Dragons of a Lost Star

18 Beryl’s Messenger

Marshal Medan sat stolidly at his desk in his office that was located in the massive and ugly building the Knights of Neraka had constructed in Qualinost. The Marshal considered the building every bit as ugly as did the elves, who averted their eyes if they were forced to walk anywhere near its hulking, gray walls, and he rarely entered his own headquarters. He detested the barren, cold rooms. Due to the humid air, the stone walls accumulated moisture and always seemed to be sweating. He felt stifled whenever he had to remain here extended periods of time and the feeling was not in his imagination. For the greater protection of those inside, the building had no windows, and the smell of mold was all-pervasive. Today was worse than ever. The smell clogged his nose and gave him a swelling pain behind his eyes. Due to the pain and the pressure, he was listless and lethargic, found it difficult to think.

“This will never do,” he said to himself and was just about to leave the room to take a refreshing walk outside when his second-in-command, a Knight named Dumat, knocked at the wooden door.

The Marshal glowered, returned to seat himself behind the desk, and gave a horrific snort in an effort to clear his nose.

Taking the snort for permission to enter, Dumat came in, carefully shutting the door behind him.

“He’s here,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

“Who is it, Dumat?” Medan asked. “Another draco?”

“Yes, my lord. A bozak. A captain. He’s got two baaz with him. Bodyguards, I’d say.”

Medan gave another snort and rubbed his aching eyes.

“We can handle three dracos, my lord,” said Dumat complacently. Dumat was a strange man. Medan had given up trying to figure him out. Small, compact, dark-haired, Dumat was in his thirties, or so Medan supposed. He really knew very little about him. Dumat was quiet, reserved, rarely smiled, kept to himself. He had nothing to say of his past life, never joined the other soldiers in boasting of exploits either on the battlefield or between the sheets. He had come to the Knighthood only a few years earlier. He told his commander only what was necessary for the records and that, Medan had always guessed, was probably all lies. Medan had never been able to figure out why Dumat had joined the Knights of Neraka.

Dumat was not a soldier. He had no love for battle. He was not prone to quarreling. He was not sadistic. He was not particularly skilled at arms, although he had proven in a barracks brawl that he could handle himself in a fight. He was even-tempered, though there were smoldering embers in the dark eyes that told of fires burning somewhere deep inside. Medan had never been more astonished in his life than the day almost a year ago when Dumat had come to him and said that he had fallen in love with an elven woman and wanted to make her his wife.

Medan had done all he could to discourage relations between elves and humans. He was in a difficult situation, dealing with explosive racial tensions, trying to retain control of a populace that actively hated its human conquerors. He had to maintain discipline over his troops, as well. He laid down strict rules against rape and those who, in the early days of the elven occupation, broke the rules were given swift, harsh punishment. But Medan was experienced enough in the strange ways of people to know that sometimes captive fell in love with captor and that not all elf women found human males repulsive.

He had interviewed the elf woman Dumat wanted to marry, to make certain she was not being coerced or threatened. He found that she was not some giddy maiden, but a grown woman, a seamstress by trade. She loved Dumat and wanted to be his wife. Medan represented to her that she would be ostracized from the elven community, cut off from family and friends. She had no family, she told him, and if her friends did not like her choice of husband, they were no true friends. He could not very well argue this point, and the two were married in a human ceremony, since the elves would not officially recognize such a heinous alliance.

The two lived happily, quietly, absorbed in each other. Dumat continued to serve as he had always done, obeying orders with strict discipline. Thus, when Medan had to decide which of his Knights and soldiers he could trust, he had chosen Dumat as among those few to remain with him to assist in the last defense of Qualinost. The rest were sent away south to assist the Gray Robes in their continuing fruitless and ludicrous search for the magical Tower of Wayreth. Medan had told Dumat plainly what he faced, for the Marshal would not lie to any man, and had given him a choice. He could stay or take his wife and depart. Dumat had agreed to stay. His wife, he said, would remain with him.

“My lord,” said Dumat, “is something wrong?”

Medan came to himself with a start. He had been woolgathering, staring at Dumat all the while so that the man must be wondering if his nose was on crooked.

“Three draconians, you said.” Medan forced himself to concentrate. The danger was very great, and he could not afford any more mental lapses.

