“She told us the potion would have that effect,” said Samuval irritably. The fact that he was irritable was a certain sign of his nervousness.
“Keep your voices down,” Dogah ordered.
“No one can hear us over that infernal racket,” Samuval returned, referring to the erratic staccato of the axes.
“Still, it is best not to take chances. We are the only three who know Mina’s secret, and we must guard the secret as we promised. If word got out, the news would spread like a grass fire in the dry season and that would ruin everything. The soldiers’ grief must appear to be real.”
“Perhaps they are wiser than we are,” Galdar muttered. “Perhaps they know the truth, and we are the ones who have been deluded.”
“What would you have us do, minotaur?” Dogah demanded, his black brows forming a solid bar across his thick nose. “Would you disobey her?”
“Even if she is …” Samuval paused, not wanting to speak aloud the ill-omened word. “Even if something did go wrong,” he amended, “those commands she gave us would be her last commands. I, for one, will obey them.”
“I also,” said Dogah.
“I will not disobey her,” said Galdar, choosing his words carefully, “but let us face it, her commands are contingent upon one thing happening, and thus far her prediction has not yet come to pass.”
“She foretold an attempt on her life,” argued Captain Samuval. “She foretold that the foolish elf would be the cat’s paw. Both came true.”
“Yet, she did not foretell the use of the poison ring,” Galdar said, his voice harsh. “You saw the needle. You saw that it punctured her skin.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, glanced at his comrades from beneath narrowed eyes. He had something on his mind, something unpleasant to judge by the frown, but he seemed uncertain whether to speak his thought or not.
“Come, Galdar,” said Samuval finally. “Out with it.”
“Very well.” Galdar looked from one to the other. “You have both heard her say that even the dead serve the One God.”
Dogah shifted his bulk in the chair that creaked beneath his weight. Samuval picked at the wax from the guttered candle. Neither made any response.
“She promised the One God would confound her enemies,” Galdar continued, his tone heavy. “She never promised we should see her again alive—”
“Hail the command tent,” a voice shouted. “I have a message from Lord Targonne. Permission to enter?”
The three officers exchanged glances. Dogah rose hastily to his feet and hurriedly untied the flaps. The messenger entered. He wore the armor of a dragonrider, and he was wind-blown and dust-covered. Saluting, he handed Dogah a scrollcase.
“No reply is expected, my lord,” the messenger said.
“Very well. You are dismissed.” Dogah eyed the seal on the scrollcase and again exchanged glances with his comrades.
When the messenger had gone, Dogah cracked the seal with a sharp rap on the table. The other two looked on expectantly as he opened the case and withdrew the scroll. He unfurled it, cast his gaze over it, and lifted his eyes, glittering black with triumph.
“He is coming,” he said. “Mina was right.”
“Praise the One God,” said Captain Samuval, sighing with relief. He nudged Galdar. “What do you say now, friend?”
Galdar shrugged, nodded, said nothing aloud. When the others had gone, shouting for their aides, giving orders to make ready for his lordship’s arrival, Galdar remained alone in the tent where Mina’s spirit lingered.
“When I touch your hand and feel your flesh warm again, then I will praise the One God,” he whispered to her. “Not before.”
Lord Targonne arrived about an hour after sunrise, accompanied by six outriders. His lordship rode a blue dragon, as did the others. Unlike many high-ranking Knights of Neraka, Targonne did not keep a personal dragon but preferred to use one from the stables. This cut down on his own out-of-pocket expenditures, or so he always claimed. In truth, if he had wanted to keep his own dragon, he would have done so and charged the care and feeding to the Knighthood. As it was, Targonne did not keep a dragon because he neither liked nor trusted dragons. Perhaps this was because as a mentalist, Targonne knew perfectly well that dragons neither liked nor trusted him.
He took no pleasure in dragon flight and avoided it when possible, preferring to make his journeys on horseback. In this instance, however, the sooner this annoying girl went up in flames the better, as far as Targonne was concerned, and he was willing to sacrifice his own personal comfort to see this accomplished. He brought other dragonriders with him not so much because he wished to make a show or that he feared attack, but that he was convinced his dragon was going to do something to imperil him—either take it into its head to plummet from the skies or be struck by lightning or dump him off deliberately. He wanted additional riders around him so that they could rescue him.
