Aran finished with a third feather, then started fitting a broad steel head onto the shaft. "You don't believe that," he said. He tapped the arrowhead to make sure it was secure, then eyed the finished shaft critically. "You've got bigger problems if this wind doesn't let up, though. Your archers won't be able to hit a blasted thing."
Derek grunted. "Neither will theirs."
"Small help that'll be when their siege ladders go up." Satisfied, Aran slid the finished arrow into his quiver, which was already half full. Without pause, he took up his knife and set to carving another shaft. "Seen Edwin lately?" "He's in the old chapel."
"Praying to Blessed Paladine? I hope he gets an answer."
Derek glared at the knight. Aran grinned. "You could try enjoying a joke now and again, my friend."
Scowling, Derek shook his head and looked away. Aran had always been good at hitting close to the mark, be it with arrows or words. Derek had the awful feeling Edwin was praying to the old gods. That was the last thing he needed!
Derek turned and gazed across the castle's inner ward. At the Great Hall, several servants scrambled to cover a window whose shutter had been torn free by the storm. Sir Pax and Sir Winfrid were deep in conversation near the Northeast Tower. A footman chased his cloak as the wind bore it across the courtyard.
A dark shape appeared in the sky, plummeting toward the castle from the east. Derek caught his breath and touched Aran's arm. The red-haired knight stopped whittling and looked skyward.
"What in the Abyss?" he asked, then his eyes widened. "By Huma, hammer and lance!"
The object was-or once had been-a man.
The body struck the keep's western wall with a sickening thud, and fell onto the roof of the granary. Several knights dragged the body down to the courtyard. By the time Derek and Aran arrived, the corpse lay out on the cobblestones, covered by Sir Winfrid's deep blue cloak. Aran cleared a path through the crowd, and Derek stepped up and pulled back the shroud.
Derek looked on the body. It was one of the scouts- that much was sure from the garb-but the face was too battered to tell more. Numerous slashes had torn the man's flesh, as if he had been mauled by the claws of some animal. The slashes were long, deep. The talons that had made them must have been as sharp as spearheads.
Despite his best efforts, Derek shuddered as he covered the body again. "Take him into the chapel," he said with forced calm. "Return to your posts."
Reluctantly, the men began to disperse. Derek turned and marched toward the gatehouse.
Sir Winfrid hurried to catch up. "My lord!" he called.
Derek stopped and turned. "There was something else, my lord," the seneschal said, proffering a wet roll of parchment. "A message affixed to the body."
Derek took the parchment without a word, then turned and walked into the gatehouse. Aran followed him. Once he and Aran were sheltered from the storm, Derek unrolled the message and held it up to catch the torchlight. The ink had run in the rain, and a smudge of blood marred one corner, but the words were still legible. To Derek's surprise, the script-written in a sure, flowing hand-was in fluent Solamnic:
"To the lord of this castle: Look on your own death. Surrender. The Dark Lady."
"Well, now," Aran said, with an awkward, forced smile, "that's that, what?"
*****
It didn't take long for word to spread. The enemy was coming and given the choice between dragons and the hobgoblin patrols that roamed the surrounding hills, the servants, squires and footmen chose the latter. The knights at the postern gate held valiantly against the terrified men and women who sought to flee Castle Crownguard. In the end, Derek ordered the Knights to stand aside rather than risk a riot. By dusk, only the knights and a few brave commoners remained. And, while news of the Dark Lady's warning strengthened many knights' resolve, some of the younger ones were starting to lose their nerve.
As night came on, the storm grew more fierce. The wind howled. The cloud-wracked sky blazed with lightning, and thunder shook the castle's very stones. Aran gave up working on his arrows in disgust and turned to polishing his sword. Derek stalked the inner wall, keeping the knights heartened. He found a few of them missing from their posts. He thought they had deserted.
"My-my lord," said Sir Pax. "They've gone to the old chapel."
*****
Edwin knelt within the chapel, his head bowed, his ancient sword Trumbrand clasped in his hands. The men had laid out the scout's shattered body on a bier. Edwin had never once moved, and if he saw the corpse, he gave no sign.