“Yes, my lord. We can deal with them.” Dumat was not boastful. He was merely stating a fact.

Medan shook his head and was sorry he’d done so. The pain behind his eyes increased markedly. He gave another ineffectual snort. “No, we can’t keep killing off Beryl’s pet lizard men. She will eventually get suspicious. Besides, I need this messenger to report back to the great green bitch, assure her that all is proceeding according to plan.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Medan rose to his feet. He eyed Dumat. “If something goes wrong, be prepared to act on my command. Not before.”

Dumat gave a nod and stepped aside to allow his commander to precede him, falling into step behind.

“Captain Nogga, my lord,” said the draconian, saluting.

“Captain,” said the Marshal, advancing to meet the draconian. The bozak was enormous, topping Medan by a lizard head, massive shoulders and wing tips. The baaz bodyguards—shorter, but just as muscular—were attentive, alert, and armed to the teeth, of which they had a good many.

“Her Majesty Beryl has sent me,” Captain Nogga announced. “I am to apprise you of the current military situation, answer any questions you might have, and take stock of the situation in Qualinost. Then I am to report back to Her Majesty.”

Medan bowed his acknowledgment. “You must have had a perilous journey, Captain. Traveling through elven territory with only a small guard. It is a wonder you were not attacked.”

“Yes, we heard that you were having difficulty maintaining order in this realm, Marshal Medan,” Nogga returned. “That is one of the reasons Beryl is sending in her army. As to how we came, we flew here on dragonback. Not that I fear the pointy-ears,” he added disparagingly, “but I wanted to take a look around.”

“I hope you find everything to your satisfaction, Captain,” Medan said, not bothering to hide his ire. He had been insulted, and the draconian would have thought it strange if he did not respond.

“Indeed, I was pleasantly surprised. I had been prepared to find the city in an uproar, with rioting in the streets. Instead I find the streets almost empty. I must ask you, Marshal Medan, where are the elves? Have they escaped? Her Majesty would be most unhappy to hear that.”

“You flew over the roads,” Medan said shortly. “Did you see hordes of refugees fleeing southward?”

“No, I did not,” Nogga admitted. “However—”

“Did you see refugees heading east, perhaps?”

“No, Marshal, I saw nothing. Therefore I—”

“Did you notice, as you flew over Qualinost, on the outskirts of the city, a large plot of cleared land, freshly dug-up ground?”

“Yes, I saw it,” Nogga replied impatiently. “What of it?”

“That is where you will find the elves, Captain,” said Marshal Medan.

“I don’t understand,” Captain Nogga said.

“We had to do something with the bodies,” Medan continued offhandedly. “We couldn’t leave them to rot in the streets. The elderly, the sickly, the children, and any who put up resistance were dispatched. The rest are being retained for the slave markets of Neraka.”

The draconian scowled, his lips curled back. “Beryl gave no orders concerning slaves going to Neraka, Marshal.”

“I respectfully remind you and Her Majesty that I receive my orders from Lord of the Night Targonne, not from Her Majesty. If Beryl wishes to take up the matter with Lord Targonne, she may do so. Until then, I follow my lord’s commands.”

Medan straightened his shoulders, a movement that brought his hand near his sword hilt. Dumat had his hand on his sword hilt, and he moved quietly, with seeming nonchalance, to stand near the two baaz. Nogga had no idea that his next words might be his last. If he demanded to see the mass grave or the slave pens, the only thing he would end up seeing would be Medan’s sword sticking out of his scaly gut.

As it was, the draconian shrugged. “I am acting on orders myself, Marshal. I am an old soldier, as are you. Neither of us has any interest in politics. I will report back to my mistress and, as you so wisely suggest, urge her to talk it over with your Lord Targonne.”

Medan eyed the draconian intently, but, of course, there was no way to read the expression on the lizard’s face. He nodded and, removing his hand from his sword hilt, strode past the draconian to stand in the doorway, where he could take a breath of fresh, sweet-scented air.

“I have a complaint to register, Captain.” Medan glanced over his shoulder at Nogga. “A complaint against a draconian. One called Groul.”

“Groul?” Nogga was forced to clump over to where Medan stood. The draconian’s eyes narrowed. “I intended to ask about Groul. He was sent here almost a fortnight ago, and he has not reported back.”

