Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (77 page)

"My God required it of me. I cared too much for my looks,"

Mina replied. "I liked to be petted, admired, loved. My hair was

my vanity, my pride. I sacrificed it to prove my faith. I have only

one love, now. Only one loyalty. You must leave me now, Silvan."

Silvan stood up. Reluctantly, he moved to the back of the tent.

"You are my one love, Mina," he said softly.

"It is not me that you love," she said to him. lIlt is the God in

me."

Silvan did not remember leaving her tent, but he found him-

self standing outside in the darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTY

TO YOUR HEALTH

Night settled over the battlefield of Silvanesti, shrouding the

bodies of the dead that were being ceremoniously pre-

pared for burial. The same night wrapped like a winding

cloth around the elven capital of Qualinost.

The night had a feel of doom about it, or so Gerard thought.

He walked the streets of the elven capital with his hand on the

hilt of his sword, his watchful gaze looking for the glint of steel in

every shadowed corner, every dark doorway. He crossed the

street to avoid passing in front of an alley. He scrutinized every

second story window curtain to see if it fluttered, as it might if an

archer stood behind it, ready with an assassin's arrow.

He was conscious, always, of eyes watching him, and once he

felt so threatened that he whipped around, sword drawn, to

defend against a knife in the back. He saw nothing, however, but

he was certain someone had been there, someone who had per-

haps been daunted by the Knight's heavy battle armor and his

shining sword.

Gerard could not even breath a sigh of relief when he reached

safely the Headquarters of the Knights of Neraka. Danger was no

longer sneaking stealthily behind him. Danger was front and

center.

He entered the headquarters to find a single officer on duty,

the draconian asleep the floor.

"Here's the answer for Beryl from Marshal Medan," said

Gerard, saluting.

"About time!" The officer grunted. "You can't believe how

loudly that thing snores!"

Gerard walked over to the draconian, who was twitching in

his sleep and making strange, guttural sounds.

"Groul," Gerard said and reached out a hand to shake the

slumbering draconian.

A hiss, a snarl, a flapping of wings and scrabbling of feet.

Clawed hands grappled for Gerard's throat.

"Hey!" Gerard yelled, fending off the draconian's attack.

"Calm down, will you?"

Groul glared at him with squint lizard eyes. His tongue

flicked. Lowering his hand from Gerard's neck, the draconian

drew back. "Sorry," he muttered. "You startled me."

The marks of Groul's claws stung and burned on Gerard's

skin. "My fault," he said stiffly. "I shouldn't have wakened you so

suddenly." He held out the scroll case. "Here is the marshal's

answer."

Groul took it, eyed it to make certain the seal was intact. Sat-

isfied, he thrust it into the belt of his harness, turned and, with a

grunt, headed for the door. The creature wasn't wearing armor,

Gerard noted, thinking glumly to himself that the draco didn't

need to wear armor. The thick, scaly hide was protection enough.

Gerard drew in a deep breath, sighed it out, and followed the

draconian.

Groul turned. "What are you doing, Nerakan?"

"You are in a hostile land after nightfall. My orders are to ac-

company you safely to the border," Gerard said.

"You are going to protect me?" Groul gave a gurgle that might

have been a laugh. "Bah! Go back to your soft bed, Nerakan. I am

in no danger. I know how to deal with elf scum."

"I have my orders," said Gerard stubbornly. "If anything hap-

pened to you, the marshal would do the same to me."

Groul's lizard eyes glittered in anger.

"I have something with me that might shorten the journey for

both of us," Gerard added. Drawing aside his cloak, he revealed -

a flask he wore on his hip. ,

The glitter of anger brightened to a gleam of desire, a gleam

swiftly hooded.

"What is in the flask, Nerakan?" Groul asked, his tongue dart-

ing out between his sharp teeth.

"Dwarf spirits," said Gerard. "A gift from the marshal. He

asks that once we are safe across the border, we join him in drink-

ing to the downfall of the elves."

