Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter TwentyBetrayed

The days of waiting had passed pleasantly for Gerard. The queen mother’s house was a sanctuary of peace and serenity. Every room was a bower of green and growing plants and flowers. The sounds of falling water soothed and relaxed. He was not in possession of the supposed time travel device, yet he had the feeling that here time was suspended. The sunlit hours melted into dusk that melted into night and back to sunlight again with no one seeming to notice the change of one day to next. No hourglass dropped its sands into elven lives, or so Gerard imagined. He was jolted back into harsh reality when, on the afternoon of the day they were to leave, he walked in the garden and saw, quite by chance, sunlight flash off shining black armor.

The Neraka Knight was distant, but he was plainly keeping watch on the house. Gerard ducked back into the doorway, his idyll of peace shattered. He waited tensely for the Neraka Knights to come beating on the door, but hours passed and no one disturbed them. He trusted, at last, that he had not been seen.

He took care not to venture outside after that, not until nightfall, when they were ready to depart.

Gerard had seen little of Palin Majere, for which he was not sorry. He deplored the mage’s rudeness to everyone in the household, but most particularly to Laurana. Gerard tried to make allowances. Palin Majere had suffered a great deal, the Knight reminded himself. But the mage’s dark moods cast a j shadow that dimmed the brightest sunlight. Even the two servant elves tiptoed around, afraid of making a sound that would bring down on them the mage’s irrational anger. When Gerard mentioned this to Laurana, making some comment on what he considered boorish human behavior, she smiled and urged him to be patient.

“I was a prisoner once,” she said, her eyes dark with memory, “a prisoner of the Dark Queen. Unless you have been a prisoner, Sir Knight; until you have been shut away in darkness, alone in pain and in fear, I don’t believe you can understand.”

Gerard accepted the gentle rebuke and said nothing more.

He had seen little of the kender, as well, for which the Knight was extremely grateful. Palin Majere kept Tasslehoff closeted away for hours at a time, having the kender relate in detail his ridiculous stories over and over. No torture devised by the cruelest Neraka Knight could match being forced to endure the kender’s shrill voice for hours on end.

The night they were to leave Qualinesti came—all too soon. The world beyond, the world of humans, seemed a hurried, grasping, sordid sort of place. Gerard was sorry to be returning to it. He had come to understand why the elves were loathe to travel outside their beautiful, serene realm.

Their elven guide stood waiting. Laurana kissed Tas, who, feeling a snuffle coming on, was quiet for all of three minutes. She thanked Gerard graciously for his help and gave him her hand to kiss, which he did with respect and admiration and a true feeling of loss. She spoke last to Palin, who had remained aloof, off to one side. He was obviously impatient to be gone.

“My friend,” she said to him, placing her hand on his arm, “I believe that I know something of what you are thinking.”

He frowned at this and shook his head slightly.

Laurana continued, “Be careful, Palin. Think long and well before you act.”

He made no answer but kissed her as was the elven custom between old friends and told her, rather curtly, not to worry. He knew what he was about.

As he followed their elven guide into the night, Gerard looked back at the house on the cliff. Its lights shone brilliant as stars, but, like the stars, they were too small to bring day to night.

“Yet without the darkness,” said Palin suddenly, “we would never be aware that the stars exist.”

So that’s how you rationalize evil, Gerard thought. He made no comment, and Palin did not speak again. The mage’s morose silence was more than made up for by Tasslehoff.

“One would think that a cursed kender would talk less,”

Gerard grumbled.

“The curse isn’t on my tongue,” Tasslehoff pointed out. “It’s on my insides. It made them go all squirmy. Have you ever been cursed like that?”

“Yes, the moment I set eyes on you,” Gerard retorted.

“You are all making noise enough to wake a drunken gully dwarf!” their elven guide said irritably, speaking Common.

Gerard had no idea if this was Kalindas or Kelevandros. He could never keep the two brothers straight. They were as alike as twins, although one was older than the other, or so he had been told.

Their elven names, both beginning with K, blurred in his mind.

He might have asked Palin, but the mage was disinclined to talk, appeared absorbed in his own dark thoughts.

“The kender’s chatter is like the twittering of birds compared to the rattle and clank of your armor, Sir Knight,” the elf added.

