Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star (37 page)

He sighed heavily.

“You have the letter from King Gilthas,” Goldmoon said. “They must believe that.”

“Must they? You give them too much credit. You should make haste, First Master.” Gerard paused, arguing with himself. “Yet, the more I think about it, the more I am loath to allow you to enter Nightlund alone—”

“I need no protection,” Goldmoon assured him, her voice softening. “Nor do I think there is any protection you could offer me. Whoever summons me will see to it that I arrive safely at my destination. Do not lose faith in the truth, Sir Gerard,” she added gently, “and do not fear the truth, no matter how awful it may seem.”

Odila stood irresolute outside the cave, pondering what to do.

Gerard had a chance to escape, and he was not taking it. He was planning to return to defend Solanthus.
Everyone believes the lies I tell. No one believes the truth.

Drawing her sword, gripping the hilt tightly in her hand, Odila left the cover of the trees and walked boldly into the mouth of the cave. Gerard stood with his back to her, gazing into the darkness beyond. He wore the leathers of a dragonrider, the only clothes he had, the same that he’d worn in prison. He had recovered his sword and sword belt. In his hand he held the leather headgear of a dragonrider. He was alone.

Hearing Odila’s footsteps, Gerard glanced around. He sighted her, rolled his eyes, shook his head.

“You!” he muttered. “All I need.” He looked away into the darkness.

Odila thrust the tip of her sword into the back of his neck. She noted, as she did so, that he’d made a hasty job of putting on his leathers. Either that or he’d dressed in the dark. The tunic was on backward.

“You are my prisoner,” she said, her voice harsh. “Make no move. Do not try to call out to the dragon. One word and I will—”

“You’ll what?” Gerard demanded.

Whipping around, he shoved aside her sword with his hand and strode past her, out of the cave.

“Make haste, Lady, if you’re coming,” he said brusquely. “Or we will arrive back in Solanthus after the battle has ended.”

Odila smiled, but only when his back was turned and he couldn’t see her. Rearranging her face to look stern and severe, she hurried after him.

“Wait a minute!” she said. “Where do you think you are going?”

“Back to Solanthus,” he said coolly. “Don’t you hear the horns? The city is under attack.”

“You are my prisoner—”

“Fine, I’m your prisoner,” he said. Turning, he handed her his swordv “Where is your horse? I don’t suppose you brought another one for me to ride. No, of course not. That would have required forethought, and you have all the brains of a newt. As I recall, however, your horse is a sturdy animal. The distance back to Solanthus is not far. He can carry us both.”

Odila accepted the sword, used the hilt to rub her cheek.

“Where did the Mystic go? And the others? The kender and the cmome. Your . . . urn . . . accomplices.”

“In there,” Gerard said, waving his hand in the direction of the cave. “The dragon is in there, too, at the far end. They plan to vvait until nightfall before they leave. Feel free to go back to confront the dragon. Especially since you brought only one horse.”

Odila pressed her lips tightly together to keep from laughing.

“You really intend to go back to Solanthus?” she demanded, frowning darkly.

“I really do, Lady Knight.”

“Then I guess you’ll need this,” she said and tossed him his sword.

He was so startled, he fumbled, nearly dropped it.

Odila walked past, giving him a wink and sly look from out the corner of her eye. “My horse can carry both of us, Cornbread. As you yourself said, we’d best hurry. Oh, and you better close your mouth. You might swallow a fly.”

Gerard stared, dumbfounded, then sprang after her.

“You believe me?”

“Now I do,” she said pointedly. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Cornbread, but you’re not clever enough to have put on an act like the one I just witnessed. Besides”—she sighed deeply— “your story is such a muddle, what with young ninety-year-old crones, a dead living kender, and a gnome. One has to believe it. No one could make up something like that.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “So you really do have a letter from the elf king?”

“Would you like to see it?” he asked with a grudging smile.

Odila shook her head. “Not me. To be honest, I didn’t even know the elves had a king. Nor do I much care. But it’s good that someone does, I guess. What sort of a fighter are you, Cornbread? You don’t look to have much in the way of muscle.” She glanced disdainfully at his arms. “Maybe you’re the small, wiry type.”

“If Lord Tasgall will even let me fight,” Gerard muttered. “I will offer my parole that I will not try to escape. If they will not accept it, I will do what I can to assist with the wounded or put out fires or however else I may serve—”

“I think they’ll believe you,” she said. “As I said, a story with a kender and a gnome . . .”

They reached the place where Odila had left her horse. Odila swung herself up into the saddle. She looked at Gerard, who looked up at her. He truly had the most startling blue eyes. She had never seen eyes that color before, never seen eyes of such clarity and brilliance. She reached out her hand to him.

