Dragons of a Lost Star

30 The War of Souls Begins

Galdar walked through the slumbering camp, yawning so wide he heard a distinct crack. A sharp pain in his jaw made him wince. Resolving not to do that again, he rubbed his jaw and continued on. The night was bright. The moon, within a sliver of being full, was large, lumpish, and vacuous. Galdar had the impression that it was a doltish moon. He’d never liked it much, but it would serve its purpose, if all went according to plan. Mina’s plan. Mina’s strange, bizarre plan. Galdar yawned again, but this time he took care not to crack his jaw.

The guards in front of Mina’s tent recognized him—easy to spot the only minotaur in the entire army. They saluted and looked at him expectantly.

Her tent was dark. Not surprising, considering it was nearly dawn. He was loath to wake her, for she had been up before the sunrise the day before and had gone to bed well after midnight. He hesitated. After all, there wasn’t anything she could do that he hadn’t already done. Still, he felt she should know.

He thrust aside the flap and entered the command tent.

“What is it, Galdar?” she asked.

He was never certain if she was awake before he entered or if she woke on hearing him enter. Either way, she was always alert, responsive.

“The prisoner has escaped, Mina. The female Solamnic Knight. We can’t find her captor, either. We believe they were in this together.”

She slept in her clothes, woolen hose, and tunic. Her armor and her morning star stood at the foot of the bed. He could see her face, pale white, colder, more awful than the gibbous moon.

She evinced no surprise.

“Did you know of this, Mina? Did someone else come to tell you?” Galdar frowned. “I gave orders you were not to be disturbed.”

“Yet now you disturb me, Galdar.” Mina smiled.

“Only because all our efforts to find the Solamnic and this traitor Knight have failed.”

“They are back in Solanthus now,” Mina replied. Her eyes had no color in the darkness. He felt more comfortable with her in the darkness. He could not see himself in the amber. “They have been greeted as heroes. Both of them.”

“How can you take this so calmly, Mina?” Galdar demanded. “They have been in our camp. They have tallied our numbers. They know how few of us there are.”

“They can see that from the walls, Galdar.”

“Not clearly,” he argued. He had been opposed to this wild scheme from the beginning. “We have done what we could to deceive them. Put up empty tents, kept the men milling about so that they could not be easily counted. Our efforts have gone for naught.”

Mina propped herself up on one elbow. “You remember that you wanted to poison their water supply, Galdar?”

“Yes,” he said dourly.

“I counseled against it, for then the city would be useless to us.” He snorted. The city was useless to them right now and would remain so, for all he could see.

“You have no faith, Galdar,” Mina said sadly.

Galdar sighed. His hand stole to his right arm, rubbed it involuntarily. It always seemed to ache now, as with rheumatism.

“I try, Mina. I truly do. I thought I had settled my doubts back in Silvanost, but now . . . I do not like our new allies, Mina,” he stated abruptly. “And I am not alone.”

“I understand,” Mina said. “That is why I have been patient with you and with the others. Your eyes are clouded by fear, but the time will come when you will see clearly. Your eyes will be the only eyes that see clearly.”

She smiled at her own jest.

Galdar did not smile. This was no laughing matter, as far as he was concerned.

She looked at him and very slightly shook her head. “As to the Solamnic, I have sent her into the city carrying a poison more destructive than the nightshade you wanted to dump in the city well.”

He waited, suppressing a yawn. He had no idea what she was talking about. All he could think of was that it had all been for nothing. Hours of lost sleep sending out search parties, ransacking the camp, all for nothing.

“I have sent them the knowledge that there is a god,” Mina continued, “and that the One God fights on our side.”

Their escape had been ridiculously easy. So easy, Gerard would have said that it had been facilitated, if he could have thought of one single reason why the enemy would want them to return to Solanthus in possession of damning information about the enemy army camped outside their walls.

The only really tense moments came at Solanthus’s outer gate, when there was some question as to whether or not the sentries were going to shoot them full of arrows. Gerard blessed Odila’s strident voice and mocking tone, for she was immediately recognized and, on her word, they were both allowed admittance.

After that came hours of questioning from the officers of the Knighthood. The sun was rising now, and they were still at it. Gerard had not had much sleep the night before. The day’s strain and tension and the night’s adventure had left him completely worn out. He’d told them everything he had seen or heard twice and was propping his eyelids open with his fingers when Odila’s next words caused a minor explosion that jolted him into full wakefulness.

“I saw the mind of God,” she said.

Gerard groaned and slumped back in his chair. He’d tried to warn her to keep quiet on that score, but, as usual, she had not listened to him. He’d been hoping for his bed, even if it was back in his cell, whose cool, quiet, and kenderless darkness was now strongly appealing. Now they were going to be here the rest of the day.

