Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Seven Beckard’s Cut

Located on the shore of New Sea, Sanction was the major port city for the northeastern part of Ansalon.

The city was an ancient one, established long before the Cataclysm. Nothing much is known for certain about its history except that prior to the Cataclysm, Sanction had been a pleasant place to live.

Many have wondered how it came by its odd name. Legend has it that there was once in the small village a human woman of advanced years whose opinions were well-known and respected far and wide. Disputes and disagreements over everything from ownership of boats to marriage contracts were brought before the old woman. She listened to all parties and then rendered her verdict, verdicts noted for being fair and impartial, wise and judicious. “The old ’un sanctioned it,” was the response to her judgments, and thus the small village in which she resided became known as a place of authority and law.

When the gods in their wrath hurled the fiery mountain at the world, the mountain struck the continent of Ansalon and broke it asunder. The water of the Sirrion Ocean poured into the newly formed cracks and crevices creating a new sea, aptly named, by the pragmatic, New Sea. The volcanoes of the Doom Range flared into furious life, sending rivers of lava flowing into Sanction.

Mankind being ever resilient, quick to turn disaster to advantage, those who had once tilled the soil harvesting crops of beans and barley turned from the plow to the net, harvested the fruit of the sea. Small fishing villages sprang up along the coast of New Sea.

The people of Sanction moved to the beaches, where the offshore breeze blew away the fumes of the volcanoes. The town prospered, but it did not grow significantly until the tall ships arrived. Adventurous sailors out of Palanthas took their ships into New Sea, hoping to find quick and easy passage to the other side of the continent, avoiding the long and treacherous journey through the Sirrion Sea to the north. The explorers’ hopes were dashed. No such passage existed. What they did discover, however, was a natural port in Sanction, an overland passage that was not too difficult, and markets waiting for their goods on the other side of the Khalkhist Mountains.

The town began to thrive, to expand, and, like any growing child, to dream. Sanction saw itself another Palanthas: famous, staid, stolid, and wealthy. Those dreams did not materialize, however. Solamnic Knights watched over Palanthas, guarded the city, ruled it with the Oath and the Measure. Sanction belonged to whoever had the might and the power to hold onto it. The city grew up headstrong and spoiled, with no codes, no laws, and plenty of money.

Sanction was not choosy about its companions. The city welcomed the greedy, the rapacious, the unscrupulous. Thieves and brigands, con men and whores, sell-swords and assassins called Sanction home.

The time came when Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, tried to return to the world. She raised up armies to conquer Ansalon in her name. Ariakas, general of these armies, recognized the strategic value of Sanction to the Queen’s holy city of Neraka and the military outpost of Khur. Lord Ariakas marched his troops into Sanction, conquered the city, which put up little resistance. He built temples to his Queen in Sanction and made his headquarters there.

The Lords of Doom, the volcanoes that ringed Sanction, felt the heat of the Queen’s ambition stirring beneath them and came again to life. Streams of lava flowed from the volcanoes, lighting Sanction with a lurid glow by night. The ground shook and shivered from tremors. The inns of Sanction lost a fortune in broken crockery and began to serve food on tin plates and drink in wooden mugs. The air was poisonous, thick with sulphurous fumes. Black-robed wizards worked constantly to keep the city fit for habitation.

Takhisis set out to conquer the world, but in the end she could not overcome herself. Her generals quarreled, turned on each other. Love and self-sacrifice, loyalty and honor won the day. The stones of Neraka lay blasted and cursed in the shadowed valley leading to Sanction.

The Solamnic Knights marched on Sanction. They seized the city after a pitched battle with its inhabitants. Recognizing Sanction’s strategic as well as financial importance to this part of Ansalon, the Knights established a strong garrison in the city.

They tore down the temples of evil, set fire to the slave markets, razed the brothels. The Conclave of Wizards sent mages to continue to cleanse the poisonous air.

When the Knights of Takhisis began to accumulate power, some twenty years later, Sanction was high on the list of priorities. The Knights might well have captured it. Years of peace had made the Solamnic Knights sleepy and bored. They dozed at their posts. But before the Dark Knights could attack Sanction, the Chaos War diverted the attention of the Dark Knights and woke up the Solamnics.

The Chaos War ended. The gods departed. The residents of Sanction came to realize that the gods were gone. Magic—as they had known it—was gone. The people who had survived the war now faced death by asphyxiation from the noxious fumes. They fled the city, ran to the beaches to breathe the clean sea air. And so for a time, Sanction returned to where it had begun.

A strange and mysterious wizard named Hogan Bight not only restored Sanction to its former glory but helped the city surpass itself. He did what no other wizard had been able to do: He not only cleansed the air, he diverted the lava away from the city.

Water, cool and pure, flowed from the snowy mountain tops. A person could actually step outside and take a deep breath and not double over coughing and choking.

