by Don Perrin
The four, conscious of the scrutiny, sat down at the only table they could find that was actually standing upright and tried to look nonchalant. A fire sputtered in the fireplace, belching out more smoke than heat. Several huge kegs, with spigots attached, looked as if they were holding up the wall at the back.
A slatternly barmaid slouched over to the table. She had black hair, brown eyes, and the longest, curliest side-whiskers any of them had ever seen. Auger was smitten.
“What’cha want?” she growled.
“Ale,” said Selquist promptly. “Four mugs.”
The others regarded him with horror.
“I promised you ale, Mortar,” Selquist said virtuously, “and ale you shall have. We want to keep you regular, you know.”
Mortar groaned and closed his eyes. He had visions of being a good deal more regular than was good for a fellow.
The ale turned out to be surprisingly potable, as even Mortar—who was a connoisseur—admitted. It was dark and foaming, with a smoky quality that spoke of oak kegs stored in cool, deep caverns. Once the dwarves fished out the small black-winged objects floating dead on the surface, they enjoyed the ale considerably.
They waited for nearly half an hour. Finally the runner returned, accompanied by another dwarf trotting along at his side. This Theiwar was short, even for a dwarf. He came only to Selquist’s shoulder. Bounding over to the table, breathless from the exertion—for he was forced to run where others walked—the dwarf gave Selquist a good, hard look, sniffed at him, then nodded.
“Yes, that’s him. I never saw the other three, but I’ll take responsibility for them.”
“All right. Off with you,” the leader snarled. He gave them one last baleful glance from his good eye and stalked back to his post.
Chronix stood regarding each of them in silence. The dwarves grew nervous beneath his intense gaze.
Finally, Selquist said, “As you requested, Chronix, I brought along my friends.”
Chronix broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Good,” he said, rubbing dirty, pudgy hands together. “For this job, that’s very good indeed.”
Chapter Thirteen
It had been a good party. A helluva good party. Kang couldn’t recall a better party, but then he couldn’t recall his own name at the moment. The raid on the dwarven village had netted the draconians five kegs of ale and three barrels of dwarf spirits. During the days and nights that followed—and Kang wasn’t sure how many of those there had been—he had drunk his full share.
Staggering through the door of his quarters, he saw six beds in front of him. Something in his dwarf-spirit fuzzed brain told him that he only owned one bed. The other five were not really there. But he had no idea which bed was which.
Choosing one, he headed for it, flopped down on it.
He missed, landed snout-first on the floor, hard.
It didn’t matter. Before he hit, he was asleep.
A thunderous boom roused him from his stupor. He had been dreaming about a battle with the Knights of Solamnia, dreaming that a gnomish device had exploded in the midst of the conflict, wrecking havoc on friend and foe alike.
Groping for a blanket, Kang dragged it over his head, to protect himself from the flying shrapnel and tried to go back to sleep.
The thunderous boom came again. Kang pulled off the blanket, listened. There was something familiar about that boom. Something he knew he should recognize. It was … It was …
A knock on his door.
Kang groaned. “Go away!”
Instead, the knock was repeated. That meant that it was the duty sentry, and the fact that he had knocked twice meant that it was important—really important. The last piece of business Kang had conducted, before settling down to some serious guzzling, had been to make certain the sentries were set, the long and short range patrols were assigned. Isolated in a hostile environment, the draconians could not afford to let down their guard. A share of the take was set aside for those on duty, who would have their chance to celebrate on their return. It must be one of those patrols reporting now.
Kang groaned again, lifted his head, which seemed to have grown in size since their last meeting. “I’m asleep. What d’ya want?”
The knock was repeated a third time. This was an emergency.
Kang knew better than to try to stand up. He rolled over, faced the door. “Come in!” he yelled.
The door opened, letting in a full blast of blaring sunlight. Kang peered painfully through the glare.
A Baaz by the name of Clotdoth stood in the doorway. He saluted. “Sir, I didn’t want to wake you, but the—”
“Just say what you’ve got to say, and then leave me the hell alone,” Kang snarled.
