"My lord," Rogan wheezed. His wide, glazed eyes flicked toward Derek. His voice was no louder than a whisper, and Derek and Aran had to lean close to hear. "Your ... brother ..." He moaned. Aran quietly clasped the young knight's hand, then looked at Derek.
Derek's face was flat, emotionless. "What about him?"
"He stabbed the dragon . . . through . . . the neck," Rogan gasped. "He didn't let go... didn't let go ..." He sucked an agonized breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't open them again. "Just before the tower . . . fell, I saw the . . . dragon flying away. He . . . Edwin . . . was still . . . holding on to ... his ... sword ..."
He let out a long, slow breath. His arm went limp, and his hand slipped from Aran's grasp.
"Rest," Aran whispered, laying a hand on the dead knight's forehead. He looked up at Derek hopefully, but his friend's expression had not changed. "What do you think?"
Derek shook his head. "Delirious."
"Probably." Aran stroked his red moustache thoughtfully. "You're right, of course, Derek. Still . . ." He regarded Derek carefully.
"No," Derek said, and there was no missing the finality in his tone. "My brother is dead, somewhere beneath this." He waved his hand at the blasted stones piled around them. "This isn't one of the old tales, Aran. Men don't fly away, clinging to swords stuck in dragons' throats. My brother believed those songs all his life, and they led to his death. I won't have him become another tale, based on the ravings of a dying man."
Aran pursed his lips as if he meant to argue, but then he saw the fierce look in Derek's eyes, nodded, and lay Sir Rogan's hand on his stilled breast. "We can waste no more time in a fruitless search. This will be my brother's bier."
Derek rose and brushed off his cloak. "Put this man in the chapel with the others," he bade, nodding at Rogan's body. "Then stop digging. Assemble the men." Glowering, he turned his back on the dead knight and walked away.
*****
Two hours later, Castle Crownguard stood empty. Once mighty and impregnable, it was now just another smoldering ruin on the Solamnic countryside. The knights left behind what they could not carry on horseback, including the bodies of the scout, Edwin's five knights, and Sir Pax Garett.
Derek had found the old veteran dead on the floor of his chambers. Some of the knights whispered that, unable to face his flight before the dragon, Pax had taken his life according to the old custom. Derek soon put a stop to that rumor. Pax had been an old man, and the dragon's otherworldly fear had simply finished what age had begun. His heart had burst, that was all.
The ride west was slow and perilous. Aran rode ahead, on point guard, an arrow always nocked on his bowstring as he watched for signs of hobgoblin ambush. Sir Winfrid brought up the rear, his gaze flicking back toward the castle long after the wooded hills blocked it from view. All the knights eyed the skies nervously, watching for screaming blue death to descend upon them, but the sky remained clear as a summer's day, though the autumn chill in the wind seemed to have come to stay.
Lord Derek hardly spoke a word, and the men let him be. He had, after all, lost brother, home and holdings in one stroke. Whatever black mood he was nursing, he had earned it. Still, one young Knight of the Crown who caught a glimpse of his lord's eyes during the ride remarked to his fellows that Derek's mien was not that of a man beset by rage or grief.
"He looks," the knight observed, "more like a man at a khas table, thinking about his opponent's last move." The knight did not speak of what else he had seen, though: it wasn't right to speculate that the gleam in your lord's eyes might be that of nascent madness.
As it happened, there was no hobgoblin ambush. The knights rode two days and nights along the Solanthus Road without seeing anything more threatening than a squirrel. Then, on the third day, Aran rode back to join the main party. The knights reached warily for swords and maces, but Aran waved them off. He pulled up before Derek as Sir Winfrid rode forward to join them.
"What news?" Derek asked in a voice raspy from disuse.
"A company of knights on the road ahead," Aran replied. "Brian Donner rides at the fore."
"Our reinforcements," muttered Winfrid bitterly.
Derek nodded, his lips tightening. "Ride on."
*****
Soon after, the knights of Castle Crownguard met the company of Sir Brian Donner, Knight of the Sword. The reinforcements numbered no more than twenty, and Derek raved in impotent fury at the sight of how few men his call for aid had mustered.
