Sara nodded curtly. After a quick pat to Cobalt's neck, she followed her guide to the massive gateway leading into Neraka's fortified inner city.
Cobalt yawned to show his curved teeth to the other dragons, flipped his wings neatly to his sides, and made himself comfortable in the sun to wait.
At the gateway, the knight stopped Sara with a curt signal. The huge iron gates stood open like the maw of some great stone beast. On the battlements, horns blared a signal to the guards, and flags of black and blue fluttered in the wind.
The captain of the guard left the gatehouse to meet Sara's escort. He ran his eye speculatively over her riding gear, her sword in the knight's hand, and the lily brooch that gleamed on her cloak.
"This dragon rider wishes to see the general," the guard informed him.
The captain, a human mercenary of muscular proportions, jerked his head toward the interior of the fortress, "The general is in the temple square."
The guard behind Sara pushed her forward through the iron gate.
Sara immediately wished she could turn around and go home. The view of the city from the heights had shown her the temple ruins, a fortress, and the helter-skelter growth of buildings and tents inhabited by a busy, motley populace. What it did not prepare her for was the squalor, the stench, and the rowdy crowds.
Neraka had been captured and held by the Solamnic Knights for a while, and they had made some effort to rebuild and strengthen the walls, erect permanent buildings, and clean the streets. Unfortunately most of their good efforts had vanished in the three years since the Knights of Takhisis moved back.
The narrow streets were jammed with decrepit wooden edifices and hastily erected buildings that looked ready to collapse at the first hearty sneeze. Humans, tall brutes blithely ignoring the winter cold, draconians of every description, ogres, goblins, and hobgoblins clogged the walkways and passages. Some marched in guard patrols or ran about looking purposeful. The majority crowded into the countless brothels, bars, and gaming rooms and engaged in brawls at every opportunity. Gully dwarves scampered underfoot like rats, eating the refuse in the streets and stealing anything that wasn't tied down. Among the crowds, Sara also saw slaves of every race that had been brought to serve the denizens of the city and provide for any need or pleasure.
A chill queasiness crept through Sara. Although the sun was shining, none of its warmth and little of its light seemed to get past the high walls. The air inside the fortress was still, cold, dank, and gloomy.
She and her escort hurried along the paved road through the Queen's Court and into Temple Square. Automatically Sara's eyes went to the ruins of the evil temple At one time, the black, twisted Temple of Darkness rose like an obscene growth out of the barren earth of the Neraka vale, until the Heroes of the Lance, aided by the gemstone man, Berem, brought about its destruction.
Thirty-four years later the ruins remained as a tremendous crater in the temple compound. The innermost walls round the Temple Square were nearly leveled in the blast that had turned the temple into a cloud of shards.
Sara noticed the crater had been barricaded by a wall built of rubble. Through a break in the walls, she saw a gang of draconians supervising slaves inside the barrier in some labor Sara could not yet determine. A group of high-ranking knights in blue and black uniforms stood close to the wall in close consultation with a dark-robed cleric.
The guards escorting Sara took her across the square and stopped several paces away to await their commander's notice. The brief respite gave Sara a chance to look over the wall. She wished she hadn't.
A cold, bitter chill emanated from the shadow that shrouded the crater. The hole plunged downward out of sight into the dark bowels of the temple's foundation. The draconians she saw carried whips, which they used mercilessly on a long line of slaves that trailed down into the depths like a worm crawling into a corpse. A second line toiled out, carrying chunks of broken stone and buckets of broken mortar and dirt, which they added to and ever-increasing pile. The slaves trembled and staggered, fear plain on their filthy faces. But the draconians drove them at their work until they collapsed and others were forced to take their places. Sara saw a heap of bodes dumped at one end of the barricaded wall.
"Who are you?"
A voice, sharp and authoritative, brought Sara out of her appalled appraisal. She swiftly erased any expression from her face and slowly pulled off her helm. Thankful that none of them looked familiar, she saluted the officers, three men and two women. "Knight Warrior Sara Conby."
