Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (9 page)

hiding the Tower of High Sorcery of Wayreth from her. Conse-

quently, Beryl had begun ever so gradually to expand her control

over human lands. She moved slowly, not wanting to draw

Malys's attention. Malys would not care if here and there a town

was burned or a village plundered. The city of Haven was one

such, recently fallen to Beryl's might. Solace remained un-

touched, for the time being. But Beryl's eye was upon Solace. She

had ordered closed the main roads leading into Solace, letting

them feel the pressure as she bided her time.

The refugees who had managed to escape Haven and sur-

rounding lands before the roads were closed had swelled Solace's

population to three times its normal size. Arriving with their be-

longings tied up in bundles or piled on the back of carts, the

refugees were being housed in what the town fathers designated

"temporary housing." The hovels were truly meant only to be

temporary, but the flood of refugees arriving daily overwhelmed

good intentions. The temporary shelters had become, unfortu-

nately, permanent.

The first person to reach the refugee camps the morning after

the storm was Caramon Majere, driving a wagon loaded with

sacks of food, lumber for rebuilding, dry firewood, and blankets.

Caramon was over eighty-just how far over no one really

knew, for he himself had lost track of the years. He was what they

term in Solamnia a "grand old man." Age had come to him as an

honorable foe, facing him and saluting him, not creeping up to

stab him in the back or rob him of his wits. Hale and hearty, his

big frame corpulent but unbowed ("I can't grow stooped, my gut

won't let me," he was wont to say with a roaring laugh), Cara-

mon was the first of his household to rise, was out every morning

chopping wood for the kitchen fires or hauling the heavy ale bar-

rels up the stairs.

His two daughters saw to the day-to-day workings of the Inn

of the Last Home--this was the only concession Caramon made

to his age--but he still tended the bar, still told his stories. Laura

ran the Inn, while Dezra, who had a taste for adventure, traveled

to markets in Haven and elsewhere, searching out the very best

in hops for the Inn's ale, honey for the Inn's legendary mead, and

even hauling dwarf spirits back from Thorbardin. The moment

Caramon went outdoors he was swarmed over by the children of

Solace, who one and all called him "Grampy" and who vied for

rides on his broad shoulders or begged to hear him tell tales of

long-ago heroes. He was a friend to the refugees who would have

likely had no housing at all had not Caramon donated the wood

and supervised the construction. He was currently overseeing a

project to build permanent dwellings on the outskirts of Solace,

pushing, cajoling, and browbeating the recalcitrant authorities

into taking action. Caramon Majere never walked the streets of

Solace but that he heard his name spoken and blessed.

Once the refugees were assisted, Caramon traveled about the

rest of Solace, making certain that everyone was safe, raising

hearts and spirits oppressed by the terrible night. This done, he

went to his own breakfast, a breakfast he had come to share, of

late, with a Knight of Solamnia, a man who reminded Caramon

of his own two sons who had died in the Chaos War.

In the days immediately following the Chaos War, the Solam-

nic Knights had established a garrison in Solace. The garrison had

been a small one in the early days, intended only to provide

Knights to stand honor guard for the Tomb of the Last Heroes.

The garrison had been expanded to counter the threat of the great

dragons, who were now the acknowledged, if hated, rulers of

much of Ansalon.

So long as the humans of Solace and other cities and lands

under her control continued to pay Beryl tribute, she allowed the

people to continue on with their lives, allowed them to continue

to generate more wealth so that they could pay even more tribute.

Unlike the evil dragons of earlier ages, who had delighted in

burning and looting and killing, Beryl had discovered that

burned-out cities did not generate profit. Dead people did not

pay taxes.

There were many who wondered why Beryl and her cousins

with their wondrous and terrible magicks should covet wealth,

should demand tribute. Beryl and Malys were cunning creatures.

If they were rapaciously and wantonly cruel, indulging in whole-

sale slaughter of entire populations, the people of Ansalon would

rise up out of desperation and march to destroy them. As it was,

most humans found life under the dragon rule to be relatively

comfortable. They were content to let well enough alone.

Bad things happened to some people, people who no doubt

deserved their fate. If hundreds of kender were killed or driven

from their homes, if rebellious Qualinesti elves were being tor-

tured and imprisoned, what did this matter to humans? Beryl and

Malys had minions and spies in every human town and village,

placed there to foment discord and hatred and suspicion, as well

as to make certain that no one was trying to hide so much as a

cracked copper from the dragons.

Caramon Majere was one of the few outspoken in his hatred

of paying tribute to the dragons and actually refused to do so.

"Not one drop of ale will I give to those fiends," he said heat-

edly whenever anyone asked, which they rarely did, knowing

that one of Beryl's spies was probably taking down names.

He was staunch in his refusal, though much worried by it.

Solace was a wealthy town, now larger than Haven. The tribute

demanded from Solace was quite high. Caramon's wife Tika had

pointed out that their share was being made up by the other citi-

zens of Solace and that this was putting a hardship on the rest.

Caramon could see the wisdom of Tika's argument. At length he

came up with the novel idea of levying a special tax against him-

self, a tax that only the Inn paid, a tax whose monies were on no

account to be sent to the dragon but that would be used to assist

those who suffered unduly from having to pay what was come to

be known as "the dragon tax."

The people of Solace paid extra tax, the city fathers refunded

them a portion out of Caramon's contribution, and the tribute

went to the dragon as demanded.

If they could have found a way to silence Caramon on the

volatile subject, they would have done so, for he continued to be

loud in his hatred of the dragons, continued to express his views

that "if we just all got together we could poke out Beryl's eye with

a dragonlance." Indeed, when the city of Haven was attacked by

Beryl just a few weeks earlier-ostensibly for defaulting on its

payments-the Solace town fathers actually came to Caramon and

begged him on bended knee to cease his rabble-rousing remarks.

