Dragons of a Lost Star

by Margaret Weis

  Goldmoon barely heard what was said. She had only a brief time left in this world, she felt. The youthful body could no longer contain the soul that yearned to be free of the burden of flesh and of feeling. She was living moment to moment. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Each beat grew a little weaker than the one before. Yet, there was something she still must do. Somewhere she still must go.

  “In the meantime,” Lord Tasgall was saying, concluding the proceedings, “the prisoner Gerard uth Mondar, the kender who goes by the name of Tasslehoff Burrfoot, and the gnome Conundrum are to be held in confinement. This council is adjourned—”

  “My lords, I will speak!” Gerard cried, shaking loose the bailiff who was attempting to stop him. “Do what you will with me. Believe my story or not, as you see fit.” He raised his voice to overcome the lord’s repeated commands for him to be silent. “Please, I beg of you! Send aid and succor to the elves of Qualinesti. Do not allow the dragon Beryl to exterminate them with impunity. If you have no care for the elves as fellow beings, then at least you must see that once Beryl has destroyed the elves, she will next turn her attention northward to Solamnia—”

  The bailiff summoned assistance. Several guards finally subdued Gerard. Lady Odila watched, said nothing, but glanced again at Goldmoon. She appeared to be asleep, her head slumped forward on her chest, her hands resting in her lap, much as an elderly woman might doze by the fire or in the warm sunshine, oblivious to what is now, dreaming of what will be.

  “She is Goldmoon,” Lady Odila murmured.

  When order was restored, Lord Tasgall continued speaking. “The First Master is to be given into the care of Starmaster Mikelis. We ask that she not leave the city of Solanthus until such time as the messengers return.”

  “I will be honored if you would be a guest in my home, First Master,” said Starmaster Mikelis, giving her a gentle shake.

  “Thank you,” said Goldmoon, waking suddenly. “But I will not be staying long.”

  The Starmaster blinked. “Forgive me, First Master, but you heard what the Knights said—”

  Goldmoon had not in fact heard a word the Knights had said. She paid no heed to the living and no heed to the dead who came clustering around her.

  “I am very tired,” she told them all and, grasping her staff, she walked out the door.

  24

  Preparing for the End

  ver since their king had told them of their danger, the people of Qualinesti had been making preparations to stand against the dragon and her armies that were drawing near the elven capital. Beryl focused all her strength and her attention on capturing the elven city that had graced the world for so many years and on making that city her own. Soon humans would be moving into elven homes, chopping down the elves’ beloved forests for lumber, turning hogs loose to forage in elven rose gardens.

  The refugees were gone now. They had been evacuated through the dwarven tunnels, they had fled through the forests. With the refugees gone, those elves who had volunteered to remain behind to fight the dragon began to concentrate on the city’s defenses. They were under no illusions. They knew that this was a battle they could win only by a miracle. At best, they were fighting a rearguard action. Every few hours they delayed the enemies’ advance meant their families and friends were another few miles closer to safety. They had heard the news that the shield had fallen, and they spoke of the beauty of Silvanesti, of how their cousins would welcome the refugees, take them into their hearts and their houses. They spoke of the healing of the old wounds, of the future reunification of the elven kingdoms.

  Their king, Gilthas, encouraged their hopes and their beliefs. Marshal Medan wondered when the young man found time to sleep. Gilthas was everywhere, it seemed. One moment he was underground, working alongside the dwarves and their burrowing worms, the next he was helping to set fire to a bridge across the White-rage River. The next time the Marshal saw the king, Gilthas was again in the underground tunnels, where most of the elves now lived. Down in these tunnels, built by the dwarves, the elves worked day and night forging and mending weapons and armor and braiding rope, miles and miles of thin, strong rope that would be needed to carry out the king’s plan to destroy the dragon.

  Every bit of cloth that could be spared had been given over to the production of the rope, from baby clothes to bridal gowns to shrouds. The elves took silken sheets from their beds, took woolen blankets from cribs, took tapestries that had hung for centuries in the Tower of the Sun. They tore them up without a second thought.