A woman stepped away from the group. Tall and lithe, she moved with leonine grace to stand before Sara. They stood almost eye to eye, which gave Sara an excellent opportunity to study the woman's face. It was almost impossible to tell her age. Her skin revealed she was past the bloom of youth, but no lines or wrinkles marked her even features. She was beautiful as a lioness is beautiful—golden, powerful, streamlined. Her eyes blazed a brilliant blue, as hard and calculating as a predator's Her gold hair, cut short to wear beneath a helm, clung to her strong-boned head in a thick, golden cap.
She studied Sara like a lioness, too, slowly and very deliberately.
Sara did not flinch or waver. She had been sized up by fiercer predators than this one. She remained motionless and kept her eyes straight ahead.
"A Knight of the Lily," the woman said thoughtfully. She flicked her gaze over the few dragon scales glistening on Sara's leather breeches. "A dragon rider, too."
"She and her dragon were up the Firewalk Heights," the guard reported. "They were watching the city. A patrol of draconians spooked them out."
"Watching the city," the woman repeated. Her eyes bore into Sara's calm gray ones. "Spying? That is an offense we take very seriously."
"And well you should," Sara responded coolly. She saw the other officers and the cleric hanging back respectfully to watch the woman, and she knew now who confronted her. "However, General Abrena, the Code states a knight shall have the right to evaluate, the unfamiliar situation or terrain before acting. My dragon and I arrived just before dawn. To come flying into Neraka before I had seen the lay of the land would have been foolish."
The general suddenly smiled a feral grin that pulled up the corners of her mouth, but did not touch the| detachment in her eyes. "Where did you serve?"
Sara remained impassive, her tone matter-of-fact. "Storm's Keep, for many years. I was a dragon trainer for Lord Ariakan. Then I transferred to Qualinesti to fight the elves." Far away, on the edge of her attention, she heard the draconian whips crack, the groans of the slaves, the rumble of stone dropped on the heap. She ignored it, ignored the officers standing in speculative silence, and concentrated on keeping her face emotion-lee. She sensed that even the slightest tick of fear or hesitancy would be recognized instantly by this eagle-eyed general.
Mirielle paced around her. "What have you been doing since the Chaos war?"
"Hiding, mostly," Sara answered. There was truth enough in that. "My own dragon was killed. I found this one wounded and cared for him until he regained his strength."
The general's golden eyebrows rose. "Indeed. And what happened to your first dragon?"
"My wing was sent north toward Palanthas to help fight the war. We were ambushed by firedragons. The others were slaughtered. I was knocked unconscious, but my dragon hid me and died defending me."
"Interesting. You seem to instill a firm loyalty in your dragons."
Sara did not reply.
"Why did you come to Neraka?"
Sara felt on safer ground when she did not have to lie. "I was near Palanthas when I heard the knights were regathering here. I came to see for myself. Cobalt and I are tired of hiding."
"Do you wish to rejoin the order?" the general asked.
"She's rather old," one of the officers put in.
Sara shot a glance at him and understood his remark. He looked barely twenty, and already he wore the insignia of a junior officer—a hard, forceful young man, by the look of his eyes and th
e forward stance of his body.
"That's enough, Targonne," Mirielle said without bothering to look at him. "Sometimes age and experience more than make up for youthful exuberance. Or," she went on, and her voice dropped into a mild warning, "family connections."
The young officer closed his mouth, disconcerted.
"He's right," Sara said. "I am no longer in the prime of my strength. But I can train dragons, fight, tend sick of wounded animals, and cook."
"But do you want to rejoin the order?" repeated Mirielle.
No! screamed every strand of Sara's emotions. She wanted no more of this evil knighthood, no more of their cruelty and unwavering desire to control. No more!
"Yes," said her mouth before her emotions got the better of her. She had come this far on this strange quest. She couldn't back out now. Besides, if she said no, they'd probably kill her.
