Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Thirty To Your Health

Night settled over the battlefield of Silvanesti, shrouding the bodies of the dead that were being ceremoniously prepared 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 perhaps 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. Satisfied, 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 accompany 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 happened 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 darting 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 drinking 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 rapidity 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 draconian 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 precise, 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 tomorrow 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 supposedly 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, hobgoblins, 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 aftereffect 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 hogging 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 creatures 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, Groul leaped into the air, using his wings to lift him well above Gerard. Slashing with his dagger, Groul launched 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 adrenaline was all that was keeping him going, and that was starting to recede.

Suddenly Groul choked, gagged. Blood spewed from the draconian, splashed over Gerard’ s face, 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 suffocating. 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 coming of dawn.

Sunshine streamed in through the crystal windows of the Palace of the Speaker of the Sun. Gilthas sat bathed in the sunlight, absorbed in his work. He was writing another poem, this one about his father’s adventures during the War of the Lance, a poem that also contained encoded messages for two families of elves who had come under suspicion of being rebel sympathizers.

He had nearly completed it and was planning to send Planchet out to deliver the poem to those who took an interest in the king’s literary pursuits, when Gilthas suddenly visibly shuddered. His fingers holding the quill pen shook. He left a blot upon his manuscript and laid down the pen hurriedly. Cold sweat beaded his brow.

“Your Majesty!” Planchet asked, alarmed. “What is wrong? Are you unwell?” He left his task of sorting the king’s papers and hastened to his side.

“Your Majesty?” he repeated anxiously.

“I just had the strangest feeling,” Gilthas said in a low voice.

“ As though a goose had walked on my grave.”

“ A goose, Your Majesty!” Planchet was baffled.

“It is a human saying, my friend.” Gilthas smiled. “Did you never hear it? My father used to use it. The saying describes that feeling you get when for no reason that you can explain a chill causes your flesh to raise and your hair to prickle. That’s exactly how I felt a moment ago. What is even stranger is that for an instant I had a very strong impression of my cousin’s face! Silvanoshei. I could see him quite clearly, as clearly as I see you.”

“Silvanoshei is dead, Your Majesty,” Planchet reminded him.

“Slain by ogres. Perhaps the goose was walking on his grave.”

“I wonder,” said Gilthas, thoughtfully. “My cousin did not look dead, I assure you. He wore silver armor, the kind worn by Silvanesti warriors. I saw smoke and blood, battle raged around him, but he was not touched by it. He stood at the edge of a precipice. I reached out my hand, but whether it was to pull him back or push him over, I don’t know.”

“I trust you were going to pull him back, Your Majesty,” said Planchet, looking slightly shocked.

“I trust so, too.” Gilthas frowned, shook his head. “I remember being quite angry and afraid. Strange.” He shrugged. “Whatever it was, the feeling’s gone now.”

“Your Majesty must have dozed off. You have not been getting much sleep—”

Planchet suddenly ceased speaking. Making a sign to Gilthas to keep silent, his servant crept across the room and put his ear to the door.

“Someone is coming, Your Majesty,” Planchet reported, speaking Common.

“At this hour in the morning? I am expecting no one. I hope it’s not Palthainon,” said Gilthas. “I have to finish this poem. Tell him I am not to be disturbed.”

“Let me pass!” An elven voice outside the door spoke to the guards. The voice was calm but held an underlying note of tension and strain. “I have a message to the king from his mother.”

One of the guards knocked loudly. Planchet cast a warning glance at Gilthas, who subsided back into his chair and resumed his writing.

“Hide those clothes!” he whispered urgently, with a gesture.

Gilthas’s traveling clothes lay neatly folded on top of a chest in preparation for another nightly journey. Planchet whisked the clothes back into the chest which he closed and locked. He dropped the key into the bottom of a large vase of fresh-cut roses.

This done, he walked over to answer the knock.

Gilthas played with his pen and took up a pensive attitude.

Lounging back in his chair, he propped his feet up on a cushion, ran the tip of the feather over his lips, and stared at the ceiling.

“The Runner Kelevandros,” announced the guard, “to see His Majesty.”

“Let him enter” said Gilthas languidly.

Kelevandros came into the room in a bound. He was hooded and cloaked, the hood covering his face. Planchet shut the door behind him. Kelevandros threw back his hood. His face was deathly pale.

Gilthas rose involuntarily to his feet.