“What do you mean, exactly, Lady Odila?” Lord Tasgall asked carefully. He was thirty years Gerard’s senior. His hair was iron gray and worn long, and he had the traditional mustaches of the Solamnic Knight. Unlike some Rose Knights Gerard had met, Lord Tasgall was not, as someone once disparagingly phrased it, a “solemnic” Knight. Although his face was suitably grave on serious occasion, laugh lines around the mouth and eyes testified that he had a sense of humor. Obviously respected by those under his command, Lord Tasgall appeared to be a sensible, wise leader of men.

“The girl called Mina touched my hand, and I saw . . . eternity. There’s no other way to describe it.” Odila spoke in low tones, halting, obviously uncomfortable. “I saw a mind. A mind that could encompass the night sky and make it seem small and confining. A mind that could count the stars and know their exact number. A mind that is as small as a grain of sand and as large as the ocean. I saw the mind, and at first I knew joy, because I was not alone in the universe, and then I knew fear, terrible fear, because I was rebellious and disobedient and the mind was displeased. Unless I submitted, the mind would become angrier still. I . . . I could not understand. I did not understand. I still don’t understand.”

Odila looked helplessly at the Lord Knights as if expecting answers.

“What you saw must have been a trick, an illusion,” Lord Ulrich replied soothingly. He was a Sword Knight, only a few years older than Gerard. Lord Ulrich was on the pudgy side, with a choleric face that indicated a love of spirits, perhaps more than was entirely good for him. He had a bright eye and a red nose and a broad smile. “We all know that the dark Mystics cause members of the Knighthood to experience false visions. Isn’t that true, Starmaster Mikelis?”

The Starmaster nodded, agreed almost absently. The Mystic looked worn and haggard. He had spent the night searching for Goldmoon and had been amazed and bewildered when Gerard told him that she had left on the back of a blue dragon, flying to Nightlund in search of the wizard Dalamar.

“Alas,” the Starmaster had said sadly. “She is mad. Quite mad. The miracle of her returned youth has overthrown her mentally. A lesson to us, I suppose, to be content with what we are.”

Gerard would have been inclined to think so himself, except that her actions last night had been those of a sane person who is in command of the situation. He made no comment, kept his thoughts to himself. He had come to feel a great admiration and reverence for Goldmoon, although he had known her only one night. He wanted to keep the memory of their time together secret, sacred. Gerard closed his eyes.

The next moment, Odila elbowed him. Gerard jerked awake, sat up straight, blinking his eyes and wondering uneasily if anyone had noticed him napping.

“I tend to agree with Lord Ulrich,” Lord Tasgall was saying. “What you saw, Lady Odila—or thought you saw—was not a miracle, but a trick of a dark mystic.”

Odila was shaking her head, but she held her tongue, for which miracle Gerard was grateful.

“I realize we could debate the subject for days or even weeks and never reach a satisfactory conclusion,” Lord Tasgall added. “However, we have much more serious matters that require our immediate attention. I also realize that you are both probably very tired after your ordeal.” He smiled at Gerard, who flushed deeply and squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

“First, there is the matter of Sir Gerard uth Mondar. I will now see the letter from the elf king, Sir Knight.”

Gerard produced the letter, somewhat crumpled, but quite legible.

“I am not familiar with the elf king’s signature,” said Lord Tasgall, reading the letter, “but I recognize the royal seal of Qualinesti. Alas,” he added quietly, “I fear there is little we can do to help them in their hour of need.”

Gerard bowed his head. He might have argued, but the presence of enemy troops camped outside Solanthus would render any argument he might make ineffective.

“He may have a letter from an elf,” said Lord Nigel, Knight of the Crown, “but he was still apprehended in company with a dragon of evil. I cannot easily reconcile the two.”

Lord Nigel was in his forties, one of those people who do not want to make a decision until he has ruminated on it long and hard and looked at every fact three times over from all possible angles.

“I believe his story,” said Odila in her forthright manner. “I saw him and heard him in the cave with the First Master. He had the chance to leave, and he didn’t take it. He heard the horns, knew we were under attack, and came back to help defend the city.”

“Or betray it,” said Lord Nigel, glowering.

“Gerard told me that if you would not let him wear his sword, as a true Knight, he would do anything he could to help, from fighting fires to tending the wounded,” Odila returned heatedly. “His quick thinking saved both our lives. He should be honored, not castigated.”

“I agree,” said Lord Tasgall. “I think we are all in agreement?” He looked at the other two. Lord Ulrich nodded at once and gave Gerard a grin and a wink. Lord Nigel frowned, but he had great respect for Lord Tasgall and so agreed to abide by his ruling.

Lord Tasgall smiled. “Sir Gerard uth Mondar, all charges against you are formally dropped. I regret that we have no time to publicly clear your name, but I will issue an edict to the effect that all may know of your innocence.”