Not that it much mattered, he told himself, when he calmed down. They were too late to be of any use, anyway. Then he glanced at them again, and thought twice. Perhaps, he told himself, measuring up the khas table once more, they will be more useful than a whole regiment. He turned the thought over and over in his mind, and every time he considered it, his foul mood brightened just a bit. By the time Brian Donner hailed them and spurred his gray stallion ahead of his company to greet them, Derek Crownguard was feeling almost civil.
"My friends!" called Sir Brian, his silver-shot, blond moustaches curling above a warm smile. "'Tis meet that we three should be together again."
Aran rode up to Brian, and the pair clasped arms. Long ago, before Lord Kerwin Crownguard's death, Derek, Brian and Aran had quested together. They had seen more exploits than any could remember, until Derek had left to assume the mantle of lordship over his family's fief. The reunion robbed Aran of speech. Derek came forward next, and gripped Sir Brian's gauntleted hand. He might have even smiled, had Brian not frowned toward the men of Castle Crownguard and cleared his throat roughly.
"But, why have you not awaited our arrival at your keep, my lord?" he asked.
Aran looked away, his brow darkening. Derek announced proudly. "There is no need," he said. "We broke the siege, and I am now sending my men north to Vingaard Keep, to aid her defenders. I ask you to do the same."
Sir Winfrid stared at Derek in shock. "M-My lord?" he stammered.
Beside him, Aran's jaw went slack.
Derek turned to look at the two, and Aran flinched at the sight of the peculiar glitter in Derek's cold, blue eyes. "I'm telling Sir Brian about our defeat of the enemy army and their dragons," Derek said. He turned back to Brian. "It was glorious! My men fought brilliantly, and finally the enemy disengaged. I suppose they decided Castle Crownguard wasn't worth the effort. They won't dare molest it again."
"Derek..." whispered Aran.
Derek turned in his saddle and stared piercingly at the red-haired knight. "What?" he demanded.
Aran drew himself up in alarm-the glitter in Derek's eyes had turned into a blaze. "N-nothing," Aran murmured, cold dread gnawing at his stomach. "It will wait."
"So you were victorious," Brian said. His eyes flicked nervously between Derek and Aran.
"Aye!" Derek roared, swinging around again. "They ran from the sight of us! We broke their spirit, gave them reason to fear the Knights of Solamnia!"
Brian nodded hesitantly. He glanced back at Derek's knights again. Some of them were acting restless. Derek's words had carried back to them.
"What-" Brian began, then faltered.
Derek looked at him sharply, and Aran glanced quickly away.
"Wh-what became of Sir Edwin?" Brian asked.
Derek's left eye twitched, just once. Brian tried not to notice.
"Lost, in honorable battle, along with Sir Pax Garett," Derek answered hollowly. "They fought valiantly, but 'tis war, and men die. Perhaps," he added, his eyes narrowing to glinting slits, "they wouldn't have, if your men had reached us sooner."
Brian flushed. "M-My lord, we've ridden as hard as we could-"
"No, no, it isn't your fault, my friend," Derek said, and rested his gauntleted hand on Brian's shoulder. "It's Gunthar's. He has betrayed us, betrayed the whole Knighthood. His inaction cost us dearly, and he shall hear of it. You, Sir Brian, will travel with Aran and myself to Sancrist, where we will tell the High Council of my triumph and Lord Gunthar's deceit. Then," he added, his fac
e splitting into a grin that made Aran shudder, "then I shall be Lord Knight!"
*****
They rode on. When the road forked, the knights continued north, following Sir Winfrid. They did not speak of the battle of Castle Crownguard, then or ever. Except to tell how Edwin Crownguard, standing atop the Northeast Tower, had died defending his home.
Derek, Aran and Brian turned south. When they were well away from the others, Brian could no longer contain the question that boiled within him. "My lord," he asked, "what truly happened at Castle Crownguard?"
Derek turned slowly, his saddle creaking, and fixed Sir Brian with a glittering stare that could have bored through steel. "Victory," he said. "Glorious victory. And one day, the bards will sing of it."
Brian glanced at Aran, who shook his head. The message in the knight's worried eyes was clear: Ask no more.
Brian sucked pensively on his lower lip, then shrugged. "If that is your wish, my lord," he said, and looked back toward the dusty road.
