Legacy of Steel

11

Sara followed the guards out of the fortress toward a cluster of wooden buildings just to the northeast of the main gatehouse. Several of the ramshackle edifices were civilian-a tavern, a brothel, and a shop specializing in knives. But the tallest and most imposing building had guards standing by the doors and a shield nailed above the lintel.

"In there," one of her escorts said brusquely. "Lord Knight Cadrel is in command of recruitment, and if you want to remain in Neraka, do not look at his hands or face." On that helpful remark, he and his companion took her inside.

The first floor of the building was bisected front to back by a wide hallway. Rooms led off the hall to the left and right, and everywhere Sara looked there were scribes, slaves, and young knights bustling around in a constant stream of activity.

They entered the first room they came to, a room made dim with shuttered windows and not enough lamps. A large desk took up most of the space, and behind it sat a man in the uniform of a lord knight. He was a man of massive size, who once had the bulk and muscle to fit his frame. Now his body had shrunk inward, leaving his skin to sag over prominent bones. He wrote busily on a parchment with one hand. The other hand lay on his lap, hidden out of sight. His head, loosely covered with thinning brown hair, tilted over so Sara could not see his face.

One of the guards cleared his throat. The lord knight lifted his head.

Even with the guard's warning, it took all of Sara's concentration to relax the muscles in her face and keep her breath steady when she saw the ravaged ruin of Lord Knight Cadrel's visage. It had to be a disease, she thought, for an old wound would have scarred or at least shown some indication of healing. This affliction was slowly rotting away his face, feature by feature, inch by inch of skin. His nose was already devoured into discolored holes, and the open, gnawing sores covered his lips, one cheek, and his left temple. The remaining skin looked dull white, as if it had already died.

He sat expectantly, almost daring someone to say something. When no reaction came from Sara or the guards, he cocked an eyebrow at them. "Well?" His query came out dry and raspy.

"Lord Knight, General Abrena sends this knight to you for reinstatement and suggests one of the new talons."

"Does she," Cadrel said, sounding slightly irritated. Stacks of scrolls and parchments littered his desk. He had to lift his left hand from under the desk. Sara saw it, too had been devoured by the disease. Two fingers were gone, and a third was rotted to the second joint.

He shoved a few piles aside and shuffled through a stack until he found the list he wanted. "What are your strengths, woman?"

"Training dragons, healing, cooking," Sara replied briefly.

"Good. We need dragon trainers." He snorted. "By the rift we need everything! I do not know how she expects me to fill every talon and wing she wants when we have so few." He had a deep voice and formed his words with deliberate care. Even so, his speech came out slightly slurred due to the damage to his mouth. His meaning was clear enough to Sara, though, to distract her from her dismay and pity.

According to all those tents and barracks out there, she pondered, the general's army had reached an impressive strength. Why does he complain?

The lord knight consulted his lists once more and said, "Report to Knight Officer Guiyar Massard, Red Quarter. He needs a second-in-command." He pushed his maimed hand out of sight and went back to work with out waiting for a reply.

Sara and the guards saluted and retreated outside.

"What is it?" she asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Morgion's Curse," one guard replied, looking peaked. "I can never get used to seeing it. He was struck with it during the Summer of Chaos when the gods left us. Without the healing magic, no cleric has been able to help him, and no herb can even slow it. He is hoping for war soon to avoid a long and lingering death."

Sara rubbed her cheek. She had heard of Morgion's Curse, named for the god of decay and disease, but she had never seen such an advanced case of it. Those unfortunates who were afflicted used to seek the help clerics for healing. Now there was nothing left for the sick and wounded but herbs, witches' brews, and folk medicine once thought redundant.

The guard returned her sword, then pointed east toward a section of tents. "The Red Quarter is that way. Look for the red flags," he told her, a hint of scorn in his voice. "Knight Officer Massard is probably still there. He is supposed to be drilling his recruits today, but he stayed at the taverns quite late last night."

