Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Twenty-Eight The Dragon Edict

General Medan rarely visited his own headquarters in Qualinost. Constructed by humans, the fortress was ugly, purposefully ugly. Squat, square, made of gray sandstone, with barred windows and heavy, iron-bound doors, the fortress was intended to be ugly, intended as an insult to the elves, to impress upon them who was master. No elf would come near it of his own free will, though many had seen the inside of it, particularly the room located far below ground, the room to which they were taken when the order was given to “put them to the question.”

Marshal Medan had developed an extreme dislike for this building, a dislike almost as great as that of the elves. He preferred to conduct most of his business from his home where his work area was a shady bower dappled with sunlight. He preferred listening to the song of the lark rather than to the sounds of screams of the tortured, preferred the scent of his roses to that of blood.

The infamous room was not much in use these days. Elves thought to be rebels or in league with the rebels vanished like shadows when the sun hides beneath a cloud before the Neraka Knights could arrest them. Medan knew very well that the elves were being spirited away somehow, probably through underground tunnels. In the old days, when he had first taken on the governing of an occupied land, he would have turned Qualinost upside down and inside out, excavated, probed, brought in Thorn Knights to look for magic, tortured hundreds. He did none of these things. He was just as glad that his Knights arrested so few. He had come to loathe the torturing, the death, as he had come to love Qualinesti.

Medan loved the land. He loved the beauty of the land, loved the peaceful serenity that meandered through Qualinesti as the stream wound its sparkling way through his garden. Alexis Medan did not love the elven people. Elves were beyond his ken, his understanding. He might as well have said that he loved the sun or the stars or the moon. He admired them, as he admired the beauty of an orchid, but he could not love them. He sometimes envied them their long life span and sometimes pitied them for it.

Medan did not love Laurana as a woman, Gerard had come to realize. He loved her as the embodiment of all that was beautiful in his adopted homeland.

Gerard was amazed, entranced, and astounded upon his first entrance into Marshal Medan’s dwelling. His amazement increased when the marshal told him, proudly, that he had supervised the design of the house and had laid out the garden entirely to his own liking.

Elves would not have lived happily in the marshal’s house, which was too ordered and structured for their tastes. He disliked the elven practice of using living trees as walls and trailing vines for curtains, nor did he want green grasses for his roof. Elves enjoy the murmur and whispers of living walls around them in the night. Medan preferred his walls to allow him to sleep. His house was built of rough-hewn stone. He took care not to cut living trees, an act the elves considered a grievous crime.

Ivy and morning glories clung to the surfaces of the rock walls.

The house itself was practically hidden by a profusion of flowers.

Gerard could not believe that such beauty could live in the soul of this man, an avowed follower of the precepts of darkness.

Gerard had moved into the house yesterday afternoon. Acting on Medan’s orders, the healers of the Neraka Knights had pooled their dwindling energies to restore the Solamnic to almost complete health. His wounds had knit with astonishing rapidity.

Gerard smiled to himself, imagining their ire if they knew they were expending their limited energies to heal the enemy.

He occupied one wing, a wing that had been vacant until now, for the marshal had not permitted his aides to live in his dwelling, ever since the last man Medan had retained had been discovered urinating in the fish pond. Medan had transferred the man to the very farthest outpost on the elven border, an outpost built on the edge of the desolate wasteland known as the Plains of Dust. He hoped the man’s brain exploded from the heat.

Gerard’s quarters were comfortable, if small. His duties thus far—after two days on the job—had been light. Marshal Medan was an early riser. He took his breakfast in the garden on sunny days, dined on the porch that overlooked the garden on days when it rained. Gerard was on hand to stand behind the marshal’s chair, pour the marshal’s tea, and commiserate with the marshal’s concerns over those he considered his most implacable foes: aphids, spider mites, and bagworms. He handled Medan’s correspondence, introduced and screened visitors and carried orders from the marshal’s dwelling to the detested headquarters building. Here he was looked upon with envy and jealousy by the other knights, who had made crude remarks about the “upstart,” the “toady,” the “ass-licker.”

Gerard was ill-at-ease and tense, at first. So much had happened so suddenly. Five days ago, he had been a guest in Laurana’s house. Now he was a prisoner of the Knights of Neraka, permitted to remain alive so long as Medan considered Gerard might be useful to him.