Odila rewarded Gerard with a grin and kicked his leg underneath the table, reminding him that he owed her one. This matter now dispensed with, the Knights could turn their attention to the problem of the enemy. Despite the information they had received about the ridiculously small numbers of the enemy army currently besieging their city, the Solamnics did not take the situation lightly. Not after what Gerard told them about the expected reinforcements.

“Perhaps she means an enemy army marching out of Palanthas, my lord,” Gerard suggested deferentially.

“No,” said Lord Tasgall, shaking his head. “We have spies in Palanthas. They would have reported any massive troop movement, and there has been none. We have scouts watching the roads, and they have seen nothing.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” said Gerard, “but you didn’t see this army coming.”

“There was sorcery at work,” said Lord Nigel grimly. “A magical sleep affected everyone in the city and its environs. The patrols reported that they were overcome with this fey sleep that affected man and beast alike. We thought the sleep had been cast upon us by the First Master Goldmoon, but Starmaster Mikelis has assured us that she could not possibly cast such a powerful spell.”

He looked uneasily at Odila. Her words about the mind of God had brought a disquieting notion. “He tells us that no mortal could. Yet, we all slept.”

I did not sleep, Gerard thought. Neither did the kender or the gnome. Goldmoon caused the iron bars to melt as if they were wax. What was it she said? I don’t know how I have the power to do what I do. I know only that whatever I want I am given.

Who is the giver? Gerard glanced at Odila, troubled. None of the other Knights spoke. They were all sharing the same unwelcome thoughts, and no one wanted to give them voice. To go there was to walk the edge of a precipice blindfolded.

“Sir Gerard, Lady Odila, I thank you for your patience,” Lord Tasgall said, rising to his feet. “We have information enough on which to act. If we have further need of you, we will summon you.”

They were being dismissed. Gerard rose, saluted, thanked each Knight in turn. Odila waited for him, walked out with him. Looking back, Gerard saw the Knights already deep in discussion.

“It’s not as if they have much choice,” Odila said, shaking her head.

“We can’t just sit here and wait for them to bring in reinforcements. We’ll have to attack.”

“Damn strange way to run a siege,” Gerard reflected. “I could understand it, their leader being hardly out of her baby clothes, but that captain looked to me to be a savvy officer. Why do they go along with her?”

“Perhaps she has touched their minds, as well,” Odila muttered.

“What?” Gerard asked. She had spoken so softly he didn’t think he’d heard right.

She shook her head glumly, and kept walking. “Never mind. It was a stupid thought.”

“We’ll be riding to battle soon,” Gerard predicted, hoping to cheer her up.

“It can’t be too soon for me. I’d like to meet that red-haired vixen with a sword in my hand. What about a drink?” she asked abruptly. “Or two or six or thirty?”

An odd tone in her voice caused Gerard to look at her sharply.

“What?” she demanded, defensive. “I want to drink that blasted God out of my mind, that’s all. Come on. I’ll buy.”

“Not for me,” he said. “I’m for my bed. Sleep. You should be, too.”

“I don’t know how you expect me to sleep with those eyes staring at me. Go to bed, then, if you’re so tired.”

He started to ask, “What eyes?” but Odila walked off, heading for a tavern whose signboard was a picture of a hunting dog holding a limp duck in its mouth.

Too exhausted to care, Gerard headed for a well-earned rest. Gerard slept through the daylight and far into the night. He woke to the sounds of someone pounding on the door.

“Turn out! Turn out!” a voice called softly. “Muster in the courtyard in one hour. No lights, and keep the noise down.”

Gerard sat up. The room was bright, but it was the white, eerie brightness of moonlight, not sunlight. Outside his door came the muffled sounds of Knights, their pages, squires, and servants up and about. So it was to be an attack by night. A surprise attack.

No noise. No lights. No drums calling the troops to muster. Nothing to give away the fact that the army of Solanthus was preparing to ride out and break the siege. Gerard approved. An excellent idea. They would catch the enemy asleep. With luck, perhaps they’d catch them sleeping off a night of carousing.

He had gone to bed in his clothes, so he had no need to dress, only to pull on his boots. Hastening down stairs crowded with servants and squires dashing about on errands for their masters, he shoved his way through the mob, pausing only to ask directions to the armory. The streets were eerily silent, for most of the city was deep in slumber. Gerard found the armorer and his assistants scantily clad, for they had been yanked out of their beds at a moment’s notice. The armorer was distraught that he could not outfit Gerard in proper Solamnic armor. There was no time to make any.

“Just give me the stuff you use in training,” Gerard said.

