Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  “General Ariakas.” She saluted him. “I have brought Lord Immolatus, as ordered.”

  “Well done, uth Matar,” said Ariakas. “Or should I say, Regimental Commander uth Matar.”

  Kitiara grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Outside, sir. He waits to be properly introduced.”

  She rolled her eyes, quirked an eyebrow. Ariakas took the hint.

  Kit turned toward the entrance to the tent and bowed low. “General Ariakas, I have the honor to present His Eminence, Immolatus.”

  Ariakas gazed with some impatience at the tent flap. “His Eminence!” Ariakas snorted. “What’s he waiting for?”

  “Sir!” Kit whispered urgently, “I respectfully suggest that you should bow when he enters. He expects nothing less.”

  Ariakas frowned, crossed his arms across his massive chest. “I bow to no one except my Queen.”

  “Sir,” Kit returned in a harsh whisper, “how badly do you want the services of this dragon?”

  Ariakas didn’t want the dragon’s services at all. Personally he could have done quite well without them. Queen Takhisis had decided that Ariakas wanted the dragon. Ariakas, rumbling a growl, bent his body a fraction of a degree.

  A human male dressed in long robes the color of flame entered the tent. Everything about him was red. His hair was fiery red, his skin had an orangish tint to it, his eyes were red as sparking cinders. His features were elongated, sharp, pointed—pointed chin, pointed nose. His teeth were also sharp and pointed and rather more prominent than was quite comfortable to look upon. He walked with slow and stately step. His red-eyed gaze, noting everything, was bored by everything he noted.

  He gave Ariakas a disdainful glance. “Be seated,” said Immolatus.

  Ariakas was not normally accustomed to receiving orders in his own command tent and he very nearly choked on the rage that surged up from his belly. Kitiara’s hand, cool and strong, closed over his wrist, exerted gentle pressure. Even in this critical moment, her touch aroused him. Water droplets glittered in her dark hair, her wet shirt clung tantalizingly to her skin, her leather armor glistened.

  Later, Ariakas thought, and reminded by Kitiara’s touch of the other woman in his life—Her Dark Majesty—he sat down in his chair. He eased himself slowly into the seat, however, slowly and deliberately, clearly implying that he sat down of his own volition, not because he was obeying Immolatus.

  “Will you be seated, my lord?” Ariakas asked.

  The dragon remained standing, which allowed him to look down his extraordinarily long nose at the mortals beneath him. “You humans have so many lords, so many dukes and barons, princes and kings. What are you, with your short and dreary lives, compared to me? Nothing. Less than nothing. Worm. Spelt with an ‘o.’ I am eminently superior. You will therefore refer to me as Eminence.”

  Ariakas’s fingers curled in on themselves. He was fondly imagining those same strong fingers curling around His Eminence’s neck. “My Queen, give me patience,” he muttered and managed a dark-visaged smile. “Certainly, Your Eminence.” He was wondering how he would explain the dragon’s presence to his men. Rumor’s black wings were probably already flapping around the campfires.

  “And now,” said Immolatus, folding his hands, “you will tell me this plan of yours.”

  Kitiara rose to her feet. “I am certain that you will excuse me, my lord—”

  Ariakas caught hold of her forearm. “No, Commander uth Matar. You will remain.”

  Kitiara smiled on him, the crooked smile that was like fire in his blood, a fire that burned painfully in his groin.

  “I am sending you on this mission, as well, uth Matar,” Ariakas continued, relinquishing her reluctantly. “Close the tent flap. Tell the guards to form a perimeter around this tent, let no one pass.” He cast a stern glance at both Kit and the dragon. “What I say in this tent goes no farther, on peril of your lives.”

  Immolatus was amused. “My life? Forfeit for a human secret? I should like to see you try!”

  “The secret is not mine,” said Ariakas. “The secret is Her Majesty’s. Queen Takhisis. It is to Her Majesty you will be forced to answer if you permit the secret to escape.”