Older and wiser, Sanction became prosperous, wealthy, and respectable. Under Bight’s protection and encouragement, good and honest merchants moved into the city. Both the Solamnic Knights and the Knights of Neraka approached Bight, each side offering to move into Sanction and provide protection from the other.

Bight trusted neither side, refused to allow either to enter.

Angry, the Knights of Neraka argued that Sanction was part of the land given to them by the Council in return for their service during the Chaos War. The Knights of Solamnia continued to try to negotiate with Bight, who continued to refuse all their offers of aid.

Meanwhile the Dark Knights, now calling themselves Knights of Neraka, were growing in strength, in wealth, and in power—for it was they who collected the tribute due the dragons. They watched Sanction as the cat watches the mouse hole. The Knights of Neraka had long coveted the port that would allow them a base of operations from which they could sail forth and gain a firm hold on all the lands surrounding New Sea. Seeing that the mice were busy biting and clawing each other, the cat pounced.

The Knights of Neraka laid siege to Sanction. They expected the siege to be a long one. As soon as the Dark Knights attacked the city, its fractured elements would unite in its defense. The Knights were patient, however. They could not starve the city into submission; blockade runners continued to bring supplies into Sanction. But the Knights of Neraka could shut down all overland trade routes. Thus the Knights of Neraka effectively strangled the merchants and brought Sanction’s economy to ruin.

Pressured by the demands of the citizens, Hogan Bight had agreed within the last year to permit the Solamnic Knights to send in a force to bolster the city’s flagging defenses. At first, the Knights were welcomed as saviors. The people of Sanction expected the Knights would put an immediate end to the siege. The Solamnics replied that they had to study the situation. After months of watching the Knights study, the people again urged the Solamnics to break the siege. The Knights replied that their numbers were too few. They needed reinforcements.

Nightly the besiegers bombarded the city with boulders and fiery bales of hay flung from catapults. The burning hay bales started blazes, the boulders knocked holes in buildings. People died, property was destroyed. No one could get a good night’s sleep. As the leadership of the Knights of Neraka had calculated, the excitement and fervor of Sanction’s residents, which had burned hot when first defending their city against the foe, cooled as the siege dragged out month after month. They found fault with the Solamnics, called them cowards. The Knights retorted that the citizens were hot-heads who would have them all die for nothing. Hearing reports from their spies that the unity was starting to crack, the Knights of Neraka began to build up their forces for an all-out, major assault. Their leadership waited only for a sign that the cracks had penetrated to the enemy’s heart.

A large valley known as Zhakar Valley lay to the east of Sanction. Early in the siege, the Knights of Neraka had gained control of this valley and all of the passes that led from Sanction into the valley. Hidden in the foothills of the Zhakar Mountains, the valley was being used by the knights as a staging area for their armies.

“The Zhakar Valley is our destination,” Mina told her Knights. But when asked why, what they would do there, she would say nothing other than, “We are called.”

Mina and her forces arrived at noon. The sun was high in a cloudless sky, seeming to stare down upon all below with avid expectation, an expectation that sucked up the wind, left the air still and hot.

Mina brought her small command to a halt at the entrance to the valley. Directly opposite them, across the valley, was a pass known as Beckard’s Cut. Through the cut, the Knights could see the besieged city, see a small portion of the wall that surrounded Sanction. Between the Knights and Sanction lay their own army.

Another city had sprung up in the valley, a city of tents and campfires, wagons and draft animals, soldiers and camp followers.

Mina and her Knights had arrived at a propitious time, seemingly. The camp of the Knights of Neraka rang with cheers. Trumpets blared, officers bellowed, companies formed on the road.

Already the lead forces were marching through the cut, heading toward Sanction. Others were quickly following.

“Good,” said Mina. “We are in time.”

She galloped her horse down the steep road, her Knights followed after. They heard in the trumpets the melody of the song they had heard in their sleep. Hearts pounded, pulses quickened, yet they had no idea why.

“Find out what is going on,” Mina instructed Galdar.

The minotaur nabbed the first officer he could locate, questioned the man. Returning to Mina, the minotaur grinned and rubbed his hands.

“The cursed Solamnics have left the city!” he reported. “The wizard who runs Sanction has thrown the Solamnic Knights out on their ears. Kicked them in the ass. Sent them packing. If you look”—Galdar turned, pointed through Beckard’ s Cut—“you can see their ships, those little black dots on the horizon.”

The Knights under Mina’s command began to cheer. Mina looked at the distant ships, but she did not smile. Foxfire stirred restlessly, shook his mane and pawed the ground.

“You brought us here in good time, Mina,” Galdar continued with enthusiasm. “They are preparing to launch the final assault. This day, we’ll drink Sanction’s blood. This night, we’ll drink Sanction ale!”

The men laughed. Mina said nothing, her expression indicated neither elation nor joy. Her amber eyes roved the army camp, seeking something and not finding what she wanted, apparently, for a small frown line appeared between her brows. Her lips pursed in displeasure. She continued her search and finally, her expression cleared. She nodded to herself and patted Foxfire’s neck, calming him.