“Nor will he,” said Medan brusquely. He drew in another welcome breath of fresh air. “Groul is dead.”

“Dead!” Nogga was grim. “How did he die? What is this about a complaint?”

“Not only was he foolish enough to get himself killed,” Medan stated,

“he killed one of my best agents, a spy I had planted in the house of the Queen Mother.” He cast a scathing glance at Nogga. “In future, if you must send draconian messengers, make certain that they arrive sober.”

Now it was Nogga’s turn to bristle. “What happened?”

“We are not certain,” Medan said, shrugging. “When we found the two of them—Groul and the spy—they were both dead. At least we have to assume that the pile of dust next to the elf’s corpse was Groul. What we do know is that Groul came here and delivered to me the message sent by Beryl. He had already imbibed a fair quantity of dwarf spirits. He reeked of them. Presumably after he left me, he fell in with the agent, an elf named Kalindas. The elf had long complained over the amount of money he was being paid for his information. My guess is that Kalindas confronted Groul and demanded more money. Groul refused. The two fought and killed each other. Now I am short one spy, and you are short one draconian soldier.”

Nogga’s long, lizard tongue flicked from between his teeth. He fiddled with his sword hilt.

“Strange,” said Nogga at last, his red-eyed gaze intent upon the Marshal, “that they should end up slaying each other.”

“Not so strange,” Medan returned dryly. “When you consider that one was soused and the other was slime.”

Nogga’s teeth clicked together. His tail twitched, scraping across the floor. He muttered something that Medan chose to ignore.

“If that is all, Captain,” the Marshal said, turning his back yet again upon the draconian and walking toward his office, “I have a great deal of work to do. . . .”

“Just a moment!” Nogga rumbled. “The orders Groul carried stated that the Queen Mother was to be executed and her head given over to Beryl. I assume these orders have been carried out, Marshal. I will take the elf’s head now. Or did yet another strange circumstance befall the Queen Mother?”

Pausing, Medan rounded on his heel. “Surely the dragon was not serious when she gave those orders?”

“Not serious!” Nogga scowled.

“Beryl’s sense of humor is well known,” said the Marshal. “I thought Her Majesty was having a jest with me.”

“It was no jest, I assure you, my lord. Where is the Queen Mother?”

Nogga demanded, teeth grating.

“In prison,” Medan said coolly. “Alive. Waiting to be handed over to Beryl as my gift when the dragon enters Qualinost in triumph. Orders of Lord Targonne.”

Nogga had opened his mouth, prepared to accuse Medan of treachery. The draconian snapped it shut again.

Medan knew what Nogga must be thinking. Beryl might consider herself the ruler of Qualinesti. She might consider the Knights to be acting under her auspices, and in many ways they were. But Lord Targonne was still in command of the Dark Knights. More importantly, he was known to be in high favor with Beryl’s cousin, the great red dragon Malystryx. Medan had been wondering how Malys was reacting to Beryl’s sudden decision to move troops into Qualinesti. In that snap of Nogga’s jaws, Medan had his answer. Beryl had no desire to antagonize Targonne, who would most certainly run tattling to Malys that he was being mistreated.

“I will see the elf bitch,” Nogga said sullenly. “To make certain there are no tricks.”

The Marshal gestured toward the stairs that led to the dungeons located below the main building. “The corridor is narrow,” the Marshal said, when the baaz would have followed after their commander. “We will all be a tight fit.”

“Wait here,” Nogga growled to the baaz.

“Keep them company,” said Medan to Dumat, who nodded and almost, but not quite, smiled.

The draconian stumped down the spiral stairs. Cut out of the bedrock, the stairs were rough and uneven. The dungeons were located far underground, and they soon lost the sunlight. Medan apologized for not having thought to bring a torch with him and hinted that perhaps they should go back.

Nogga brushed that aside. Draconians can see well in the darkness, and he was having no difficulty. Medan followed several paces after the captain, groping his way in the darkness. Once, quite by accident, he stepped hard on Nogga’s tail. The draconian grunted in irritation. Medan apologized politely. They wound their way downward, finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

Here torches burned on the walls, but by some strange fluke they gave little light and created a great deal of smoke. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Nogga blinked and grumbled, peering this way and that in the thick atmosphere. Medan shouted for the gaoler, who came to meet them. He wore a black hood over his head, in the manner of an executioner, and was a grim and ghostly figure in the smoke.