The second guard said something sharp and irritable in a language Sara did not recognize, and the two strode away to return to their dragons.

Cobalt ambled over to join his rider. "The dragons told me they were glad to see me. They said the knights are very shorthanded."

"So I am beginning to see," Sara said thoughtfully.

Cobalt fixed an amber eye on her face. "Are you here to stay?"

She laid a hand on the warm scales of his leg. "Only until 1 learn what I need to know and can figure out a way to get away from here unscathed. If you change your mind and decide to stay with the knights, I will not try to stop you."

"There is nothing here I crave." He chuckled. "Except perhaps, someone else's coins or treasure. No, when you go, I go"

They walked together in companionable silence toward the quarter where the red flags flew. At the edge of the tents, more guards stopped her and questioned her, As soon as they heard who she was looking for, they smirked and jerked thumbs toward a section of large canvas tents set up before an open quadrangle.

"There are herd beasts in a pasture east of here set aside for the dragons," they told her. "Your dragon will have plenty of time to feed if he wishes."

Cobalt did wish, and with a grin, Sara unsaddled him and sent him on his way.

Curious, she made her way toward Knight Officer Massard's tent. What was it about the man that sent everyone sneering and smirking? Five paces from the tent, she found out. A loud, rumbling snore issued from the open flaps; a pool of drying vomit covered the dirt by the entrance.

Sara gingerly stepped over the mess and pushed open the flap. Fumes of vomit, unwashed body, and old ale filled her nostrils. Skull-splitter ale, she realized, holding her nose. If the man sprawled out on the cot had spent a night drinking that, it was no wonder he passed out. She curled her lip in disgust.

He's been like that for hours," said a young male voice behind her.

Sara backed carefully out of the tent and turned to meet the speaker. Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. For one precious moment, she thought Steel had returned to her. Then her common sense returned and her eyes looked closer, and the image of Steel faded softly away.

The young man who stood on the path was as tall and dark-haired as Steel had been. His skin was tanned from years of work in the sun, and he grinned at her with a crooked smile so like Steel's it wrung her heart. But there the resemblance ended. As Sara stared at him, she noticed his eyes were green, like the grasslands on a spring day; his face was long and narrow set, with features slightly too large to be very handsome. Thick, dark eyebrows shaded his eyes, and a newly healed scar marred his left cheek. He wore the black tunic and pants trimmed with blue that seemed to be the latest uniform of the order, as well as a chain mail shirt and a light cloak. He had a good sword strapped to his waist.

He tilted his head at her silent appraisal and asked curiously, "Were you looking for him or just wondering what the racket was?"

"I am supposed to report to Knight Officer Massard," Sara said. "Is that… ?"

"The one and only, thank the gods. Commander of the Sixth Talon. All five of us."

Sara glanced around at the tents. "Five?" she echoed in surprise. A talon usually had nine.

The young man waved a hand at the tents around them. "Most of these are empty. Set up for future recruits, I guess."

Or to fool a spy looking down from the heights, Sara added mentally. She introduced herself.

"Derrick Yaufre," he returned. "No offense, but you must be one of the original knights."

Sara laughed. She liked this man's slightly irreverent and honest outlook. "None taken. And you're close. I joined more years ago than I care to remember."

"Good. We need some experience. Massard is an original, too. One of the survivors of the war. Now he spends most of his time drinking or sleeping it off. The rest of us are so new our armor still squeaks. Come on, I'll introduce you."

In a chivalrous gesture that made Sara smile, Derrick relived her of the saddle and packs and hoisted the load over his own broad shoulders.

She followed him around the quadrangle to a cluster of tents, where a group of young people-very young people, to Sara's eyes-sat upon stools or wooden boxes in a bored-looking group. They looked up as Derrick joined them, and in the hope of something more interesting, they rose collectively to their feet and greeted Sara.