“Not that it would be much different if you were naked. You humans cannot even draw a breath without making noise. I could hear the huffing and bellowing of your breathing a mile distant.”

“We’ve been on the move through this forest for hours,”

Gerard countered. “Are we anywhere near our destination?”

“Quite near,” the elf replied. “The clearing where you will meet the griffon is straight ahead at the end of this trail. If you had elven sight you could see it from here. In fact, this would be a good place to halt, if you would like to rest. We should keep under cover until the last possible moment.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere,” Gerard said gratefully. Dropping his pack, he sank down at the base of a tall aspen tree, leaned his back against it, closed his eyes and stretched his legs. “How long until morning?”

“An hour. And now I must leave you for a while to go hunting. We should be prepared to offer the griffons fresh meat. They will be hungry from their long flight and will appreciate the courtesy. You should be safe here, provided none of you wander off.”

The elf looked at the kender as he spoke.

“We will be fine,” Palin said the first words he had spoken in hours. He did not sit down, but paced beneath the trees, restless and impatient. “No, Tas. You stay here with us. Where is the device? You still have it, don’t you? No, don’t bring it out. I just want to know it’s safe.”

“Oh, it’s safe,” the kender said. “It couldn’t be unsafe, if you know what I mean.”

“Damn funny time to go hunting,” Gerard observed, watching the elf slip off into the darkness.

“He leaves on my orders,” Palin said. “The griffons will be in a much better humor when they have eaten, and we will have a safer ride. I was once on the back of a griffon who decided that her empty belly was more important than her rider. Spying a deer on the ground, she swooped down upon it. I could do nothing but cling to her in terror. Fortunately we all came out of it alive, including the deer, who heard my cries to the griffon to stop and dashed off into the forest. The griffon was in a foul mood, however, and refused to carry me farther. Since then, I have always made certain that I brought a gift of food.”

“Then why didn’t the elf do that before we left instead of waiting to go hunting now?”

“Probably because he did not want to walk for miles lugging a deer carcass over his shoulder,” Palin said sardonically. “You must take into account the fact that the smell of fresh-killed meat makes many elves sick to their stomachs.”

Gerard said nothing, fearing to say too much. By the mage’s tone, Palin took the Knight for an idiot. Perhaps he had not meant it that way, but that was how Gerard understood it.

“By the way, Sir Gerard,” Palin said stiffly, “I want you to know that I consider that you have done your part in fulfilling my father’s dying request. I will take up the matter from here. You need no longer concern yourself with it.”

“As you wish, sir,” Gerard returned.

“I want to thank you for what you have done,” Palin added after a pause during which the chill in the air could have caused snow to start falling in midsummer. “You have performed a great service at the risk of your own life. A great service,” he repeated softly. “I will recommend to Lord Warren that you be given a commendation.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gerard said. “But I’m only doing my duty by your father, a man I much admired.”

“As opposed to his son, is that it?” Palin asked. He turned and walked off a few paces, his head bowed, his arms folded in the sleeves of his dark-colored robes. He obviously considered their conversation at an end.

Tasslehoff settled himself down beside Gerard, and because a kender’s hands must always be busy doing something, he turned out all the pockets in the new shirt he’d persuaded Laurana to sew for him. The shirt was a riot of color and gave Gerard eyestrain just to look it. By the lambent light of a half-moon and many thousand stars, Tas sorted through the interesting things he’d picked up while in Laurana’s house.

No doubt about it. Gerard would be extremely glad to deposit the mage and the kender in Solace and be done with them both.

The sky above them gradually grew lighter, the stars faded away, the moon paled, but the elf did not return.

Marshal Medan and his escort reached the rendezvous appointed by the elf about an hour before dawn. He and the two Knights with him reined in their horses.. Medan did not dismount. Rebel elves were known to inhabit this part of the forest. He looked intently into the shadows and the swirling mists and thought that this would make an excellent place for an ambush.

“Subcommander,” Medan said. “Go see if you can find our traitor. He said he would be waiting by those three white rocks over there.”

The subcommander dismounted. Keeping his hand on his sword, half-drawing it from its scabbard, he moved slowly forward, making as little noise as possible. He wore only his breastplate, no other metal armor.