  The work proceeded day and night. When one person grew too weary to continue braiding or cutting, when someone’s hands grew too stiff or blistered, another would take over. After dark, the coils of rope that had been made during that day were smuggled out of the tunnels to be stowed away inside elven homes, inns, taverns, shops and warehouses. Elven mages went from place to place, placing enchantments on the rope. Sometimes the erratic magic worked, other times it did not. If one mage failed, another would come back and try later.

  Above ground, the Dark Knights carried out the orders they had been given to rid the city of Qualinost of its inhabitants. They dragged elves out of their homes, beat them, and hauled them off to the prison camps that had been established outside the city. The soldiers threw furniture into the street, set homes ablaze, looted, and pillaged.

  Beryl’s spies, flying overhead, saw all this and reported back to Beryl that her orders were being faithfully followed. The spies did not know that the elves who huddled in terror in the prison camp by day were released by night, dispatched to different homes, there to be “arrested” again in the morning. If the spies had been careful observers, they might have noted that the furniture that was tossed in the streets blocked major thoroughfares and that the houses that were set ablaze were also strategically located throughout the elven city to impede the advance of troops.

  The one person Medan had not seen during this busy time was Laurana. Since the day the Queen Mother had assisted him so ably in fooling Beryl’s pet draconian, Medan had been occupied with planning the city’s defenses and innumerable other tasks, and he knew that she must be busy, too. She was packing up her household and that of the king’s, preparatory to traveling south, although, from what he had seen, she had little left to pack. She had given all her clothes except those on her back to be cut up for rope—even her wedding gown.

  She had brought the gown herself, Medan heard, and when the elves had protested and told her she must keep that, if nothing else, she had taken up a pair of shears and cut the beautiful, silken fabric into strips with her own hands. All the while she told stories of her wedding to Tanis Half-Elven, making them laugh at the antics of the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who had wandered off with the wedding rings and been found upon the verge of trading them to a street urchin for a jar of tadpoles, and how Caramon Majere, the best man, had been so flustered that when he rose to make the toast, he forgot Tanis’s name.

  Marshal Medan went to look at that particular coil of rope. He held the strand made up of the glistening silk that was the color of hyacinths in his hand and thought to himself that this length of rope needed no additional magical enchantment of strength, for it had been braided not with cord but with love.

  The Marshal was himself extremely busy. He was able to snatch only a few hours of sleep every night, and these he forced himself to take, knowing well that he could not operate efficiently without them. He could have taken time to visit the Queen Mother, but he chose not to do so. Their former relationship—that of respectful enemies—had changed. Each knew, when they parted after that last meeting, that they would not be the same to each other as they had been in the past.

  Medan felt a sense of loss. He was under no illusions. He had no right to her love. He was not ashamed of his past. He was a soldier, and he had done what a soldier must do, but that meant that he had the blood of her people on his hands and that therefore he could not touch her without staining her with that blood. He would never do that. Yet he
sensed that they could not meet comfortably as old friends. Too much had happened between them for that. Their next meeting must be awkward and unhappy for both of them. He would bid her farewell, wish her luck in her journey south. When she was gone and he would never see her again, he would prepare himself to die as he had always known he would die—as a soldier, doing his duty.

  At the precise moment when Gerard was eloquently but futilely pleading the cause of the elves before the Knights’ Council in Solanthus, Marshal Medan was in the palace, making preparations to hold a final meeting of officers and commanders. He had invited the dwarf thane, Tarn Bellowsgranite; King Gilthas and his wife, the Lioness; and the elven commanders.

  Medan had informed the king that tomorrow would be the last day the royal family could leave the city with any hope of escaping the enemy armies. He was concerned that the king had lingered too long as it was, but Gilthas had refused to leave earlier. This night, Medan would tell Laurana good-bye. Their farewells would be easier for both of them if they could do so when there were other people about.

