And the reason Laronnar tolerated Dralan was because of the promise he had made. Dralan had promised him that, this time, a quick, successful campaign in Lenat would merit a mention of his prowess to the Blue Dragonlady. This would, Laronnar was sure, bring him the career opportunities he desired.
For that chance, if for no other reason, he must hold his tongue, must disguise his hatred and jealousy. With effort that must have showed on his sharply angled face, Laronnar forced his anger down, pulled it back into a constricted knot in his belly.
Feigning disinterest, Laronnar picked up the mug of ale and upended it. The bitter liquid, thick as oil, seared his throat. Haylis tapped him lightly on the arm, urging him to sit.
Dralan's voice boomed out again, calling for drinks, and became fainter, a mere annoying buzz, as he was drawn to the bar by the throng of sniveling, obsequious sycophants. Several voices clamored to buy him a drink if he would only continue his "fascinating tales."
"Of deeds that are not his own," Laronnar muttered, but the anger stayed in check, simmering. He shrugged and sat. Planting one booted foot firmly on the wooden plank floor, he shoved his chair onto its back legs and hooked the other foot around the rungs. The chair thunked against the wall, but amidst the noise and revelry of the crowded tavern, the sound went unnoticed.
Breathing an audible sigh of relief, Haylis, too, sat and rocked his chair back.
Laronnar glared at his commander, who stood with his arm around the red-haired barmaid. "One day that draconian lizard who serves Dralan will find our illustrious commander with a dagger in his throat."
"Shh!" Haylis leaned across the table, glancing about to be sure no one had heard. "You should be more careful."
Laronnar glowered in the direction of the bar. Kaelay was waving the patrons away to make space for the commander. Soldiers and townees alike obeyed her without hesitation, stepping back.
The woman smiled at the commander as she handed him a flagon. Dralan turned his back on the crowd around him, admirers and aides forgotten. With greedy hands, he tucked her against his side and bent to whisper in her ear.
Laronnar snorted with disgust. "I wonder whose ideas he's claiming now."
"Was that really your idea, tricking the elves out of Silvanesti by leaving an ogre picnic party in the field?" Haylis said, trying to divert his friend's thoughts.
Laronnar forced his gaze away from the gorgeous woman who appeared to be devouring every false word. He took several healthy gulps of ale before slamming the flagon down on the table so hard that the little ale that was left sloshed over the rim, spattering the grimy tabletop.
"It was!" he declared. "As was the plan we used to take this stinking port."
"Coming in over the water, that was your idea?"
"Yes. And it was working, too. Not that it will matter if we sit here drinking and whoring until those damnable knights regroup." Laronnar glared around the bar, said loudly. "It was my plan. Have any of you heard otherwise?"
The port of Lenat was located on a jutting peninsula bordered by the Khurman Sea on the northeast and Bay of Balifor on the southwest. Although smaller than Port Balifor, which was across the Bay, Lenat would make an excellent staging ground for the army of the Dark Queen. Silvanesti, the elven stronghold, was less than one hundred and fifty miles to the south; only two hundred miles southwest was Sanction. Seizing this port had indeed been a splendid idea.
Laronnar's idea.
"No," Haylis said, a touch too quickly. He slapped his friend on the shoulder. "We'll be back in the field before you know it. The knights won't have the wits to regroup. Not after the scare we gave them."
Haylis's attempt at placating Laronnar only deepened his suspicions, but the warmth of the ale was beginning to take effect. His voice was nonchalant, a bit slurred as he spoke. "A thunderstorm is no excuse to break from the battle."
The wind sounded as if it might tear down the wall against which he leaned. He could hear the rain striking the plank walkway outside the tavern.
"No matter how ferocious," he added suddenly.
"You are not enjoying the ale, my lord?"
Laronnar started as a shadow blotted out the room and its boisterous patrons. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword when he realized the soft voice was that of the lovely red-haired barmaid. He relaxed, his hand slipping casually back to his thigh. His gaze, heavy lidded and sluggish, raked her from the tip of her head to the leather boots peeking from beneath her tunic.