The marshal’s horse was restive. The animal snorted and blew and pricked his ears. Medan patted the horse on the neck. “What is it, boy?” he asked softly. “What’s out there?”

The subcommander disappeared in the shadows, reappeared again as a shadowy silhouette against the backdrop of the three large white boulders. Medan could hear the man’s harsh whisper.

He could not hear if there was a reply but assumed there must have been, for the sub commander nodded and returned to make his report.

“The traitor says the three are not far from here, near a clearing, where they are to meet the griffon. He will lead us there. We should walk, he says. The horses make too much noise.”

The marshal dismounted and dropped the reins with a single spoken word of command. The horse would remain where it was, would not move from the spot until ordered. The other Knight dismounted, taking from his saddle a short bow and a quiver of arrows.

Medan and his escorts crept through the forest.

“And this is what I’ve been reduced to,” Medan muttered to himself, shoving aside tree branches, stepping carefully through the undergrowth. He could barely see the man in front of him. Only the three white rocks showed up clearly and they were sometimes obscured by the dank mists. “Skulking about the woods at night like a blasted thief. Relying on the word of an elf who thinks nothing of betraying his mistress for a handful of steel. And all for what? To ambush some wretch of a wizard!”

“Did you say something, sir?” the subcommander whispered.

“Yes,” Medan returned. “I said I would rather be on the field of honorable battle lying dead with a spear through my heart than here at this moment. What about you, Subcommander?”

“Sir?” The subcommander stared at him. The man had no clue what his marshal was talking about.

“Never mind,” Medan grated. “Just keep going.” He waved his hand.

The traitor elf appeared, a glimmer of a pale face in the darkness. He raised a pallid hand, motioned for Medan to join him.

The marshal drew forward, eyed the elf grimly.

“Well? Where are they?” Medan did not use the elf’s name. In Medan’s mind, the elf was not worthy of a name.

“There!” The elf pointed. “Beneath that tree. You cannot see it from here, but there is a clearing a hundred paces beyond. They plan to meet the griffon there.”

The sky was graying with the dawn. Medan could see nothing at first and then the mists swirled apart, revealing three shadowy figures. One appeared to be wearing dark armor, for though Medan could not see it clearly, he could hear it rattle and clank.

“Sir,” said the traitor, sounding nervous, “have you further need of me? If not, I should be going. My absence may be noted.”

“Leave, by all means,” said Medan.

The elf slipped away into the woods.

The marshal motioned for the knight with the bow to come forward.

“Remember, the dragon wants them alive,” Medan said.

“Aim high. Shoot to cripple. Fire on my order. Not before.”

The Knight nodded and took his place in the brush. He fit an arrow to his bow string and looked to the marshal.

Medan watched and waited.

Gerard heard a flapping sound, as of immense wings. He’d never before seen a griffon, but this sounded like what he expected a griffon would sound like. He jumped to his feet.

“What is it?” Palin lifted his head, startled by the Knight’s sudden movement.

“I think I hear the griffon, sir,” Gerard replied.

Palin drew back his hood to hear better, looked toward the clearing. They could not see the griffon yet. The beast was still among the treetops, but the wind from its wings was starting to scatter dead leaves and kick up dust.

“Where? Where?” Tasslehoff cried, hastily gathering up all his valuables and stuffing them into whatever location presented itself.

The griffon came into view, huge wings stilled now, floating on the air currents to a smooth landing. Gerard forgot his irritation with the mage and his annoyance at the kender in wonder at the sight of the strange beast. Elves ride griffons as humans ride horses, but few humans did. Griffons have always had a distrust of humans, who were known to hunt and kill them.

Gerard had tried not to dwell on the fact that he would soon be trusting his life to a beast that had little reason to love him, but now he was forced to confront the idea of actually riding on the back of one of these creatures, riding it not over a road but into the air. High in the air, so that any mischance would send him plummeting to a horrible death.

Gerard steeled himself, faced this as he faced any other daunting task. He noted the proud eagle head with its white feathers, the shining black eyes, and the hooked beak that could, or so he’d heard, snap a man’s spine in two or rip his head from his neck. The front legs were those of an eagle, with rending talons; the back legs and body were those of a lion, covered in a soft brown fur. The wings were large and snow white underneath, brown on top. The griffon was taller than Gerard by at least head and shoulders.

