Dragons of a Lost Star

24 Preparing for the End

Ever since their king had told them of their danger, the people of Qualinesti had been making preparations to stand against the dragon and her armies that were drawing near the elven capital. Beryl focused all her strength and her attention on capturing the elven city that had graced the world for so many years and on making that city her own. Soon humans would be moving into elven homes, chopping down the elves’ beloved forests for lumber, turning hogs loose to forage in elven rose gardens. The refugees were gone now. They had been evacuated through the dwarven tunnels, they had fled through the forests. With the refugees gone, those elves who had volunteered to remain behind to fight the dragon began to concentrate on the city’s defenses. They were under no illusions. They knew that this was a battle they could win only by a miracle. At best, they were fighting a rearguard action. Every few hours they delayed the enemies’ advance meant their families and friends were another few miles closer to safety. They had heard the news that the shield had fallen, and they spoke of the beauty of Silvanesti, of how their cousins would welcome the refugees, take them into their hearts and their houses. They spoke of the healing of the old wounds, of the future reunification of the elven kingdoms.

Their king, Gilthas, encouraged their hopes and their beliefs. Marshal Medan wondered when the young man found time to sleep. Gilthas was everywhere, it seemed. One moment he was underground, working alongside the dwarves and their burrowing worms, the next he was helping to set fire to a bridge across the White-rage River. The next time the Marshal saw the king, Gilthas was again in the underground tunnels, where most of the elves now lived. Down in these tunnels, built by the dwarves, the elves worked day and night forging and mending weapons and armor and braiding rope, miles and miles of thin, strong rope that would be needed to carry out the king’s plan to destroy the dragon. Every bit of cloth that could be spared had been given over to the production of the rope, from baby clothes to bridal gowns to shrouds. The elves took silken sheets from their beds, took woolen blankets from cribs, took tapestries that had hung for centuries in the Tower of the Sun. They tore them up without a second thought.

The work proceeded day and night. When one person grew too weary to continue braiding or cutting, when someone’s hands grew too stiff or blistered, another would take over. After dark, the coils of rope that had been made during that day were smuggled out of the tunnels to be stowed away inside elven homes, inns, taverns, shops and warehouses. Elven mages went from place to place, placing enchantments on the rope. Sometimes the erratic magic worked, other times it did not. If one mage failed, another would come back and try later.

Above ground, the Dark Knights carried out the orders they had been given to rid the city of Qualinost of its inhabitants. They dragged elves out of their homes, beat them, and hauled them off to the prison camps that had been established outside the city. The soldiers threw furniture into the street, set homes ablaze, looted, and pillaged.

Beryl’s spies, flying overhead, saw all this and reported back to Beryl that her orders were being faithfully followed. The spies did not know that the elves who huddled in terror in the prison camp by day were released by night, dispatched to different homes, there to be “arrested” again in the morning. If the spies had been careful observers, they might have noted that the furniture that was tossed in the streets blocked major thoroughfares and that the houses that were set ablaze were also strategically located throughout the elven city to impede the advance of troops.

The one person Medan had not seen during this busy time was Laurana. Since the day the Queen Mother had assisted him so ably in fooling Beryl’s pet draconian, Medan had been occupied with planning the city’s defenses and innumerable other tasks, and he knew that she must be busy, too. She was packing up her household and that of the king’s, preparatory to traveling south, although, from what he had seen, she had little left to pack. She had given all her clothes except those on her back to be cut up for rope—even her wedding gown.

She had brought the gown herself, Medan heard, and when the elves had protested and told her she must keep that, if nothing else, she had taken up a pair of shears and cut the beautiful, silken fabric into strips with her own hands. All the while she told stories of her wedding to Tanis Half-Elven, making them laugh at the antics of the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who had wandered off with the wedding rings and been found upon the verge of trading them to a street urchin for a jar of tadpoles, and how Caramon Majere, the best man, had been so flustered that when he rose to make the toast, he forgot Tanis’s name.

Marshal Medan went to look at that particular coil of rope. He held the strand made up of the glistening silk that was the color of hyacinths in his hand and thought to himself that this length of rope needed no additional magical enchantment of strength, for it had been braided not with cord but with love.

The Marshal was himself extremely busy. He was able to snatch only a few hours of sleep every night, and these he forced himself to take, knowing well that he could not operate efficiently without them. He could have taken time to visit the Queen Mother, but he chose not to do so. Their former relationship—that of respectful enemies—had changed. Each knew, when they parted after that last meeting, that they would not be the same to each other as they had been in the past.