Gerard resolved to stay with the marshal only as long as it took to find out the identity of the person who was spying on the queen mother. When this was accomplished, he would pass the information on to Laurana and attempt to escape. After he had made this decision, he relaxed and felt better.

After Medan’s supper, Gerard was dispatched to headquarters again to receive the daily reports and the prisoner list—the record of those who had escaped and who were now wanted criminals. Gerard would also be given any dispatches that had arrived for the marshal from other parts of the continent. Usually, few came, Medan told him. The marshal had no interest in other parts of the continent and those parts had very little interest in him. This evening there was a dispatch, carried in the clawed hands of Beryl’s draconian messenger.

Gerard had heard of the draconians—the spawn born years ago of the magically corrupted eggs of good dragons. He had never seen one, however. He decided, on viewing this one—a large Baaz—that he could have gone all his life without seeing one and never missed it.

The draconian stood on two legs like a man, but his body was covered with scales. His hands were large, scaly, the fingers ending in sharp claws. His face was that of a lizard or a snake, with sharp fangs that he revealed in a gaping grin, and a long, lolling tongue. His—short, stubby wings, sprouting from his back, were constantly in gentle motion, fanning the air around him.

The draconian was waiting for Gerard inside the headquarters building. Gerard saw this creature the moment he entered, and for the life of him he could not help hesitating, pausing in the doorway, overcome by revulsion. The other Knights, lounging around the room, watched him with knowing smirks that broadened to smug grins when they saw his discomfiture.

Angry with himself, Gerard entered the headquarters building with firm strides. He marched past the draconian, who had risen to his feet with a scrape of his claws on the floor.

The officer in charge handed over the daily reports. Gerard took them and started to leave. The officer stopped him.

“That’s for the marshal, too.” He jerked a thumb at the draconian, who lifted his head with a leer. “Groul, here, has a dispatch for the marshal.”

Gerard steeled himself. With an air of nonchalance, which he hoped didn’t look as phony as it felt, he approached the foul creature.

“I am the marshal’s aide. Give me the letter.”

Groul snapped his teeth together with a disconcerting click and held up the scroll case but did not relinquish it to Gerard.

“My orders are to deliver it to the marshal in person,” Groul stated.

Gerard had expected the reptile to be barely sentient, to speak gibberish or, at the best, a corrupt form of Common. He had not expected to find the creature so articulate and, therefore, intelligent. Gerard was forced to readjust his thinking about how to deal with the creature.

“I will give the dispatch to the marshal,” Gerard replied.

“There have been several attempts on the marshal’s life. As a consequence, he does not permit strangers to enter his presence. You have my word of honor that I will deliver it directly into his hands.”

“Honor! This is what I think of your honor.” Groul’s tongue slid out of his mouth, then slurped back, splashing Gerard with saliva. The draconian moved closer to Gerard, clawed feet scraping across the floor. “Listen, Knight,” he hissed, “I am sent by the exalted Berylinthranox. She has ordered me to hand this dispatch to Marshal Medan and to wait for his reply. The matter is one of utmost urgency. I will do as I am ordered. Take me to the marshal.”

Gerard could have done as the draconian demanded and saved himself what was probably going to be a world of trouble.

He had two reasons for not doing so. First, he fully intended to read the dispatch from the dragon before handing it. over to Medan, and that would be difficult to manage with the dispatch clutched firmly in the draconian’s claws. The second reason was more subtle. Gerard found this reason incomprehensible, but he felt oddly guided by it. He did not like the thought of the loathsome creature entering the marshal’s beautiful house, his clawed feet ripping holes in the ground, tearing up the flower beds, trampling the plants, smashing furniture with his tail, leering and poking, sneering and slavering.

Groul held the scroll in his right hand. The creature wore his sword on his left hip. That meant the draco was right-handed, or so Gerard hoped, though there was always the possibility the creatures were ambidextrous. Resolving to himself that if he lived through this, he would take up a study of the draconian race, Gerard drew his sword with an overdone flourish and jumped at the draconian.