“The Queen Mother,” Medan said.

The gaoler nodded and led them to a cell that was nothing more than an iron-barred cage set into a rock wall. He pointed silently inside. An elf woman crouched on the floor of the cell. Her long golden hair was lank and filthy. Her clothes were rich, but torn and disheveled, stained with dark splotches that might have been blood. Hearing the Marshal’s voice, she rose to meet them, stood facing them defiantly. Although there were six cells in the dungeon, the rest were empty. She was the only prisoner.

The draconian approached the cell. “So this is the famous Golden General. I saw the elf witch once long ago in Neraka at the time of the fall.”

He looked her up, and he looked her down, slowly, insultingly. Laurana stood at ease, calm and dignified. She regarded the draconian steadfastly, without flinching. Marshal Medan’s hand clasped spasmodically over the hilt of his sword.

I need this lizard alive, he reminded himself.

“A pretty wench,” said Nogga with a leer. “I remember thinking so at the time. A fine wench to bed, if one can stomach the stench of elf.”

“A wench who proved something of a disaster to you and your kind,”

Medan could not refrain from observing, though he realized almost the moment the words were said that the remark had been made a mistake. Nogga’s eyes flared in anger. His lips curled back from his teeth, the tip of his long tongue flicked out. Staring at Laurana, he sucked his tongue in with a seething breath. “By the lost gods, elf, you will not look at me so smugly when I am through with you!”

The draconian seized hold of the iron-barred door. Muscles on his gigantic arms bunched. With a jerk and a pull, he wrenched the door free of its moorings and flung the door to one side, nearly crushing the gaoler, who had to make a nimble jump to save himself. Nogga bounded inside the cell.

Caught off guard by the draconian’s sudden violent outburst, Medan cursed himself for a fool and leaped to stop him. The gaoler, Planchet, was closer to the draconian, but his way was impeded by the iron door that Nogga had tossed aside and that was now leaning at a crazy angle against one of the other cells.

“What are you doing, Captain?” Medan shouted. “Have you lost your senses? Leave her alone! Beryl will not want her prisoner damaged.”

“Bah, I’m only having a little fun,” Nogga growled, reaching out his hand.

Steel flashed. From the folds of her dress, Laurana snatched a dagger. Nogga skidded to a halt, his clawed feet scraping against the stone floor. He stared down in astonishment to find the dagger pressed against his throat.

“Don’t move,” Laurana warned, speaking the draconian’s own language.

Nogga chuckled. He had recovered from his initial amazement. Defiance added spice to his lust, and he knocked aside the dagger with his clawed hand. The blade slit his scaled skin, spattering blood, but he ignored the wound. He seized hold of Laurana. Still holding the dagger, she stabbed at him, while she struggled in his strong grasp.

“I said let her go, Lizard!”

Locking his fists together, Medan struck Nogga a solid thwack on the back of the head. The blow would have felled a human, but Nogga was barely distracted by it. His clawed hands tore at Laurana’s dress. Planchet finally managed to kick aside the cell door. Grabbing hold of a flaring torch, he brought it down on the draconian’s head. Cinders flew, the torch broke in half.

“I’ll be back to you in a moment,” Nogga promised with a snarl and flung Laurana against the wall. Teeth bared, the draconian turned to face his assailants.

“Don’t kill him!” Medan ordered in Elvish, and punched the draconian in the gut, a blow that doubled him over.

“Do you think there’s a chance we might?” Planchet gasped, driving his knee into the draconian’s chin, snapping his head back. Nogga sank to his knees, but he was still trying to regain his feet. Laurana grabbed hold of a wooden stool and brought it down on the draconian’s head. The stool smashed into splinters, and Nogga slumped to the floor. The draconian lay on his belly, legs spraddled, the fight gone out of him at last.

The three of them stood breathing heavily, eyeing the draconian.

“I am deeply sorry, Madam,” said Medan, turning to Laurana. Her dress was torn. Her face and hands were spattered with the draconian’s blood. His claws had raked across the white skin of her breasts. Drops of blood oozed from the scratches, sparkled in the torchlight. She smiled, exultant, grimly triumphant.