The armorer was appalled. He couldn’t think of sending a Knight to battle in armor that was dented, ill fitting, and scratched. Gerard would look like a scarecrow. Gerard didn’t care. He was riding to his first battle, and he would have gone stark naked and not minded. He had his sword, the sword given to him by Marshal Medan, and that was what counted. The armorer protested, but Gerard was firm, and eventually the man brought what was required. His assistants—two pimple-faced, thirteen-year-old boys—were wild with excitement and bemoaned the fact that they could not ride out to fight. They acted as Gerard’s squires. He went from the armory to the stables where grooms were frantically saddling horses, trying to quiet the animals, excited by the unusual commotion. The stable master eyed Gerard dubiously in his borrowed armor, but Gerard gave the man to know in no uncertain terms that he intended to steal a horse if he wasn’t provided one. The stable master still might not have gone along with Gerard’s demand, but Lord Ulrich entered at that moment, and although he laughed uproariously at the sight of Gerard’s shabby accouterments, he vouchsafed Gerard’s credentials, giving orders that he was to be treated with the consideration due a Knight.

The stable master didn’t go quite that far, but he did provide Gerard with a horse. The beast looked more suited to drawing a wagon than carrying a Knight. Gerard could only hope that it would head for the field of battle and not start morning milk deliveries.

His arguings and persuadings appeared to Gerard to take forever, and he was in a fever of impatience, afraid he would miss the battle. As it was he was already ahead of most of the other Knights. By the time he arrived in the courtyard, the foot soldiers were forming ranks. Well trained, they moved into position quickly, obeying soft-spoken commands. They had muffled the jingling of their chain mail with strips of cloth, and woe betide the spearman who dropped his spear with an awful rattle onto the cobblestones. Hissing curses, the officers pounced on the offender, promising all sorts of dire punishments.

The Knights began to assemble. They, too, had wrapped parts of their armor in cloth to reduce the noise. Squires stood by the side of each horse, ready to hand up weapon and shield and helm. The standard-bearers took their places. The officers took their places. Except for the normal sounds of the City Guard making their accustomed rounds, the remainder of the city was quiet. No one was shouting out, demanding to know what was going on. No crowds of gawkers had gathered. Gerard admired both the efficiency of the Knights’ officers and the loyalty and common sense of the citizenry. Word must have been passed from household to household, warning everyone to stay indoors and douse their lights. The marvel was that everyone was obeying.

The Knights and soldiers—five thousand strong—were ready to march. Here and there the silence was broken by the muffled whinny of an excited steed, a nervous cough from one of the foot soldiers, or the rattle of a Knight putting on his helm.

Gerard sought out Odila. A Knight of the Crown, she took her place riding among the front ranks. She was accoutered in armor similar to that of the other Knights, but he picked her out immediately by the two long black braids that trailed down from the gleaming silver helm and her laughter that rang out for a brief moment, then was suitably stifled.

“Bless the woman, she’d clown at her own funeral,” he said, laughing, and then, realizing the ill omen of his remark, he wished uneasily he hadn’t made it.

Lord Tasgall, Knight of the Rose, rode at the head among his command staff, a white scarf fluttering from his hand. He raised it high, so that everyone could see, then let it fall. The officers started their men marching, the Knights rode forward. Gerard took his place in the very last ranks among the youngsters newly knighted. He didn’t mind. He could have walked with the foot soldiers and wouldn’t have minded. The army of Solanthus moved out with a shuffling, scraping sound like some huge wingless, moon-glittering dragon sliding over the ground. The inner gates, whose hinges had been well greased, were silently shoved open by silent men.

A series of bridges allowed access over the moat. After the last foot soldier had crossed the bridges, they were drawn up. The gates were closed and barred, the murder holes manned.

The army marched on to the outer gates that pierced the thick curtain wall surrounding the city. The hinges on these gates had also been well oiled. Gerard, riding underneath the walls, saw archers crouching down among the shadows of the crenellations to avoid being seen. He trusted the archers would have nothing to do this night. The Solamnic army should be able to wipe out the army of the Dark Knights almost before they knew what hit them. Still, the Lord Knights were wise to take no chances. Once the foot soldiers and Knights were outside the last gate, and that gate had been shut, barred, and manned, the Lord Knight paused, looked back to see his command solid behind him. He raised another white scarf, let this one fall.

The Knights broke the silence. Lifting their voices in a song that was old when Huma was a boy, they urged their horses into a thundering gallop. The song sent the blood coursing through Gerard’s veins. He found himself singing lustily, shouting whatever came to mind in the parts where he didn’t remember the words. The order to the cavalry had been to split the ranks, to send half the Knights charging to the east, the other half to the west. The plan was to encircle the slumbering camp, drive the inhabitants into the center, where they would be attacked by the foot soldiers, who were to charge straight on down the center.

Gerard kept his eyes fixed on the enemy encampment. He expected, at the sound of thundering hooves, to see the camp roused. He expected torches to flare, sentries to cry out the alarm, officers to shout, and men to race for their weapons.