Before the Baaz could answer, a Bozak pushed through the door. His name was Stemhmph, and he was the reconnaissance officer.
Startled, Kang sat upright on the floor. He instantly regretted his hasty move. The floor heaved and buckled, as did Kang’s stomach.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but it’s urgent.” Stemhmph reported. “My patrol came in early by three days. They reported seeing a dragon flying across the Plains of Dust. I thought you’d want to know right away.”
Kang’s brain fought its way through the fumes of the dwarf spirits. The word “dragon” aided in the mental battle, and in a relatively few minutes, Kang was on his feet and about as sober as could be expected. More sober than he wanted.
“Was the dragon flying north, in this direction? What kind was it?”
Stemhmph shook his head. “It was flying across the Plains, sir, heading west. As to what kind it was, the patrol leader couldn’t tell. It was silhouetted against the sun. He thinks it was a red dragon, by its size. And he reported that he did not sense the normal ‘dragon dread’ that we used to feel whenever any of Paladine’s cursed wyrms came near us.”
Kang’s head had won the battle but lost the war. His brain felt too big for his skull, which throbbed and ached.
“One of our Queen’s dragons? Flying in broad daylight? Something’s up,” he muttered, adding, “Have the duty officer call Officer’s Call at mid-morning. I’d tell you to double the guard on the walls, but I don’t think you’ll find anybody sober enough to climb up there. Good work, Stemhmph. Now let me go back to sleep.”
The draconian saluted and shut the door behind him very, very gently.
* * * * *
Two days later, the effects of the dwarf spirits had been wrung out of Kang’s body by a long and arduous march through the mountains, down to the Plains of Dust. Locating an outcropping of rock, cooled by the shade of a gigantic pine tree, he sat down to watch.
In the rocks and trees behind him crouched a troop of draconians from First Squadron, combat equipped. Back at the village, the entire regiment was at battle readiness. The draconians had no idea what had brought their dragon cousins and allies back out into a world they had lost, a world now ruled by Paladine’s dragons, but they guessed it might be war.
The last time Kang had seen a red dragon was at Neraka, at the end of the War of the Lance. That had been over twenty years ago.
He waited patiently, squinting into the waves of heat that roiled off the desert sands below. At first, all he saw was a buzzard wheeling in the cloudless sky. Then, as his eyes became more and more accustomed to the bright light, he was aware of something flying the skies over the Plains of Dust. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it was large. Two specks, moving steadily and rapidly forward, heading toward his position.
The buzzard ceased its circling, and flapped down with a contented croak in the rocks below.
“This is it,” Kang said to himself.
Rising to his feet, he turned around, looked behind him, searching for a glint of armor, a shining scale, anything that might have given away the fact that there was a squadron of draconians hidden among the rocks. He saw nothing and smiled. His men were good. Damn good. It was a shame that they might all be dead in the next ten minutes.
Turni
ng, Kang left his rock, scrabbled down the hillside. He passed the buzzard, feasting on a dead deer, and walked out into the burning hot sand of the Plains of Dust. He waited.
The two dots drew rapidly nearer, near enough for Kang to get a good look at them.
Two red dragons and, on their back, two dragon riders. They had been flying from west to east when, suddenly, the dragons veered from their path. They had spotted Kang.
The dragons spiraled downward, their wings extended, riding on the thermals rising from the desert floor. The sun glistened on their red scales. Massive, enormous, over forty-eight feet in length from their fanged mouths to their lashing tails, the red dragons were not as graceful as most of the others of their kind. But, like all dragons, they possessed a horrific, awful type of beauty.
And, like all dragons, even those who worshipped her Dark Majesty, the reds loathed the perverted spawn of the eggs of their cousins. The reds would not dare admit it, nor would the blacks, nor the whites, nor any of the other colors of dragons serving She of Many Colors and of None. Red dragons and draconians were allies, ostensibly. But Kang knew well that the glittering eye of a red never fell on him but that it was filled with hatred born of deep-rooted fear. What had happened to one clutch of dragon eggs could happen to another.