  “The meeting will begin at moonrise,” Medan told Planchet, who would be carrying the messages to the elven commanders. “We will hold it in my garden.”

  His excuse was that the elves in attendance would not be comfortable in the thick-walled, stifling headquarters, but, in reality, he wanted a chance to show off his garden and to enjoy it himself for what would probably be the last time.

  Naming off those who were to come, he said, almost offhandedly, “the Queen Mother—”

  “No,” said Gilthas.

  The king had been pacing up and down the room, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, so lost in meditation that Medan had not thought the king was paying any attention to him and was considerably startled when he spoke.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?” Medan said.

  Gilthas ceased pacing and came over to the desk that was now covered with large maps of the city of Qualinost and its environs.

  “You will not tell my mother of this meeting,” said Gilthas.

  “This meeting is one of vital importance, Your Majesty,” the Marshal argued. “We will be finalizing our plans for the city’s defense and for your safe evacuation. Your mother is knowledgeable in such matters, and—”

  “Yes,” Gilthas interrupted, his voice grave. “She is knowledgeable. That is the very reason I do not want her to attend. Don’t you understand, Marshal?” he added, bending over the desk, gazing intently into Medan’s eyes. “If we invite her to this council of war, she will think we expect her to contribute that knowledge, to take part …”

  He did not finish the sentence. He straightened abruptly, ran a hand through his hair, and stared unseeing out the window. The setting sun slanted through the crystal panes, shone full on the young king. Medan gazed at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his sentence. He noted how the tension of the past few weeks had aged the young man. Gone was the languid poet, gazing listlessly around the dance floor. True, that mask had been put on to deceive the king’s enemies. But they had been deceived because part of the mask was made of flesh and blood.

  Gilthas was a gifted poet, a man of dreams, a man who taught himself to live much of his life internally, because he had come to believe he could not trust anyone. The face he showed the world—the face of the confident, strong and courageous king—was as much a mask as the other. Behind the mask was a man tormented by self-doubt, uncertainty, fear. He concealed it masterfully, but the sunlight on his face revealed the gray smudges beneath the eyes; the taut, tight-lipped smile that was no smile; the eyes that looked inward into shadows, not outward into sunlight.

  He must be very like his father, Medan thought. It was too bad his father was not here to counsel him now, to put his hand upon his shoulder and assure him that his feelings were not a symptom of weakness, that they did him no discredit. Far from it, they would make him a better leader, a better king. Medan might have said these words himself, but he knew that coming from him they would be resented. Gilthas turned away from the window, and the moment passed.

  “I understand,” said Medan, when it became apparent from the uncomfortable silence that the king did not intend to finish his sentence, a sentence that presented a new and astonishing possibility to the Marshal. He had assumed Laurana intended to leave Qualinost. Perhaps he had assumed wrongly. “Very well. Planchet, we will say nothing about this meeting to the Queen Mother.”

  The moon rose and shone pale and sickly in the sky. Medan had never much liked this strange moon. Compared to the argent brilliance of Solinari or the red flame of Lunitari, this moon looked forlorn and meek. He could almost imagine it apologizing to the stars every time it appeared, as if ashamed to take its place among them. It did its duty now, and shed light enough that he did not have to bring the harsh glare of torches or lamps into his garden, lights that might reveal to any watcher flying overhead that there was a meeting in progress.

  The elves expressed their admiration for his garden. Indeed, they were amazed that a human could create such beauty, and their amazement gave Medan as much satisfaction as their praise, for it meant the praise was genuine. His garden had never looked so hauntingly beautiful as it did by moonlight this night. Even the dwarf, who viewed plants as nothing more than food for cattle, looked about the garden with not quite a bored air and termed it “pretty,” although he sneezed violently immediately afterward and constantly rubbed his itching nose throughout the meeting.

  The Lioness was the first to give her report. She had nothing to say about the garden. She was cool, business-minded, obviously intending to end this quickly. She indicated where the enemy army was located, pointing to a map that had been spread out on a table near the fishpond.

