 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 cap-

ture 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 Tassle-

hoff 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 be-

tween 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. Flail-

ing 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 trick-

led 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

rom. "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 grif-

fon demanded. "The beast gains on us. We cannot outfly it."

Palin looked back, hoping that the griffon might have mis-

judged. 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.

The clouds rose to immense heights, towering spires of light-

ning-shot gray-black, taller than the mighty fortress of Pax

Tharkas. Palin looked up in awe, his head bent so that his neck

ached and still he could not see the top. The griffon swooped

nearer. Tasslehoff was still shouting something, but the wind took

his words and whipped them away behind him, as it whipped his

topknot.

Palin looked back. The dragon was almost on them. The claws

of the dragon twitched now in anticipation of the capture. She

would breathe her lethal gas on them, then seize them all three in

one of her huge clawed feet and hurl them to the ground. With

luck, the fall would kill them. The dragon would devour the grif-

fon and then, at her leisure, she would rip their bodies apart,

searching for the device.

Palin averted his eyes, stared ahead into the storm and urged

the griffon to fly faster.

The cloud fortress rose before them. A flash of lightning

blinded him. Thunder rolled, sounding like enormous cables

turning a gigantic cog wheel. A solid bank of clouds suddenly

parted, revealing a dark, lightning-lit hallway curtained by driv-

ing rain.

The griffon plunged into the cloud bank. Rain lashed at them

in stinging torrents, deluged them. Wiping the water from his

eyes, Palin stared in awe. Row after row of columns of gray cloud

rose from a mottled gray floor to support a ceiling of boiling

black.

Clouds shrouded them, wrapped around them. Palin could

griffon's head. Lightning sizzled near him. He could smell the

brimstone, thunder crashed, nearly stopping his heart.

The griffon flew a zigzag course among the columns, soaring

up and diving down, rounding and circling, then doubling back.

Sheets of rain hung like silver tapestries, drenching them as they

flew beneath. Palin could not see the dragon, though he could

hear the discordant horn blast of its frustration as it tried desper-

ately to find them.

The griffon left the cavernous halls of the fortress of storm

clouds and flew out into the sunshine. Palin looked back, waited

tensely)for the dragon to appear. The griffon chortled, pleased.

The dragon was lost somewhere in the storm clouds.

Palin told himself that he'd had no choice in the matter, he

had acted logically in escaping. He had to protect the magical

artifact. Gerard had practically ordered the mage to leave. If he

had stayed, he could have accomplished nothing. They would

have all died, and the artifact would have been in Beryl's pos-

session.

The artifact was safe. Gerard was either dead or a prisoner.

There was nothing that could be done to save him now.

"Best to forget it," Palin said to himself. "Put it out of my

mind. What's done is done and can't be undone."

He dropped remorse and guilt into a dark pit, a deep pit in his

soul and covered them with the iron grating of necessity.

Sir," reported Meda~'s subcommander, "the Knight is. at-

tackig-alone. The magIc-user and the kender are escapmg.

What are your orders?"

Attacking alone. So he is," Medan replied, astonished.

The Solamnic came crashing through the underbrush, bran-

dishing his sword and shouting the Solamnic battle-cry, a cry

Marshal Medan had not heard in many years. The sight took the

marshal back to the days when knights in shining silver and

gleaming black clashed headlong on the field of battle; when

champions came forward to duel to the death while armies

looked on, their fates in the hands of heroes; when combatants

saluted each other with honor before commencing with the

deadly business at hand.

Here was Medan, crouched in a bush, safely ensconced

behind a large tree stump, taking potshots at a washed-up mage

and a kender.

"Can I sink any lower?" he muttered to himself.

The archer was drawing his bow. Having lost sight of the

mage, he shifted his aim to the Knight, going for the legs, hoping

for a crippling shot.

"Belay that," Medan snapped, resting his hand on the

bowman's arm.

The subcommander looked around. "Sir? Your orders?"

The Solamnic was closing in. The magic-user and the kender

were out of range, lost in the trees and the mists.

"Sir, should we pursue them?" the subcommander asked.

"No," Medan answered and saw a look of amazement cross

the man's face.

"But our orders," he ventured.

"I know our orders," Medan snapped. "Do you want to be re-

membered in song as the Knight who slew a kender and a

broken-down old mage, or as a Knight who fought a battle with

an equal?"