Sara eyed them one by one. Three men, including Derrick, and two women made up the Sixth Talon. As a group, they were all well conditioned, hard as dragon scales, and eager to learn. As individuals-well, Sara would have to see what characteristics were revealed by time and trial. She quickly explained who she was and what her assignment was to be.

The group perked up immediately. "Then you can take us out!" one of the women exclaimed. "Knight Candidate Marika Windor, ma'am," she added hastily. "We were supposed to go on a training flight this morning, but Massard is dead drunk."

The others nodded, looking none too pleased by their commander's indisposition.

Sara considered them. There was no real reason for them to sit about doing nothing when she could take them on their assignment. How difficult could a training fight be? She had ridden dragons in dozens of them. It would also give her a chance to get to know these warriors without the company of their sodden leader.

"Do you all have dragons yet?"

They nodded eagerly. "We were assigned dragons last week," Derrick assured her.

"Last week," Sara said, amazed. "Have any of you passed your test?"

They looked at each other, their thoughts passing plainly between them. "We haven't taken it yet.

We're all still squires," Marika told her.

"But…"

Derrick held up a hand. "I know. We're rather old to be just squires. Most of us joined just a few years ago, after the order was decimated by the war. General Abrena was willing to accept anyone of reasonable age, and they've rushed us through the training. We will all take the test sometime after New Year."

Sara shook her head. In the past, the knighthood hadn't accepted anyone over the age of fourteen for candidacy. They usually took boys and began their training and indoctrination by age twelve and made them squires by age fifteen. These young people looked to be five or six years older than that and had only been in training for a few years. The order was desperate for recruits if the older ranking officers seriously considered letting these novices take the Test of Takhisis this soon.

She filed that piece of information away for later and said, "Get your riding gear. We'll call in the dragons."

Whooping with excitement, the five split off to their tents to grab their equipment. Derrick eyed Sara's make shift saddle, then tossed it and her gear into an empty tent. He came back a few minutes later lugging his own dragon saddle and a spare one that he gave to Sara.

"This one was Tamar's," he said. His face darkened and he finished sadly, "He died last week when he failed his test."

The saddle was well crafted of fine leather and strong bindings. Sara took it with a nod of thanks and wondered at Derrick's tone. Most squires would have reviled a candidate who died in failure. Derrick did not, He seemed truly grieved that his companion was dead.

The others came dashing up to join them, anticipation shining from their faces. Sara led them out of the tent quarter to a wide, empty field where there was ample room for dragons to land.

She lined them up and stood in front of them, her arms crossed, her expression stern. "Now, before we call the dragons, I want all of you to give me your names so I will know who to yell at when you do something wrong."

They shifted on their feet and exchanged sly grins. They caught her slight bantering tone and responded to it like children suddenly released from an onerous duty.

Derrick, she already knew. Marika was a stocky, muscular girl with a long brown braid and eyes as earthy as her laugh. Kelena, the second woman, had cut her dark red hair into a halo of curls and sported a band of freckles across her narrow face like a banner. She was from Sanction, she told Sara, and had joined the order to follow in the footsteps of her older brother, who had died in the rift.

Saunder, the oldest of the young men, wore his dusty blond hair long and tied back in an intricate knot. He was tall and rangy and quiet to the point of reticence.

The youngest of the talon-all of seventeen years, he told Sara proudly-was Jacson. He was voluble enough to make up for Saunder's silence and energetic enough to keep them all entertained. He reminded Sara of a kender who viewed the world with wide-eyed enthusiasm and grabbed for everything he could get out of a moment. He was of slight stature for a knight candidate, yet he was deceptively strong and very quickwitted.

Sara studied them all, and to her surprise, she felt the slightest niggling doubt. Not a one of them looked like the burning zealots she remembered caring for at Storm's Keep. Those squires had been truly dedicated to a religion and a way of life and worshiped a goddess who revealed her power in every part of their lives. These five men and women seemed to lack that religious fervor. Was it any wonder? Takhisis was gone; her Vision was dead. What was left for them to worship with all their hearts and souls?