“Galdar, do you see that company of archers over there?”

Galdar looked, found them, indicated that he did.

“They do not wear the livery of the Knights of Neraka.”

“They are a mercenary company,” Galdar explained. “In our pay, but they fight under their own officers.”

“Excellent. Bring their commander to me.”

“But, Mina, why—”

“Do as I have ordered, Galdar,” said Mina.

Her Knights, gathered behind her, exchanged startled glances, shrugging, wondering. Galdar was about to argue. He was about to urge Mina to let him join in the final drive toward victory instead of sending him off on some fool’s errand. A jarring, tingling sensation numbed his right arm, felt as if he’d struck his “funny bone.” For one terrifying moment, he could not move his fingers. Nerves tingled and jangled. The feeling went away in a moment, leaving him shaken. Probably nothing more than a pinched nerve, but the tingling reminded him of what he owed her. Galdar swallowed his arguments and departed on his assignment.

He returned with the archer company’s commander, an older human, in his forties, with the inordinately strong arms of a bowman. The mercenary officer’s expression was sullen, hostile.

He would not have come at all, but it is difficult to say no to a minotaur who towers over you head, shoulders, and horns and who is insistent upon your coming.

Mina wore her helm with the visor raised. A wise move, Galdar thought. The helm shadowed her youthful, girl’s face, kept it hidden.

“What are you orders, Talon Leader?” Mina asked. Her voice resonated from within the visor, cold and hard as the metal.

The commander looked up at the Knight with a certain amount of scorn, not the least intimidated.

“I’m no blasted ‘talon leader,’ Sir Knight,” he said and he laid a nasty, sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘sir.’ “I hold my rank as captain of my own command, and we don’t take orders from your kind. Just money. We do whatever we damn well please.”

“Speak politely to the talon leader,” Galdar growled and gave the officer a shove that staggered him.

The man wheeled, glowered, reached for his short sword.

Galdar grasped his own sword. His fellow soldiers drew their blades with a ringing sound. Mina did not move.

“What are your orders, Captain?” she asked again.

Seeing he was outnumbered, the officer slid his sword back into its sheath, his movement slow and deliberate, to show that he was still defiant, just not stupid.

“To wait until the assault is launched and then to fire at the guards on the walls. Sir,” he said sulkily, adding in sullen tones,

“We’ll be the last ones into the city, which means all the choice pickings will already be gone.”

Mina regarded him speculatively. “You have little respect for the Knights of Neraka or our cause.”

“What cause?” The office gave a brief, barking laugh. “To fill your own coffers? That’s all you care about. You and your foolish visions.” He spat on the ground.

“Yet you were once one of us, Captain Samuval. You were once a Knight of Takhisis,” Mina said. “You quit because the cause for which you joined was gone. You quit because you no longer believed.”

The captain’s eyes widened, his face muscles went slack.

“How did—” He snapped his mouth shut. “What if I was?” he growled. “I didn’t desert if that’s what you’re thinking. I bought my way out. I have my papers—”

“If you do not believe in our cause, why do you continue to fight for us, Captain?” Mina asked.

Samuval snorted. “Oh, I believe in your cause now, all right,” he said with a leer. “I believe in money, same as the rest of you.”

Mina sat her horse, who was still and calm beneath her hand, and gazed through Beckard’s Cut gazed at the city of Sanction.

Galdar had a sudden, strange impression that she could see through the walls of the city, see through the armor of those defending the city, see through their flesh and their bones to their very hearts and minds, just as she had seen through him. Just as she had seen through the captain.

“No one will enter Sanction this day, Captain Samuval,” said Mina softly. “The carrion birds will be the ones who find choice pickings. The ships that you see sailing away are not filled with Solamnic Knights. The troops that line their decks are in reality straw dummies wearing the armor of Solamnics Knights. It is a trap.”

Galdar stared, aghast. He believed her. Believed as surely as if he had seen inside the ships, seen inside the walls to the enemy army hiding there, ready to spring.

“How do you know this?” the captain demanded.

“What if I gave you something to believe in, Captain Samuval?” she asked instead of answering. “What if I make you the hero of this battle? Would you pledge your loyalty to me?” She smiled slightly. “I have no money to offer you. I have only this sure knowledge that I freely share with you—fight for me and on this day you will come to know the one true god.”

Captain Samuval gazed up at her in wordless astonishment.

He looked dazed, lightning-struck.

Mina held out her raw and bleeding hands, palms open. “You are offered a choice, Captain Samuval. I hold death in one hand. Glory in the other. Which will it be?”

Samuval scratched his beard. “You’re a strange one, Talon Leader. Not like any of your kind I’ve ever met before.”

He looked back through Beckard’s Cut.

“Rumor has spread among the men that the city is abandoned,”

Mina said. “They have heard it will open its gates in surrender. They have become a mob. They run to their own destruction.”