“There is only one of them,” Gerard reported coolly, as if meeting one were an everyday occurrence with him. “At least so far. And no sign of the elf.”

“Strange,” Palin said, glancing about. “I wonder where he went? This is not like him.”

The griffon flapped its wings and turned its head, searching for its riders. The wind of the enormous wings whipped up a gale that sent wisps of morning fog swirling and lashed the tree branches. They waited another few moments, but no other griffon appeared.

“It seems there is to be only one, sir,” Gerard said, trying not to sound relieved. “You and the kender go ahead. I’ll see you off safely. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my own way out of Qualinesti. I have my horse. . . .”

“Nonsense,” said Palin crisply, displeased at any change in plans. “The griffon can carryall three of us. The kender counts as nothing.”

“I do, too, count for something!” Tasslehoff stated, offended.

“Sir, I really don’t mind,” Gerard began.

An arrow thunked into the tree beside him. Another arrow whizzed over his head. Gerard dropped to the ground, grabbing hold of the kender on the way down.

“Sir! Take cover!” he yelled at Palin.

“Rebel elves,” Palin said, peering through the shadows.

“They have seen your armor. We are friends!” he called out in elven and lifted his hand to wave.

An arrow tore through the sleeve of his robe. He stared at the hole in angry astonishment. Gerard leaped to his feet, caught hold of the mage and pulled him to cover behind a large oak tree.

“They’re not elves, sir!” he said and he pointed grimly to one of the arrows. The tip was steel and the arrow was fletched in black feathers. “They’re Knights of Neraka.” .

“But so are you,” said Palin, eyeing Gerard’s breastplate, adorned with the skull and the death lily. “At least for all they know.”

“Oh, they know all right,” Gerard answered grimly. “You notice the elf never returned. I think we’ve been betrayed.”

“It’s not possible—” Palin began.

“I see them!” Tasslehoff cried, pointing. “Over there in those bushes. Three of them. They’re wearing black armor.”

“You have sharp eyes, kender,” Gerard conceded. He couldn’t see a thing in the shadows and mists of early dawn.

“We cannot stay here. We must make a run for the griffon!”

Palin said, and started to stand up.

Gerard pulled the mage back down.

“Those archers rarely miss, sir. You’ll never make it alive!”

“True, they don’t miss,” Palin retorted. “And yet they have fired three arrows at us and we live. If we have been betrayed, they know we carry the artifact! That’s what they want. They mean to capture us alive and interrogate us.” He gripped Gerard’s arm hard, his cruelly deformed fingers driving the chain mail painfully into the knight’s flesh. “I won’t give up the device. And I won’t be taken alive! Not again! Do you hear me? I won’t!”

Two more arrows thudded into the tree, causing the kender, who had poked his head up to see, to duck back down.

“Whew!” he said, feeling his top-knot anxiously. “That was close! Do I still have my hair?”

Gerard looked at Palin. The mage’s face was pale, his lips a thin, tight line. Laurana’s words came back to Gerard. Until you have been a prisoner, you cannot understand.

“You go on, sir. You and the kender.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Palin. “We leave together. They want me alive. They have a use for me. They don’t need you at all. You will be tortured and killed.”

Behind them, the griffon’s harsh cry sounded loud and raucous and impatient.

“I am not the fool, sir,” Gerard said, looking the mage in the eye. “You are, if you don’t listen to me. I can distract them, and I can defend myself properly. You cannot, unless you have some magical spell at your fingertips?”

He knew by Majere’s pale, pinched face that he did not.

“Very well” said Gerard. “Take the kender and your precious magical artifact and get out of here!”

Palin hesitated a moment, staring at the direction of the enemy. His face was set, rigid, corpselike. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from Gerard’s arm. “This is what I have become,” he said. “Useless. Wretched. Forced to run instead of facing my enemies. . .”

“Sir, if you’re going, go now,” Gerard said, drawing his sword with a ringing sound. “Keep low and use the trees for cover. Fast!”