Medan felt a sense of loss. He was under no illusions. He had no right to her love. He was not ashamed of his past. He was a soldier, and he had done what a soldier must do, but that meant that he had the blood of her people on his hands and that therefore he could not touch her without staining her with that blood. He would never do that. Yet he sensed that they could not meet comfortably as old friends. Too much had happened between them for that. Their next meeting must be awkward and unhappy for both of them. He would bid her farewell, wish her luck in her journey south. When she was gone and he would never see her again, he would prepare himself to die as he had always known he would die—as a soldier, doing his duty.

At the precise moment when Gerard was eloquently but futilely pleading the cause of the elves before the Knights’ Council in Solanthus, Marshal Medan was in the palace, making preparations to hold a final meeting of officers and commanders. He had invited the dwarf thane, Tarn Bellowsgranite; King Gilthas and his wife, the Lioness; and the elven commanders.

Medan had informed the king that tomorrow would be the last day the royal family could leave the city with any hope of escaping the enemy armies. He was concerned that the king had lingered too long as it was, but Gilthas had refused to leave earlier. This night, Medan would tell Laurana good-bye. Their farewells would be easier for both of them if they could do so when there were other people about.

“The meeting will begin at moonrise,” Medan told Planchet, who would be carrying the messages to the elven commanders. “We will hold it in my garden.”

His excuse was that the elves in attendance would not be comfortable in the thick-walled, stifling headquarters, but, in reality, he wanted a chance to show off his garden and to enjoy it himself for what would probably be the last time.

Naming off those who were to come, he said, almost offhandedly,

“the Queen Mother—”

“No,” said Gilthas.

The king had been pacing up and down the room, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, so lost in meditation that Medan had not thought the king was paying any attention to him and was considerably startled when he spoke.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?” Medan said.

Gilthas ceased pacing and came over to the desk that was now covered with large maps of the city of Qualinost and its environs.

“You will not tell my mother of this meeting,” said Gilthas.

“This meeting is one of vital importance, Your Majesty,” the Marshal argued. “We will be finalizing our plans for the city’s defense and for your safe evacuation. Your mother is knowledgeable in such matters, and—”

“Yes,” Gilthas interrupted, his voice grave. “She is knowledgeable. That is the very reason I do not want her to attend. Don’t you understand, Marshal?” he added, bending over the desk, gazing intently into Medan’s eyes. “If we invite her to this council of war, she will think we expect her to contribute that knowledge, to take part...”

He did not finish the sentence. He straightened abruptly, ran a hand through his hair, and stared unseeing out the window. The setting sun slanted through the crystal panes, shone full on the young king. Medan gazed at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his sentence. He noted how the tension of the past few weeks had aged the young man. Gone was the languid poet, gazing listlessly around the dance floor. True, that mask had been put on to deceive the king’s enemies. But they had been deceived because part of the mask was made of flesh and blood.

Gilthas was a gifted poet, a man of dreams, a man who taught himself to live much of his life internally, because he had come to believe he could not trust anyone. The face he showed the world—the face of the confident, strong and courageous king— was as much a mask as the other. Behind the mask was a man tormented by self-doubt, uncertainty, fear. He concealed it masterfully, but the sunlight on his face revealed the gray smudges beneath the eyes; the taut, tight-lipped smile that was no smile; the eyes that looked inward into shadows, not outward into sunlight. He must be very like his father, Medan thought. It was too bad his father was not here to counsel him now, to put his hand upon his shoulder and assure him that his feelings were not a symptom of weakness, that they did him no discredit. Far from it, they would make him a better leader, a better king. Medan might have said these words himself, but he knew that coming from him they would be resented. Gilthas turned away from the window, and the moment passed.

“I understand,” said Medan, when it became apparent from the uncomfortable silence that the king did not intend to finish his sentence, a sentence that presented a new and astonishing possibility to the Marshal. He had assumed Laurana intended to leave Qualinost. Perhaps he had assumed wrongly. “Very well. Planchet, we will say nothing about this meeting to the Queen Mother.”

The moon rose and shone pale and sickly in the sky. Medan had never much liked this strange moon. Compared to the argent brilliance of Solinari or the red flame of Lunitari, this moon looked forlorn and meek. He could almost imagine it apologizing to the stars every time it appeared, as if ashamed to take its place among them. It did its duty now, and shed light enough that he did not have to bring the harsh glare of torches or lamps into his garden, lights that might reveal to any watcher flying overhead that there was a meeting in progress.