She spoke truly. Ignoring the shouts of the officers, who were vainly endeavoring to maintain some semblance of order, the foot soldiers had broken ranks. Galdar watched the army disintegrate, become in an instant an undisciplined horde rampaging through the cut. Eager for the kill, eager for spoils. Captain Samuval spat again in disgust. His expression dark, he looked back at Mina.

“What would you have me do, Talon Leader?”

“Take your company of archers and post them on that ridge there. Do you see it?” Mina pointed to a foothill overlooking Beckard’s Cut.

“I see it,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “And what do we do once we’re there?”

“My Knights and I will take up our positions there. Once arrived, you will await my orders,” Mina replied. “When I give those orders, you will obey my commands without question.”

She held out her hand, her blood-smeared hand. Was it the hand that held death or the hand that held life? Galdar wondered.

Perhaps Captain Samuval wondered as well, for he hesitated before he finally took her hand into his own. His hand was large, callused from the bowstring, brown and grimy. Her hand was small, its touch light. Her palm was blistered, rimed with dried blood. Yet it was the captain who winced slightly.

He looked down at his hand when she released him, rubbed it on his leather corselet, as if rubbing away the pain of sting or bum.

“Make haste, Captain. We don’t have much time,” Mina ordered.

“ And just who are you, Sir Knight?” Captain Samuval asked.

He was still rubbing his hand.

“I am Mina,” she said.

Grasping the reins, she pulled sharply. Foxfire wheeled. Mina dug in her spurs, galloped straight for the ridge above Beckard’s Cut. Her Knights rode alongside her. Galdar ran at her stirrup, legs pumping to keep up.

“How do you know that Captain Samuval will obey you, Mina ?” the minotaur roared over the pounding of horses’ hooves.

She looked down on him and smiled. Her amber eyes were bright in the shadow of the helm.

“He will obey,” she said, “if for no other reason now than to demonstrate his disdain for his superiors and their foolish commands. But the captain is a man who hungers, Galdar. He yearns for food. They have given him clay to fill his belly. I will give him meat. Meat to nourish his soul.”

Mina leaned over her horse’s head and urged the animal to gallop even faster.

Captain Samuval’s Archer Company took up position on the ridgeline overlooking Beckard’s Cut. They were several hundred strong, well-trained professional bowmen who had fought in many of Neraka’s wars before now. They used the elven long bow, so highly prized among arfhers. Taking up their places, they stood foot to foot, packed tightly together, with not much room to maneuver, for the ridgeline was not long. The archers were in a foul mood. Watching the army of the Knights of Neraka sweep down on Sanction, the men muttered that there would be nothing left for them—the finest women carried off, the richest houses plundered. They might as well go home.

Above them clouds thickened; roiling gray clouds that bubbled up over the Zhakar Mountains and began to slide down the mountain’s side.

The army camp was empty, now, except for the tents and supply wagons and a few wounded who had been unable to go with their brethren and were cursing their ill luck. The clamor of the battle moved away from them. The surrounding mountains and the lowering clouds deflected the sounds of the attacking army. The valley was eerily silent.

The archers looked sullenly to their captain, who looked impatiently to Mina.

“What are your orders, Talon Leader?” he asked.

“Wait,” she said.

They waited. The army washed up against the walls of Sanction, pounded against the gate. The noise and commotion was far away, a distant rumbling. Mina removed her helm, ran her hand over her shorn head with its down of dark red hair. She sat straight-backed upon her horse, her chin lifted. Her gaze was not on Sanction but on the blue sky above them, blue sky that was rapidly darkening.

The archers stared, astounded at her youth, amazed at her strange beauty. She did not heed their stares, did not hear their coarse remarks that were swallowed by the silence welling up out of the valley. The men felt something ominous about the silence.

Those who continued to make remarks did so out of bravado and were almost immediately hushed by their uneasy comrades.

An explosion rocked the ground around Sanction, shattered the silence. The clouds boiled, the sunlight vanished. The Neraka army’s gloating roars of victory were abruptly cut off. Shouts of triumph shrilled to screams of panic.

“What is happening?” demanded the archers, their tongues loosed. Everyone talked at once. “Can you see?”

“Silence in the ranks!” Captain Samuval bellowed.

One of the Knights, who had been posted as observer near the cut, came galloping toward them.

“It was a trap!” He began to yell when he was still some distance away. “The gates of Sanction opened to our forces, but only to spew forth the Solamnics! There must be a thousand of them. Sorcerers ride at their head, dealing death with their cursed magicks!”

The Knight reined in his excited horse. “You spoke truly, Mina!” His voice was awed, reverent. “A huge blast of magical power killed hundreds of our troops at the outset. Their bodies lie smoldering on the field. Our soldiers are fleeing! They are running this way, ,retreating through the cut. It is a rout!”

“ All is lost, then,” said Captain Samuval, though he looked at Mina strangely. “The Solamnic forces will drive the army into the valley. We will be caught between the anvil of the mountains and the hammer of the Solamnics.”