Startled, Groul reacted instinctively, dropping the scroll case to the floor and reaching with his right hand for his sword.

Gerard pivoted, stooped down to the floor and snatched up the scroll case. Rising, he drove his shoulder and elbow, with the full weight of his armor, into the midriff of the draconian. Groul went down with a clatter of sword and sheath, his wings flapping wildly, his hands waving as he lost the struggle to retain his balance. He crashed into a bench, smashing it.

The sudden movement and attack on the draconian tore open several of Gerard’s wounds. Sucking in his breath against the pain, he glared a moment at the creature floundering on the floor, then turned and, resisting the impulse to see how badly he’d injured himself, started to leave.

Hearing clawed feet scrabbling and a vicious cursing, Gerard wheeled, sword in hand, intending to finish the fight if the creature pursued it. To Gerard’s astonishment, three of the Knights of Neraka had drawn their swords and now blocked the draconian’s path.

“The marshal’s aide is right,” said one, an older man, who had served in Qualinesti many years and had even taken an elven wife. “We’ve heard stories of you, Groul. Perhaps you carry a dispatch from Beryl as you say. Or perhaps the dragon has given orders that you are to ‘dispatch’ our marshal. I advise you to sit down on what you’ve left of our bench and wait. If the marshal wants to see you, he’ll come himself.”

Groul hesitated, eyeing the Knights balefully. Two of the guards drew their swords and joined their officers. The draconian cursed, and, with a snarl, sheathed his sword. Muttering something about needing fresh air, he stalked over to the window and stood staring out of it.

“Go along,” said the Knight to Gerard. “We’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The Knight grunted and returned to his duties.

Gerard left the headquarters with haste. The street on which the building stood was empty. The elves never came anywhere near it voluntarily. Most of the soldiers were either on duty or had just come off duty and were now asleep.

Leaving the street on which the headquarters building was located, Gerard entered the city proper, or rather the city’s outskirts. He walked among the city’s inhabitants now, and he faced another danger. Medan had advised him to wear his breastplate and helm, make his trip to headquarters before darkness fell. He was conscious of beautiful faces, of almond eyes either staring at him with open, avowed hatred, or purposefully averting their gaze, so as not to disturb the loveliness of the midsummer’s twilight by adding his ugly human visage to it.

Gerard was likewise conscious of his strangeness. His body seemed thick and clumsy in comparison to the slender, delicate elven frames; his straw-colored hair, a color not usually seen among elves, was probably regarded as freakish. His scarred and lumpish features, considered ugly by human standards, must be looked upon as hideous by the elves.

Gerard could understand why some humans had come to hate the elves. He felt himself inferior to them in every way—in appearance, in culture, in wisdom, in manner. The only way in which some humans could feel superior to elves was to conquer them, subjugate them, torture and kill them.

Gerard turned onto the road leading to Medan’s house. Part of him sighed when he left the streets where the elves lived and worked behind, as if he had awakened from a lovely dream to dreary reality. Part of him was relieved. He did not keep looking constantly over his shoulder to see if someone was sneaking up on him with a knife.

He had a walk of about a mile to reach the marshal’s secluded house. The path wound among shimmering aspens, poplars, and rustling willows, whose arms overstretched a bubbling brook.

The day was fine, the temperature unusually cool for this time of year, bringing with it the hint of an early fall. Reaching the halfway point, Gerard looked carefully up the path and down the path. He listened intently for the sound of other footfalls. Hearing nothing, seeing nobody, he stepped off the trail and walked to the brook. He squatted down on his haunches as if to drink and examined the scroll case.

It was sealed with wax, but that was easily managed. Removing his knife, he laid the blade upon a flat rock still hot from the afternoon sun. When the metal had heated, Gerard edged the knife blade carefully beneath the wax seal. He removed the seal intact, placed it on a bit of bark to keep it safe. Gerard eyed the scroll case, started to open it, hesitated.

He was about to read a dispatch intended for his commander. True, Medan was the enemy, he was not really Gerard’s commander, but the dispatch was private, meant for Medan only. No honorable man would read another’s correspondence.

Certainly no Solamnic Knight would stoop so low. The Measure did not countenance the use of spies upon the enemy, deeming them “dishonorable, treacherous.” He recalled one paragraph in particular.

