Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (66 page)

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 re-

ceive 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,

stem, 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 immedia tel y. 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 house-

holds 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 re-

cruited 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. Per-

haps 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 Alexis 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 in-

formation will be our little secret."

"My lord?" Gerard gaped. If the dragon Beryl had plum-

meted 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 interro-

gation, 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 pres-

sure 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. Be-

cause 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 cer-

tain. 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 fin-

gers. 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 a~

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 ab-

solve 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 drag-

onlord 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 en-

chanted 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 under-

stand 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 do04 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, feeling 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 en-

joyed 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