His words proved true. Those in the rear echelons were already streaming back through Beckard’s Cut. Many had no idea where they were going, only that they wanted to be far away from the blood and the death. A few of the less confused and more calculating were making for the narrow road that ran through the mountains to Khur.

“A standard!” Mina said urgently. “Find me a standard!”

Captain Samuval took hold of the grimy white scarf he wore around his neck and handed it up to her. “Take this and welcome, Mina.”

Mina took the scarf in her hands, bowed her head. Whispering words no one could hear, she kissed the scarf and handed it to Galdar. The white fabric was stained red with blood from the raw blisters on her hand. One of Mina’s Knights offered his lance.

Galdar tied the bloody scarf onto the lance, handed the lance back to Mina.

Wheeling Foxfire, she rode him up the rocks to a high promontory and held the standard aloft.

“To me, men!” she shouted. “To Mina!”

The clouds parted. A mote of sunlight jabbed from the heavens, touched only Mina as she sat astride her horse on the ridgeline. Her black armor blazed as if dipped in flame, her amber eyes gleamed, lit from behind with the light of battle. Her redound, a clarion call, brought the fleeing soldiers to a halt. They looked to see from whence the call came and saw Mina outlined in flame, blazing like a beacon fire upon the hillside.

The fleeing soldiers halted in their mad dash, looked up, dazzled.

“To me!” Mina yelled again. “Glory is ours this day!”

The soldiers hesitated, then one ran toward her, scrambling, slipping and sliding up the hillside. Another followed and another, glad to have purpose and direction once again.

“Bring those men over there to me,” Mina ordered Galdar, pointing to another group of soldiers in full retreat. “As many as you can gather. See that they are armed. Draw them up in battle formation there on the rocks below.”

Galdar did as he was commanded. He and the other Knights blocked the path of the retreating soldiers, ordered them to join their comrades who were starting to form a dark pool at Mina’s feet. More and more soldiers were pouring through the cut, the Knights of Neraka riding among them, some of the officers making valiant attempts to halt the retreat, others joining the footmen in a run for their lives. Behind them rode Solamnic Knights in their gleaming silver armor, their white-feathered crests.

Deadly, silver light flashed, and everywhere that light appeared, men withered and died in its magical heat. The Solamnic Knights entered the cut, driving the forces of the Knights of Neraka like cattle before them, driving them to slaughter.

“Captain Samuval,” cried Mina, riding her horse down the hill, her standard streaming behind her. “Order your men to fire.”

“The Solamnics are not in bow range,” he said to her, shaking his head at her foolishness. “Any fool can see that.”

“The Solamnics are not your target Captain,” Mina returned coolly. She pointed to the forces of the Knights of Neraka streaming through the cut. “Those are your targets.”

“Our own men?” Captain Samuval stared at her. “You are mad.”

“Look upon the field of battle, Captain,” Mina said. “It is the only way.”

Captain Samuval looked. He wiped his face with his hand, then he gave the command. “Bowmen, fire.”

“What target?” demanded one.

“You heard Mina!” said the captain harshly. Grabbing a bow from one of his men, he nocked an arrow and fired.

The arrow pierced the throat of one of the fleeing Knights of Neraka. He fell backward off his horse and was trampled in the rush of his retreating comrades.

Archer Company fired. Hundreds of arrows—each shot with deliberate, careful aim at point-blank range—filled the air with a deadly buzz. Most found their targets. Foot soldiers clutched their chests and dropped. The feathered shafts struck through the raised visors of the helmed Knights or took them in the throat.

“Continue firing, Captain,” Mina commanded.

More arrows flew. More bodies fell. The panic-stricken soldiers realized that the arrows were coming from in front of them now. They faltered, halted, trying to discover the location of this new enemy. Their comrades crashed into them from behind, driven mad by the approaching Solamnic Knights. The steep walls of Beckard’s Cut prevented any escape.

“Fire!” Captain Samuval shouted wildly, caught up in the fervor of death-dealing. “For Mina!”

“For Mina!” cried the archers and fired.

Arrows hummed with deadly accuracy, thunked into their targets. Men screamed and fell. The dying were starting to pile up like hideous cord wood in the cut forming a blood-soaked barricade.

An officer came raging toward them, his sword in his hand.

“You fool!” he screamed at Captain Samuval. “Who gave you your orders? You’re firing on your own men!”

“I gave him the order,” said Mina calmly.

Furious, the Knight accosted her. “Traitor!” He raised his blade.

Mina sat unmoving on her horse. She paid no attention to the Knight, she was intent upon the carnage below. Galdar brought down a crushing fist on the Knight’s helm. The Knight, his neck broken, went rolling and tumbling down the hillside. Galdar sucked bruised knuckles and looked up at Mina.

He was astounded to see tears flowing unchecked down her cheeks. Her hand clasped the medallion around her neck. Her lips moved, she might have been praying.

Attacked from in front, attacked from behind, the soldiers inside Beckard’s Cut began milling about in confusion. Behind them, their comrades faced a terrible choice. They could either be speared in the back by the Solamnics or they could turn and fight.