The two red dragons landed fifty feet in front of Kang. They were male and female, probably a mated pair, and they regarded him with sneering disdain. Their riders wore full dragon armor, a type Kang had never before seen—black metal with red facings, adorned with emblems of death.
One of the riders remained mounted, on the alert. The other rider dismounted and began to walk toward Kang. The rider was helmed, wore a sword. Kang could not see the face.
“Come no closer,” Kang warned.
The dragon rider halted, pulled off her helmet. Hair as red as the fiery sun was pulled back, away from her face, fell in a long braid over her black armor. She might have been attractive for a human. Kang couldn’t tell. Some draconians, having no females of their own, lusted after human females. Kang didn’t happen to be one of them.
He stood in silence, leaving it to the rider to speak.
“Tell me, draconian,” she said in a clear voice that echoed among the rocks, “why do I find dragonspawn a day and a half’s march from Thorbardin, twenty-five years after your kind was, to all intents, exterminated?”
Kang made a mental check of his magical spells, catalogued them. They had seemed powerful to him, when he’d received them as a gift from his Queen. Now—recalling the immense magical power of the red dragons—his little spells were puny, worth less than the sand on his clawed feet.
“We are here because we survived,” Kang answered. “Now, tell me why I find two dragon riders mounted on red dragons who, if they are caught out in the open by Paladine’s gold dragons, will most surely be exterminated?”
The rider gazed at him steadily. “I am Talon Leader Huzzud, Knight of the Lily, as is my companion. We are the scouts for the Fifth Army of Conquest, led by Lord Ariakan, ruler of Ansalon.”
Kang’s wings fanned him, cooled him. Standing under the beating sun, he had to fight off a tendency to drowsiness. “Ariakan?” He repeated the name. “Any relation to Ariakus, the long-dead former ruler of Ansalon?”
The woman frowned at his sarcasm. “Lord Ariakan is his son,” she said coldly. “And I would take care with my tongue, draconian, lest you want me to cut it out. You will speak of my lord with respect.”
“If and when he earns it,” Kang growled. “I am Kang, commander of the First Dragonarmy Engineer Regiment. You call yourself a Knight of the Lily. Is that anything like a Solamnic Knight of the Rose?”
He expected this question to be answered with a foul oath and spitting denial. Instead, to his astonishment, the woman nodded gravely, solemnly. “We are equal in rank and in honor,” she said, “though not in our beliefs.”
Noting Kang’s mouth part, his tongue flick in derision, she gave a slight smile. “Times have changed, draconian. Those of us who serve the Dark Queen have learned our lesson. A hard one, I must admit. We Knights of Takhisis are pledged body and soul to Her Majesty, to our duty as soldiers, and”—she paused for effect—“to honor, and to each other.
“We are bound to sacrifice everything for Our Queen’s great Cause. Not only our lives, which are hers to do with as she sees fit, but our ambition, our desires, our own selfish goals. All are subsumed in her greater glory. Our duty lies in serving her to the best of our abilities.”
Kang was impressed. He’d never heard any servant of the Dark Queen speak like this. Generally her greater glory came second to greed, lust, ambition, and self-aggrandizement. If what this knight said held true—and, admittedly, talk was cheap—than this Ariakan might be a commander Kang could respect.
“So, draconian, I take it that you are the lone survivor of this Engineer Regiment. It is a wonder you have survived all by yourself, so near the dwarven homelands.”
“Not quite alone, Sir Knight,” Kang said, with a grin.
A wave of his hand brought movement among the rocks. The draconians rose to their feet. The rider, startled, took two steps backward. Behind her, the red dragons lifted their wings, thrashed their tails, and dug their feet into the sand.
“This is the Second Troop of the First Squadron. I have over two hundred engineers in my command,” Kang said with pride. “We live in a walled city in the mountains. If this Lord Ariakan is looking for soldiers, I would be pleased to speak to one of his commanders.”