Strangely, the camp remained quiet. No sentry shouted a warning and, now that Gerard looked, he couldn’t see a picket line. No movement, no sound came from the camp, and it began to look as if the camp had been abandoned in the night. But why would an army of several hundred troops walk off and leave tents and supplies behind?

Had the girl realized she’d bitten off more than she could chew? Had she decided to slink off in the night, save her own skin and that of her men? Thinking back to her, to her supreme faith in the One God, Gerard doubted it.

The Solamnic Knights continued their charge, sweeping around both sides of the camp in a great widening circle. They continued to sing, but the song had lost its charm, could not dispel the uneasiness creeping into their hearts. The silence was uncanny, and they didn’t like it. They smelled a trap.

Lord Tasgall, leading the charge, was presented with a problem. Did he proceed as planned? How was he to react to this new and unexpected situation? A veteran of many campaigns, Lord Tasgall was well aware that the best-laid strategy never survives contact with the enemy. In this instance, however, the problem appeared to be the absence of contact with the enemy. Tasgall figured the girl had simply come to her senses and departed. If so, he and his forces had lost nothing but a few hours sleep. Lord Tasgall could not count on this, however. Quite possibly it was a trap. Better to error on the side of caution. Changing strategies now would only throw everyone into confusion. The Lord Knight would carry out his plan, but he did raise his hand to slow the progression of the cavalry, so that they were not riding heedlessly into whatever might await them. He might have spared himself the trouble. The Knights were not prepared for what awaited them. They could never have been prepared for it.

Another song lifted into the air, a song that was a minor to their major, a song that ran counterpoint to theirs. One person sang the song, and Gerard, who had heard her voice, recognized Mina.

Soldiers on the right flanks began to shout and point. Gerard turned to look to see what was happening.

A thick fog rolled out of the west. The strange fog advanced swiftly, roiling over the grass, obliterating all it touched, blotted out the stars, swallowed the moon. Those watching it could see nothing within the fog, nothing behind it. Reaching the city’s western walls, the fog boiled over them. The towers on the west side of Solanthus vanished from sight as thoroughly as if they had never been built. Faint cries came from that part of the city, but they were muffled, and no one could make out what was going on.

Watching the advance of this strange and unnatural fog, Lord Tasgall halted the charge and, with a wave of his hand, summoned his officers to him. Lord Ulrich and Lord Nigel left the ranks and galloped forward. Gerard edged near enough to overhear what they were saying.

“There is sorcery at work here.” Lord Tasgall’s voice was grim,

“We’ve been duped. Lured out of the city. I say we sound the retreat.”

“My lord,” protested Lord Ulrich, chuckling, “it is a heavy dew, nothing more.”

“Heavy dew!” repeated Lord Tasgall, with a snort of disgust. “Herald, sound the retreat!”

The herald lifted his horn to his lips, gave the signal to retreat. The Knights reacted with discipline, did not give way to panic. Rounding their horses, they began to ride in column toward the city. The foot soldiers wheeled about, headed in orderly march back to the walls. The Knights advanced to cover the footmen’s retreat. The archers were now visible on the walls, arrows nocked.

Yet Gerard could see—everyone could see—that no matter how fast they moved, the strange fog would engulf them before the closest soldier could reach the safety of the sheltering walls. The fog slid over the ground with the rapidity of a cavalry charging at full gallop. Gerard stared at the fog as it drew nearer. Stared at it, blinked, rubbed his eyes. He must be seeing things.

This was not fog. This was not a “heavy dew.” These were Mina’s reinforcements.

An army of souls.

An army of conscripts, for the souls of the dead were trapped in the world, unable to depart. As each soul left its body that had bound it to this world, it knew an instant’s elation and exultation and freedom. That feeling was quashed almost immediately. An Immortal Being seized the spirit of the dead and gave it to know an immense hunger, a hunger for magic.

“Bring me the magic, and you will be free,” was the promise. A promise not kept. The hunger could never be satiated. The hunger grew in proportion to what it fed on. Those souls struggling to free themselves found there was nowhere to go.

Nowhere to go until they received the summons.

A voice, a human voice, a mortal voice, Mina’s voice called to them.

“Fight for the One God, and you will be rewarded. Serve the One God, and you will be free.”

Desperate, suffering unending torments, the souls obeyed. They formed no ranks for their numbers were too great. The soul of the goblin, its hideous visage recreated from the soul’s memory of its mortal shell, barred teeth of mist, grappled for a sword of gossamer and answered the call. The soul of a Solamnic Knight that had long ago lost all notions of honor and loyalty answered the call. The souls of goblin and Knight walked side by side and knew not what they attacked or what they fought. Their only thought was to please the Voice and, by pleasing, escape. A fog it seemed at first to the mortals who faced it, but Mina called upon the One God to open mortal eyes to see what previously had been kept from their sight. The living were constrained to look upon the dead. The fog had eyes and mouths. Hands reached out from the fog. Voices whispered from the fog that was not fog at all but a myriad souls, each holding a memory of what it had been, a memory traced in the ethers with the magical phosphoresence of moonlight and foxfire. The face of each soul bore the horror of its existence, an existence that knew no rest, knew only endless seeking and the hopeless desolation of not ever finding. The souls held weapons, but the weapons were mist and moonglow and could not kill or maim. The souls wielded a single weapon, a most horrible weapon. Despair.