The elves expressed their admiration for his garden. Indeed, they were amazed that a human could create such beauty, and their amazement gave Medan as much satisfaction as their praise, for it meant the praise was genuine. His garden had never looked so hauntingly beautiful as it did by moonlight this night. Even the dwarf, who viewed plants as nothing more than food for cattle, looked about the garden with not quite a bored air and termed it “pretty,” although he sneezed violently immediately afterward and constantly rubbed his itching nose throughout the meeting. The Lioness was the first to give her report. She had nothing to say about the garden. She was cool, business-minded, obviously intending to end this quickly. She indicated where the enemy army was located, pointing to a map that had been spread out on a table near the fishpond.

“Our forces did what they could to slow the enemy’s advance, but we were stinging flies to this behemoth. We annoyed him, we irritated him, we drew blood. We could impede him, but we could not stop him. We could slay a hundred men, and that was nothing but an irritant to him. Therefore, I ordered my people to pull back. We are now assisting the refugees.”

Medan approved. “You will provide escort for the royal family. Of which you yourself are one,” he added with a polite smile.

The Lioness did not return his smile. She had spent long years fighting him. She did not trust him, and for that he could not fault her. He did not trust her either. He had the feeling that if it had not been for Gilthas’s intervention, the Marshal would have found the Lioness’s knife sticking out of his ribcage.

Gilthas looked grim as he always did when his own departure was mentioned. Medan sympathized with the young king, understood how he felt. Most of the elves understood the reason for his departure. There were those who did not understand, who whispered that the elven king was abandoning Qualinost in its hour of need, leaving his people to die that he might live. Medan did not envy the young man the life that lay ahead of him: the life of the refugee, the life of the exile.

“I will personally escort His Majesty out through the tunnels,”

Bellowsgranite stated. “Then those of my people who have volunteered will remain in the tunnels beneath the city, ready to assist the battle. When the armies of darkness march into Qualinost”—the dwarf grinned broadly—”they will find more than woodchucks rising up out of holes to meet them.”

As if to emphasize his words, the ground shook slightly beneath their feet, a sign that the giant dirt-devouring worms were at work.

“You and those coming with you must be in the tunnels first thing in the morning, Your Majesty,” the Thane added. “We dare not wait longer.”

“We will be there,” said Gilthas, and he sighed and stared down at his hands, clasped tightly on the top of the table.

Medan cleared his throat and continued. “Speaking to the defense of the city of Qualinost: The spies sent to infiltrate Beryl’s army report no change in her plan of attack. She will first order in the lesser dragons to scout the city, make certain all is well, and intimidate with their dragonfear any who may remain.” The Marshal permitted himself a grim smile. “When Beryl has been assured that the city is deserted and her precious hide will be safe, she herself will enter Qualinost as leader of her armies.”

Medan pointed to the map. “The city of Qualinost is protected from attack by a natural moat—the two arms of the White-rage River that encircle the city. We’ve received reports that Beryl’s armies are already gathering along the banks of these streams. We have cut the bridges, but the water level is low this time of year and they will be able to ford the streams here, here, and here.” He indicated three areas. “The crossing will slow them, for they will be forced to move through water that is swiftflowing and waist deep in some places. Our troops will be posted here and here and here”—more reference to the map—”with orders to allow a substantial number of troops to cross before they attack.”

He looked around at the officers. “We must emphasize to the troops that they wait for the signal before they attack. We want the enemy forces split, with half on one side of the stream and half on the other. We want to create panic and disruption, so that those who are trying to cross are bottled up by those fighting for their lives on the bank. Elven archers stationed here and here will decimate their ranks with arrow fire. The dwarven army, under the leadership of the Thane’s cousin”—Medan bowed to the dwarf—”will hit them here, drive them back into the water. The other elven forces will be posted here on the hillside to harry their flanks. Is this plan understood? Satisfactory to everyone?”

They had gone over this several times before. Everyone nodded.

“Finally, at our last meeting, we discussed sending for the Gray Robes who are stationed on the western border of Qualinesti and asking them for their assistance. It was decided that we would not seek their services, the feeling being that these gray-robed wizards cannot be trusted, a feeling in which I most heartily concurred. As it has turned out, it was well we did not count on them. It seems they have vanished. Not only have they disappeared without a trace, but the entire Forest of Wayreth has disappeared. I received a report that a strike force of draconians, one of Beryl’s crack units, who had been diverted south with orders to slaughter the refugees, entered the forest and has not come out. We have heard nothing more of them, nor, I think, are we likely to.