Impressed by their obvious fear and distress, Caramon agreed

to tone down his rhetoric, and the town fathers left happy. Cara-

mon did actually comply, expressing his views in a moderate tone

of voice as opposed to the booming outrage he'd used previously.

He reiterated his unorthodox views that morning to his break-

fast companion, the young Solamnic.

" A terrible storm, sir," said the Knight, seating himself oppo-

site Caramon.

A group of his fellow Knights were breakfasting in another

part of the Inn, but Gerard uth Mondar paid them scant attention.

They, in their turn, paid him no attention at all.

"It bodes dark days to come, to my mind," Caramon agreed,

settling his bulk into the high-backed wooden booth, a booth

whose seat had been rubbed shiny by the old man's backside.

"But all in all I found it exhilarating."

"Father!" Laura was scandalized. She slapped down a plate of

beefsteak and eggs for her father, a bowl of porridge for the

Knight. "How can you say such things? With so many people

hurt. Whole houses blown, from what I hear."

"I didn't mean that," Caramon protested, contrite. "I'm sorry

for the people who were hurt, of course, but, you know, it came

to me in the night that this storm must be shaking Beryl's lair

about pretty good. Maybe even burned the evil ol.d bitch out.

That's what I was thinking." He looked worriedly at the young

Knight's bowl of porridge. "Are you certain that's enough to eat,

Gerard? I can have Laura fry you up some potatoes-"

"Thank you, sir, this is all I am accustomed to eat for break-

fast," Gerard said as he said every day in response to the same

question.

Caramon sighed. Much as he had come to like this young

man, Caramon could not understand anyone who did not enjoy

food. A person who did not relish Otik's famous spiced potatoes

was a person who did not relish life. Only one time in his own life

had Caramon ever ceased to enjoy his dinner and that was fol-

lowing the death several months earlier of his beloved wife Tika.

Caramon had refused to eat a mouthful for days after that, to the

terrible worry and consternation of the entire town, which went

on a cooking frenzy to try to come up with something that would

tempt him.

He would eat nothing, do nothing, say nothing. He either

roamed aimlessly about the town or sat staring dry-eyed out the

stained glass windows of the Inn, the Inn where he had first met

the red-haired and annoying little brat who had been his comrade

in arms, his lover, his friend, his salvation. He shed no tears for

her, he would not visit her grave beneath the vallenwoods. He

would not sleep in their bed. He would not hear the messages of

condolence that came from Laurana and Gilthas in Qualinesti,

from Goldmoon in the Citadel of Light.

Caramon lost weight, his flesh sagged, his skin took on a gray

hue.

"He will follow Tika soon," said the townsfolk.

He might have, too, had not one day a child, one of ,the refugee

children, happened across Caramon in his dismal roamings. The

child placed his small body squarely in front of the old man and

held out a hunk of bread.

"Here, sir," said the child. "My mother says that if you don't

eat you will die, and then what will become of us?"

Caramon gazed down at the child in wonder. Then he knelt

down, gathered the child into his arms, and began to sob uncon-

trollably. Caramon ate the bread, every crumb, and that night he

slept in the bed he had shared with Tika. He placed flowers on

her grave the next morning and ate a breakfast that would have

fed three men. He smiled again and laughed, but there was some-

thing in his smile and in his laughter that had not been there

before. Not sorrow, but a wistful impatience.

Sometimes, when the door to the Inn opened, he would look

out into the sunlit blue sky beyond and he would say, very softly,

"I'm coming, my dear. Don't fret. I won't be long."

Gerard uth Mondar ate his porridge with dispatch, not really

tasting it. He ate his porridge plain, refusing to flavor it with

brown sugar or cinnamon, did not even add salt. Food fueled his

body, and that was all it was good for. He ate his porridge, wash-

ing down the congealed mass with a mug of tar-bean tea, and lis-

tened to Caramon talk about the awful wonders of the storm.

The other Knights paid their bill and left, bidding Caramon a

polite good-day as they passed, but saying nothing to his com-

panion. Gerard appeared not to notice, but steadfastly spooned

porridge from bowl to mouth.

Caramon watched the Knights depart and interrupted his

story in mid-lightning bolt. "1 appreciate the fact that you share

your time with an old geezer like me, Gerard, but if you want to

have breakfast with your friends-"

"They are not my friends," said Gerard without bitterness or

rancor, simply making a statement of fact. "1 much prefer dining

with a man of wisdom and good, common sense." He raised his

mug to Caramon in salute.

"It's just that you seem. . ." Caramon paused, chewed steak

vigorously. "Lonely," he finished in a mumble, his mouth full. He

swallowed, forked another piece. "You should have a girl friend

or . . . or a wife or something."

Gerard snorted. "What woman would look twice at a man

with a face like this?" He eyed with dissatisfaction his own re-

flection in the highly polished pewter mug.

Gerard was ugly; there was no denying that fact. A childhood

illness had left his face cragged and scarred. His nose had been

broken in a fight with a neighbor when he was ten and had

healed slightly askew. He had yellow hair-not blond, not fair,

just plain, straw yellow. It was the consistency of straw, too, and

would not lie flat, but stuck up at all sorts of odd angles if al-

lowed. To avoid looking like a scarecrow, which had been his

nickname when he was young, Gerard kept his hair cut as short

as possible.

His only good feature were his eyes, which were of a startling,

one might almost say, alarming blue. Because there was rarely