“What—”

“Your Majesty must not excite himself,” Planchet remonstrated with a glance at the door, reminding the king that the guards could hear him.

“What has happened, Kelevandros?” Gilthas asked indolently. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“Your Majesty!” Kelevandros said in a low, quivering voice.

“The queen mother has been arrested!”

“Arrested?” Gilthas repeated in astonishment. “Who has done this? Who would dare? And why? What is the charge?”

“Marshal Medan. Your Majesty.” Kelevandros gulped. “I don’t know how to say this—”

“Out with it, man!” Gilthas said sharply.

“Last night, Marshal Medan placed your honored mother under arrest. He has orders from the dragon Beryl to put. . . to put the queen mother to death.”

Gilthas stared wordlessly. The blood drained from his face, as if someone had taken a knife and drawn it across his throat. He was so pale and shaken that Planchet left the door and hastened to the king’s side, placed a firm and comforting hand on Gilthas’s shoulder.

“I attempted to stop him, Your Majesty,” Kelevandros said miserably. “I failed.”

“Last night!” Gilthas cried, anguished. “Why didn’t you come to me at once?”

“I tried, Your Majesty,” Kelevandros said, “but the guards would not let me inside without orders from Palthainon.”

“Where has Medan taken the queen mother?” Planchet asked.

“What is the charge against her?”

“The charge is harboring the sorcerer Palin and helping him escape with the magical device brought by the kender. I don’t know where Medan has taken my mistress. I went first to the Knight’s headquarters, but if she is being held there, no one would tell me. I have had people searching for her all night. They are to report back to Kalindas, who has offered to remain in the house in case there is news. Finally, one of the guards who is a friend of our cause admitted me.

“I came next to you. You have heard nothing then?” Kelevandros looked anxiously at the king.

“No,” said Gilthas. The word made no sound as it left his pallid lips.

“We are about to learn something more, I believe,” said Planchet, his ear cocked. “That is Medan’s heavy tread on the staircase. His footsteps shake the house. He comes quickly.”

They could hear the stamp of the guards’ feet as they came to attention, hear the thud of their spears strike the floor. One of the guards started to knock, but the knock was never finished.

Medan, accompanied by one of his bodyguards—helmed and wearing black leather armor—thrust the door open, strode into the room.

“Your Majesty—”

Gilthas lunged from his chair. He covered the distance between himself and the marshal in two great bounds. Catching hold of the startled Medan by the throat, Gilthas slammed the human back against the wall, while Planchet accosted the bodyguard. Seizing hold of the man’s arm, Planchet twisted it behind his back, held a knife to his ear.

“What have you done with my mother?” Gilthas demanded, his voice hard and grim. “Tell me!” He tightened his grip on Medan’s throat. “Tell me!”

The marshal had been caught flat-footed by the king’s sudden assault. Medan did not move. The young king’s fingers were exceptionally strong, and he appeared to know precisely what he was doing.

The marshal was by no means afraid. He had his hand on the handle of his dirk and could at any moment draw the weapon and plunge it into the king’s belly. That was not, however, what Medan had come here to accomplish.

He stared at Gilthas long moments without speaking, then said, as best he could for being choked, “Either the pup has grown into a wolf, or I am in the presence of a consummate actor.” Noting the fearless determination in the young elf’s eyes, the resolution in the jaw, the firmness of the fingers and the expertness of the hold, Medan had his answer. “I tend to think the latter,” he gasped.

“My mother, sir!” Gilthas said through clenched teeth. “Where is she?”

“I am here, Gilthas,” Laurana replied, her voice echoing inside the helm of the Neraka Knights.

“Queen Mother!” Planchet gasped. He dropped the knife he had been holding and fell to his knees. “Forgive me! I had no idea.”

“You weren’t supposed to, Planchet,” Laurana said, removing the helm. “Let the marshal go, Gilthas. I am safe. For the moment. As safe as any of us.”

Gilthas let loose of Medan, who stepped away from the wall, massaging his bruised throat.

“Mother, are you hurt?” Gilthas demanded. “Did he harm you? If he did, I swear—”

“No, my son, no!” Laurana reassured him. “The marshal has treated me with all possible respect. With great kindness, even. He took me to his house last night. This morning, he provided me with this disguise. The marshal fears my life may be in peril. He took me into custody for my own safety.”

Gilthas frowned as if he found all this difficult to believe.

“Mother, sit down. You look exhausted. Planchet, bring my mother some wine.”