The young knights crept forward, glancing nervously at one another. Edwin did not look up, did not even move as they knelt on either side of him. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep, his lips parted slightly.
"Give me a sign," he prayed, beseeching whatever powers might harken to his voice. "I am not afraid. I will do what you ask. Just give me a sign that I am not alone."
Over and over he repeated his simple plea. The prayer filled his thoughts, staved off hunger and weariness, suffused him with peace and calm. He had come to the chapel often in his youth, when he could steal away for an hour or two without Derek noticing. He had knelt there, keeping vigil as Huma and Vinas and the Hooded Knight did in the tales. Sometimes, he had thought he had felt something, but he had never been sure. Now, he prayed more fervently than ever. Dragons-real dragons-were coming. But if dragons were real, that meant that Huma might have been real as well. And then, that meant-he trembled at the thought-that Paladine was real!
"You must be tired, young man."
Edwin caught his breath so suddenly, he nearly choked. He opened his eyes and stared in wonder. There was nothing there. He glanced to either side. The young knights who had joined him in his vigil dozed where they knelt.
"I said, you must be tired, Edwin," said the voice again.
The voice came from behind him. Wincing as he moved joints stiff from hours of motionlessness, Edwin half-turned to see who had joined him. Behind him stood Pax Garett, and there was compassion in the old knight's face. He rested a gauntleted hand on Edwin's shoulder and smiled kindly.
"S-Sir Pax!" stammered Edwin. "Why have you come? Is something the matter?" He started to rise, his brow creased with worry, Trumbrand ready in his hand. "Are we under attack?"
"No, no," Pax said. Gently but firmly, he pushed Edwin back down. "Nothing so bad as that. I just needed to get out of that accursed storm for a while." He glanced over his shoulder at the chapel's closed door. "And I had to speak with you, this night." He reached for a flask on his belt, unstopped it, and took a deep draught. Wiping his grizzled mouth, he handed the flask to Edwin. "It's only water, I fear," the elder knight said. "My old heart burns these days if I drink anything stronger."
Edwin took the flask and drank thirstily. Knees creaking, Pax crouched down beside him.
"Why have you come to see me?" Edwin asked. "Surely my brother-"
Pax shook his head. "Your brother has enough to worry about." He fixed Edwin with a piercing gaze.
"I knew, soon or late, this day would come," Pax said. "And," he added, his expression growing fond, "in a way, I'm glad it has. You were always special, Edwin. So few believe the tales these days. When I was a lad, there were some who scoffed, but they were few. Now, times have changed. Men think the stories are fancy, that Quivalen Soth and Rutger of Saddleway were just artful liars."
Edwin nodded. He'd heard as much-from Derek and others-all his life. "Then . . . the tales . . . they are true?" he asked slowly, his voice hushed.
Pax smiled, gave a short chuckle. "Who's to say?" he replied. "I wasn't around to see Huma take the field against She of Many Colors and None, or the Hooded Knight ride out to battle Angethrim. But then, I've never seen a dragon, either. Some of the tales may be false, some true, some both. What does it matter? All that's important is the believing. I could never make Derek understand that, but you"-Pax patted Edwin on the shoulder fondly-"you always knew. Keep believing, Edwin, and one day the bards might s
ing about you."
Edwin's gauntleted hand reached out, grasped hold of the older man's. "What about you, Pax?" Edwin asked at length. "Will the bards sing about you?"
Pax chuckled again, but his eyes were wistful. "I doubt it," he replied. "In the tales, there aren't many dragon-slayers who've seen eighty summers. But you never know, do you?" Wobbling slightly, he pushed himself back to his feet and laid his hand on Edwin's forehead. "Keep believing, young man," he said, and walked away.
Edwin looked to the bier, toward where Paladine's altar had once stood. He was surprised to see the first gray light of dawn beginning to shine through the shutters on the narrow windows behind the bier.
A loud, rattling cry sounded from the window, rousing the other young knights from their dazed slumber. Edwin caught his breath. The shutters had blown open. On the sill perched a kingfisher, its blue feathers glistening with rainwater, its head angling this way and that as it studied the knights. It opened its beak to utter its harsh call again, then it was gone, flying out the window with a flash of blue wings.