They wheeled to face the enemy, battling with the ferocity of the desperate, the cornered.

The Solamnics continued to fight, but their charge was slowed and, at length, ground to a halt.

“Cease fire!” Mina ordered. She handed her standard to Galdar. Drawing her morning star, she held it high over her head.

“Knights of Neraka! Our hour has come! We ride this day to glory!”

Foxfire gave a great leap and galloped down the hillside, carrying Mina straight at the vanguard of the Solamnic Knights. So swift was Foxfire, so sudden Mina’s move, that she left her own Knights behind. They watched, open-mouthed, as Mina rode to what must be her doom. Then Galdar raised the white standard.

“Death is certain!” the minotaur thundered. “But so is glory! For Mina!”

“For Mina!” cried the Knights in grim, deep voices and they rode their horses down the hill.

“For Mina!” yelled Captain Samuval, dropping his bow and drawing his short sword. He and the entire Archer Company charged into the fray.

“For Mina!” shouted the soldiers, who had gathered around her standard. Rallying to her cause, they dashed after her, a dark cascade of death rumbling down the hillside.

Galdar raced down the hillside, desperate to catch up to Mina, to protect and defend her. She had never been in a battle. She was unskilled, untrained. She must surely die. Enemy faces loomed up before him. Their swords slashed at him, their spears jabbed at him, their arrows stung him. He struck their swords aside, broke their spears, ignored their arrows. The enemy was an irritant, keeping him from his goal. He lost her and then he found her, found her completely surrounded by the enemy.

Galdar saw one knight try to impale Mina on his sword. She turned the blow, struck at him with the morning star. Her first blow split open his helm. Her next blow split open his head. But while she fought him, another was coming to attack her from behind. Galdar bellowed a warning, though he knew with despair that she could not hear him. He battled ferociously to reach her, cutting down those who stood between him and his commander, no longer seeing their faces, only the bloody streaks of his slashing sword.

He kept his gaze fixed on her, and his fury blazed, and his heart stopped beating when he saw her pulled from her horse. He fought more furiously than ever, frantic to save her. A blow struck from behind stunned him. He fell to his knees. He tried to rise, but blow after savage blow rained down on him, and he knew nothing more.

The battle ended sometime near twilight. The Knights of Neraka held, the valley was secure. The Solamnics and soldiers of Sanction were forced to retreat back into the walled city, a city that was shocked and devastated by the crushing defeat. They had felt the victory wreath upon their heads, and then the wreath had been savagely snatched away, trampled in the mud. Devastated, disheartened, the Solamnic Knights dressed their wounds and burned the bodies of their dead. They had spent months working on this plan, deemed it their only chance to break the siege of Sanction. They wondered over and over how they could have failed.

One Solamnic Knight spoke of a warrior who had come upon him, so he said, like the wrath of the departed gods. Another had seen this warrior, too, and another and another after that. Some claimed it was a youth, but others said that no, it was a girl, a girl with a face for which a man might die. She had ridden in the front of the charge, smote their ranks like a thunderclap, battling without helm or shield, her weapon a morning star that dripped with blood.

Pulled from her horse, she fought alone on foot.

“She must be dead,” said one angrily. “I saw her fall.”

“True, she fell, but her horse stood guard over her,” said another, “and struck out with lashing hooves at any who dared approach.”

But whether the beautiful destructor had perished or survived, none could tell. The tide of battle turned, came to meet her, swept around her, and rolled over the heads of the Solamnic Knights, carried them in a confused heap back into their city.

“Mina!” Galdar called hoarsely. “Mina!”

There came no answer.

Desperate, despairing, Galdar searched on.

The smoke from the fires of the funeral pyres hung over the valley. Night had not yet fallen, the twilight was gray and thick with smoke and orange cinders. The minotaur went to the tents of the dark mystics, who were treating the wounded, and he could not find her. He looked through the bodies that were being lined up for the burning, an arduous task. Lifting one body, he rolled it over, looked closely at the face, shook his head, and moved on to the next.

He did not find her among the dead, at least, not those who had been brought back to camp thus far. The work of removing the bodies from that blood-soaked cut would last all night and into the morrow. Galdar’s shoulders sagged. He was wounded, exhausted, but he was determined to keep searching. He carried with him, in his right hand, Mina’ s standard. The white cloth was white no longer. It was brownish red, stiff with dried blood.

He blamed himself. He should have been at her side. Then at least if he had not been able to protect her, he could have died with her. He had failed, struck down from behind. When he had finally regained consciousness, he found that the battle was over.

He was told that their side had won.

Hurt and dizzy, Galdar staggered over to the place he had last glimpsed her. Bodies of her foes lay heaped on the ground, but she was nowhere to be found.

She was not among the living. She was not among the dead.

Galdar was starting to think that he had dreamed her, created her out of his own hunger to believe in someone or something when he felt a touch upon his arm.