The rider hesitated for a moment, staring at the draconians scattered about the hill above her. “The army is three days’ march behind us. We intend to camp in these very foothills. If you will tell me where your village is located, I will send a messenger …”
“That won’t be necessary,” Kang said. “I’ll be waiting.”
The knight didn’t like that, but she apparently understood Kang’s reluctance to reveal the location of his headquarters—even to those who were ostensibly allies. On more than one occasion, allies had very nearly gotten him killed.
She gave a cool nod, turned smartly on the heel of her boot, and left him. After a few moments speaking to her wingmate, she mounted her dragon and gave a yank on the reins. The red female glared balefully at Kang, then propelled herself off the ground with powerful hind legs, claws digging great holes in the sand. Spreading her enormous red wings, the dragon lifted up into the air. Notoriously bad-tempered, the red female snorted a gout of flame in Kang’s general direction before flying off.
Kang was careful to take no offense; the dragon’s rider spoke a sharp word of reprimand. She lifted her hand to Kang in salute. The rider’s wingmate joined her in the air. The dragons flew off across the desert, dwindling in the distance until they vanished from sight.
“The Dark Queen is once again on the move. This could be good,” Kang said to himself, his sun-drowsed blood now pumping hot with excitement. “This could be good! This could be very good indeed.”
Chapter Fourteen
The hill dwarves did not see the dragons, knew nothing of the fact that an army of those whom the rest of the world was calling dark knights was marching across the Plains of Dust. The dwarves of Celebundin sent out patrols, but those patrols never bothered patrolling the Plains of Dust. No one was out there except the barbarian humans known as the Plainsmen, and they kept to themselves, had as few dealings with other races as possible, which was good, in the minds of the hill dwarves. Everyone knew the barbarians were crazed. They’d have to be, to live voluntarily in the desert.
The hill dwarves did not like the desert. They did not like the heat, the glaring sun, the vast open spaces without cover. Born to burrowing and delving, born to cool underground caverns or heavily wooded forests, the hill dwarves could not conceive of any sane being setting foot on the burning sands.
Selquist and his companions might have seen the dragons and the army of knights on their return trip from Thorbardin, but they chose to take a we
sterly route back around the mountain. Loaded down with loot, they opted for the easiest paths possible. They reached Celebundin without seeing anything more threatening than glimpsing an ogre from a distance. The dwarves had rapidly increased that distance, and they arrived back at the outskirts of the village with nothing worse than sore feet and shoulders that ached from carrying their heavy packs.
They waited in the woods for nightfall, in order to sneak undetected back into the dwarven village. It would never do for the High Thane to discover they’d been out on a private raid. He’d make them do something dreadful with the loot—like share it. Utilizing the same apple orchard they’d used to effect their escape, the dwarves crept past the slumbering sentry and made their way safely and unobserved back to Selquist’s house.
He unlocked the three locks, grateful to see that no dishonest person had been tampering with them in his absence, and the four tromped inside.
Once there, safe and sound and away from Theiwar and Niedar and corpses in carts and tax collectors, the four dwarves all breathed a heart-felt sigh of relief. Even Selquist announced that it was good to be home. With that, he dumped the contents of his sack out onto the large central table.
“Incredible!” he said. “Absolutely incredible.”
The other three had to admit he was right.
The take consisted of two silver ale mugs, a pair of bone candlesticks adorned with semiprecious stones, a half-dozen rings whose value was not immediately obvious but were hopefully worth something, and—Pestle’s favorite—a silver hair comb adorned with an amulet carved in the shape of a skull. The skull’s eye sockets glowed red in the dark. Pestle was convinced it was magic.
“Of course, it’s magic,” Selquist maintained knowledgeably. “It’ll fetch a fine price at this mage-ware shop I know in Palanthas. It’s run by a woman named Jenna who isn’t at all particular about how a fellow comes by his wares. Here now, don’t be messing with that, Pestle. Put it back. You might say the wrong word and turn yourself into a human or something worse. An elf maybe.”