Mirielle Abrena nodded in satisfaction. "We need all the experienced knights we can find, Knight Warrior Conby. The tasks ahead of us are enormous." Her long fingers reached out to touch the night lily brooch on Sara's cloak. "That is a beautiful piece."
Sara thought of the man who had given it to her. Out of his armor and behind closed doors, Lord Ariakan had been charming yet arrogant, gentle yet demanding, as dark and handsome as the gift he had given her. Without a second thought, she unpinned the brooch and gave it to Mirielle. "It was a gift from a man long dead. I think he would have approved of you."
For a moment, General Abrena was too startled to move. She was accustomed to fawning sycophants and gifts given in hopes of personal gain, yet Sara's expression expected nothing and her gesture was freely given. Mirielle took the brooch in her hand with a small nod of thanks and pinned it to her own cloak.
"Take her to Lord Knight Cadrel," she told the guards.
"Tell him to find a place for her. I suggest one of the training talons. Her experience will help guide the younger knights."
Sara saluted the general, then the officers behind her, and marched after the guards out of the compound. She let her breath out in a long sigh, but it was hardly relief. For the second time in her life, she had voluntarily joined the Knights of Takhisis. What had she gotten herself into now?
11
Sara followed the guards out of the fortress toward a cluster of wooden buildings just to the northeast of the main gatehouse. Several of the ramshackle edifices were civilian—a tavern, a brothel, and a shop specializing in knives. But the tallest and most imposing building had guards standing by the doors and a shield nailed above the lintel.
"In there," one of her escorts said brusquely. "Lord Knight Cadrel is in command of recruitment, and if you want to remain in Neraka, do not look at his hands or face." On that helpful remark, he and his companion took her inside.
The first floor of the building was bisected front to back by a wide hallway. Rooms led off the hall to the left and right, and everywhere Sara looked there were scribes, slaves, and young knights bustling around in a constant stream of activity.
They entered the first room they came to, a room made dim with shuttered windows and not enough lamps. A large desk took up most of the space, and behind it sat a man in the uniform of a lord knight. He was a man of massive size, who once had the bulk and muscle to fit his frame. Now his body had shrunk inward, leaving his skin to sag over prominent bones. He wrote busily on a parchment with one hand. The other hand lay on his lap, hidden out of sight. His head, loosely covered with thinning brown hair, tilted over so Sara could not see his face.
One of the guards cleared his throat. The lord knight lifted his head.
Even with the guard's warning, it took all of Sara's concentration to relax the muscles in her face and keep her breath steady when she saw the ravaged ruin of Lord Knight Cadrel's visage. It had to be a disease, she thought, for an old wound would have scarred or at least shown some indication of healing. This affliction was slowly rotting away his face, feature by feature, inch by inch of skin. His nose was already devoured into discolored holes, and the open, gnawing sores covered his lips, one cheek, and his left temple. The remaining skin looked dull white, as if it had already died.
He sat expectantly, almost daring someone to say something. When no reaction came from Sara or the guards, he cocked an eyebrow at them. "Well?" His query came out dry and raspy.
"Lord Knight, General Abrena sends this knight to you for reinstatement and suggests one of the new talons."
"Does she," Cadrel said, sounding slightly irritated. Stacks of scrolls and parchments littered his desk. He had to lift his left hand from under the desk. Sara saw it, too had been devoured by the disease. Two fingers were gone, and a third was rotted to the second joint.
He shoved a few piles aside and shuffled through a stack until he found the list he wanted. "What are your strengths, woman?"
"Training dragons, healing, cooking," Sara replied briefly.
"Good. We need dragon trainers." He snorted. "By the rift we need everything! I do not know how she expects me to fill every talon and wing she wants when we have so few." He had a deep voice and formed his words with deliberate care. Even so, his speech came out slightly slurred due to the damage to his mouth. His meaning was clear enough to Sara, though, to distract her from her dismay and pity.
According to all those tents and barracks out there, she pondered, the general's army had reached an impressive strength. Why does he complain?