Medan was enchanted. He had never seen her so beautiful, so strong and courageous, and at the same time so vulnerable. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he put his arms around her, drew her close.

“I should have known the creature would try something like this,”

Medan continued remorsefully. “I should never have put you at such risk, Laurana. Forgive me.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. She said a soft word of reassurance and then, ever so gently, she slipped out of his grasp, her hand drawing the tatters of her dress modestly over her breasts.

“No need to apologize, Marshal,” she said, her eyes alight with mischief. “To be truthful, I found it quite exhilarating.”

She looked down at the draconian. Her voice hardened, her hand clenched. “Many of my people have already given their lives in this battle. Many more will die in the last fight for Quali-nost. At last I feel I am doing my share, small though that may be.”

When she looked back up at him, the mischief sparkled. “But I fear we have damaged your messenger, Marshal.”

Medan grunted something in response. He dared not look at Laurana, dared not remember her warmth as she had rested, just a moment, in his arms. All these years, he had been proof against love, or so he had convinced himself. In reality, he had fallen in love with her long ago, pierced through by love for her, for the elven nation. What bitter irony that only now, at the end, had he come to fully understand.

“What do we do with him, sir?” Planchet asked. The elf was limping, favoring a sore knee.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to haul that heavy carcass of his up the stairs,” Medan said harshly. “Planchet, escort your mistress to my office. Bolt the door behind you and remain there until you receive word that it is safe to leave. On your way there, tell Dumat to come down here and bring those baaz with him.”

Planchet removed his cloak and wrapped it around Laurana’s shoulders. She held the cloak fast over her torn dress with one hand and placed her other hand on Medan’s arm. She looked up into his eyes.

“Are you certain you will be all right, Marshal?” she asked softly. She was not talking about leaving him alone with the dracon-ian. She was talking about leaving him alone with his pain.

“Yes, Madam,” Medan said, and he smiled in his turn. “Like you, I found it exhilarating.”

She sighed, lowered her gaze, and for a moment it seemed as if she would say something else. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear her say that her heart was buried with her husband Tanis. He didn’t want to hear that he was jealous of a ghost. It was enough for him to know that she respected him and trusted him. He took hold of her hand, as it lay on his arm. Lifting her fingers, he pressed them to his lips. She smiled tremulously, reassured, and allowed Planchet to lead her away. Medan remained in the dungeons alone, glad of the quiet, glad of the smoke-tinged darkness. He massaged his aching hand and, when he was once more master of himself, he picked up the bucket of water that they used to douse the torches and flung the filthy liquid in Captain Nogga’s face.

Nogga snuffled and spluttered. Shaking his head muzzily, he heaved himself up off the floor.

“You!” he snarled and swung round, waving his meaty fist. “I’ll have you—”

Medan drew his sword. “I would like nothing better than to drive this steel into your vitals, Captain Nogga. So don’t tempt me. You will go back to Beryl, and you will tell Her Majesty that in accord with the orders of my commander, Lord Targonne, I will turn over the elven capital of Qualinost to her. I will, at the same time, hand over the Queen Mother, alive and undamaged. Understood, Captain?”

Nogga glanced around, saw that Laurana was gone. His red eyes glinted in the darkness. He wiped a dribble of blood and saliva from his mouth, regarded Medan with a look of inveterate hatred.

“At that time, I will return,” said the draconian, “and we will settle the score that lies between us.”

“I look forward to it,” said Medan politely. “You have no idea how much.”

Dumat came running down the stairs. The baaz were right behind him, weapons in hand.

“Everything is under control,” Medan stated, returning his sword to its sheath. “Captain Nogga forgot himself for a moment, but he has remembered again.”

Nogga gave an incoherent snarl and slouched out of the cell, wiping away blood and spitting out a broken tooth. Motioning to the baaz, he made his way back up the stairs.

“Provide an honor guard for the captain,” Medan ordered Dumat. “He is to be escorted safely to the dragon that brought him here.”

Dumat saluted and accompanied the draconians up the stairs. Medan lingered a moment longer in the darkness. He saw a splotch of white on the floor, a tattered bit of Laurana’s dress, torn off by the draconian. Medan reached down, picked it up. The fabric was as soft as gossamer. Smoothing it gently with his hand, he tucked it into the cuff of his shirt sleeve, and then went upstairs to see the Queen Mother safely home.