At the sight of the army of trapped souls, the foot soldiers threw down their weapons, heedless to the furious shouts of their officers. The knights guarding their flanks looked at the dead and shuddered in horror. Their instinct was to do the same as the soldiers, to give way to the feelings of terror and panic. Discipline held them for the moment, discipline and pride, but when each turned to look at the other, uncertain what to do, each saw his own fear reflected back to him in the faces of his comrades. The ghostly army entered the enemy camp. The souls flitted restlessly among the tents and the wagons. Gerard heard the panicked neighing of horses and now, at last, sounds of movement from the camp—calls of officers, the clash of steel. Then all sound was swallowed up by the souls, as if jealous of sounds their dead mouths could not make. The enemy camp vanished from sight. The army of souls flowed toward the city of Solanthus.

Thousands of mouths cried out in silent torment, their whispered shouts a chill wind that froze the blood of the living. Thousands and thousands of dead hands reached out to grasp what they could never hold. Thousands upon thousands of dead feet marched across the ground and bent not a single blade of grass.

Officers fell prey to the same terror as their men, gave up trying to keep their men in order. The foot soldiers broke ranks and ran, panic-stricken, for the walls, the faster shoving aside or knocking down the slower in order to reach safety.

The walls afforded no sanctuary. A moat is no deterrent to those who are already dead, they have no fear of drowning. Arrows cannot halt the advance of those who have no flesh to pierce. The ghostly legions slid beneath the wicked points of the portcullis and swarmed over the closed gates, flitted through the murder holes and glided through the arrow slits. Behind the army of souls came an army of the living. Soldiers of Mina’s command had kept hidden inside their tents, waiting for the army of souls to advance, to terrify the enemy and drive him into panicked chaos. Under cover of this dread army, Mina’s soldiers emerged from their tents and raced to battle. Their orders were to attack the Solamnic Knights when they were out in the open, isolated, cut-off, a prey to horror. Gerard tried to halt the soldiers’ flight as they trampled each other, fought to escape the ghost army. He rode after the men, yelling for them to stand their ground, but they ignored him, kept running. Everything disappeared. The souls of the dead surrounded him. Their incorporeal forms shimmered with an incandescent whiteness that outlined hands and arms, feet and fingers, clothing and armor, weapons or other objects that had been familiar to them in life. They closed in on him, and his horse screamed in terror. Rearing back on its hind legs, the horse dumped Gerard on the ground and dashed off, vanishing into a swirling fog o: grasping, ghostly hands.

Gerard scrambled to his feet. He drew his sword out of instinct, for what was he going to kill? He had never been so terrified. The touch of the souls was like cold mist. He could not count the number of dead that encircled him. One, a hundred, twelve hundred. The souls were intertwined, one with another. Impossible to tell where one ended and another began. They flitted in and out of his vision so that he grew dizzy and confused watching them.

They did not threaten or attack him, not even those who might have done so in life. An enormous hobgoblin reached out hairy hands, which were suddenly the hands of a beautiful young elven woman, who became a fisherman, who shriveled into a frightened, whimpering dwarf child. The faces of the dead filled Gerard with a nameless horror, for he saw in all of them the misery and hopelessness of the prisoner who lies forgotten in dungeon that is the grave.

The sight was so awful that Gerard feared he might go mad He tried to remember the direction to take to reach Solanthus where he could at least feel the touch of a warm hand as oppose to the caress of the dead, but the fall from the horse had disoriented him. He listened for sounds that might give him some indication which way to go. As in a fog, all sound was distorted He heard steel clash and cries of pain and guessed that sorry where men fought the living, not the dead. But whether the sounds of battle came from in front of him or behind, he could not tell.

Then he heard a voice speaking coldly and dispassionately; “Here’s another one.”

Two soldiers, living men, wearing the emblem of Neraka rushed at him, the ghostly figures parting like white silken scarves cut through by a cleaver. The soldiers fell on Gerard attacking without skill, slashing and beating at him with the swords, hoping to overwhelm him with brute force before he could recover from his panicked horror. What they had not counted on was the fact that Gerard was so relieved to see a flesh-and-blood foe, one that could be punched and kicked and bloodied, that he defended himself with spirit.

He disarmed one man, sent his sword flying, and drove his fist into the jaw of the other. The two did not stick around to continue the fight. Finding their foe stronger than they had hoped, they ran off, leaving Gerard to his dread jailers, the souls of the dead.