  Immolatus did not find this quite so amusing. His lip curled in a sneer, but he said nothing more, and he actually deigned to take a seat in a folding camp chair. The dragon leaned his elbow on General Ariakas’s table, knocking the neat pile of dispatches onto the floor, and drummed his long, pointed fingers on the table, expressive of his extreme boredom.

  Kitiara carried out her orders. He could hear her dismissing the guards, ordering them to form a perimeter around the tent some thirty paces away.

  “Check to make certain there is no one outside,” Ariakas commanded on her return.

  Kitiara exited the tent again, made a complete circuit—he could hear her booted footfalls. She returned, shaking the water from her hair. “No one, my lord. You may proceed. I will keep watch.”

  “You can hear me from the tent flap, uth Matar?” Ariakas asked. “I do not want to raise my voice.”

  “My hearing is excellent, my lord,” Kit replied.

  “Very well.” Ariakas was silent a moment. He frowned down at his disordered dispatches, sorting his thoughts.

  Immolatus, his curiosity piqued by these precautions—as Ariakas had intended—was looking slightly less bored.

  “Well, get on with it,” the dragon growled. “The sooner I am able to abandon this weak and puny form I am forced to inhabit, the better.”

  “There is a city located in the very southernmost part of the Khalkist Mountains. The city is called by the somewhat prophetic name of Hope’s End. It is inhabited by humans, and—”

  “You want me to destroy it,” said Immolatus with a flash of his sharp teeth.

  “No, Your Eminence,” said Ariakas. “Her Majesty’s orders are quite specific. Only a few people, a very few, have been granted the knowledge that dragons have returned to Krynn. The day will come when Her Dark Majesty will permit you to unleash your fury upon the world, but that day is distant. Our armies are not yet trained, not yet prepared. The mission on which you are being sent is far more important than the mere destruction of a city. Your mission has to do”—Ariakas lowered his voice—“with the eggs of the dragons of Paladine.”

  The sound of that cursed name, the name of the god who reigned in heaven in opposition to Queen Takhisis, the name of the god of those who had done Immolatus so much damage, caused the dragon’s flesh to twitch. He hissed in anger. “I do not permit that name to spoken in my presence, human! Speak it again and I will see to it that your tongue rots in your head!”

  “Forgive me, Your Eminence,” said Ariakas, undaunted. “I had need to speak it once, so that you could understand the gravity of the mission. I have no need to speak it again. According to reports from Her Majesty’s clerics, the eggs of these dragons, which I shall henceforth refer to as ‘metallic,’ lie beneath the city of Hope’s End.”

  Immolatus’s red eyes narrowed. “What is this trickery, human? I have reason to know you are lying. Don’t ask me to tell you how I know!” He raised a long-fingered hand. “Such knowledge is not for worms.”

  Ariakas was forced to exert all his self-control to keep from throttling his guest. “Your Eminence refers, no doubt, to the raid conducted by your kind upon the Isle of the Dragons in the year 287. A raid that did procure many eggs of the metallics. Many, but not all. It seems the metallics are not the fools we thought. They actually hid away some of the rarer, more precious eggs—those of gold and silver dragons.”

  “I am to destroy these eggs, then,” said Immolatus. “It will be a pleasure.”

  “A pleasure deferred, I am sorry to say, Your Eminence,” said Ariakas coolly. “Her Majesty has need of the eggs whole and intact.”

  “Why? For what purpose?” Immolatus demanded.

  Ariakas smiled. “I suggest that you ask Her Majesty. If her wyrms require
such information, I presume she will tell them.”

  Immolatus rose in anger, seeming to fill the tent with his swelling fury. Heat radiated from his body, warming the tent to such an extent that the water droplets on Kit’s armor sizzled. Kitiara did not hesitate. Drawing her sword, she stepped between Ariakas and the dragon. Confident, self-possessed, she stood ready to defend her commander with her blade and with her body.