Kaelay was magnificent. The cloud of red hair, so fiery that it made her pale skin seem as white as the sands at the edge of a bay, framed her face and shoulders. Her ivory tunic molded to the sweet curves of her breasts. The cloth was fastened on her shoulder with a plain wooden brooch, and the soft folds seemed precariously close to coming loose.
From hips to knees, the blood in Laronnar's veins quickened.
The woman deftly filled his mug. She swiped at the wooden table with a ragged cloth not much cleaner than the dingy floor. "I could not help but overhear. You would prefer to be about on such a wet night as this? I've heard that rest is good for the morale of the troops."
Laronnar mumbled, "It's good for the pocketbook of your master." He caught her arm and smiled-a slow, inviting smile that eased the sting of his sarcasm and made no attempt to disguise his interest.
He rubbed his thumb across the smooth, soft flesh of her wrist. She lowered her gaze to his caressing fingers. For a moment, Laronnar imagined he saw annoyance on her flawless face. Then she smiled at him, and his breath caught in his throat.
She bent down. Her lips were close.... "As I was saying, Kaelay"-Dralan's deep voice cut through the clamor and chatter surrounding them-"I saw at once that the sails of the vessels would give us the cover we needed."
Kaelay straightened. She glanced back over her shoulder at Dralan, then back to Laronnar, then back at Dralan, trying to make up her mind.
"We were already so low, gliding across the waves, I could taste the sea on my lips."
Dralan's smooth voice decided her. With a rueful little smile, she turned away.
Anger simmering, Laronnar allowed her to slip her hand free without a word.
Ignoring the calls for ale, Kaelay worked her way through the crowded tables to where Dralan stood, his back turned, one elegantly booted foot resting on the footrail.
Laronnar fumbled for his mug. He brought it to his mouth and drained it. Droplets of ale ran down his chin and dripped onto his white shirt. "Not this time," he vowed, rising.
Haylis rose as swiftly, grabbed his arm. "Captain! No! She's just trying to make you mad. If she had her way, we'd all kill each other. It would save the warriors of Lenat the trouble."
"I was already mad," Laronnar growled and strode away before Haylis could stop him. He caught up with Kaelay just as she edged closer to Dralan.
"The wind is quite different over the water . . ." Dralan was saying.
"Here now." Laronnar grabbed Kaelay's arm and pulled her toward him. She smelled of spices and malt and smoke. "You don't want to waste your time listening to his lies!"
Kaelay laughed, loudly enough to draw Dralan's attention, and tossed her long hair back over her shoulder. "Is it a waste of time to listen to your commander?"
"You're drunk, Laronnar." Dralan pushed between the two of them. His knuckles dug into Laronnar's breastplate. "The lady doesn't want to waste her time with you."
The anger he'd been repressing for far too long flared in Laronnar, white-hot and corrosive. He tried to step around Dralan, fingers curled into fists.
Dralan blocked his way with an immaculate boot. He pressed his fist harder against Laronnar's chest. "I suggest you leave, Captain. I was just telling the ladies and gentlemen about my victory today."
My victory! Had Dralan thrown lava on Laronnar, he could not have better fueled his anger.
"That was my plan and you know it!" Laronnar's voice was low, barely controlled. "You said that this time-"
"That's
enough, Captain." Dralan stressed the rank just enough that Laronnar understood his message. Much more easily than he had risen through the ranks, he could fall.
He could barely think through the rage and sense of injustice he felt. Dralan had never intended to honor his word. Never intended to give Laronnar credit.
Dralan regarded him with narrowed, laughing eyes.
Challenging his commanding officer in front of a tavern full of supporters was desperation. But Laronnar didn't even try to pull back, to cool the fury churning inside.
Suicide, said an inner voice through the wrath.
He glanced at Kaelay. Just the barest tip of her pink tongue snaked out and moistened her lips. The pupils of her eyes were so dilated he could barely see the brilliant green.
Suicide. He was beyond caring. "The plan was mine!" Laronnar shouted. The words ricocheted off the high ceiling, came back to him, more satisfying than a victory on the battlefield. He felt suddenly, abruptly, as sober as if he'd not had a drop of ale in a month. "All the plans were mine!"