Groul made no more protest about Gerard's accompanying him.

The two trudged off through the silent streets of Qualinost. Again,

Gerard felt eyes watching them, but no one attacked. Gerard was

not surprised. The draconian was a fearsome opponent.

Reaching the wilderness, the draconian followed one of the

main trails leading into the woods. Then, with a suddenness that

took Gerard by surprise, Groul plunged into the forest, taking a

route known only to the draconian, or so Gerard guessed. The

draconian had excellent night vision, to judge by the rapidit;y

with which he moved through the tangled forest. The moon Was

waning, but the stars provided light, as did the glow of the lights

of Qualinost. The forest floor was a mass of brush and vines.

Weighed down by his heavy armor, Gerard found the going hard.

He had no need to feign fatigue when he called out for the dra-

conian to halt.

"No need to kill ourselves," Gerard said, panting. "How

about a moment's rest?"

"Humans!" Groul sneered. He was not even breathing hard,

but he came to a halt, looked back at the Knight. To be more pre-

cise, the draconian looked at the flask. "Still, this walking is

thirsty work. I could use a drink."

Gerard hesitated. "My orders-"

"To the Abyss with your orders!" Groul snarled.

"I don't suppose one little nip would hurt," Gerard said and

removed the flask. He drew the cork, sniffed. The pungent, dark

and musky odor of dwarf spirits burned his nostrils. Snorting, he

held the flask at arm's length. "A good year," he said, his eyes

tearing.

The draconian snatched the flask and brought it to his mouth.

He took a long drink, then lowered the flask with a satisfied sigh.

"Very good," he said in husky tones and burped.

"To your health," Gerard said and put the flask to his mouth.

Keeping his tongue pressed against the opening, he pretended to

swallow. "There," he said with seeming reluctance, putting the

cork back in the flask, "that's enough. We should be on our way."

"Not so fast!" Groul seized the flask, drew out the cork and

tossed it away. "Sit down, Nerakan."

"But your mission-"

"Beryl isn't going anywhere," Groul said, settling himself

against the bole of a tree. "Whether she gets this message tomor-

row or a year from tomorrow won't make any difference. Her

plans for the elves are already in motion."

Gerard's heart lurched. "What do you mean?" he asked,

trying to sound casual. He settled down beside the draconian and

reached for the flask.

Groul handed it over with obvious reluctance. He kept his

gaze fixed on Gerard, grudging every drop the Knight suppos-

edly drank, and snatched it back the moment Gerard lowered it

from his lips.

The liquid gurgled down the draconian's throat. Gerard was

alarmed by how much the creature could drink, wondered if one

flask would be enough.

Groul sighed, belched and wiped his mouth with the back of

a clawed hand.

"You were telling me about Beryl," Gerard said.

"Ah, yes!" Groul held the flask to the moonlight. "Here's to

my lady dragon, the lovely Beryl. And to the death of the elves."

He drank. Gerard pretended to drink.

"Yes," said Gerard. "The marshal told me. She has given the

elves six days-"

"Ha, ha! Six days!" Groul's laugh bubbled in his throat.

"The elves do not have six minutes! Beryl's army is probably

crossing the border as we speak! It is a huge army, the largest

seen on Ansalon since the Chaos War. Draconians, goblins, hob-

goblins, ogres, human conscripts. We attack Qualinost from

without. You Neraka Knights attack the elves from within. The

Qualinesti are caught between fire and water with nowhere to

run. At last, I will see the day dawn when not one of the pointy-

eared scum are left alive."

Gerard's stomach twisted. Beryl's army crossing the border!

Perhaps within a day's march on Qualinost!

"Will Beryl herself come to ensure her victory?" he asked,

hoping that the catch in his throat would be mistaken for an af-

tereffect of the fiery liquor.

"No, no." Groul chuckled. "She leaves the elves to us. Beryl is

flying off to Schallsea, to destroy the so-called Citadel of Light.