“What indeed?” Gerard asked himself, the scroll case unopened in his hand. “Nothing, I guess.” With a quick twist, he opened the lid and, glancing about the forest one final time, he drew out the parchment, unrolled it, and began to read.

A weakness came over him. His body chilled. He sank down upon the bank, continued reading in disbelief. Completing his perusal, he considered what to do. His first thought was to bum the terrible missive so that it would never reach its destination. He dared not do that, however. Too many people had seen him take it. He thought of burning it and substituting another in its place, but he abandoned that wild idea immediately. He had no parchment, no pen, no ink. And perhaps Medan was familiar with the handwriting of the scribe who penned this message at the dragon’s injunction.

No, Gerard reasoned, sick at heart, there was nothing he could do now but deliver the dispatch. To do otherwise would be to put himself in danger, and he might be the only means of thwarting the dragon’s evil design.

Medan would be wondering what had become of him. Gerard had already been longer on his daily errand than usual. He hurriedly rolled up the dispatch, thrust it into the tube, carefully replaced the wax seal, and made sure that it was firmly stuck.

Thrusting the foul thing in his belt, unwilling to touch it more than necessary, he continued on his way back to the marshal’s at a run.

Gerard found the marshal strolling in his garden, taking his exercise after his evening meal. Hearing footsteps along the walkway, the marshal glanced around.

“Ah, Gerard. You are behind your time. I was starting to fear something might have happened to you.” The marshal looked intently at Gerard’s arm. “Something has happened to you. You are injured.”

Gerard glanced down at his shirtsleeve, saw it wet with blood. In his distraction over the dispatch, he’d forgotten his wounds, forgotten the fight with the draconian.

“There was an altercation at headquarters,” he said, knowing that Medan would come to hear what had happened. “Here are the daily reports.” He placed those upon a table that stood beneath a trellis over which Medan had patiently trained grapevines to grow, forming a green and leafy bower. “And there is this dispatch, which comes from the dragon Beryl.” , Medan took the dispatch with a grimace. He did not immediately open it. He was much more interested in hearing about the fight. “What was the altercation, Sir Gerard?”

“The draconian messenger insisted on bringing the dispatch to you himself. Your Knights did not think that this was necessary. They insisted he remain there to await your response.”

“Your doing, I think, sir,” said Medan with a smile. “You acted rightly. I am wary of Groul. Who knows what he is thinking in that lizard brain of his? He is not to be trusted.”

He turned his attention to the dispatch. Gerard saluted, started to leave.

“No, no. You might as well wait. I will have to draft an answer. . . .” He fell silent, reading.

Gerard, who knew every line because he felt each one burned on his brain, could follow Medan’s progress through the dispatch by watching the expression on his face. Medan’s lips tightened, his jaw set. If he had appeared happy, overjoyed, Gerard had determined to kill the marshal where he stood, regardless of the consequences.

Medan was not overjoyed, however. Far from it. His face lost its color, took on a sallow, grayish hue. He completed reading the dispatch and then, with studied deliberation, read it through again. Finished, he crushed it in his hand and, with a curse, hurled it to the walkway.

Arms folded across his chest, he turned his back, stared grimly at nothing until he had regained some measure of his composure. Gerard stood in silence. Now might have been a politic time to absent himself, but he was desperate to know what Medan intended to do.

At length, the marshal turned around. He glanced down at the crumpled piece of parchment, glanced up at Gerard. “Read it,” he said.

“Sir.” Gerard flushed. “It’s not meant for—”

“Read it, damn you!” Medan shouted. Calming himself with an effort, he added, “You might as well. I must think what to do, what to say to the dragon in reply and how to say it. Carefully,” he admonished himself softly. “I must proceed carefully, or all is lost!”

Gerard picked up the dispatch and smoothed it out.

“Read it aloud,” Medan ordered. “Perhaps I misread it. Perhaps there was some part of it I misunderstood.” His tone was ironic.

Gerard skipped through the formal address, came to the body of the text.

“‘It has come to my attention,’” he read, “‘through one who is in sympathy with my interests, that the outlawed sorcerer Palin Majere has discovered a most valuable and wondrous magical artifact while he was unlawfully in my territory. I consider that the artifact is therefore mine. I must and I will have it.