“I suggest that we raise our glasses in a toast to the Master of the Tower of Wayreth.”

Medan lifted a glass of elven wine from one of his last bottles. He was damned if he was going to leave any to be gulped by goblins. All shared in the toast, taking comfort in the fact that, for a change, a powerful force was on their side, mysterious and vagarious as it might be.

“I hear the sounds of laughter. I come upon you at a good time, it seems,” said Laurana.

Medan had posted guards at the entrance, but he had given orders that if the Queen Mother arrived, she was to be admitted.

He rose to do her honor, as did all of those present. The Lioness greeted her mother by marriage with an affectionate kiss. Gilthas kissed his mother, but he cast a rebuking glance at Medan.

“I took it upon myself to invite your honored mother,” said the Marshal, bowing to the king. “I know that I went against Your Majesty’s express wishes, but considering the extreme gravity of the situation, I deemed it best to exert my authority as military leader. As you yourself said, Your Majesty, the Queen Mother is knowledgeable in such matters.”

“Please, be seated,” said Laurana, taking a chair beside the Marshal, a chair he had made certain was left vacant. “I am sorry to be late, but an idea came to me, and I wanted time to think it through before I mentioned it. Tell me what I have missed.”

He related the details of the meeting up to now, not knowing what he was saying, repeating by rote. Like his garden, Laurana was hauntingly beautiful that night. The moonlight stole away all color, so that the golden hair was silver, her skin white, her eyes luminous, her gown gray. She might have been a spirit, a spirit of his garden, for the scent of jasmine clung to her. He etched this image of her in his mind, planned to carry this image of her into death’s realm, where, he hoped, it would serve to light the unending darkness.

The meeting continued. He asked for reports from the elven commanders. They reported that all was ready or nearly so. They needed more rope, but more rope was forthcoming, for those making it had not ceased their work, nor would they until the very final moments. The barricades were in place, trenches dug, traps set. The archers had been given their unusual assignment, and although they had found their work strange and difficult at first, they had soon accustomed themselves to the requirements and needed nothing but the signal to attack.

“It is imperative . . . imperative”—Medan repeated that firmly—”that no elf be seen by the dragon walking the streets. Beryl must think that the city has been cleared, that all the elves have either fled or are being held captive. The Knights will patrol the streets openly, accompanied by those elves disguised as Knights to fill out our ranks. Tomorrow night, once I have been assured the royal family is safely on their way”—he looked at the king as he spoke and received Gilthas’s reluctant nod—”I will send a messenger to Beryl and tell her that the city of Qualinost surrenders to her might and that we have met all her demands. I will take my position at the top of the Tower of the Sun, and it is then that—”

“I beg your pardon, Marshal Medan,” Laurana interrupted, “but you have not met the dragon’s demands.”

Medan had guessed this was coming. He knew by Gilthas’s stiff rigidity and his sudden pallor that he had guessed it, as well.

“I beg your pardon, Madam,” said Medan politely, “but I can think of nothing I have left undone.”

“The dragon demanded that the members of the royal family be handed over to her. I believe that I was among those she specifically named.”

“To my deep regret,” said the Marshal with a wry smile, “the members of the royal family managed to escape. They are at this moment being pursued, and I am certain that they will be captured—”

Laurana was shaking her head. “That will not do, Marshal Medan. Beryl is no fool. She will be suspicious. All our carefully laid plans would be for naught.”

“I will stay,” said Gilthas firmly. “It is what I want to do anyhow. With myself as the Marshal’s prisoner, standing with him on the tower, the dragon will have no suspicions. She will be eager to take me captive. You, Mother, will lead the people in exile. You will deal with the Silvanesti. You are the diplomat. The people trust you.”

“The people trust their king,” said Laurana quietly.

“Mother...” Gilthas’s voice was agonized, pleading. “Mother, you cannot do this!”

“My son, you are king of the Qualinesti. You do not belong to me anymore. You do not belong to yourself. You belong to them.”

Reaching across the table, Laurana took hold of her son’s hand. “I understand how hard it is to accept the responsibility for thousands of lives. I know what you face. You will have to tell those who come to you for answers that all you have are questions. You will have to tell the despairing that you have hope, when despair is heavy in your own heart. You will bid the terrified to have courage when inside you are shivering with fear. It would take great courage to face the dragon, my son, and I admire and honor you for showing that courage, but such courage is paltry compared to the courage that will be required of you to lead your people into the future, a future of uncertainty and danger.”