None of the three said anything more that day.
A Lull In the Battle
Linda P. Baker
Lashing rain on the ragged slate roof.
Thunder from the heavens, punctuated by bright slashes of lightning.
The clunk of earthenware mugs on the bar as boisterous voices called for more ale.
The smack of flesh on flesh as one of his men back-handed another.
Shouts of derision. Cries of support.
The smashing of broken furniture.
This was the relaxing respite from battle.
To Laronnar, First Captain of Second Company in the Dragonarmy of the Dark Queen, the respite from battle was neither restful nor relaxing.
He stood, and his chair crashed to the floor. The sound didn't merit a notice in the bedlam of the tavern.
With three quick, irritated strides, he was beside two men grappling together. He grabbed each by their collars and used the momentum of their struggles to crack their heads together. As both reeled, he snatched the dagger from the hand of the smallest one and drove it into the table. The blade stuck there, quivering in the smoky light.
"No fighting," he said quietly, ominously.
He glared at the comely barmaid, tall and red-haired. She was the cause of the fight. It was the second such fight he'd broken up over her.
"No more fighting." This time, the words were for her.
The smaller of the two men meekly recovered his dagger. The other mumbled an apology.
Laronnar stomped back to his chair, so sure of his anger, of his control over his men, that he didn't hesitate to turn his back on them. With his foot, he righted the chair, slammed it into place, and sank into it. He motioned for the red-haired barmaid to refill his mug. He was in no mood for barroom brawling. Not when Second Company should be out fighting the enemy instead.
His plan had been working beautifully. Just as he'd predicted, the contingent of humans and dwarves who were guarding the port town of Lenat had been taken completely by surprise when Second Company swooped in from over the water. They must have appeared to be an attack direct from the dark gods, arrowing from out of the fiery afternoon sun.
The troops of Paladine had fled Lenat in disarray, heading for the safety of the nearby foothills. Laronnar's squad had been about to cut them off when the storm came. The rain had stung like needles, the driving wind had caught in the wings of the dragons and sent them careening through the sky. Had Laronnar been in command, they would have continued to fight regardless.
"So close," he muttered for the twentieth time since he'd entered the bar, taking a gulp of ale. "We were almost upon them!" He glanced at his lieutenant, Haylis, sitting across the table from him, then up at the red-haired barmaid who was pouring more ale into his mug.
Haylis grinned at him over the shoulder of the plump, pert woman who was perched on his knee. His dirty blonde hair was perpetually rumpled. It stuck up in tufts, giving him a malicious, devilish look despite his affable grin.
"Forget it, Captain," he urged, laughing as the woman tried to wriggle free of his grasp. "We took the town. We'll get the Warriors of Light tomorrow."
Despite the weight of the woman on his lap, Haylis lifted a booted foot, planted it on the hip of the red-haired barmaid and shoved her toward Laronnar. "Enjoy the lull."
More by reflex than desire, Laronnar caught the barmaid as she stumbled toward him. She fell into his lap, balancing the pitcher of ale so well that she spilled not a drop. Her lips were pursed, whether in mock anger or real, Laronnar could not tell. Nor did he care. She was the spoils of the victors.
She tried to rise, but he held her close, pressing his face into the riot of waist-length red curls. She smelled of smoke and ale and spice-better than anyone with whom Laronnar had come into contact for several months.
Perhaps Haylis was right. There was, after all, nothing Laronnar could do about the battle until the storm blew over and his commanding officer decided they could sound the recall. He might as well loosen up.
The Striped Monkey Tavern was the best of a sorry lot in the port town of Lenat, but it was better than some he'd seen. The tavern was lit with sputtering candles, smoky torches and one huge fireplace that gave off a sooty light and the scent of damp wood. The heavy oak bar gleamed with the shine of generations of elbows, and the plank floors showed the scarring of many boots. The ale was bitter, but plentiful, and while the barmaids weren't overly friendly, they were at least too frightened to be openly hostile.
The L-shaped common room of the tavern was filled with troops-a mishmash of human, ogre, and draconian, all celebrating in high spirit. Noisy. Unwashed, smelling of battle and blood. Rapaciously trying to down as much ale as possible, to attract the attention of the barmaids before the storm blew over and the battle was renewed.