Gerard grabbed hold, and she pulled him up to sit uncomfortably on the horse’s rump behind her. Clucking her tongue, she commanded the horse forward.

“You had better put your arms around my waist, Cornbread,” she said, “so that you don’t fall off.”

Gerard clasped his arms around her midriff, holding her firmly, sliding forward on the horse’s rump so that he was pressed against her.

“Nothing personal, Lady Odila,” he said.

“Ah, me,” she returned with a gushy sigh. “And here I was going to go choose my wedding dress.”

“Don’t you ever take anything seriously, Lady?” Gerard asked, nettled.

“Not much,” Odila answered, turning to grin at him. “Why should I, Cornbread?”

“My name is Gerard.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Then why don’t you call me that?”

She shrugged. “The other suits you, that’s all.”

“I think it’s because calling me by my name makes me a person, not a joke. I despise women, and I have the feeling you don’t think much of men. We’ve both been hurt. Maybe both of us fear life more than we fear death. We can discuss that later over a cold pitcher of ale. But for now let’s agree on this much: You will call me Gerard. Or Sir Gerard, if you prefer.”

Odila thought she should have an answer to this, but she couldn’t come up with one readily, one that was funny, at least. She urged her horse to a gallop.

“Stop!” Gerard said suddenly. “I thought I saw something.”

Odila reined in the horse. The animal stood panting, flanks heaving. They had emerged from the tree line along the stream bank, were heading out into the open. The road lay before them, dipped down into a shallow depression before rising again to enter the city. She saw now what Gerard had seen. What she should have seen if she hadn’t been so damn preoccupied with blue eyes.

Riders. Riders on horses. Hundreds of riders pouring across the plains, coming from the west. They rode in formation. Their flags fluttered in the wind. Sunlight gleamed off spear tips and flashed off steel helms.

“An army of Dark Knights,” said Odila.

“And they are between us and the city,” said Gerard.

29

Captor Captive

Quick, before they see us!” said Gerard. “Turn this beast’s head around. We can hide in the cave—”

“Hide!” Odila repeated, casting him a shocked glance over her shoulder. Then she grinned. “I like you, Corn—” She paused, then said, with a wry smile, “Sir Gerard. Any other Knight would have insisted we rush into battle.” Sitting up straight and tall, she placed her hand on her sword hilt and declaimed, “I will stand and fight though the odds are a hundred to one. My honor is my life.”

She turned her horse’s head, began to ride back toward the cave.

Now it was Gerard who looked shocked. “Don’t you believe that?”

“What good is your honor going to do you when you’re dead? What good will it do anyone? I’ll tell you what, Sir Gerard” she continued, “they’ll make a song for you. Some damn stupid song they’ll sing in the taverns, and all the fat shopkeepers will get misty-eyed and slobber in their beer about the brave Knight who fought odds of six hundred to one. But you know who won’t be singing? Those Knights inside Solanthus. Our comrades. Our friends. The Knights who aren’t going to have a chance to fight a glorious battle in the name of honor. Those Knights who have to fight to stay alive to protect people who have put their trust in them.

“So maybe our swords are only two swords, and two swords won’t make a difference. What if every one of those Solamnic Knights in Solanthus decided to ride out onto the battlefield and challenge six hundred of the enemy to glorious combat? What would happen to the peasants who fled to the Knights for safety? Will the peasants die gloriously, or will they be spitted on the end of some soldier’s spear? What will happen to the fat shopkeepers? Will they die gloriously, or will they be forced to watch while enemy soldiers rape their wives and daughters and burn their shops to the ground. The way I see it, Sir Gerard, we took an oath to protect these people. We didn’t take an oath to die gloriously and selfishly in some hopeless, inane contest.

“The main objective of the enemy is to kill you. Every day you remain alive you defeat their main objective. Every day you stay alive you win and they lose—even if it’s only skulking about, hiding in a cave until you can find a way to return to your comrades to fight alongside them. That, to me, is honor.”

Odila paused for breath. Her body trembled with the intensity of her feeling.

“I never thought of it like that,” Gerard admitted, regarding her in admiration. “I guess there is something you take seriously, after all, Lady Odila. Unfortunately, it all appears to have been for nothing.” He raised his arm, pointed past her shoulder. “They’ve sent outriders to guard the flanks. They’ve seen us.”

A group of horsemen, who had been patrolling the edge of the tree line, rode into view about a half mile away. The horse and riders standing alone amidst the prairie grass had been easily spotted. The patrol wheeled as one and was now galloping toward them to investigate.

“I have an idea. Unbuckle your sword belt and give it to me,” Gerard said.