“What if I can’t, Mother?” Gilthas had forgotten anyone else was there. These two spoke only to each other. “What if I fail them?”

“You will fail, my son. You will fail time and again. I failed those who followed me when I put my own wants over their needs. Your father failed his friends when he abandoned them while he pursued his love for the Dragon Highlord Kitiara.”

Laurana smiled tremulously. Her eyes shimmered with tears. “You are the child of imperfect parents, my son. You will stumble and fall to your knees and lie bruised in the dust, as we did. You will only truly fail if you remain lying in the dust. If you regain your feet and continue, you will make of that failure a success.”

Gilthas said nothing for long moments. He held fast to his mother’s hand. Laurana held his hand, knowing that when she let go, she would let go of her son forever.

“I will not fail you, Mother,” Gilthas said softly. He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it reverently. “I will not fail the memory of my father.”

Releasing her hand, he rose to his feet. “I will see you in the morning, Mother. Before I depart.” He spoke the words without faltering.

“Yes, Gilthas,” she said. “I will be waiting.”

He nodded. The farewell they spoke then would last for all eternity. Blessed, heart-wrenching, those words were words to be spoken in private.

“If that is all, Marshal Medan,” Gilthas said, keeping his eyes averted,

“I have a great deal to do yet this night.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” said the Marshal. “We have only small matters of no importance to clear up now. I thank you for coming.”

“Small matters of no importance,” Gilthas murmured. He looked back at his mother. He knew very well what they would be discussing. He drew in a deep breath. “Then I bid you good night, Marshal, and good luck to you and to all of you.”

Medan rose to his feet. Lifting his glass of elven wine, he raised it. “I give you His Majesty, the King.”

The elves raised their voices in unison. Bellowsgranite shouted out the toast in a hearty bellow that made the Marshal cringe and glance swiftly into the sky, hoping that none of Beryl’s spies were in earshot. Laurana raised her glass and pledged her son, her voice soft with love and pride.

Gilthas, overcome, gave a brief nod. He could not trust himself to speak. His wife put her arm around him. Planchet walked behind him. The king had no other guard. He had taken only a few steps when he looked back over his shoulder. His eyes sought out the Marshal.

Medan read the silent message and, excusing himself, accompanied the king through the darkened house. Gilthas said no word until he reached the door. Halting, he turned to face the Marshal.

“You know what my mother plans, Marshal Medan.”

“I think I do, Your Majesty.”

“Do you agree with her that such a sacrifice on her part is necessary?”

Gilthas demanded, almost angrily. “Will you permit her to go through with this?”

“Your Majesty,” the Marshal replied gravely, “you know your mother. Do you think there is any possible way to stop her?”

Gilthas stared at him, then he began to laugh. When the laughter came perilously close to tears, he fell silent until he could regain mastery over himself.

He drew in a deep breath, looked at the Marshal. “There is a chance that we will defeat Beryl, perhaps even destroy her. A chance that her armies will be stopped, forced to retreat. There is that chance, isn’t there, Marshal?”

Medan hesitated, not wanting to offer hope where, in his opinion, there was none. Yet, which of them knew what the future would hold?

“There is an old Solamnic adage, Your Majesty, which I could quote just now, an adage that says there is about as much chance of that happening as of the moons falling out of the sky.” Medan smiled. “As Your Majesty knows, the moons did fall out of the sky, so I will only tell you that, yes, there is a chance. There is always a chance.”

“Believe it or not, Marshal Medan, you cheer me,” Gilthas said. He held out his hand. “I regret that we have been enemies.”

Medan took the king’s hand, rested his other hand over it. He knew the fear that was in Gilthas’s heart, and the Marshal honored him for not speaking it aloud, for not demeaning Laurana’s sacrifice.

“Please rest assured, Your Majesty, that the Queen Mother will be a sacred trust for me,” said Medan. “The most sacred of my life. I vow to you on my admiration and regard for her that I will be true to that trust to my last breath.”

“Thank you, Marshal,” Gilthas said softly. “Thank you.”

Their handshake was brief, and the king departed. Medan stood a moment in the doorway, watching Gilthas walk down the path that gleamed silver-gray in the moonlight. The future the Marshal faced was grim and bleak. He could count the remaining days of his life upon the fingers of one hand. Yet, he thought, he would not trade it for the future faced by that young man.

Yes, Gilthas would live, but his life would never be his own. If he had no care for his people, it would be different. But he did care, and the caring would kill him.