  “Our forces did what they could to slow the enemy’s advance, but we were stinging flies to this behemoth. We annoyed him, we irritated him, we drew blood. We could impede him, but we could not stop him. We could slay a hundred men, and that was nothing but an irritant to him. Therefore, I ordered my people to pull back. We are now assisting the refugees.”

  Medan approved. “You will provide escort for the royal family. Of which you yourself are one,” he added with a polite smile.

  The Lioness did not return his smile. She had spent long years fighting him. She did not trust him, and for that he could not fault her. He did not trust her either. He had the feeling that if it had not been for Gilthas’s intervention, the Marshal would have found the Lioness’s knife sticking out of his ribcage.

  Gilthas looked grim as he always did when his own departure was mentioned. Medan sympathized with the young king, understood how he felt. Most of the elves understood the reason for his departure. There were those who did not understand, who whispered that the elven king was abandoning Qualinost in its hour of need, leaving his people to die that he might live. Medan did not envy the young man the life that lay ahead of him: the life of the refugee, the life of the exile.

  “I will personally escort His Majesty out through the tunnels,” Bellowsgranite stated. “Then those of my people who have volunteered will remain in the tunnels beneath the city, ready to assist the battle. When the armies of darkness march into Qualinost”—the dwarf grinned broadly—“they will find more than woodchucks rising up out of holes to meet them.”

  As if to emphasize his words, the ground shook slightly beneath their feet, a sign that the giant dirt-devouring worms were at work.

  “You and those coming with you must be in the tunnels first thing in the morning, Your Majesty,” the Thane added. “We dare not wait longer.”

  “We will be there,” said Gilthas, and he sighed and stared down at his hands, clasped tightly on the top of the table.

  Medan cleared his throat and continued. “Speaking to the defense of the city of Qualinost: The spies sent to infiltrate Beryl’s army report no change in her plan of attack. She will first order in the lesser dragons to scout the city, make certain all is well, and intimidate with the
ir dragonfear any who may remain.” The Marshal permitted himself a grim smile. “When Beryl has been assured that the city is deserted and her precious hide will be safe, she herself will enter Qualinost as leader of her armies.

  Medan pointed to the map. “The city of Qualinost is protected from attack by a natural moat—the two arms of the White-rage River that encircle the city. We’ve received reports that Beryl’s armies are already gathering along the banks of these streams. We have cut the bridges, but the water level is low this time of year and they will be able to ford the streams here, here, and here.” He indicated three areas. “The crossing will slow them, for they will be forced to move through water that is swift-flowing and waist deep in some places. Our troops will be posted here and here and here”—more reference to the map—“with orders to allow a substantial number of troops to cross before they attack.”

  He looked around at the officers. “We must emphasize to the troops that they wait for the signal before they attack. We want the enemy forces split, with half on one side of the stream and half on the other. We want to create panic and disruption, so that those who are trying to cross are bottled up by those fighting for their lives on the bank. Elven archers stationed here and here will decimate their ranks with arrow fire. The dwarven army, under the leadership of the Thane’s cousin”—Medan bowed to the dwarf—“will hit them here, drive them back into the water. The other elven forces will be posted here on the hillside to harry their flanks. Is this plan understood? Satisfactory to everyone?”

  They had gone over this several times before. Everyone nodded.

  “Finally, at our last meeting, we discussed sending for the Gray Robes who are stationed on the western border of Qualinesti and asking them for their assistance. It was decided that we would not seek their services, the feeling being that these gray-robed wizards cannot be trusted, a feeling in which I most heartily concurred. As it has turned out, it was well we did not count on them. It seems they have vanished. Not only have they disappeared without a trace, but the entire Forest of Wayreth has disappeared. I received a report that a strike force of draconians, one of Beryl’s crack units, who had been diverted south with orders to slaughter the refugees, entered the forest and has not come out. We have heard nothing more of them, nor, I think, are we likely to.