The sub commander evidently did not want to be remembered

in song. "But our orders," he persisted.

Damn the man for a thick-headed lout! Medan glowered at

him.

"You have your orders, Subcommander. Don't make me repeat

them."

The forest grew dark again. The sun had risen only to have

its warmth and light cut off by storm clouds. Thunder rumbled

in the distance, a few drops of rain pelted down. The kender

and the mage had disappeared. They were on the back of the

griffon and heading away from Qualinesti. Away from Lau-

rana. Now, with luck, he could shield her from any involve-

ment with the mage.

"Go meet the Knight," Medan said, waving his hand. "He

challenges you to combat. Fight him."

The subcommander rose from his place, sword drawn. The

archer dropped his bow. He held a dagger in his hand, ready to

strike from behind while the subcommander attacked from the

front.

"Single combat," Medan added, holding the bowman back.

"Face him one on one, Subcommander."

"Sir?" The man was incredulous. He looked back to see if the

marshal was joking.

What had the subcommander been before he became a'

Knight? Sell-sword? Thief? Thug? Well, this day, he would have a

lesson in honor.

"You heard me," Medan said.

The subcommander exchanged dour glances with his fellow,

then walked forward without enthusiasm to meet the Solamnic's

crashing charge. Medan rose to his feet. Crossing his arms over

his chest, he leaned back against one of the white boulders to

watch the encounter.

The sub commander was a powerfully built man with a bull

neck, thick shoulders and muscular arms. He was accustomed to

relying on his strength and low cunning in battle, hacking and

slashing at his opponent until either a lucky cut or sheer brute

force wore the enemy down.

The sub commander charged head-on like a snorting bison,

swinging his sword with murderous strength. The Solamnic

parried the blow, met it with such force that sparks glittered on

the steel blades. The subcommander held on, swords locked,

trying to drive his opponent into the ground. The Solamnic

was no match for such strength. He recognized this and

changed tactics. He st~ggered backward, leaving himself

temptingly open.

The sub commander fell for the ruse. He leaped to the attack,

slashing with his blade, thinking to make a quick kill. He man-

aged to wound the knight in the left upper arm, cutting through

the leather armor to open a great bleeding gash.

The Solamnic took the blow and never winced. He held his

ground, watched for his opportunity and coolly drove his sword

into the subcommander's belly.

The subcommander dropped his sword and doubled over

with a horrible, gurgling cry, clutching himself, trying to hold his

insides in. The Solamnic yanked his sword free. Blood gushed

from the man's mouth. He toppled over.

Before Medan could stop him, the bowman had lifted his

bow, shot an arrow at the Solamnic. The arrow plunged deep

into the Knight's thigh. He cried out in agony, stumbled,

off-balance.

"You cowardly bastard!" Medan swore. Snatching the bow, he

slammed it against the rock, smashing it.

The archer then drew his sword and ran to engage the

wounded Solamnic. Medan considered halting the battle, but he

was interested to see how the Solamnic handled this new chal-

lenge. He watched dispassionately, glorying in a battle-to-the-

death contest such as he had not witnessed in years.

The archer was a shorter, lighter man, a cagier fighter than the

subcommander. He took his time, testing his opponent with jab-

bing strikes of his short sword, searching for weaknesses, wear-

ing him down. He caught the Solamnic a glancing blow to the

face beneath the raised visor. The wound was not serious, but

blood poured from it, running into the Solamnic's eye, partially

blinding him. The Solamnic blinked the blood out of his eye and

fought on. Crippled and bleeding, he grimaced every time he was

forced to put weight on his leg. The arrow remained lodged in his

thigh. He had not had time to yank it out. Now he was on the of-

fensive. He had to end this fight soori, or he would not have any

strength to pursue it.

Lightning flashed. The rain fell harder. The men struggled to-

gether over the cbrpse of the subcommander. The Solamnic

jabbed and slashed, his sword seeming to be everywhere like a

striking snake. Now it was the archer who was hard-pressed. He

had all he could do to keep that snake's fang from biting.

"Well struck, Solamnic," Medan said softly more than once,

watching with pleasure the sight of such skill, such excellent

training.