  “His lordship meant no insult, Great Immolatus,” said Kitiara, though it was quite plain that his lordship had.

  “Indeed, I did not, Your Eminence,” said Ariakas, taking his cue from Kit. Even in human form, the dragon could cast any number of potent magical spells. Spells that could set ablaze Ariakas, reduce his camp and the city of Sanction itself to smoldering ashes.

  He could never win a war against this powerful, arrogant monster, but Ariakas was pleased with his small victory. It put him in a conciliatory mood. He could afford to humble himself. “I am soldier, not a diplomat, Your Eminence. I am accustomed to speaking bluntly. If I have offended, I did not intend it. You have my apology.”

  Somewhat appeased, Immolatus resumed his seat. The heat in the tent returned to a more comfortable level. Ariakas wiped the sweat from his face. Kitiara sheathed her sword and resumed her place at the tent flap as though she had done nothing remarkable or out of the ordinary.

  Ariakas followed her movements, as graceful as those of a stalking cat. Never had he known a woman like her! The lamplight glittered on her armor, cast dark shadows behind her, shadows that seemed to embrace her as he longed to embrace her. He ached to seize her, crush her to him, free himself of this pleasurable pain.

  “Shall we get back to business?” Immolatus said. He was well aware of Ariakas’s desire, scornful of the weakness of human flesh. “What does Her Dark Majesty require me to do with these eggs?”

  Ariakas tamped down his lust. Anticipation would make the culmination that much more exciting.

  “Her Majesty requests that you travel to Hope’s End in company of one of my officers.” Ariakas glanced at Kitiara, whose eyes flashed with pride and pleasure. “I am thinking of sending uth Matar, if you have no objections, Eminence.”

  “She is tolerable, for a human,” said the dragon with a curl of his lip.

  “Good. Once there, it will be your task to ascertain if the reports of the dragon eggs are true. It seems that though the clerics have strong evidence of the eggs’ existence, the clerics cannot find them. The god whose name I may not pronounce has kept the knowledge of the whereabouts of these eggs concealed even from Her Majesty. Her Majesty believes that only another dragon can discover their whereabouts.”

  “And so she needs me to come in and do that which she cannot do herself,” said Immolatus. A coil of smoke curled from one nostril, hung motionless in the thick and fetid air. “And what do I do once the eggs have been located?”

  “You will return, inform me of the location and of the numbers and types of eggs you have found.”

  “And so I am to be Her Majesty’s egg peddler!” Immolatus returned angrily. “A task any farm wench could perform!” He grumbled a bit, then added in growl, “I suppose there will be some fun. For, of course, you will want me to destroy the city and its inhabitants.”

  “Not exactly,” said Ariakas. “True, no one must know about our search. No one must know the real reason you are in the city of Hope’s End. But no one must know that dragons have returned to Krynn. The city will be destroyed, but it will be destroyed by other means, means less likely to draw attention to ourselves and to you, Eminence. We are therefore creating a diversion.

  “Hope’s End is just one city in the kingdom of Blödehelm. The king of Blödehelm, King Wilhelm, is now under the control of dark clerics. Acting on their ‘advice,’ he has imposed a tax upon the city of Hope’s End, a completely unfair and ruinous tax, a tax that has the population rising up in revolt against him. King Wilhelm has requested that my armies aid him in quelling the revolt. We will be providing troops as requested. I will be sending in two of my newly formed regiments along with a mercenary force that King Wilhelm has hired—”

  “Outsiders,” said the dragon. “Not under your control.”

  “I am aware of that, Your Eminence,” Ariakus returned testily, “but I do not yet have troops enough to obtain the objective. This is a training mission, as it is. I need the men blooded, and this war provides the perfect opportunity.”