He rose from his hiding position. Brandishing his sword, he charged unhesitatingly at the Knights crouched in the brush, shouting his battle challenge, drawing their fire.

Palin rose to his feet. Crouching low, he grabbed hold of Tasslehoff’s shirt collar, jerked the kender to a standing position.

“You’re coming with me,” he ordered.

“But what about Gerard?” Tas hung back.

“You heard him,” Palin said, dragging the kender forward.

“He can take care of himself. Besides, the Knights must not capture the artifact!”

“But they can’t take the device away from me!” Tas protested, tugging at his shirt to free it from Palin’s grasp. “It will always come back to me!”

“Not if you’re dead,” Palin said harshly, biting the words.

Tas stopped suddenly and turned around. His eyes went wide.

“Do. . . do you see a dragon anywhere?” he asked nervously.

“Quit stalling!” Palin seized hold of the kender by the arm this time and, using strength borne of adrenaline, hauled Tasslehoff bodily through the trees toward the griffon.

“I’m not stalling. I feel sick,” Tas asserted. “I think the curse is working on me again.”

Palin paid no attention to the kender’s whining. He could hear Gerard yelling, shouting challenges to his enemies. Another arrow whistled past, but it fell spent about a yard away from Palin. His dark robes blended into the forest, he was a running target moving through the mists and dim light keeping low, as Gerard had recommended, and putting the trunks of the trees between him and the enemy whenever possible.

Behind him, Palin heard steel clash against steel. The arrows ceased. Gerard was fighting the Knights. Alone.

Palin plunged grimly ahead, dragging the protesting kender along with him. The mage was not proud of himself. His fear and his shame rankled in him, more painful than one of the arrows if it had happened to hit. He risked a glance backward but could see nothing for the shadows and. the fog.

He was near the griffon. He was near escape. His steps slowed. He hesitated, half-turned. . .

A blackness came over him. He was once again in the prison cell in the Gray Robes’ encampment on the border of Qualinesti.

He crouched at the bottom of a deep, narrow pit dug into the ground. The walls of the pit were smooth. He could not climb up them. An iron grating was placed over the top. A few holes in the grate permitted the air to filter down into the pit, along with the rain that dripped monotonously and filled the bottom of the pit with water.

He was alone, forced to live in his own filth. Forced to eat whatever scraps they tossed down to him. No one spoke to him. He had no guards. None were necessary. He was trapped, and they knew it. He rarely even heard the sound of a human voice for days on end. He almost came to welcome those times when his captors threw down a ladder and brought him up for “questioning.”

Almost.

The bright blazing pain seared through him again. Breaking his fingers, slowly, one by one. Ripping out his fingernails. Flailing his back with leather cords that cut through his flesh to the bone.

A shudder ran through him. He bit his tongue, tasted blood and bile that surged up from his clenching stomach. Sweat trickled down his face.

“I’m sorry, Gerard!” he gasped. “I’m sorry!”

Catching hold of Tasslehoff by the scruff of his neck, Palin lifted the kender and tossed him bodily onto the griffon’s back.

“Hold on tightly!” he ordered the kender.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Tas cried, squirming. “Let’s wait for Gerard!”

Palin had no time for any kender ploys. “Leave at once!” he ordered the griffon. Palin pulled himself into the saddle that was strapped onto the griffon’s back, between the feathery wings.

“The Knights of Neraka surround us. Our guard is holding them off, but I doubt he can last for long.”

The griffon glared back at the mage with bright, black eyes.

“Do we leave him behind, then?” the griffon asked.

“Yes,” said Palin evenly. “We leave him behind.”

The griffon did not argue. He had his orders. The strange habits of humans were not his concern. The beast lifted his great wings and leaped into the air, his powerful lion legs driving into the ground. He circled the clearing, striving to gain altitude and avoid the trees. Palin peered down, trying to find Gerard. The sun had cleared the horizon, was burning away the mists and lighting the shadows. Palin could see flashes of steel and hear ringing blows.

Miraculously, the Knight was still alive.