Dralan's face transformed slowly, went from laughing to dangerous and nasty. Silently, deliberately, he placed his hand on his sword hilt.
"You've probably never planned a battle in your career." Laronnar jeered. "Oh-except maybe the time you ambushed those gully dwarves!"
Though his face was rigid and pale with anger, Dralan extended his hand, offering a handshake.
"Come, Captain," said Dralan coolly. "You know the rules."
Laronnar knew the rules. He enforced them for Dralan. Brawling wasn't permitted among the troops under Dralan's command. Dralan considered brawling uncivilized. But a dispute could be settled with a gentlemanly duel.
Laronnar sneered at the proffered handshake. It might masquerade as the gesture of a gentleman, but it was an old trick-shaking the hand of an opponent with feigned gentility while checking for a hidden weapon. Keeping his gaze warily on his commander, Laronnar pulled out the cestus that he wore looped over his weapons belt and worked it onto his hand.
Made of stiff ebony leather, the top part of the glove was reinforced by steel mesh, elven made, as delicate as a spider's web, as strong as chain mail. Razor edged spikes studded the knuckles.
With quick, deft movements, Laronnar slid what appeared to be a long dagger from its scabbard and flicked away the fake wooden hilt. What remained in his hand was a strong steel blade, three hands long, notched at the hiltless end. He jammed it into a slit in the glove, sliding it into a sheath along the top of his hand.
The metallic clicks were audible. The blade glinted blue in the torch light, as Laronnar flexed his hand, seating the glove onto his fingers. With deliberate slowness, he opened the catch that held his sword belt and allowed the weapon to drop.
Predictably, the gaze of everyone in the tavern, including Dralan, followed the fall of the sword to the floor.
Laronnar slashed inward with the blade that protruded from the back of his hand. His movement was sure, expert, so fast that Dralan stumbled back against the bar as the blade flashed past his face.
The commander recovered quickly and pushed away from the rail. He drew his sword. Pushing aside the draconian who was hovering at his elbow, Dralan stepped into a fighting stance. The crowd stumbled backward, clearing a space for the combat.
The two touched swords, gently, each testing the other's blade. Steel rasped against steel. Through the cestus, the song of the two blades danced across Laronnar's skin, skittered along his bones.
Laronnar attacked. Grasping his gloved hand with the other, he swung the blade at his commander with all his strength.
Dralan ducked out of range.
Laronnar allowed the force of the swing to wheel him completely around, used the momentum to carry him into another slashing sweep. Dralan met the blow, and their swords connected, clanged in the air with the booming peal of bells.
As Dralan swept back, his sword caught the wing of one of the hovering draconians. The knife-sharp edge sliced through the leathery webbing and green ichor sprayed from the wound. The draconian howled in pain and was dragged back out of Dralan's path by a fellow lizard man.
The gawking crowd shoved and pushed away from the path of the fight. The two men danced back and forth parallel to the bar, their blades flashing and ringing as they met. The men cheered, enjoying the entertainment, not caring who won.
The cries of encouragement gave Laronnar strength, and he attacked with even more fury.
In the face of such power and speed, Dralan fell back. He parried each swing, but just barely, as he retreated. He dodged below a vicious slice, leapt into a chair and up onto a table. The table tottered dangerously beneath him. His sword slashed downward with alarming speed.
Now it was Laronnar who dodged, parrying a blow meant to split his skull. Now it was he who retreated out of range of Dralan's expert swings.
Dralan leaped down off the table, almost on top of him, and for a moment, the two men grappled hand to hand, swords waving dangerously in the air about their heads.
"I warned you," Dralan snarled. "Now you'll learn to heed your betters."
Laronnar saved his breath for the fight. He released his grip on Dralan's forearm and grabbed his neck. The bigger man gasped as Laronnar's thumb dug into the softness at the base of his throat.
Dralan crouched, then reared, shoving with the weight of his body. His grip torn away, Laronnar's fingers dug bloody furrows in Dralan's neck.
The two men circled, both gasping for breath.
Dralan shifted his sword to his left hand, wiped at his neck with his right. His fingers came away smeared with blood. He cursed, then attacked. His bladework was beautiful, a dance of agile feet, deft arm movements; the silver blade flashing in the candlelight.