His officers knew all this about Targonne. In fact, Dogah was laughing about this to Galdar and Captain Samuval as they watched the blue dragons fly in tight circles to a landing. Mina’s army was drawn up in formation on the battlefield, with the exception of the few who were still at work on the pyre. Mina’s funeral would be held at noon, the hour she herself had chosen.
“Do you think any of them would really risk their necks to save the mercenary old buzzard?” Samuval asked, watching the circling blues. “From what I’ve heard, most of his staff would just as soon see him bounce several times off sharp rocks while falling into a bottomless chasm.”
Dogah grunted. “Targonne makes certain he will be saved. He takes along as escort only those officers to whom he owes large sums of money.”
The blue dragons settled to the ground, their wings stirring up great clouds of dust. The dragonriders emerged from the cloud. Sighting the waiting honor guard, they headed in that direction. Mina’s cadre of officers approached to greet his lordship.
“Which one is he?” asked Captain Samuval, who had never met the leader of the Knights of Neraka. The captain’s curious gaze ranged over the tall, well-built, grim-faced Knights who were moving with rapid stride toward him.
“The little runt in the middle,” said Galdar.
Thinking the minotaur was making sport of him, Captain Samuval chuckled in disbelief and looked to Dogah for the truth. Captain Samuval saw Dogah’s gaze focus tensely on the short man who was almost bent double from coughing in the dust, waving his hand to clear the air. Galdar was also keeping close watch on the little man. The minotaur’s hands clenched and unclenched.
Targonne did not cut a very prepossessing figure. He was short, squat and somewhat bowlegged. He did not like wearing full armor, for he found it chafed him, and he made concession to his rank by wearing only a breastplate. Expensive, hand-tooled, it was made of the finest steel, embossed in gold, and suited his exalted station. Due to the fact that Lord Targonne was stoop-shouldered, with a caved-in chest and slightly curved back, the breastplate did not fit well, but hung forward, giving the unfortunate impression of a bib tied around the neck of a child, rather than the armor of a valiant Knight.
Samuval was not impressed with Targonne’s appearance, but nonetheless, he had heard stories about Targonne’s ruthless and cold-blooded nature and thus did not find it at all strange that these two officers were so apprehensive of this meeting. All knew that Targonne had been responsible for the untimely death of the former leader of the Knights, Mirielle Abrena, and a great many of her followers, though no one ever mentioned such a thing aloud.
“Targonne is sly, cunning, and subtle, with an amazing ability to probe deeply into the minds of those he encounters,” warned Dogah. “Some even claim that he uses this ability to infiltrate the minds of enemies and bend them to his will.”
Small wonder, thought Samuval, that the mighty Galdar, who could have lifted Targonne and tossed him around like a child, was panting with nervousness. The rank bovine odor was so strong that Samuval edged upwind to keep from ga
gging.
“Be prepared,” Galdar warned in a low rumble.
“Let him look into our minds. He will be surprised by what he finds there,” Dogah said dryly, moving forward, saluting his superior.
“So, Galdar, it is good to see you again,” Targonne said, speaking pleasantly. The last time Targonne had seen the minotaur, he had lost his right arm in battle. Unable to fight, Galdar had hung around Neraka, hoping for employment. Targonne might have rid himself of the useless creature, but he considered the minotaur a curiosity.
“You have come by a new arm. That bit of healing must have cost you a pretty steel piece or two. I wasn’t aware that our officers were so highly paid. Or perhaps you found your own private stash. I suppose you are aware, Galdar, of the rule that states all treasure discovered by those in the service of the Knighthood is to be turned over to the Knighthood?”
“The arm was a gift, my lord,” said Galdar, staring straight over Targonne’s head. “A gift of the One God.”
“The One God.” Targonne marveled. “I see. Look at me, Galdar. I like eyes at a level.”