Palin turned away. He faced into the rushing wind. The sun vanished suddenly, overtaken by huge, rolling gray storm clouds that boiled up over the horizon. Lightning flickered amid the churning clouds. Thunder rumbled. A chill wind, blowing from the storm,! cooled the sweat that had drenched his robes and left his hair wringing wet. He shivered slightly and drew his dark cloak close around him. He did not look back again.

The griffon rose high above the trees. Feeling the air currents beneath his wings, the beast soared into the blue sky.

“Palin!” Tasslehoff cried, tugging urgently on the back of his robes. “There’s something flying behind us!”

Palin twisted to look.

The green dragon was distant, but it was moving at great speed, its wings slicing the air, its clawed feet pressed up against its body, its green tail streaming out behind. It was not Beryl. One of her minions, out doing her bidding.

Of course. She would not trust the Knights of Neraka to bring her this prize. She would send one of her own kind to fetch it. He leaned over the griffon’s shoulder.

“A dragon!” he shouted. “East of us!”

“I see it!” the griffon snarled.

Palin shaded his eyes to view the dragon, trying not to blink in case he should miss a single beat of the immense wings.

“The dragon has spotted us,” he reported. “It is coming straight for us.”

“Hang on!” The griffon veered sharply, made a steep, banking rom. “I’m going to fly into the storm. The ride will be rough!”

Tall, spiring clouds formed a wall of gray and purple-black on the horizon. The clouds had the look of a fortress, massive and impenetrable. Lightning flared from breaks in the clouds, like torchlight through windows. Thunder rolled and boomed.

“I do not like the looks of that storm!” Palin cried out to the griffon.

“Do you like the insides of the dragon’s belly better?” the griffon demanded. “The beast gains on us. We cannot outfly it.”

Palin looked back, hoping that the griffon might have misjudged. Huge wings beat the air, the dragon’s jaws parted. Palin met the dragon’s eyes, saw the single-minded purpose in them, saw them intent on him.

Grasping the reins with one hand and taking firm hold of a shouting Tas with the other, Palin bent low over the griffon’s neck, keeping his head and body down so that the rushing wind did not blow him off the griffon’s back. The first few drops of rain pelted his face, stinging.

The clouds rose to immense heights, towering spires of lightning-shot gray-black, taller than the mighty fortress of Pax Tharkas. Palin looked up in awe, his head bent so that his neck ached and still he could not see the top. The griffon swooped nearer. Tasslehoff was still shouting something, but the wind took his words and whipped them away behind him, as it whipped his topknot.

Palin looked back. The dragon was almost on them. The claws of the dragon twitched now in anticipation of the capture. She would breathe her lethal gas on them, then seize them all three in one of her huge clawed feet and hurl them to the ground. With luck, the fall would kill them. The dragon would devour the griffon and then, at her leisure, she would rip their bodies apart, searching for the device.

Palin averted his eyes, stared ahead into the storm and urged the griffon to fly faster.

The cloud fortress rose before them. A flash of lightning blinded him. Thunder rolled, sounding like enormous cables turning a gigantic cog wheel. A solid bank of clouds suddenly parted, revealing a dark, lightning-lit hallway curtained by driving rain.

The griffon plunged into the cloud bank. Rain lashed at them in stinging torrents, deluged them. Wiping the water from his eyes, Palin stared in awe. Row after row of columns of gray cloud rose from a mottled gray floor to support a ceiling of boiling black.

Clouds shrouded them, wrapped around them. Palin could see nothing for the woolly grayness. He could not even see the griffon’s head. Lightning sizzled near him. He could smell the brimstone, thunder crashed, nearly stopping his heart.

The griffon flew a zigzag course among the columns, soaring up and diving down, rounding and circling, then doubling back.

Sheets of rain hung like silver tapestries, drenching them as they flew beneath. Palin could not see the dragon, though he could hear the discordant horn blast of its frustration as it tried desperately to find them.

The griffon left the cavernous halls of the fortress of storm clouds and flew out into the sunshine. Palin looked back, waited tensely)for the dragon to appear. The griffon chortled, pleased.

The dragon was lost somewhere in the storm clouds.

Palin told himself that he’d had no choice in the matter, he had acted logically in escaping. He had to protect the magical artifact. Gerard had practically ordered the mage to leave. If he had stayed, he could have accomplished nothing. They would have all died, and the artifact would have been in Beryl’s possession.