Edwin nodded quietly to himself. "Thank you," he whispered, and smiled.
*****
Morning came, a pale shadow. The knights watched and waited, most in hopeless despair. Even old Pax, who stood sword-in-hand near the Northeast Tower, looked weary and preoccupied. Once more, there was nothing to see upon the storm-lashed plains, hour upon hour. Gloomily, Derek told Aran things could scarcely get worse. Then at midday, the storm ceased.
The wind slackened enough for Aran to take up his bow once more. The rain turned to drizzle, and the inky thunderheads gave way to brighter overcast. The knights peered edgily to the southeast, the tips of their halberds quivering, expecting to see the dark shapes of the foe's armies marching across the plains. Derek, who had come down to the inner ward to speak with Winfrid, touched his sword and eyed the sky warily. Aran, at the Southeast Tower, fitted an arrow onto his bow-string and waited.
The chapel door opened. Edwin stepped out, blinking in the light. His armor, shield and sword gleamed in the muted daylight. Behind him, squinting like newborn rabbits leaving the warren for the first time, came five young knights. Derek turned and glowered at them.
"I was right, Derek," Edwin said. The serenity in his voice made the older knight's scalp prickle. "I was right to believe the tales. Pax told me."
Derek scowled. "What are you talking about?"
"Paladine gave me a sign in the chapel last night," Edwin repeated. "I was right, Derek-I understand that now."
"Stop this, Edwin," Derek snapped, irritated and embarrassed. "You're talking nonsense. Get those men back to their posts. I'll discipline them later."
"But-"
''Now, Edwin!" Derek shouted. He turned away. After a moment, he heard Edwin heave a quiet sigh and march off, the five young knights following.
"What do you suppose that was about?" asked Sir Winfrid.
Derek shrugged. "Maybe he fell asleep. It'd be just like Edwin not to know the difference between a dream and-" He stopped, seeing Winfrid's gaze shift. "What is it now?"
"Your brother," Sir Winfrid answered. "He's going up into the Northeast Tower."
Derek swore silently. He turned just in time to see Sir Pax step aside as Edwin and the five young knights- Edwin's knights, to all appearances-marched across the inner wall and entered the tall tower. They emerged at the top of the spire and raised their swords. The rest of the men watched, fascinated, as Edwin took his place beneath the Crownguard banner that flapped atop the tower.
"The damned fool," Derek cried, Edwin raised Trumbrand to his lips and kissed its hilt.
And a nightmare dropped through the clouds.
The dragon was huge, almost half as long as Castle Crownguard was wide. Its scaly body, borne on tremendous, azure wings, gleamed like an enormous, flawed sapphire. Wickedly curving claws flashed. Eyes as red as the fires of the Abyss stared from its death mask face. Row upon row of swordlike fangs jutted from its gaping maw. Its great, serpentine tail trailed behind it.
The knights dropped their weapons and fled.
Sir Pax roared with fury as the younger men scattered, casting aside swords, halberds and shields to flee the monstrosity that glided over the castle. Fear, strong and otherworldly, swept down from the dragon, turning stalwart men's knees to water and their minds to thoughts of death. Only a few remained, among them ashen-faced Pax, and Aran, who watched the dragon with stunned amazement. In the courtyard, Winfrid was paralyzed by the wyrm's baleful gaze. And even Derek, who had never buckled to fear, who had, in his younger days, stood with Aran and Brian Donner against ogres, sorcerers and worse, quailed and froze beneath the waves of magical fear that crashed over Castle Crownguard.
Only Edwin, standing with his men atop the North-east Tower, appeared to be unaffected. His back was straight, his stance firm.
The dragon circled. Derek tried vainly to make his legs move. Half of him screamed to get out of the beast's sight; the other half wanted to charge up to the North-east Tower, to save his brother. Instead, Derek did nothing. Beside him, Sir Winfrid lost his own courage and bolted for the shelter of the gatehouse. Derek didn't notice.
Finally, the wyrm pulled straight up, into the clouds, and vanished. Aran let out a tentative cheer. He fell silent as a horrific scream, loud as thunder, tore the air.