“‘Informants tell me that Palin Majere and the kender have fled with the artifact to the Citadel of Light. I give the elf king, Gilthas, three days to recover the device and the culprits who carry it and another three days to deliver them up to me.

“‘In addition, the elf king will also send me the head of the elf woman, Lauranalanthalas, who harbored the sorcerer and the kender in her home and who aided and abetted them in their escape.

“‘If, at the end of six days, I have not received the head of this traitor elf woman and if the artifact and those who stole it are not in my hands, I will order the destruction of Qualinesti to commence. Every man, woman, and child in that wretched nation shall be put to sword or flame. None shall survive. As for those in the Citadel of Light who dare harbor these criminals, I will destroy them, burn their Citadel to the ground, and recover the magical device from amidst the bones and ashes.’”

Gerard was thankful he’d read this once. Had he not been prepared, he would not have been able to read it as calmly as he managed. As it was, his voice caught in his throat and he was forced to cover his emotions with a harsh cough. He finished reading and looked up to find Medan observing him closely.

“Well, what do you think of this?” Medan demanded.

Gerard cleared his throat. “I believe that it is presumptuous of the dragon to give you orders, my lord. The Knights of Neraka are not her personal army.”

Medan’s grim expression relaxed. He almost smiled. “That is an excellent argument, Gerard. Would it were true! Unfortunately, the High Command crawled on their bellies before the great dragons years ago.”

“She can’t mean this, my lord,” Gerard said cautiously. “She wouldn’t do this. Not an entire race of people—”

“She could and she will,” Medan replied grimly. “Look what she did to Kenderhome. Slaughtered the little nuisances by the thousands. Not that kender are any great loss, but it goes to prove that she will do what she says.”

Gerard had heard other Solamnic Knights say the same thing about the slaughter of the kender, and he recalled laughing with them. He knew some Solamnic Knights who would not be displeased to see the elves depart this world. We consider ourselves so much better, so much more moral and more honorable than the Dark Knights, Gerard said to himself. In reality, the only difference is the armor. Silver or black, it masks the same prejudices, the same intolerance, the same ignorance. Gerard felt suddenly, deeply ashamed.

Medan had begun to pace the walkway. “Damn the blasted elves! All these years I work to save them, and now it is for nothing! Damn the queen mother anyhow! If she had only listened to me! But no. She must consort with rebels and the like, and now what comes of it? She has doomed herself and her people. Unless. . .”

He paused in his pacing, hands clasped behind his back, brooding, his thoughts turned inward. His robes, of elven make, elven cut, and elven design, fell loosely about his body. The hem, trimmed with silk ribbon, brushed his feet. Gerard remained silent, absorbed with his own thoughts—a confusion of sickening rage against the dragon for wanting to destroy the elves and rage at himself and his own kind for standing idly by and doing nothing all these years to stop her.

Medan raised his head. He had made a decision. “The day has arrived sooner than I anticipated. I will not be a party to genocide. I have no compunction about killing another warrior in battle, but I will not butcher helpless civilians who have no way to fight back. To do so is the height of cowardice, and such wanton slaughter would break the oath I swore when I became a Knight. Perhaps there is a way to stop the dragon. But I will require your help.”

“You have it, my lord,” said Gerard.

“You will have to trust me.” Medan raised an eyebrow.

“And you will have to trust me, my lord,” said Gerard, smiling.

Medan nodded. A man of quick and decisive actions, he did not waste breath in further talk but seated himself at the table. He reached for pen and ink. “We must stall for time,” he said, writing rapidly. “You will deliver my answer to the draconian Groul, but he must never reach the dragon. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Gerard.

Medan completed his writing. He sprinkled sand on the paper, to help the ink dry, rolled it and handed it to Gerard. “Put that in the same scroll case. No need to seal it. The message states that I am the Exalted One’s Obedient Servant and that I will do her bidding.”

Medan rose to his feet. “When you have completed your task, go straight to the Royal Palace. I will leave orders that you are to be admitted. We must make haste. Beryl is a treacherous fiend, not to be trusted. She may have already decided to act on her own.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gerard said. “And where will you be, my lord? Where can I find you?”