Gerard’s hand clenched spasmodically around his sword’s hilt. Fearing another ambush, he looked constantly over his shoulder, afraid to stay where he was, more afraid to move. The souls watched him, surrounded him.

A horn call split the air like a scythe. The call came from within the city, sounding the retreat. The call was frantic and short-lived, ending in midnote, but it gave Gerard a sense of where he must go. He had to overcome his instincts, for the last time he’d seen the city walls, they were behind him. The horn call came from in front. He walked forward, slowly, unwilling to touch the souls, though he need not have worried, for though some reached out their hands to him with what seemed pitiful supplication and others reached out their hands in what seemed murderous intent, they were powerless to affect him, other than by the horror and fear they inspired. Still, that was bad enough.

When the sight became too awful for him to bear, he involuntarily shut his eyes, hoping to find some relief, but that proved even more harrowing, for then he could feel the touch of the ghostly fingers and hear the whispers of ghostly voices.

By this time the foot soldiers had reached the enormous iron gate that pierced the curtain wall. The panic-stricken men beat on the gate, shouted for it to open. The gate remained closed and barred against them. Angry and terrified, they cried out for their comrades within the city to open the gate and let them enter. The soldiers began to shove on the gate and shake it, cursing those within.

White light flared. A blast shook the ground, as a section of the wall near the gate exploded. Huge chunks of broken stone rained down on the soldiers massed in front of the closed gate. Hundreds died, crushed to death beneath the rubble. Those who survived lay pinned in the wreckage, begging for help, but no help came. From inside the city, the gates remained locked and barred. The enemy began to pour through the breech. Hearing the blast, Gerard peered ahead, trying to see what had happened. The souls swirled around him, flitted past him, and he saw only white faces and grasping hands. Desperate, he plunged into the wavering figures, slashing at them wildly with his sword. He might have tried to skewer quicksilver, for the dead slid away from him, only to gather around him ever more thickly.

Realizing what he was doing, Gerard halted, tried to regain control of himself. He was sweating and shivering. The thought of his momentary madness appalled him. Feeling as if he were being smothered, he removed his helm and drew in several deep breaths. Now that he was calm, he could hear voices—living voices—and the sound of ringing steel. He paused another moment to orient himself and replace his helm, leaving the visor raised in order to hear and see better. As he ran toward the sound, the dead snatched at him with their chill hands. He had the skin-crawling sensation he was running through enormous cobwebs.

He came upon six enemy soldiers, who were very much alive, fighting a knight on horseback. He could not see the knight’s face beneath the helm, but he saw two long black braids whipping around the knight’s shoulders. The soldiers surrounded Odila, tried to drag her from her horse. She struck at them with her sword, kicked at them, fended off their blows with her shield. All the while, she kept the horse under control. Gerard attacked the enemy from behind, taking them by surprise. He ran his sword through one. Yanking his weapon free of the corpse, Gerard elbowed another in the ribs. Doubling him over, he smashed his nose with a thrust of a knee.

Odila brought her sword down on a man’s skull with such force that it split his helm and cleaved through his skull, splattering Gerard with blood and brains and bits of bone. He wiped the blood from his eyes and turned to a soldier who had hold of the horse’s bridle, was trying to haul the animal down to the ground. Gerard slashed at the man’s hands as Odila bashed another with her shield and struck again with her sword. Another man ducked beneath the horse’s belly, came up behind Gerard. Before Gerard could turn from one foe to defend himself against the new one, the soldier struck Gerard a savage blow to the side of the head. Gerard’s helm saved him from a killing stroke. The blade glanced off the metal and cut open Gerard’s cheek. He felt no pain and knew he’d been hit only because he could taste the warm blood that flooded his mouth. The man caught hold of Gerard’s sword hand in a clench of iron, began trying to break his fingers to force him to drop his weapon. Gerard struck the man in the face, breaking his nose. Still the man hung on, grappled with Gerard. Flinging the man backward, Gerard kicked him in the gut, sent the man sprawling. Gerard moved to finish him, but the man scrambled to his feet and ran. Gerard was too exhausted to pursue him. Gerard stood gasping for breath. His head hurt now, hurt abominably. Holding a sword was painful, and he shifted the weapon to his left hand, although what he would do with it there was open to question, since he’d never attained the skill to fight with both hands. He could at least use it as a club, he supposed.

Odila’s armor was dented and blood-covered. He could not tell if she was hurt, and he lacked the breath to ask. She sat on her horse, looking around her, sword poised, waiting for the next assault.

Gerard realized suddenly that he could see trees silhouetted against the stars. He could see other knights, some mounted, some standing on the ground, some kneeling, some fallen. He could see stars, he could see the walls of Solanthus, gleaming white in the bright moonlight, with one terrible exception. An enormous section of wall was missing, a section near the gate. A huge pile of blasted rock lay in front.