And to capture some wretched mage. Here, Nerakan, stop hog-

ging that flask!"

Groul grabbed the flask, slid his tongue over the rim.

Gerard's hand closed over the hilt of his knife. Slowly, quietly,

he drew it from its sheath on his belt. He waited until Groul had

lifted the flask one more time. The flask was almost empty. The

draconian tilted back his head to retrieve every last drop.

Gerard struck, driving his knife with all his strength into the

draconian's ribs, hoping to hit the heart.

He would have hit the heart on a human, but apparently a

draconian's heart was in a different place. Either that or the crea-

tures didn't possess hearts, which would not have surprised

Gerard.

Realizing that his blow had not killed, Gerard yanked free the

bloody knife. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword in the

same motion.

Groul was injured but not critically. His grunt of pain rising to

a howl of rage, he jumped up out of the brush, roaring in fury, his

clawed hand grappling for his sword. The draconian attacked

with a hacking blow, meant to split open his opponent's head.

Gerard parried the blow and managed to knock the sword

from Groul's hand. The weapon fell into the brush at Gerard's

feet. Frantically, he kicked it away as Groul sought to recover it.

Gerard drove his booted foot into Groul's chin, knocking him

back, but not felling him.

Drawing a curved-bladed dagger, Groulleaped into the air,

using his wings to lift him well above Gerard. Slashing with his

dagger, Groullaunched himself bodily at the Knight.

The draconian's weight and the force of his blow drove

Gerard to the ground. He fell heavily, landing on his back, with

Groul on top, slavering and snarling and trying to stab Gerard

with the dagger. The draconian's wings beat frantically, flapping

in Gerard's face, stirring up dust that stung Gerard's eyes. He

fought in panicked desperation, striking at Groul with his knife

while trying to seize hold of the draconian's dagger.

The two rolled in the dust. Gerard felt his dagger hit home

more than once. He was covered with blood, but whether the

blood was his or Groul's, he could not tell. Still, Groul would not

die, and Gerard's strength was giving out. Fear-pumped adrena-

line was all that was keeping him going, and that was starting to

recede.

Suddenly Groul choked, gagged. Blood spewed from the dra-

conian, splashed over Gerard' s fac~, blinding him. Groul stiffened,

snarled in fury. He raised himself up off Gerard, lifted his dagger.

The blade fell- from the draconian's hand. Groul fell back onto

Gerard, but this time, the draconian did not move. He was dead.

Gerard paused to draw a shuddering breath of relief, a pause

that was his undoing. Too late, he remembered Medan's warning.

A dead draconian is just as dangerous as a draconian living.

Before Gerard could heave the carcass off him, the body of the

Baaz draconian had changed into solid stone. Gerard felt as if he

had the weight of a tomb on top of him. The stone carcass pressed

him into the ground. He could not breathe. He was slowly suffo-

cating. He fought to heave it off him, but it was too heavy. He

drew in a ragged breath, planning to exert every last ounce of

energy.

The stone statue crumbled to dust.

Gerard staggered to his feet, sank back against a tree. He

wiped Groul's blood from his eyes, spit and retched until he had

cleared it out of his mouth. He rested a few moments, waiting for

his heart to quit trying to beat its way out from beneath his armor,

waited until the battle rage had cleared from his eyes. When he

could see, he fumbled at the draconian's harness, found the scroll

case, and retrieved it.

Gerard took one last look at the heap of dust that had been

Groul. Then, still spitting, still trying to rid himself of the foul

taste in his mouth, the Knight turned and wearily made his way

back through the darkness, back toward the flickering lights of

Qualinost. Lights that were just starting to pale with the comiI)g

of dawn.

Sunshine streamed in through the crystal windows of the

Palace of the Speaker of the Sun. Gilthas sat bathed in the sun-

light, absorbed in his work. He was writing another poem, this

one about his father's adventures during the War 'of the Lance, a