Laronnar stumbled, fell backward across a table. Dralan struck, bringing his sword up high and straight down for the killing blow. Laronnar barely had time to twist aside. The blade whistled past his ear, thunked into the table where his head had been. Wood chips sprayed his cheek and neck.
Laronnar rolled off the table and crawled away on hands and knees. Dralan pursued, roaring with laughter, tossing tables aside as if they were mere branches instead of heavy oak trestles.
Laronnar came up fast, sword raised over his head as a shield. The tip of Dralan's sword sang along the edge, grazed Laronnar's hand and drew blood. But Laronnar was on his feet, backing away.
Dralan grinned, eyeing the blood dripping from his opponent's wrist. "Surrender, Laronnar. Perhaps if you grovel enough, I'll spare your life."
Laronnar feinted right, then rolled left across a table, then another, and came up facing Haylis, who, like Dralan's aide, was shifting to stay near his captain. In his hand, Haylis held the belt and sword Laronnar had dropped near the bar.
As Dralan charged, Laronnar snatched at the parrying dagger Haylis carried on his belt. Misunderstanding what his captain was trying to do, Haylis surged forward, offering the sword, and tangled the leather belt and his feet with Laronnar's.
Stumbling, Laronnar grabbed his lieutenant by the shoulder and twisted away. Dralan's sword slid into Haylis's back.
The young man jerked in Laronnar's arms, gurgled once, and went limp, his expression mystified, astonished. His blood poured out over Laronnar's arm.
"Bastard!" Laronnar snarled at Dralan.
The commander, his sword still buried in Haylis's body, was as surprised as his victim. "But I didn't-" Dralan gabbled.
Laronnar thrust his fingers into Haylis's weapons belt and shoved the body into Dralan's arms. The dead weight yanked the belt free, and Laronnar scrambled to safety with it clutched in his fingers.
By the time Dralan freed his sword, Laronnar had what he wanted-Haylis's dagger. For good measure, he had also snagged the lieutenant's deadly little handheld crossbow and shoved it into his belt.
Dralan saw the dagger and sneered. A dagger was a backup weapon, a thief's weapon.
Laronnar grinned, parried Dralan's first blow with his bl
ade. Laronnar had a little surprise in store for his brainless commander.
So contemptuous he was almost nonchalant, Dralan swung again. Laronnar deflected the swing with dagger and sword. As Dralan toyed with him, Laronnar shifted slightly, leading his enemy back toward the open floor. Laronnar stepped into the aisle. Free of obstacles, he attacked with his bladed fist, swinging viciously outward, deliberately leaving his left side open.
Dralan stepped into the trap.
Laronnar lifted his left arm and thumbed the jeweled button on the dagger's guard. The two narrow parrying blades sprang away from the center blade. Laronnar trapped Dralan's bright and shining sword in the three blades of the dagger. Sparks flew. Metal sang against metal. The dagger slid halfway down Dralan's blade. Laronnar twisted, putting his weight behind it. The snap of the blade was a crack like lightning in the suddenly quiet tavern.
Dralan cursed and flung the hilt of the broken sword at Laronnar.
Laronnar swung into motion, dropped the dagger, and slashed with his right hand. He swung his bladed fist in a tight half-circle.
The blade caught Dralan on the shoulder as he tumbled backward. The sharp edge bit through leather and cloth and skin. Dralan fell, clutching his bloody arm.
Laronnar slashed downward, gloved fist grasped in his left hand. At the last moment, Dralan rolled sideways. Laronnar's sword cut through empty air where Dralan had been, slammed into the heavy oak planks. Laronnar fell to his knees. Dralan kicked.
Pain exploded through Laronnar's head as the commander's heavy boot connected with his face. The force of the blow tossed him backward. His hand crumpled beneath him.
Laronnar groaned and tried to roll to his feet. He could taste blood on his lips, on his tongue, and he focused on it, on the sickening, coppery flavor. Clutching his head, he managed to push up on his knees and elbows. Regaining his balance, he saw Dralan being helped to his feet by Kaelay.
2 - The Dragons at War Page 10