“What happened?” Odila gasped, snatching off her helm to see better.

“Who did this? Why did the gates not open? Who barred them?” She stared at the walls that were silent and empty. “Where are our archers? Why have they left their posts?”

In an answer that seemed almost personal, so nearly did it coincide with Odila’s question, a lone figure came to stand atop the city’s outer walls above the gates that had had remained closed and barred against their own defenders.

The dead soldiers of Solanthus lay stacked in front of the city gate, an offering before an enormous altar. An offering to the girl Mina, whose black armor was sleek in the moonlight.

“Knights of Solamnia. Citizens of Solanthus.” Mina addressed them, her voice ringing so that none on that bloody field had to strain to hear.

“Through the might of the One God, the city of Solanthus has fallen. I hereby claim the city of Solanthus in the name of the One God.”

Hoarse cries of shocked anger and disbelief rose from the battlefield. Lord Tasgall spurred his horse forward. His armor was dark with blood, his right arm hung limply, uselessly at his side.

“I do not believe you!” he shouted. “Perhaps you have won the outer walls, but you cannot fool me into thinking you have conquered the entire city!”

Archers appeared on the walls, archers wearing the emblems of Neraka. Arrows landed all around him; stuck, quivering, in the ground at his feet.

“Look to the heavens,” said Mina.

Reluctantly, Lord Tasgall raised his head, his gaze searching the skies. He did not have to search long to see defeat.

Black wings slid over the stars, blotting them from view. Black wings sliced across the face of the moon. Dragons wheeled in the air, flying in low victorious circles over the city of Solanthus.

Dragonfear, awful and debilitating,, shook Lord Tasgall and all the Solamnic Knights, caused more than one to quail and fling up his arm in terror or grip his weapon with hands that sweat and trembled. No arrows from Solanthus fired at the dragons. No machines spewed forth flaming oil. One horn call alone had sounded the alarm at the start of battle, and that had been silenced in death.

Mina had spoken truly. The battle was over. While the Solamnic Knights had been held hostage by the dead and ambushed by the living, Mina and the remainder of her forces had flown on dragonback unimpeded into a city that had been emptied of most of its defenders.

“Knights of Solamnia,” Mina continued, “you have witnessed the power of the One God, who rules the living and the dead. Go forth and carry word of the One God’s return into the world with you. I have given the dragons orders not to attack you. You are free to leave. Go where you will.” She waved her hand in a graceful, magnanimous gesture. “Even to Sanction. For that is where the gaze of the One God turns next. Tell the defenders of Sanction of the wonders you have seen this night. Tell them to fear the One God.”

The Lord Knight sat unmoving in his saddle. He was in shock, stunned and overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events. Other Knights rode or walked or limped to stand at his side. They gathered around him. Judging by their raised voices, some were demanding that they ride to the attack. Gerard snorted in derision. Let them, he thought. Let this horde of dragons come down and snap off their fool heads. Idiots like that don’t deserve to live and should certainly never father progeny. One had only to look up into the sky to see that there was nothing left for the Solamnic Knighthood in Solanthus.

Mina spoke one last time. “The night wanes. The dawn approaches. You have one hour to depart in safety. Any who remain within sight of the city walls by this day’s dawning will be slain.” Her voice grew gentle.

“Have no fear for your dead. They will be honored, for they now serve the One God.”

The bluster and the fury of the defeated Knights soon blew out. Those few foot soldiers who had escaped alive began to straggle off across the fields, many looking backward over their shoulders as if they could not believe what had happened and must constantly assure themselves by staring at the gruesome sight of their comrades crushed to death beneath the rubble of the once-mighty city.

The Knights managed to salvage what dignity they had left and returned to the field to pick up their fallen. They would not leave their dead behind, no matter what Mina or the One God promised. Lord Tasgall remained seated on his horse. He had removed his helm to wipe away the sweat. His face was grim and fixed, his complexion as white as that of the ghosts.

Gerard could not look at him, could not bear to see such suffering. He turned away.

Odila had not joined the rest of the Knights. She had not appeared even to see what was transpiring. She sat her horse, staring at the wall where the girl Mina had been standing.

Gerard had planned to go assist the other Knights with the wounded and dead, but he didn’t like the expression on Odila’s face. He grasped hold of her boot, jogged her foot to gain her attention.

She looked down at him and didn’t seem to recognize him.

“The One God,” Odila said. “The girl speaks the truth. A god has returned to the world. What can mortals do against such power?”

Gerard looked up to where the dragons danced in the heavens, flying triumphant amidst ragged wispy clouds that were not clouds, but the souls of the dead, still lingering.

“We do what she told us to do,” Gerard said flatly, glancing back at the walls of the fallen city. He saw the minotaur standing there, watching the Solamnic Knights’ retreat. “We ride to Sanction. We warn them of what is coming.”