“What—” Frowning, Odila glanced around to see him pulling the leather helm over his head. “Oh!” Realizing what he meant to do, she began to unbuckle her sword. “You know, Sir Gerard, this ruse might work better if you weren’t wearing your tunic backside-front. Hurry, shift it before they get a good look at us!”

Cursing, Gerard pulled his arms out of the sleeves and wriggled the tunic around until the emblem of the Dark Knights of Neraka was in the front.

“No, don’t turn around,” he ordered her. “Just do it. Be quick. Before they can get a good look at us.”

Odila unbuckled her sword belt and slipped it into his hands. He thrust her sword, belt and all, inside his own swordbelt, then pulled on his helm. He did not fear he would be recognized, but the helm was excellent for concealing facial expressions.

“Hand me the reins and put your hands behind your back.”

Odila did as he ordered. “You’ve no idea how exciting I find this, Sir Gerard,” she murmured, breathing heavily.

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, fumbling with the knot. “Take this seriously, at least.”

The patrol was drawing near. He could see details now, and he noted with astonishment that the leader was a minotaur. Gerard’s hopes that they might get out of this alive increased. He had never met or even seen a minotaur before, but he had heard that they were thick-skulled and dim-witted. The remainder of the patrol were Knights of Neraka, experienced cavalrymen, judging by their skill in handling their mounts.

The enemy patrol galloped across the prairie, their horses sending up clouds of dust from the dry grass. A single gesture from the minotaur, who rode in the lead, sent the other members of the patrol out in a wide circle, surrounding Gerard and Odila.

Gerard had thought about riding forward to meet them but decided this might seem suspicious. He was a Dark Knight of Neraka near an enemy stronghold, encumbered with a prisoner, and he had good reason to react as warily to them as they did to him.

The minotaur raised his hand in salute. Gerard returned the salute, thanking whoever might be listening for his training under Marshal Medan. He sat his horse in silence, waited for the minotaur, who was his superior, to speak. Odila’s cheeks were flushed. She glared at them all in stony silence. Gerard only hoped that silence would continue.

The minotaur eyed Gerard closely. The minotaur’s eyes were not the dull eyes of a beast but were bright with intelligence.

“What is your name, your rank, and your commanding officer?” the minotaur demanded. His voice was gruff and growling, but Gerard had no difficulty understanding him.

“I am Gerard uth Mondar, aide to Marshal Medan.”

He gave his real name because if, by some wild chance, they checked with Marshal Medan, he would recognize Gerard’s name and know how to respond. He added the number of the unit serving in Qualinesti but nothing more. Like any good Knight of Neraka, he was suspicious of his comrades. He would answer only what he was asked, volunteering nothing.

The minotaur frowned. “You are a long way from home, dragonrider. What brings you this far north?”

“I was en route to Jelek on Marshal Medan’s blue dragon with an urgent message from Marshal Medan to Lord of the Night Targonne,” Gerard replied glibly.

“You are still a long way from home,” the minotaur stated, the bestial eyes narrowing. “Jelek is a long way east of here.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gerard. “We flew into a storm and were blown off course. The dragon thought he could make it, but we were hit by a sudden gust of wind that flipped us over. I almost fell from the saddle, and the dragon tore a shoulder muscle. He continued to fly as long as he could, but it proved much too painful. We had no idea where we were. We thought we were near Neraka, but then we saw the towers of a city. Having grown up near here, I recognized Solanthus. At about the same time, we saw your army advancing on the city. Fearing to be noticed by the cursed Solamnics, the dragon landed in this forest and located a cave where he could rest and heal his shoulder.

“This Solamnic”—Gerard gave Odila a rough poke in the back—”saw us land. She tracked us to the cave. We fought, and I disarmed and captured her.”

The minotaur looked with interest at Odila. “Is she from Solanthus?”

“She will not talk, sir, but I have no doubt that she is and can provide details about the number of troops stationed inside the city, its fortifications, and other information that will be of interest to your commander. Now, Talon Leader,” Gerard added, “ would like to know your name and the name of your commander.”

This was bold, but he felt that he’d been interrogated enough, and to continue meekly answering questions without asking a few of his own would look out of character.

The minotaur’s eyes flashed, and for a moment, Gerard thought he had overplayed his part. Then the minotaur answered. “My name is Galdar. Our commander is Mina.” He spoke the odd name with a mixture of reverence and respect that Gerard found disconcerting. “What is the message you were carrying to Jelek?”

“My message is to Lord Targonne,” Gerard replied and at the word message, his heart upended and slid down his gullet.