The lord knight consulted his lists once more and said, "Report to Knight Officer Guiyar Massard, Red Quarter. He needs a second-in-command." He pushed his maimed hand out of sight and went back to work with out waiting for a reply.
Sara and the guards saluted and retreated outside.
"What is it?" she asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
"Morgion's Curse," one guard replied, looking peaked. "I can never get used to seeing it. He was struck with it during the Summer of Chaos when the gods left us. Without the healing magic, no cleric has been able to help him, and no herb can even slow it. He is hoping for war soon to avoid a long and lingering death."
Sara rubbed her cheek. She had heard of Morgion's Curse, named for the god of decay and disease, but she had never seen such an advanced case of it. Those unfortunates who were afflicted used to seek the help clerics for healing. Now there was nothing left for the sick and wounded but herbs, witches' brews, and folk medicine once thought redundant.
The guard returned her sword, then pointed east toward a section of tents. "The Red Quarter is that way. Look for the red flags," he told her, a hint of scorn in his voice. "Knight Officer Massard is probably still there. He is supposed to be drilling his recruits today, but he stayed at the taverns quite late last night."
The second guard said something sharp and irritable in a language Sara did not recognize, and the two strode away to return to their dragons.
Cobalt ambled over to join his rider. "The dragons told me they were glad to see me. They said the knights are very shorthanded."
"So I am beginning to see," Sara said thoughtfully.
Cobalt fixed an amber eye on her face. "Are you here to stay?"
She laid a hand on the warm scales of his leg. "Only until 1 learn what I need to know and can figure out a way to get away from here unscathed. If you change your mind and decide to stay with the knights, I will not try to stop you."
"There is nothing here I crave." He chuckled. "Except perhaps, someone else's coins or treasure. No, when you go, I go"
They walked together in companionable silence toward the quarter where the red flags flew. At the edge of the tents, more guards stopped her and questioned her, As soon as they heard who she was looking for, they smirked and jerked thumbs toward a section of large canvas tents set up before an open quadrangle.
"There are herd beasts in a pasture east of here set aside for the dragons," they told her. "Your dragon will have plenty of time to feed if he wishes."
Cobalt did wish, and with a grin, Sara unsaddled him and sent him on his w
ay.
Curious, she made her way toward Knight Officer Massard's tent. What was it about the man that sent everyone sneering and smirking? Five paces from the tent, she found out. A loud, rumbling snore issued from the open flaps; a pool of drying vomit covered the dirt by the entrance.
Sara gingerly stepped over the mess and pushed open the flap. Fumes of vomit, unwashed body, and old ale filled her nostrils. Skull-splitter ale, she realized, holding her nose. If the man sprawled out on the cot had spent a night drinking that, it was no wonder he passed out. She curled her lip in disgust.
He's been like that for hours," said a young male voice behind her.
Sara backed carefully out of the tent and turned to meet the speaker. Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. For one precious moment, she thought Steel had returned to her. Then her common sense returned and her eyes looked closer, and the image of Steel faded softly away.
The young man who stood on the path was as tall and dark-haired as Steel had been. His skin was tanned from years of work in the sun, and he grinned at her with a crooked smile so like Steel's it wrung her heart. But there the resemblance ended. As Sara stared at him, she noticed his eyes were green, like the grasslands on a spring day; his face was long and narrow set, with features slightly too large to be very handsome. Thick, dark eyebrows shaded his eyes, and a newly healed scar marred his left cheek. He wore the black tunic and pants trimmed with blue that seemed to be the latest uniform of the order, as well as a chain mail shirt and a light cloak. He had a good sword strapped to his waist.
He tilted his head at her silent appraisal and asked curiously, "Were you looking for him or just wondering what the racket was?"
"I am supposed to report to Knight Officer Massard," Sara said. "Is that… ?"
"The one and only, thank the gods. Commander of the Sixth Talon. All five of us."
Sara glanced around at the tents. "Five?" she echoed in surprise. A talon usually had nine.
The young man waved a hand at the tents around them. "Most of these are empty. Set up for future recruits, I guess."
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