Reluctantly, Galdar lowered his gaze to meet Targonne’s. Immediately Targonne entered the minotaur’s mind. He had a glimpse of roiling storm clouds, fierce winds, driving rain. A figure emerged from the storm and began to walk toward him. The figure was a girl with a shaved head and amber eyes. The eyes looked into Targonne’s, and a bolt of lightning struck the ground in front of him. Dazzling, shattering white light flared. He could see nothing for long seconds and stood blinking his eyes to clear them. When he was able to see once more, Targonne saw the empty valley of Neraka, the rain-slick black monoliths, and the storm clouds vanishing over the mountains. Probe and pierce as he might, Targonne could not get past these mountains. He could not take himself out of the accursed valley. He withdrew his thought from Galdar’s mind.
“How did you do that?” Targonne demanded, eyeing the minotaur and frowning.
“Do what, my lord?” Galdar protested, clearly astonished. The astonishment was real, he wasn’t feigning. “I didn’t do anything, sir. I’ve just been standing here.”
Targonne grunted. The minotaur had always been a freak. He would gain more from a human. He turned to Captain Samuval. Targonne was not pleased to find this man among the officers greeting him. Samuval had once been a Knight, but he had either quit or been drummed out; Targonne couldn’t remember the details. Most likely drummed out. Samuval was nothing but a draggle-tail mercenary leading his own company of archers.
“Captain Samuval,” said Lord Targonne, laying nasty emphasis on the low rank. He sent his gaze into Samuval’s brain.
Flight after flight of arrows arched through the air with the vicious whir of a thousand wasps. The arrows found their marks, piercing black armor and black chain mail. Black-fletched arrows struck through men’s throats and brought down their horses. The dying screamed, horrible to hear, and still the arrows flew and the bodies began to mount, blocking the pass so that those behind were forced to turn and fight the enemy who had almost made it through the pass, almost ridden to glory.
An arrow was fired at him, at Targonne. It flew straight and true, aiming for his eye. He tried to duck, to flee, to escape, but he was held fast. The arrow pierced his eye, glanced through to the brain. Pain exploded so that he clutched at his head, fearing his skull might split apart. Blood poured down over his vision. He could see nothing except blood, no matter where he looked.
The pain ended swiftly, so swiftly that Targonne wondered if he had imagined it. Finding himself clutching at his head, he made as if to brush back his hair from his face and made another attempt to look into the mind of Captain Samuval. He saw only blood.
He tried to stanch the flow, to clear his vision, but the blood continued to pour down around him, and eventually he gave it up. Blinking, having the strange feeling that his eyelids were gummed together, he glared frowningly at this annoying captain, searching for some signs that the man was not what he appeared to be—not a bluff and ordinary soldier, but a wizard of high intelligence and cunning, a rogue Gray Robe or mystic in disguise. The captain’s eyes were eyes that followed the arrow’s flight until it hit its target. Nothing more.
Targonne was vastly puzzled and starting to grow frustrated and angry. Some force was at work here, thwarting him, and he was determined to ferret it out. He left the captain. Who cared about a blasted sell-sword anyway? Next to him stood Dogah, and Targonne relaxed. Dogah was Targonne’s man. Dogah was to be trusted. Targonne had walked the length and breadth of Dogah’s mind on previous occasions. Targonne knew all the dark secrets tucked away in shadowed corners, knew that he could count on Dogah’s loyalty. Targonne had deliberately saved Dogah for last, knowing that if he had questions, Dogah would answer them.
“My lord,” said General Dogah before Targonne could open his mouth, “let me first state for the record that I believed the orders I received telling me to march to Silvanesti came from you. I had no idea they had been forged by Mina.”
Since the orders commanding Dogah to march to Silvanesti had provided the Dark Knights of Neraka with one of the greatest victories ever in the history of the Knighthood, Targonne did not like to be reminded of the fact that he was not the one who had given them.
“Well, well,” he said, highly displeased, “perhaps I had more to do with those than you imagine, Dogah. The Knight Officer who issued those orders may have indicated that she was acting on her own, but the truth was that she was obeying my commands.”