She pushed that notion aside. Not everyone in the world felt as empty as she did or looked on the disappearance of the gods as abandonment. Perhaps she was just letting her own confusion color her impressions.

She forced her seeds of doubt aside and automatically reached for the lily brooch that used to hang on her cloak. Only when her fingers touched the soft fabric did she remember she had given the brooch away. A long time ago she had used the brooch as a focal point to summon dragons. Now she would have to do it the hard way.

"Call your dragons," she ordered the talon.

Derrick and Saunder stepped forward and produced slender whistles hanging from chains around their necks. When they blew the whistles, Sara heard no sound. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Then there was a rush and flap of large wings and two blue dragon landed in the field close to the talon.

Sara glanced around quizzically, waiting for the other three.

"That's all," Derrick said with a shrug. "There are so few blues left after the war, our wing commander only assigned two to us. We have to take turns."

"Take turns," Sara muttered. "How can you learn aerial tactics if you have to take turns on two dragons?"

"Massard said we would get more later," Jacson said. "If you can believe him."

"Well, we'll make the best of it." She marched up to the two dragons. They were both young, maybe fifty years, of similar coloring, and both were shorter than Cobalt. "What are your names?" she asked. Howl and Squall, they told her in unison. Obviously nest mates.

She quickly sent Howl, named for the raucous tone of his voice, out to the herd fields to fetch Cobalt.

The big blue arrived, snorting and grumbling, and promptly dumped the bloody carcass of a cow on the ground in front of Sara. "I wasn't finished yet. You said I had plenty of time," he complained.

His rider ignored his grumps. "So hurry up. I changed my mind."

He cast a warning growl at the younger dragons and hunched protectively over his meal. With his sharp teeth, he tore the carcass to pieces and gulped it down, indulging in a lot of slurping, gnashing, crunching, and other unnecessary noises.

The five squires watched him in sick fascination. Sara hid a smile. Obviously they hadn't paid much attention to the eating habits of their dragons.

As soon as Cobalt had spat out the last bone, Sara saddled and climbed onto his back. "Derrick, you and Marika ride first. We're going to play catch."

She explained what she meant and dispatched the other riders to spread out across the field. The object of the game was for a dragon and its rider to hover over the field and "catch" one of the people on foot- carefully, Sara emphasized. The "prey" then had to be carried to a holding pen-a red flag stuck in the ground-and rider and prey exchanged places. Cobalt played games master.

The young squires took to the game immediately. Shouts and laughter filled the chilly air. The dragons enjoyed it, too, and dipped and swooped after their running quarry and roared their frustration when someone escaped their clutches. The racket drew other knights and squires, who came to watch. Some brought their dragons until there were so many in the field, Sara was afraid the dragons would hurt themselves. She divided them into teams.

There were a few bumps and bruises and a cracked head, but no one was seriously hurt in the melee, and while the dragons and riders gained valuable practice maneuvering close to the ground, Sara was able to observe her recruits and learn something about them.

Derrick, she saw, was the natural leader of the group. He encouraged the others and kept them going with his example and his optimism.

Saunder was as tough as dragon hide and had a quiet cunning that let him stay back until the right moment, then he urged his dragon on and caught his prey more often than not.

Jacson laughed his way through the game, cracking jokes and hurling good-natured insults at everyone.

Red-haired Kelena bulled her way into the thickest skirmishes and gave way to no one. As fast as a sprinter, she could not be caught on the ground until she decided it was her turn to ride. Marika, although not a good runner, was probably the best rider. She pulled a few stunts in the saddle that left Sara gasping.

When the game broke up, the Sixth Talon regathered, laughing and joking among themselves. Sara was pleased. She released the dragons and led the riders back toward the tents for a well-earned meal.

They had no sooner entered their own section of the Red Quarter when they heard a scream of pain coming from Massard's tent. Another scream and another shattered the quiet, and as one group, Sara and the squires raced for the tent.