The artifact was safe. Gerard was either dead or a prisoner.

There was nothing that could be done to save him now.

“Best to forget it,” Palin said to himself. “Put it out of my mind. What’s done is done and can’t be undone.”

He dropped remorse and guilt into a dark pit, a deep pit in his soul and covered them with the iron grating of necessity.

Sir,” reported Medan’s subcommander, “the Knight is attacking—alone. The magic-user and the kender are escapmg. What are your orders?”

“Attacking alone. So he is,” Medan replied, astonished.

The Solamnic came crashing through the underbrush, brandishing his sword and shouting the Solamnic battle-cry, a cry Marshal Medan had not heard in many years. The sight took the marshal back to the days when knights in shining silver and gleaming black clashed headlong on the field of battle; when champions came forward to duel to the death while armies looked on, their fates in the hands of heroes; when combatants saluted each other with honor before commencing with the deadly business at hand.

Here was Medan, crouched in a bush, safely ensconced behind a large tree stump, taking potshots at a washed-up mage and a kender.

“Can I sink any lower?” he muttered to himself.

The archer was drawing his bow. Having lost sight of the mage, he shifted his aim to the Knight, going for the legs, hoping for a crippling shot.

“Belay that,” Medan snapped, resting his hand on the bowman’s arm.

The subcommander looked around. “Sir? Your orders?”

The Solamnic was closing in. The magic-user and the kender were out of range, lost in the trees and the mists.

“Sir, should we pursue them?” the subcommander asked.

“No,” Medan answered and saw a look of amazement cross the man’s face.

“But our orders,” he ventured.

“I know our orders,” Medan snapped. “Do you want to be remembered in song as the Knight who slew a kender and a broken-down old mage, or as a Knight who fought a battle with an equal?”

The sub commander evidently did not want to be remembered in song. “But our orders,” he persisted.

Damn the man for a thick-headed lout! Medan glowered at him.

“You have your orders, Subcommander. Don’t make me repeat them.”

The forest grew dark again. The sun had risen only to have its warmth and light cut off by storm clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a few drops of rain pelted down. The kender and the mage had disappeared. They were on the back of the griffon and heading away from Qualinesti. Away from Laurana. Now, with luck, he could shield her from any involvement with the mage.

“Go meet the Knight,” Medan said, waving his hand. “He challenges you to combat. Fight him.”

The subcommander rose from his place, sword drawn. The archer dropped his bow. He held a dagger in his hand, ready to strike from behind while the subcommander attacked from the front.

“Single combat,” Medan added, holding the bowman back.

“Face him one on one, Subcommander.”

“Sir?” The man was incredulous. He looked back to see if the marshal was joking.

What had the subcommander been before he became a’

Knight? Sell-sword? Thief? Thug? Well, this day, he would have a lesson in honor.

“You heard me,” Medan said.

The subcommander exchanged dour glances with his fellow, then walked forward without enthusiasm to meet the Solamnic’s crashing charge. Medan rose to his feet. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against one of the white boulders to watch the encounter.

The sub commander was a powerfully built man with a bull neck, thick shoulders and muscular arms. He was accustomed to relying on his strength and low cunning in battle, hacking and slashing at his opponent until either a lucky cut or sheer brute force wore the enemy down.

The sub commander charged head-on like a snorting bison, swinging his sword with murderous strength. The Solamnic parried the blow, met it with such force that sparks glittered on the steel blades. The subcommander held on, swords locked, trying to drive his opponent into the ground. The Solamnic was no match for such strength. He recognized this and changed tactics. He staggered backward, leaving himself temptingly open.

The sub commander fell for the ruse. He leaped to the attack, slashing with his blade, thinking to make a quick kill. He managed to wound the knight in the left upper arm, cutting through the leather armor to open a great bleeding gash.

The Solamnic took the blow and never winced. He held his ground, watched for his opportunity and coolly drove his sword into the subcommander’s belly.

The subcommander dropped his sword and doubled over with a horrible, gurgling cry, clutching himself, trying to hold his insides in. The Solamnic yanked his sword free. Blood gushed from the man’s mouth. He toppled over.