While Planchet went to fetch the wine, the marshal walked over to the door. Flinging it open, he stepped out into the hallway. The guards scrambled to attention.

“Guards, the rebel force has been reported within the city limits. His Majesty’s life is in danger. Clear the household. Send all the servants home. Everyone. No one is to remain within the palace. Is that understood? I want guards posted at all the entrances. Admit no one, with the exception of my aide. Send him to king’s chambers directly upon his arrival. Go!”

The guards departed, and soon their voices could be heard loudly ordering everyone to leave the palace. The voices of the servants rose in perplexity or consternation. It was early morning, breakfast was prepared but had not been served, the floors had yet to be swept. The guards were firm. There was a hubbub of voices, the household staff exclaiming loudly and fearfully, the scream of an overexcited maid. The guards herded everyone out the doors and took up their positions outside as ordered.

Within a few moments, the palace was strangely, unnaturally quiet.

Medan reentered the room. “Where do you think you are going?” he demanded, finding Kelevandros about to depart.

“I must take this news to my brother, my lord,” Kelevandros said. “He is frantic with worry—”

“You are not taking this news to him or to anyone. Go sit down and keep quiet.”

Laurana glanced up swiftly at this, looked searchingly at Kelevandros. The elf glanced at her uncertainly and then did as he was told.

Medan left the door open behind him. “I want to be able to hear what is going on outside. Are you all right, madam?”

“Yes, thank you, Marshal. Will you join me in a glass of wine?”

“With His Majesty’s permission.” The marshal made a slight bow.

“Planchet,” Gilthas said, “pour the marshal some wine.” The king continued to stand protectively beside his mother, continued to glower at the marshal.

Medan raised his glass in a toast. “I congratulate you, Your Majesty. I have been duped for the first and only time in my life. That weak, vacillating, poetry-loving act of yours took me in completely. I have long wondered how and why so many of my best plans were thwarted. I believe that I now have the answer. Your health, Your Majesty.”

Medan drank the wine. Gilthas turned his back on the man.

“Mother, what is going on?”

“Sit down, Gilthas, and I will tell you,” Laurana said. “Or better yet, you may read for yourself.”

She looked to Medan. He reached inside his armor, produced the scroll sent by the dragon, and handed it, with a new and marked show of respect, to the king.

Gilthas walked to the window, unrolled the parchment. He held it to the waning twilight and read it slowly and carefully.

“The dragon cannot mean this,” he said, his voice strained.

“She means it,” said Medan grimly. “Erase all doubt from your mind, Your Majesty. Beryl has long been seeking an excuse to destroy Qualinesti. The rebel attacks grow bolder. She suspects the elves of keeping the Tower of Wayreth from her. The unfortunate fact that Palin Majere was discovered hiding in the house of the queen mother merely confirms the dragon’s suspicions that the elves and the sorcerers are in collusion to rob her of her magic.”

“We pay her tribute—” Gilthas began.

“Bah! What is money to her? She demands tribute only because it pleases her to think she is inflicting a hardship on you. Magic is what she lusts after, magic of the old world, magic of the gods. It is a pity this blasted device ever came into his land. A pity you sought to keep it from me, madam.” The marshal’s voice was stem. “Had you turned it over to me, this tragedy might have been averted.”

Laurana sipped her wine, made no answer.

Medan shrugged. “But, you did. Spilled ale, as they said. Now you must fetch the device back. You must, madam,” he reiterated.

“I have done what I can to stall for time, but I have bought us only a few days. Send your griffon messenger to the Citadel. Instruct Palin Majere to turn over the device and the kender who bears it. I will take them to the dragon personally. I may be able to stave off this doom that hangs over us—”

“Us!” Gilthas cried in anger. “You hold the executioner’s axe, Marshal! The axe hangs poised over our heads, not yours!”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Medan replied with a low bow. “I have lived in this land for so long that it has come to seem like my home.”

“You are our conqueror,” said Gilthas, speaking the words distinctly, separately them with bitter emphasis on each. “You are our master. You are our jailer. Qualinesti can never be your home, sir.”

“I suppose not, Your Majesty,” said Medan, after a moment’s pause. “I should like you to consider, however, that I escorted your mother to the palace, when I might have escorted her to the block. I have come to warn you of the dragon’s intent, when I might have been marching prisoners to the market place to serve as targets for my archers.”