Mouth gaping wide, its wings folded back, the dragon dove down like an arrow. It streaked straight toward the Northeast Tower. Toward Edwin. He watched it, unflinching. And then Derek heard something strange. Something he couldn't believe. His brother was singing!
"To Hanford came the Hooded Knight,
With cloak of gold and steed of bay,
His sword a-flashing silver-bright,
A-thirsting for a wyrm to slay."
Edwin raised his sword. The great blue dragon sucked in a breath. A bolt of lightning flashed.
The levin-bolt struck Edwin's sword. Sparks leapt from his armor, showering all around. A brilliant flash blew Castle Crownguard's Northeast Tower apart.
"Edwin!" Derek yelled, throwing an arm up to shield his eyes. He heard the dragon shrieking, flames crackling, flagstones raining down into the courtyard. Then all of these were drowned out by the roar of the tower crashing to the ground. A stone chip slashed across Derek's cheek, drawing blood, and he squinted furiously, willing his eyes to focus. He concentrated on a great blue blur-it had to be the dragon-as it soared above him and up toward the sky. The rush of air from its wings knocked Derek flat, sending him sprawling onto the cobbles. By the time he staggered back to his feet, the great blue blur was nowhere to be seen.
All was quiet. The air stank of ozone.
Derek stared up at the cloud rack. The dragon was gone, of that much he was sure, for the dragonawe no longer clutched at his heart. His gaze shifted to the ruins of the Northeast Tower.
All that remained was a heap of rubble, much of it turned to glass by the lightning strike. Through the gap where the spire had stood, Derek could see the Solamnic plains. The Crownguard banner-Azur, a crown d'or- lay smoldering atop the heap.
*****
Four of the young knights' bodies were found amid the rubble. The fifth, and Edwin, were still missing, and the knights continued to dig. Falling rubble had smashed through the slate roof of the Great Hall, crushing Derek's map table and all its carefully arrayed markers. Oddly, though, the old chapel, which had stood beneath the tower, was unscathed. The knights bore their slain brethren inside and arrayed them, mercifully swathed in white shrouds, beside the dead scout. They spoke no prayer, nor sang any hymns for the dead.
Derek stood alone in the chapel in the dim half-light, his eyes on the bier. The thought that his brother was dead worked its way into his brain. Though they hadn't found the body, no one could have survived such a blast.
Behind him, the chapel door creaked softly open. Derek didn't turn. Footsteps approached, and Derek recognized his visitor by the rattle of arrows in the man's quiver. "My fault, Aran,
" he said tonelessly. "I should have stopped him."
Aran Tallbow had nothing to say to this. He shifted from one foot to the other, his armor clanking softly.
Derek turned to face him. "You have news," Derek said flatly. "Out with it!"
The red-haired knight shook his head. "Winfrid and I have assessed the damage. The walls are beyond repair. A well-ordered army could press through the breach within a day, whatever we did to block it."
"Then it's over," Derek said, and sagged wearily against the bier. "Though the siege has not yet begun, Castle Crownguard has fallen."
A knock fell on the chapel door. "Enter," Derek called. The door swung open, revealing Sir Winfrid, looking haggard. Like most of the knights, he was ashamed to remember his flight before the dragon.
"They've found another one of the knights," Winfrid said. "Not Edwin," he added, seeing Derek's eyes spark. "A Sir Rogan Whitemantle, Knight of the Crown."
"Whitemantle," echoed Derek. He tried to put a face to the name, but couldn't. "Have him brought in here
with the others after they dig him out-" "But, my lord," Sir Winfrid said, "he still lives." Derek and Aran exchanged shocked glances, then ran for the door.
*****
Sir Rogan was still alive, but whether that was good fortune was open to debate. His legs were crushed. His back was broken. His face was burned, his hair and moustaches scorched off the skin by the dragon's lightning breath. His head lolled weakly from one side to the other. Each breath came as a wet rattle, and blood welled on his seared lips.
"He asked to speak with you, my lord," said one of the knights.
Derek and Aran picked their way through the rubble, joining the small circle of knights who had stopped trying to patch the sundered walls long enough to comfort their dying fellow. "Sir Rogan," Derek said, crouching down. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of charred flesh. "I am here. What did you mean to tell me?"
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