The archer slipped in the rain-wet grass. The Solamnic lunged

forward on his wounded leg and drove his sword into the man's

breast. The archer fell, and so did the Solamnic, collapsing on his

knees onto the forest floor, gasping for breath.

Medan left his boulder, walked out into the open. The So-

lamnic, hearing him coming, staggered to his feet with a wrench-

ing cry of pain. His wounded leg gave out beneath him.

Limping, the Solamnic placed his back against a tree trunk to

provide stability and raised his sword. He looked at death. He

knew he could not win this last battle, but at least he would die

upright, not on his knees.

"I thought the flame had gone out in the hearts of the Knight-

hood, but it lives on in one man seemingly," said Medan, facing

the Solamnic. The marshal rested his hand on the hilt of his

sword, but he did not draw it.

The Solamnic's face was a mask of blood. Eyes of a startling,

arresting blue color regarded Medan without hope, but without

fear.

He waited for Medan to strike.

The marshal stood in the mud and the rain, straddling the

bodies of his two dead subordinates, and waited.

The Solamnic's defiance began to waver. He realized sud-

denly)what Medan was doing, realized that he was waiting for

the Solamnic to collapse, waiting to capture him alive.

"Fight, damn you!" The Solamnic lurched forward, lashed out

with his sword.

Medan stepped to one side.

The Solamnic forgot, put his weight on his bad leg. The leg

gave way. He lost his balance, fell to the forest floor. Even then, he

made one last opportunity to try to struggle to his feet, but he was

too weak. He had lost too much blood. His eyes closed. He lay

face down in the muck alongside the bodies of his foes.

Medan rolled the Knight over. Placing his hand on the

Knight's thigh for leverage, the marshal took hold of the arrow

and yanked it out. The Knight groaned with the pain, but did not

regain consciousness. Medan took off his cloak, cut the material

into strips with his sword, and made a battlefield tourniquet to

staunch the bleeding. He then wrapped the Knight warmly in

what remained of the cloak.

"You have lost a lot of blood," Medan said, returning his

sword to its sheath, "but you are young and strong. We will see

what the healers can do for you."

Rounding up the two horses of his subordinates, Medan

threw the bodies unceremoniously over their saddles, tied them

securely. Then the marshal whistled to his own horse. The animal

came trotting over in response to his master's summons to stand

quietly at Medan's side.

Medan lifted the Solamnic in his arms, eased the wounded

Knight into the saddle. He examined the wound, was pleased to

see that the tourniquet had stopped the flow of blood. He relaxed

the tourniquet a notch, not wanting to cut off the blood flow to

the leg completely, then climbed into the saddle. Seating himself

behind the injured Knight, Medan put his arm around the man

and held him gently but firmly in the saddle. He took hold of the

reins of the other two horses and, leading them behind, began the

long ride back to Qualinost.

CHAPTER TWENTYONE

THE DEVICE OF TIME JOURNEYING

The wild and terrif~ing flight. from the dragon ended in

blue sky and sunshine. The flIght took longer than usual,

for the griffon had been blown off course by the storm. The

beast made landfall somewhere in the wilds of the Kharolis

Mountains to feed on a deer, a delay Palin chafed at, but all his

pleas for haste went unheeded. After dining, the griffon took a

nap, while Palin paced back and forth, keeping a firm grip on

Tasslehoff. When night fell, the creature stated that it would not

fly after dark. The griffon and Tasslehoff slept. Palin sat fuming

and waiting for the sun to rise.

They continued their journey the next day. The griffon landed

Palin and Tasslehoff at midmorning in an empty field not far from

what had once been the Academy of Sorcery. The stone walls of

the academy still stood, but they were black and crumbling. The

roof was a skeleton of charred beams. The tower that had once

been a symbol of hope to the world, hope that magic had re-

turned, was nothing but a pile of rubble, demolished by the blast

that had tom out its heart.

Palin had once planned to rebuild the academy, if for no

other reason than to show his defiance for Beryl. When he

began to lose the magic, began to feel it slip away from him

like water falling from cupped palms, he discarded the idea. It

was a waste of time and effort. Better far to spend his energies

searching for artifacts of the Fourth Age, artifacts that still

held the magic inside and could still be used by those who

knew how.

"What is that place?" Tasslehoff asked, sliding down from

the griffon's back. He stared with interest at the destroyed

walls with their gaping, empty windows. "And what happened

to it?"