The girl was dead. Targonne could afford to play fast and loose with the truth. She was certainly not going to contradict him.
He continued blandly, “She and I agreed between us to keep this secret. The mission was so risky, so hazardous, so fraught with possibilities of failure, that I feared to mention it to anyone, lest word leak out to the elves and put them on their guard. And then, there is the dragon Malys to be considered. I did not want to raise her hopes, to give her expectations that might not come to pass. As it is, Malystryx is astonished at our great triumph and holds us in even higher regard than before.”
All the while he was speaking, Targonne was attempting to probe Dogah’s brain. Targonne could not manage it, however. A shield rose before his eyes, a shield that shimmered eerily in the light of a blazing sun. He could see beyond the shield, see dying trees and a land covered with gray ash, but he could not enter the shield nor cause it to be lifted.
Targonne grew increasingly angry, and thus he became more bland, more friendly. Those who knew him well were most terrified of him whenever he linked arms with them and spoke to them as chums.
Targonne linked arms with General Dogah.
“Our Mina was a gallant officer,” he said in mournful tones. “Now the accursed elves have assassinated her. I am not surprised. That is like them. Skulking, sneaking, belly-crawling worms. They are too cowardly to attack face to face, and so they resort to this.”
“Indeed, my lord,” said Dogah, his voice grating, “it is a coward’s act.”
“They will pay for it, though,” Targonne continued. “By my head, they will pay! So that’s her funeral pyre, is it?”
He and Dogah had walked slowly, arm in arm, across the field of battle. The minotaur and the captain of archers followed slowly after.
“It’s massive,” said Targonne. “A bit too massive, don’t you think? She was a gallant officer but only a junior officer. This pyre”—he indicated the immense stack of trees with a wave of his hand—“could well be the pyre of a leader of the Knighthood. A leader such as myself.”
“Indeed it could, my lord,” agreed Dogah quietly.
The base of the pyre was formed of six enormous trees. The work crews had wrapped chains around the logs, then dragged them into position in the center of the battlefield. The logs were soaked with any sort of inflammable liquid the men had been able find. The place reeked of oils, resins and spirits, and the fresh green blood of the trees. Atop this pile of logs, the men had t
hrown more logs, huge amounts of brush, and dead wood they had scavenged from the forest. The stack was now almost eight feet in height and ten feet in length. Climbing on ladders, they laid willow branches across the top, weaving them into a latticework of leaves. On this platform they would lay Mina’s body.
“Where is the body? I would like to pay my last respects,” said Targonne in dirgelike tones.
He was led to the tent where Mina lay in state, guarded by a group of silent soldiers, who parted to allow him to pass. Targonne stuck a mental needle in several as he walked among them, and their thoughts were only too clear, only too easy to read: loss, grief, sorrow, white-hot anger, vengeance. He was pleased. He could turn such thoughts as these to his own purposes.
He looked down at the corpse and was not in the least moved or touched beyond an annoyed wonder that this hoyden should have managed to garner such a loyal—one might say fanatical—following. He played to his audience, however, and saluted her and spoke the proper words. Perhaps the men noted some lack of sincerity in his voice, for they did not cheer him, as he considered he had the right to expect. They seemed to pay very little attention to him at all. They were Mina’s men, and if they could have followed her into death to bring her back, they would have done so.
“Now, Dogah,” said Targonne, when they were alone inside the command tent, “relate to me the circumstances of this tragic business. It was the elf king who murdered her, or so I understand. What have you done with him?”
Dogah related laconically the events of the previous night. “We questioned the young elf—his name is Silvanoshei. He is a sly one. He pretends to be almost mad with grief. A cunning actor, my lord. The ring came from his mother, the witch Starbreeze. We know from spies in the king’s household that one of her agents, an elf named Samar, paid a secret visit to the king not long ago. We have no doubt that, between them, they plotted this murder. The elf made a show of being in love with Mina. She took pity on him and accepted the ring from his hand. The ring was poisoned, my lord. She died almost instantly.
Dragons of a Lost Star Page 14