Medan smiled grimly. “I will be arresting the queen mother.”

Marshal Medan walked along the path that led through the garden to the main dwelling of Laurana’s modest estate. Night had fallen. He had brought a torch to light his way. The flame singed the hanging flowers as he passed beneath them, caused leaves to blacken and curl. Bugs flew into the fire. He could hear them sizzle.

The marshal was not wearing his elven robes. He was accoutered in his full ceremonial armor. Kelevandros, who answered Medan’s resounding knock upon the door, was quick to note the change. He eyed the marshal warily.

“Marshal Medan. Welcome. Please enter. I will inform madam that she has a visitor. She will see you in the arboretum, as usual.”

“I prefer to remain where I am,” said the marshal. “Tell your mistress to meet me here. Tell her,” he added, his voice grating, “that she should be dressed for travel. She will need her cloak. The night air is chill. And tell her to make haste.”

He looked intently and constantly about the garden, paying particular attention to the parts of the garden hidden in shadow.

“Madam will want to know why,” Kelevandros said, hesitating.

Medan gave him a shove that sent him staggering across the room. “Go fetch your mistress,” he ordered.

“Travel?” Laurana said, astonished. She had been sitting in the arboretum, pretending to listen to Kalindas read aloud from an ancient elventext. In reality, she had not heard a word. “Where am I going?”

Kelevandros shook his head. “The marshal will not tell me, Madam. He is acting very strangely.”

“I don’t like this, Madam,” Kalindas stated, lowering the book. “First imprisonment in your house, now this. You should not go with the marshal.”

“I agree with my brother, Madam,” Kelevandros added. “I will tell him you are not well. We will do what we have talked about before. This night, we will smuggle you out in the tunnels.”

“I will not,” said Laurana determinedly. “Would you have me flee to safety while the rest of my people are forced to stay behind? Bring my cloak.”

“Madam,” Kelevandros dared to argue, “please—”

“Fetch me my cloak,” Laurana stated. Her tone was gentle but firm, brooked no further debate.

Kelevandros bowed silently.

Kalindas went to fetch the cloak. Kelevandros returned with Laurana to the front door, where Marshal Medan had remained standing.

Sighting her, he straightened. “Lauranalanthalas of the House of Solostaran,” he said formally, “you are under arrest. You will surrender yourself peacefully to me as my prisoner.”

“Indeed?” Laurana was quite calm. “What is the charge? Or is there a charge?” she asked. She turned so that Kalindas could place the cloak about her shoulders.

The elf started to do so, but Medan took the cloak himself. The marshal, his expression grave, settled the cloak around Laurana’s shoulders.

“The charges are numerous, Madam. Harboring a human sorcerer who is wanted by the Gray Robes, concealing your knowledge of a valuable magical artifact, which the sorcerer had in his possession when, by law, all magical artifacts located in Qualinesti are to be handed over to the dragon. Aiding and abetting the outlaw sorcerer in his escape from Qualinesti with the artifact.”

“I see,” said Laurana.

“I tried to warn you, madam, but you would not heed me,”

Medan said.

“Yes, you did try to warn me, marshal, and for that I am grateful.” Laurana fastened the cloak around her neck with a jeweled pin. Her hands were steady, did not tremble. “And what is to be done with me, Marshal Medan?”

“My orders are to execute you, madam,” said Medan. “I am to send your head to the dragon.”

Kalindas gasped. Kelevandros gave a hoarse shout and lunged at Medan, grappling for his throat with his bare hands.

“Stop, Kelevandros!” Laurana ordered, throwing herself between the elf and the marshal. “This will not help! Stop this madness!”

Kelevandros fell back, panting, glaring at Medan with hatred.

Kalindas took hold of his brother’s arm, but Kelevandros angrily shook him off.

“Come, madam,” said Marshal Medan. He offered Laurana his arm. The torch smoked and sputtered. Orchids, hanging over the door, shriveled in the heat.

Laurana rested her hand on the marshal’s arm. She looked back at the two brothers, standing, white-faced with shadowed eyes, watching her being led away to her death.

Which one? she asked herself, sick at heart. Which one?