Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Nineteen The Blind Beggar

Mina’s troops left Sanction in good spirits, roaring out songs to keep the cadence of the march and speaking of the bold deeds they would do in Silvanesti in the name of their idolized commander. Whenever Mina came in sight, riding her blood-red horse, the soldiers cheered wildly, often breaking ranks (braving the ire of their commanding officers) to cluster round her and touch her for luck.

Galdar was gone. He had left several days earlier for Khur, bearing Mina’ s orders to General Dogah. Captain Samuval was in command in the minotaur’s absence. His command was easy at this point. The sun shone. The summer days were warm. The marching at this stage was safe and easy, for the Knights were only a few days out of Sanction and still in friendly territory. Soon they would enter the land of the ogres—once allies and now bitter enemies. The thought of fighting even those savage monsters could not cloud their spirits. Mina lit their shadows like a cold, pale sun.

A veteran campaigner, Samuval knew that when the weather broke and the rain set in, when the road narrowed, the wind howled and the enemy nipped at their heels, the soldiers would begin to have second thoughts about this venture. They would start to grouse and grumble, and a few might take it into their heads to start trouble. But, for now, his duties were light. He marched at Mina’s side—the envy of all in the column. He stood next to her as she sat on her horse reviewing the troops as they passed by. He was in her tent every night, studying the map and marking out the next day’s route.

He slept near her tent, wrapped in his cloak, his hand on his sword hilt, ready to rush to her defense should she have need of him.

He did not fear any of the men would try to harm her. Lying on his cloak one night, he stared into the stars in the clear sky and wondered about that. She was a young woman—a very attractive young woman. He was a man who loved women, all kinds of women. He could not begin to count the number he had bedded.

Usually the sight of a young slip of a maid as pretty as Mina would have had his blood bubbling, his loins aching. But he felt no twinge of desire in Mina’ s presence and, listening to the talk around the campfires, he knew the other men in the ranks felt the same. They loved her, they adored her. They were awestruck, reverent. But he did not want her and he could not name anyone who did.

The next morning’s march began the same as those before it.

Samuval calculated that if all went well with Galdar’s business in Khur, the minotaur would catch up to them in another two days.

Prior to this, Samuval had never had much use for minotaurs, but he was actually looking forward to seeing Galdar again. . . .

“Sir! Stop the men!” a scout shouted.

Samuval halted the column’s march and walked forward to meet the scout.

“What is it?” the captain demanded. “Ogres?”

“No, sir.” The scout saluted. “There’s a blind beggar on the path ahead, sir.”

Samuval was irate. “You called a halt for a blasted beggar?”

“Well sir”—the scout was discomfited—“he’s blocking the path.”

“Shove him out of the way then!” Samuval said, infuriated.

“There’s something strange about him, sir.” The scout was uneasy. “He’s no ordinary beggar. I think you should come talk to him, sir. He said ... he said he is waiting for Mina.” The soldier’s eyes were round.

Samuval rubbed his chin. He was not surprised to hear that word of Mina had spread abroad, but he was considerably surprised and not particularly pleased to hear that knowledge of their march and the route they were taking had also apparently traveled ahead of them.

“I’ll see to this,” he said and started to leave with the scout.

Samuval planned to question this beggar to find out what else he knew and how he knew it. Hopefully, he would be able to deal with the man before Mina heard about it.

He had taken about three steps when he heard Mina’s voice behind him.

“Captain Samuval,” she said, riding up on Foxfire, “what is the problem? Why have we stopped?”

Samuval was about to say that the road ahead was blocked by a boulder, but, before he could open his mouth, the scout had blurted out the truth in a loud voice that could be heard up and down the column.

“Mina! There’s a blind beggar up ahead. He says he’s waiting for you.”

The men were pleased, nodding and thinking it only natural that Mina should rate such attention. Fools! One would think they were parading through the streets of Jelek!

Samuval could envision the road ahead lined with the poxed and the lame from every measly village on their route, begging Mina to cure them.

“Captain,” said Mina, “bring the man to me.”

Samuval went to stand by her stirrup. “Listen a moment, Mina,” he argued. “I know you mean well, but if you stop to heal every wretched cripple between here and Silvanost, we’ll arrive in the elf kingdom in time to celebrate Yule with ’em. That is if we arrive at all. Every moment we waste is another moment the ogres have to gather their forces to come meet us.”

“The man asks for me. I will see him,” Mina said and slid down off her horse. “We have marched long. The men could do with a rest. Where he is, Rolof?”

“He’s right up ahead,” said the scout, pointing. “About half a mile. At the top of the hill.”

“Samuval, come with me,” Mina said. “The rest of you, wait here.”

Samuval saw the man before they reached him. The road they were following led up and down small hillocks and, as the scout had said, the beggar was waiting for them at the top of one of these. He sat on the ground, his back against a boulder; a long, stout staff in his hand. Hearing their approach, he rose to his feet and turned slowly and sightlessly to face them.

The man was younger than the captain had expected. Long hair that shimmered with a silver sheen in the morning sunshine fell over his shoulders. His face was smooth and youthful. Once it might have been handsome. He was dressed in robes that were pearl gray in color, travel-worn and frayed at the hem, but clean. All this, Samuval noted later. For now, all he could do was stare at the hideous scar that disfigured the man’s face.