He remembered, suddenly, that he was carrying on his person a message that was not from Marshal Medan, but from Gilthas, king of the Qualinesti; a letter that would ruin him if it fell into the hands of the Dark Knights. Gerard could not believe his ill luck. The day when the letter might have done him some good, he’d left it with the dragon. The day when the letter could do him irreparable harm, it was tucked in his belt. What had he done in his lifetime to so outrage Fate?

“Lord Targonne is dead,” responded the minotaur. “Mina is now Lord of the Night. I am her second-in-command. You may deliver the message to me, and I will relay it to her.”

Gerard was not unduly surprised to hear that Targonne was dead. Promotion up the ranks of the Dark Knights often took place at night in the dark with a knife thrust to the ribs. This Mina had presumably taken command. He wrested his mind from dwelling on that blasted incriminating letter to dealing with the new turn of events. He could give his false message to this minotaur and be done with it. Then what would happen? They would take Odila from him and haul her off to be tortured while he would be thanked for his service and dismissed to return to his dragon.

“I was told to deliver the message to the Lord of the Night,” returned Gerard stubbornly, playing the quintessential commander’s aide—officious and self-important. “If that is not Lord Targonne, then my orders require me to deliver it to the person who has taken his place.”

“As you will.” The minotaur was in a hurry. He had more important things to do than bandy words with a marshal’s aide. Galdar jerked a thumb in the direction of the dust cloud. “They’ll be raising the command tent now. You’ll find Mina there, directing the siege. I’ll send a man with you to guide you.”

“There is really no need, sir—” Gerard began, but the minotaur ignored him.

“As to your prisoner,” the minotaur continued, “you can turn her over to the interrogator. He’ll be setting up shop somewhere near the blacksmith’s forge.”

An image of red hot pokers and flesh-ripping iron tongs came unpleasantly to mind. The minotaur ordered one of his Knights to accompany them. Gerard would have liked to have dispensed with the company, but he didn’t dare argue. Saluting the minotaur, Gerard urged the horse forward. For a moment he feared that the animal, feeling an unfamiliar hand on the reins, would balk, but Odila gave a slight kick with her heels, and the horse started moving. The minotaur stared intently at Gerard, during which the sweat trickled down the front of Gerard’s breast. Then the minotaur wheeled his horse and galloped off. He and the rest of the patrol were soon lost to sight, entering the tree line. Gerard pulled up and peered back in the direction of the river.

“What is it?” their Dark Knight escort demanded.

“I’m concerned about my dragon,” Gerard said. “Razor belongs to the Marshal. They’ve been comrades for years. It would mean my head if anything happened to the beast.” He turned back to face the Knight. “I’d like to go check on the dragon, let Razor know what’s going on.”

“My orders are to take you to Mina,” said the Knight.

“You don’t have to come,” said Gerard shortly. “Look, you don’t seem to understand. Razor must have heard the horn calls. He’s a blue. You know how blues are. They can smell battle. He probably thinks that the cursed Solamnics have turned out the city to search for him. If he feels threatened, he might mistakenly attack your army—”

“My orders are to take you to Mina,” the Knight repeated with dull-witted stubborness. “When you have reported to her, you can return to the dragon. You need not be concerned about the beast. He will not attack us. Mina wouldn’t let him. As to his wounds, Mina will heal him, and you both will be able to return to Qualinesti.”

The Knight rode on, heading for the main body of the army-Gerard muttered imprecations at the Knight from the safety of the helm, but he had no choice except to ride after him.

“I’m sorry,” he said under cover of the horse’s hoofbeats. thought sure he’d fall for it. He gets rid of us, gets out of patrol duty, does what he wants for an hour or two, then reports back.”

Gerard shook his head. “Just my luck that I have to run into the only reliable Dark Knight who ever lived.”

“You tried,”‘ said Odila and by twisting her hands, she managed to give him a pat on his knee. “You did the best you could.”

Their guide rode on ahead, eager to do his duty. Annoyed that they weren’t moving faster, he gestured with his arm for them to hasten their pace. Gerard ignored the Knight. He was thinking about what the minotaur had said, about the Dark Knights laying siege to Solanthus. If that was the case, he might well be riding into an army of ten thousand or more.

“What did you mean when you said I hated men?” Odila asked.

Jolted out of his thoughts, Gerard had no idea what she was talking about, and he said so.

“You said that you despised women and that I hated men. What did you mean?”

“When did I say that?”

“When we were talking about what to call you. You said that both of us feared life more than we did death.”

Gerard felt his skin burn and was glad he was wearing the helm to cover his face. “I don’t remember. Sometimes I say things without thinking—”

“I had the feeling you’d been thinking about this for a long time,” Odila interrupted.