“What is all this generosity to cost us?” Gilthas demanded, his voice cold. “What is the price you set on our lives, Marshal Medan?”

Medan smiled slightly. “I should like to die in my garden, Your Majesty. Of old age, if that is possible.” He poured himself another glass of wine.

“Do not trust him, Your Majesty,” Planchet said softly, coming to pour wine for the king.

“Don’t worry,” said Gilthas, twisting the fragile stem of the glass in his fingers.

“And now, madam, we do not have much time,” the Marshal said. “Here is paper and ink. Compose your letter to Majere.”

“No, Marshal,” Laurana said firmly. “I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought. Beryl must never come into possession of this device. I would die a hundred deaths first.”

“You would die a hundred deaths, madam,” said Medan grimly, “but what about thousands of deaths? What about your people? Will you sacrifice them to save some sorcerer’s toy?”

Laurana was pale, resolute. “It is not a toy, Marshal Medan. If Palin is right, it is one of the most powerful magical artifacts ever made. Qualinesti could be burned to the ground before I would turn over the artifact to the Beryl.”

“Tell me the nature of this artifact, then,” Medan said.

“I cannot, Marshal,” Laurana replied. “It is bad enough that Beryl knows the artifact exists. I will not provide her with any more information.” Calmly, she lifted her blue eyes to meet his irate gaze. “You see, sir, I have reason to believe that I am being spied upon.”

Medan’s face flushed. He seemed about to say something, changed his mind and turned abruptly to speak to the king.

“Your Majesty. What have you to say?”

“I agree with my mother. She told me of this device, described its powers to me. I will not give the device to the dragon.”

“Do you realize what you are doing? You sentence your nation to death! No magical artifact is worth this,” Medan protested angrily.

“This one is, Marshal,” Laurana said. “You must trust me.”

Medan regarded her intently.

She met his gaze, held it, did not blink or flinch away.

“Hush!” Planchet warned. “Someone’s coming.”

They could hear footfalls on the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“My aide,” Medan replied.

“Can he be trusted?” Laurana asked.

Medan gave a wry smile. “Judge for yourself, Madam.”

A Knight entered the room. His black armor was covered in blood and gray dust. He stood still for some moments, breathing heavily, his head bowed, as if climbing those stairs had drained every last ounce of his energy. At length, he raised his head, lifted his hand, held out a scroll to the marshal.

“I have it, sir. Groul is dead.”

“Well done, Sir Gerard,” said the Marshal, accepting the scroll.

He looked at the Knight, at the blood on his armor. “Are you wounded?” he asked.

“To be honest, my lord, I can’t tell,” Gerard said with a grimac. “There isn’t one single part of me that doesn’t hurt. But if I am, it not serious, or else I’d be lying out there dead in the street.”

Laurana was staring, amazed.

“Queen Mother,” Gerard said, bowing.

Laurana seemed about to speak, but, glancing at Medan, she caught herself.

“I do not believe that we have met, sir,” she said coolly.

Gerard’s blood-masked face relaxed into a faint smile. “Thank you, madam, for trying to protect me, but the marshal knows I am a Solamnic Knight. I am the marshal’s prisoner, in fact.”

“A Solamnic?” Gilthas was startled.

“The one I told you about,” Laurana said. “The Knight who accompanied Palin and the kender.”

“I see. And so you are the marshal’s prisoner. Did he do this to you?” Gilthas demanded angrily.

“No, Your Majesty,” said Gerard. “A draconian did this to me. Beryl’s messenger. Or rather, Beryl’s former messenger.” He sank down in a chair, sighed, and closed his eyes.

“Some wine here,” Medan ordered. “The dragon won’t be receiving any more information from Qualinesti,” he added with satisfaction. “Beryl will wait at least a day to hear from me. When she does not, she will be forced to send another messenger. We have gained some time, at least.”

He handed Gerard a glass of wine.

“No, my lord,” said Gerard, accepting the wine, but not drinking it. “We haven’t. The dragon deceived us. Beryl’s forces are on the march. Groul figured that they might already be crossing the border. The largest army assembled since the Chaos War is marching on Qualinesti.”

A silence as of death settled over the room. Each person listened unmoving, absorbing the news. No one’s eyes sought another’s. No one wanted to see the reflection of his own fear.

Marshal Medan smiled ruefully, shook his head.

“I am not to die of old age, after all, it seems,” he said, and poured himself another glass of wine.