“Minotaur,” said the man. “Sorry, I never did catch your name.”

Galdar could not place the soldier for a moment—the face was almost completely obscured by a bloody bandage. Then he recognized the captain of Archer Company.

“You’re searching for her, aren’t you?” Captain Samuval asked. “For Mina?”

For Mina! The cry echoed in his heart. Galdar nodded. He was too tired, too dispirited to speak.

“Come with me,” said Samuval. “I have something to show you.”

The two trudged across the floor of the valley, heading for the battlefield. Those soldiers who had escaped the battle uninjured were busy rebuilding the camp, which had been wrecked during the chaos of the retreat. The men worked with a fervor unusual to see, worked without the incentive of the whip or the bullying cries of the masters-at-arms. Galdar had seen these same men in past battles crouched sullenly over their cooking fires, licking their wounds, swilling dwarf spirits, and boasting and bragging of their bravery in butchering the enemy’s wounded.

Now, as he passed the groups of men hammering in tent stakes or pounding the dents out of breastplate and shield or picking up spent arrows or tending to countless other chores, he listened to them talk. Their talk was not of themselves, but of her, the blessed, the charmed. Mina.

Her name was on every soldier’s lips, her deeds recounted time and again. A new spirit infused the camp, as if the lightning storm out of which Mina had walked had sent jolts of energy flashing from man to man.

Galdar listened and marveled but said nothing. He accompanied Captain Samuval, who appeared disinclined to talk about anything, refused to answer all Galdar’s questions. In another time, the frustrated minotaur might have smashed the human’s skull into his shoulders, but not now. They had shared in a moment of triumph and exaltation, the likes of which neither had ever before experienced in battle. They had both been carried out of themselves, done deeds of bravery and heroism they had never thought themselves capable of doing. They had fought for a cause, fought together for a cause, and against all odds they had won.

When Captain Samuval stumbled, Galdar reached out a steadying arm. When Galdar slipped in a pool of blood, Captain Samuval supported him. The two arrived at the edge of the battlefield. Captain Samuval peered through the smoke that hung over the valley. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains.

Its afterglow filled the sky with a smear of pale red.

“There,” said the captain, and he pointed.

The wind had lifted with the setting of the sun, blowing the smoke to rags that swirled and eddied like silken scarves. These were suddenly whisked away to reveal a horse the color of blood and a figure kneeling on the field of battle only a few feet away from him.

“Mina!” Galdar breathed. Relief weakened all the muscles in his body. A burning stung his eyes, a burning he attributed to the smoke, for minotaurs never wept, could not weep. He wiped his eyes. “What is she doing?” he asked after a moment.

“Praying,” said Captain Samuval. “She is praying.”

Mina knelt beside the body of a soldier. The arrow that had killed him had gone clean through his breast, pinned him to the ground. Mina lifted the hand of the dead man, placed the hand to her breast, bent her head. If she spoke, Galdar could not hear what she said, but he knew Samuval was right. She was praying to this god of hers, this one, true god. This god who had foreseen the trap, this god who had led her here to turn defeat into glorious victory. .

Her prayers finished, Mina laid the man’s hand atop the terrible wound. Bending over him, she pressed her lips to the cold forehead, kissed it, then rose to her feet.

She had barely strength to walk. She was covered with blood, some of it her own. She halted, her head drooped, her body sagged. Then she lifted her head to the heavens, where she seemed to find strength, for she straightened her shoulders and with strong step walked on.

“Ever since the battle was assured, she has been going from corpse to corpse,” said Captain Samuval. “In particular, she finds those who fell by our own arrows. She stops and kneels in the blood-soaked mud and offers prayer. I have never seen the like.”

“It is right that she honors them,” Galdar said harshly. “Those men bought us victory with their blood.”

“She bought us victory with their blood,” Captain Samuval returned with a quirk of the only eyebrow visible through the bandage.

A sound rose behind Galdar. He was reminded of the Gamashinoch, the Song of Death. This song came from living throats, however; starting low and quiet, sung by only a few.

More voices caught it up and began to carry it forward, as they had caught up their dropped swords and run forward into battle.

“Mina ...Mina...”

The song swelled. Begun as a soft, reverent chant, it was now a triumphal march, a celebratory paean accompanied by a timpani of sword clashing against shield, of stomping feet and clapping hands.

“Mina! Mina! Mina!”

Galdar turned to see the remnants of the army gathering at the edge of the battlefield. The wounded who could not walk under their own power were being supported by those who could. Bloody, ragged, the soldiers chanted her name.

Galdar lifted his voice in a thunderous shout and raised Mina’s standard. The chanting became a cheer that rolled among the mountains like thunder and shook the ground mounded high with the bodies of the dead.

Mina had started to kneel down again. The song arrested her.

She paused, turned slowly to face the cheering throng. Her face was pale as bone. Her amber eyes were ringed with ash-like smudges of fatigue. Her lips were parched and cracked, stained with the kisses of the dead. She gazed upon the hundreds of living who were shouting, singing, chanting her name.