"Here now." Laronnar snuggled the red-haired one closer, caressing the pale skin of her upper arms, halting her wiggling attempts to escape. "I'm the captain of this ragtag band. You'll not do any bet-"
The front doors of the Striped Monkey slammed open, admitting a gust of rain and cold wind scented of the sea. The torches guttered in their tarnished brass sconces. A woman near the door squealed in mock dismay. A silvered, honeyed male voice entered the door ahead of its owner. "It was a glorious battle! There we were, hovering above the forest, the tops of the vallenwoods tickling my dragon's belly ..."
Laronnar froze. The red-haired barmaid started, rose when his grip around her waist loosened. His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her forearm as he yanked her back to his lap, cursing softly.
The voice of Dralan, Laronnar's commander, continued, "We were waiting for the elves when they burst from cover of the forest. They were so intent on ambush..."
The words, spoken in a tone both deep and masterful, made Laronnar feel as if he'd bitten down on slivered glass. "Bastard," he murmured under his breath. "My plan!" Trying to ignore Dralan's voice, Laronnar caught the barmaid's ruffled collar and tugged her closer.
Across the table, the woman on Haylis's lap was cooling like a dove in mating season. Evading Haylis's kiss, she slipped her arm from around his neck, dislodging his grip. "Is that the Commander?" she breathed. "He's handsome. And so elegant!"
In response to her words, Dralan tossed his cape back over his shoulders, revealing the shining steel-gray dragonscale armor that molded his muscular form and the medallion, supposedly a gift of Takhisis-Queen of the Dark Gods-which glittered gold and emerald on his broad chest.
"Oh ..." the woman sighed.
As Laronnar glared across the table, the barmaid on his lap regarded him speculatively. "He is very handsome," she agreed.
Her soft, appreciative voice made Laronnar want to slide his fingers around her slender neck and squeeze until a less irksome sound was forced out.
Dralan, of royal blood and majestic bearing, was everything Laronnar would never be. Tall, broad-shouldered, imposing. Black-haired and handsome. His blue eyes and rich voice had the ability to attrac
t any woman he chose, and his demeanor gained him the respect and trust of every man he met. Dralan was a gentleman, well-bred, stylish, educated, a favorite of the Dragonlady who led their army.
The Dragonlady did not even know Laronnar was alive. Had she met him on the street, she would not have glanced at him twice for all that he was as tall as Dralan and as strong.
Dralan's piercing, sky-blue gaze noted the interest of the two women. He bowed first to Laronnar, his first captain, managing to make a simple gesture of greeting both elegant and scornful, and bestowed a smile on the red-haired female perched on his lap.
"Kaelay!"
So that was her name.
Dralan held out his hand. Without a word, the red-haired beauty slid off Laronnar's knee.
Laronnar caught the tail of her apron and tried to yank her back.
This time, she refused to be detained. Slapping playfully at his hands, she sashayed away. She glanced back over her shoulder, laughter sparkling in her green eyes. "After all, it was the commander's strategy that won the day. I want to hear the rest of his story."
Laronnar scowled and started to rise. "That was my plan!" he hissed under his breath.
"Captain!" Haylis cried, jumping to his feet before Laronnar could stand. "I'll get us another drink!" He snatched up the pitcher and poured what was left into Laronnar's mug. Then he loudly demanded more ale.
For a moment, Laronnar hesitated, half out of his seat, his gaze locked with Dralan's. The commander's eyes were open wide, curious, ready to allow Laronnar to back down, ready to meet any challenge. The retinue of human and draconians surrounding Dralan regarded Laronnar with obvious hostility.
A feverish thrill rushed up his back, made the hair on the back of his neck stand erect.
"Let it go, Captain," Haylis whispered, his back to the crowd at the door. "Do you want to be skinned alive? Or worse? You know the Blue Dragonlady favors him."
The words penetrated, but not for the reason Haylis mentioned. Laronnar, with his straight brown hair and eyes his own mother called 'mean brown,' did have one talent the commander would never match. No one was more brilliant, more devious, in planning a battle. Dralan had so far claimed Laronnar's success for his own. It was the reason Dralan tolerated him.
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