Before Medan could stop him, the bowman had lifted his bow, shot an arrow at the Solamnic. The arrow plunged deep into the Knight’s thigh. He cried out in agony, stumbled, off-balance.

“You cowardly bastard!” Medan swore. Snatching the bow, he slammed it against the rock, smashing it.

The archer then drew his sword and ran to engage the wounded Solamnic. Medan considered halting the battle, but he was interested to see how the Solamnic handled this new challenge. He watched dispassionately, glorying in a battle-to-the-death contest such as he had not witnessed in years.

The archer was a shorter, lighter man, a cagier fighter than the subcommander. He took his time, testing his opponent with jabbing strikes of his short sword, searching for weaknesses, wearing him down. He caught the Solamnic a glancing blow to the face beneath the raised visor. The wound was not serious, but blood poured from it, running into the Solamnic’s eye, partially blinding him. The Solamnic blinked the blood out of his eye and fought on. Crippled and bleeding, he grimaced every time he was forced to put weight on his leg. The arrow remained lodged in his thigh. He had not had time to yank it out. Now he was on the offensive. He had to end this fight soon, or he would not have any strength to pursue it.

Lightning flashed. The rain fell harder. The men struggled together over the corpse of the subcommander. The Solamnic jabbed and slashed, his sword seeming to be everywhere like a striking snake. Now it was the archer who was hard-pressed. He had all he could do to keep that snake’s fang from biting.

“Well struck, Solamnic,” Medan said softly more than once, watching with pleasure the sight of such skill, such excellent training.

The archer slipped in the rain-wet grass. The Solamnic lunged forward on his wounded leg and drove his sword into the man’s breast. The archer fell, and so did the Solamnic, collapsing on his knees onto the forest floor, gasping for breath.

Medan left his boulder, walked out into the open. The Solamnic, hearing him coming, staggered to his feet with a wrenching cry of pain. His wounded leg gave out beneath him.

Limping, the Solamnic placed his back against a tree trunk to provide stability and raised his sword. He looked at death. He knew he could not win this last battle, but at least he would die upright, not on his knees.

“I thought the flame had gone out in the hearts of the Knighthood, but it lives on in one man seemingly,” said Medan, facing the Solamnic. The marshal rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it.

The Solamnic’s face was a mask of blood. Eyes of a startling, arresting blue color regarded Medan without hope, but without fear.

He waited for Medan to strike.

The marshal stood in the mud and the rain, straddling the bodies of his two dead subordinates, and waited.

The Solamnic’s defiance began to waver. He realized suddenly)what Medan was doing, realized that he was waiting for the Solamnic to collapse, waiting to capture him alive.

“Fight, damn you!” The Solamnic lurched forward, lashed out with his sword.

Medan stepped to one side.

The Solamnic forgot, put his weight on his bad leg. The leg gave way. He lost his balance, fell to the forest floor. Even then, he made one last opportunity to try to struggle to his feet, but he was too weak. He had lost too much blood. His eyes closed. He lay face down in the muck alongside the bodies of his foes.

Medan rolled the Knight over. Placing his hand on the Knight’s thigh for leverage, the marshal took hold of the arrow and yanked it out. The Knight groaned with the pain, but did not regain consciousness. Medan took off his cloak, cut the material into strips with his sword, and made a battlefield tourniquet to staunch the bleeding. He then wrapped the Knight warmly in what remained of the cloak.

“You have lost a lot of blood,” Medan said, returning his sword to its sheath, “but you are young and strong. We will see what the healers can do for you.”

Rounding up the two horses of his subordinates, Medan threw the bodies unceremoniously over their saddles, tied them securely. Then the marshal whistled to his own horse. The animal came trotting over in response to his master’s summons to stand quietly at Medan’s side.

Medan lifted the Solamnic in his arms, eased the wounded Knight into the saddle. He examined the wound, was pleased to see that the tourniquet had stopped the flow of blood. He relaxed the tourniquet a notch, not wanting to cut off the blood flow to the leg completely, then climbed into the saddle. Seating himself behind the injured Knight, Medan put his arm around the man and held him gently but firmly in the saddle. He took hold of the reins of the other two horses and, leading them behind, began the long ride back to Qualinost.