Mina raised her hands.

The voices ceased in an instant. Even the groans and screams of the wounded hushed. The only sound was her name echoing from the mountainside, and eventually that died away as silence settled over the valley.

Mina mounted her horse, so that all the multitude who had gathered at the edge of the field of the battle, now being called “Mina’s Glory,” could better see and hear her.

“You do wrong to honor me!” she told them. “I am only the vessel. The honor and the glory of this day belong to the god who guides me along the path I walk.”

“Mina’s path is a path for us all!” shouted someone.

The cheering began again.

“Listen to me!” Mina shouted, her voice ringing with authority and power. “The old gods are gone! They abandoned you. They will never return! One god has come in their place. One god to rule the world. One god only. To that one god, we owe our allegiance!”

“What is the name of this god?” one cried.

“I may not pronounce it,” Mina replied. “The name is too holy, too powerful.”

“Mina!” said one. “Mina, Mina!”

The crowd picked up the chant and, once started, they would not be stopped.

Mina looked exasperated for a moment, even angry. Lifting her hand, she clasped her fingers over the medallion she wore round her neck. Her face softened, cleared.

“Go forth! Speak my name,” she cried. “But know that you speak it in the name of my god.”

The cheers were deafening, jarred rocks from the mountain sides.

His own pain forgotten, Galdar shouted lustily. He looked down to see his companion grimly silent, his gaze turned elsewhere.

“What?” Galdar bellowed over the tumult. “What’s wrong?”

“Look there,” said Captain Samuval. “At the command tent.”

Not everyone in camp was cheering. A group of Knights of Neraka were gathered around their leader, a Lord of the Skull.

They looked on with black gazes and scowls, arms crossed over their chests.

“Who is that?” Galdar asked.

“Lord Milles,” Samuval replied. “The one who ordered this disaster. As you see, he came well out of the fray. Not a speck of blood on his fine, shiny armor.”

Lord Milles was attempting to gain the soldiers’ attention. He waved his arms, shouted out words no one could hear. No one paid him any heed. Eventually he gave it up as a bad job.

Galdar grinned. “I wonder how this Milles likes seeing his command pissing away down the privy hole.”

“Not well, I should imagine,” said Samuval.

“He and the other Knights consider themselves well rid of the gods,” Galdar said. “They ceased to speak of Takhisis’s return long ago. Two years past, Lord of the Night Targonne changed the official name to Knights of Neraka. In times past, when a Knight was granted the Vision, he was given to know his place in the goddess’s grand plan. After Takhisis fled the world, the leadership tried for some time to maintain the Vision through various mystical means. Knights still undergo the Vision, but now they can only be certain of what Targonne and his ilk plant in their minds.”

“One reason I left,” said Samuval. “Targonne and officers like this Milles enjoy being the ones in charge for a change, and they will not be pleased to hear that they are in danger of being knocked off the top of the mountain. You may be certain Milles will send news of this upstart to headquarters.”

Mina climbed down from her horse. Leading Foxfire by the reins, she left the field of battle, walked into the camp. The men cheered and shouted until she reached them, and then, as she came near, moved by something they did not understand, they ceased their clamor and dropped to their knees. Some reached out their hands to touch her as she passed, others cried for her to look upon them and grant them her blessing.

Lord Milles watched this triumphant procession, his face twisted in disgust. Turning on his heel, he reentered his command tent.

“Bah! Let them skulk and plot!” Galdar said, elated. “She has an army now. What can they do to her?”

“Something treacherous and underhanded, you can be sure,” said Samuval. He cast a glance heavenward. “It may be true that there is One who watches over her from above. But she needs friends to watch over her here below.”

“You speak wisely,” said Galdar. “Are you with her then, Captain?”

“To the end of my time or the world’s, whichever comes first,” said Samuval. “My men as well. And you?”

“I have been with her always,” said Galdar, and it truly seemed to him that he had.

Minotaur and human shook hands. Galdar proudly raised Mina’s standard and fell in beside her as she made her victory march through the camp. Captain Samuval walked behind Mina, his hand on his sword, guarding her back. Mina’s Knights rode to her standard. Everyone of those who had followed her from Neraka had suffered some wound, but none had perished. Already, they were telling stories of miracles.

“ An arrow came straight toward me,” said one. “I knew I was dead. I spoke Mina’s name, and the arrow dropped to the ground at my feet.”

“One of the cursed Solamnics held his sword to my throat,” said another. “I called upon Mina, and the enemy’s blade broke in twain.”

Soldiers offered her food. They brought her wine, brought her water. Several soldiers seized the tent of one of Milles’s officers, turned him out, and prepared it for Mina. Snatching up burning brands from the campfires, the soldiers held them aloft, lighting Mina’s progress through the darkness. As she passed, they spoke her name as if it were an incantation that could work magic.

“Mina,” cried the men and the wind and the darkness.

“Mina!”