The scar looked to be a burn mark. The hair on the right side of the man’s head had been singed off. The scar slanted across the man’s face from the right side of his head to below the left side of his chin. He wore a rag tied around his right eye socket. Samuval wondered with morbid curiosity if the eye was still there or if it was destroyed, melted in the terrible heat that had seared the flesh and burned away the hair to the roots. The left eye remained, but it was useless seemingly, for it held no light. The horrible wound was fresh, not a month old. The man must be in pain from the injury, but if so he did not reveal it. He stood waiting for them silently and, though he could not see her, his face turned toward Mina. He must have picked out the sound of her lighter steps from Samuval’s heavier footfalls.

Mina paused, just a moment, and Samuval saw her stiffen, as if she were taken by surprise. Then, shrugging, she continued to walk toward the beggar. Samuval came behind, his hand on his sword hilt. Despite the fact that the man was blind, Samuval sensed him to be a threat. As the scout had said, there was something strange about this blind beggar.

“You know me, then,” the man said, his sightless eye gazing over her head.

“Yes, I know you,” she replied.

Samuval found it hard to look at the beggar’s horrid wounds.

Yellow puss oozed from beneath the rag. The skin around the burn was fiery red, swollen and inflamed. The captain could smell the stink of putrefying flesh.

“When did this happen to you?” Mina asked.

“The night of the storm,” he replied.

She nodded gravely, as if she had expected that answer. “Why did you venture out into the storm?”

“I heard a voice,” he replied. “I wanted to investigate.”

“The voice of the One God,” Mina said.

The beggar shook his head, disbelieving. “I could hear the voice over the roaring of the wind and the crashing thunder, but I could not hear the words it spoke. I traveled far through rain and the hail in search of the voice, and I was near the source, I think. I was almost in Neraka when a lightning bolt struck me. I remember nothing after that.”

“You take this human form,” she said abruptly. “Why?”

“Can you blame me, Mina?” he asked, his tone rueful. “I am forced to walk through the land of my enemies.” He gestured with his staff. “This is the only way I am able to travel now—on two feet, with my stick to guide me.”

“Mina”—Samuval spoke to her, but he kept his eyes on the blind man—“we have many more miles to march this day. Say the word and I will rid both the path and the world of this fellow.”

“Easy, Captain,” Mina said quietly, resting her hand on his arm. “This is an old acquaintance. I will be only a moment longer. How did you find me?” she asked the blind man.

“I have heard the stories of your deeds everywhere I go,” the beggar answered. “I knew the name, and I recognized the description. Could there be another Mina with eyes the color of amber? No, I said to myself. Only one—the orphan girl who, years ago, washed up on the shores of Schallsea. The orphan girl who was taken in by Goldmoon and who won the First Master’s heart. She grieves for you, Mina. Grieves for you these three years as for one dead. Why did you run away from her and the rest of us who loved you?”

“Because she could not answer my questions,” Mina replied. “None of you could.”

“And have you found the answer, Mina?” the man asked and his voice was stem.

“I have,” she said steadily.

The beggar shook his head. He did not seem angry, only sorrowful.

“I could heal you,” Mina offered, and she took a step toward him, her hand outstretched.

Swiftly the beggar stepped backward. In the same movement, he shifted the staff from one hand to two and held it out in front of his body, barring her way. “No!” he cried. “As much as my wound pains me now, that pain is physical. It does not strike to my soul as would the pain of your so-called healing touch. And though I walk in darkness, my darkness is not so deep as the darkness in which you now walk, Mina.”

She smiled at him, her smile calm, radiant.

“You heard the voice, Solomirathnius,” she said. “You hear it still. Don’t you?”

He did not reply. He lowered his staff slowly, stared at her long moments. He stared so long that Samuval wondered suspiciously if the man could see out of that one milky white eye.

“Don’t you?” she pressed him.

Abruptly, angrily, the man turned away from her. Tapping the ground with his staff, he left the path and entered the woods. The end of his staff knocked brutally against the boles of trees and thrust savagely into bushes. His hand groped to feel his way.

“I don’t trust him,” Samuval said. “He has the stink of a Solamnic about him. Let me skewer him.”

Mina turned away. “You could do him no harm, Captain. He may look feeble, but he is not.”

“What is he then? A wizard?” Samuval asked with a slight sneer.

“No, he is much more powerful than any wizard,” Mina replied. “In his true form, he is the silver dragon known to most as Mirror. He is the Guardian of the Citadel of Light.”

“A dragon!” Samuval stopped dead in the path, stared back into the brush. He could no longer see the blind beggar, and that worried him more now than ever. “Mina,” he said urgently, “let me take a squadron of men after him! He will surely try to kill us all!”

Mina smiled slightly at Samuval’s fears. “We are safe, Captain. Order the men to resume the march. The path ahead is clear. Mirror will not trouble us.”

“Why not?” Samuval was frowning, doubtful.

“Because once, many years ago, every night, Goldmoon, the First Master of the Citadel of Light, brushed my hair,” Mina said softly.

Reaching up her hand, she touched, very lightly, her shaven head.