  “And what is the objective? If we are not to destroy the city and butcher its inhabitants—”

  “Ask yourself, Eminence. What purpose does a dead human serve? Nothing. He rots away, making a great stink and spreading contagion. Live humans, on the other hand, are extremely useful. The men work in the iron mines. The older children work in the fields. The young women provide my troops amusement. The very young and the very old obligingly die off, so one doesn’t have to worry about them. Our objective, therefore, will be to capture the city and enslave its citizens. Once Hope’s End is empty, Her Majesty may do what she will with the dragon eggs.”

  “And what of the mercenaries? Will they enslave or be enslaved? I should think they would be valuable to you, if you are, as you say, short on manpower.”

  The dragon was goading him, hoping to force him to lose his temper. Ariakas replied with deliberate calm, “The leader of these mercenaries is a Solamnic by ancestry. He knows King Wilhelm to be a man of honor and has been convinced that the cause for which he and his men fight is a good one. If this mercenary leader were to learn the truth, that he has been duped, he would be a threat to us. Yet, I need him. He is one of the best. He hires only the best soldiers—so my reports indicate. You see my predicament, Your Eminence.”

  “I do.” Immolatus smiled, showing a vast number of sharp teeth, rather more teeth than was normal for a human.

  “Once the city falls, these mercenaries are expendable.” Ariakas waved a gracious hand. “I give them to you, Your Eminence. You may do with them what you wish … provided”—the hand became a warding hand—“that you do not reveal your true nature, your true form.”

  “You have taken most of the fun out of it,” Immolatus complained petulantly. “Still, there is the challenge, the creative genius—”

  “Precisely, Your Eminence.”

  “Very well.” The dragon leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other. “Now we can discuss my payment. I gather that this mission is of considerable importance. It must be worth a great deal to Her Majesty.”

  “You will be well rewarded for your time and trouble, Your Eminence,” said Ariakas.

  “How well?” Immolatus’s eyes narrowed.

  Ariakas paused, uncertain.

  “If I may, my lord?” Kitiara intervened, her voice dark and sweet as chocolate.

  “Yes, uth Matar?”

  “His Eminence suffered a terrible loss during the last war. He was robbed of his treasure, while he was away fighting for Her Majesty’s cause against the Solamnic Knights.”

  “The Solamnic Knights?” Ariakas frowned. He could not recall a war with the Solamnic Knights, who had fallen in disfavor and disrepute at the time of the Cataclysm and who had never really recovered their former glory. “What Solamnic Knights?”

  “Huma, my lord,” Kitiara said with a straight face.

  “Ah!” Ariakas forced his mind to think more nearly along the lines of the long-lived dragon. Huma was a recent foe to Immolatus. “That Solamnic Knight.”

  “Perhaps Her Majesty might see fit to compensate His Eminence for at least some his loss—”

  “All of his loss,” Immolatus corrected. “I know the amount, down to the last silver chalice.” Reaching into the sleeve of his robes, he withdrew a scroll, tossed it on the desk. “I have here an accounting. I want payment in kind, none of your steel coins. Filthy things, steel coins. Impossible to form into a really comfortable bed. And I don’t trust steel to hold its value. Nothing is more reliable than gold. Nothing quite so suited to peaceful sleep as go
ld. Silver and precious gems are, of course, acceptable. Sign here.” He indicated a line at the bottom of the document.

  Ariakas frowned down at it.

  “The city of Hope’s End will undoubtedly have a considerable amount of treasure in its vaults, my lord,” Kitiara hinted. “As well as what you will take from the merchants and the inhabitants.”

  “True,” said Ariakas.

  He had counted on that money for his treasury. Raising an army—an army capable of conquering all of Ansalon—was an expensive proposition. The wealth that would be handed over to this fool of an arrogant, greedy dragon would have forged a lot of swords, fed a lot of soldiers.

  Provided he had a lot of soldiers to feed, which at the moment, he did not.

  His Queen had promised him that more troops were coming. Ariakas was one of only a handful of people who knew of the secret experiments going on in the bowels of the mountains known as the Lords of Doom. He knew what the black-robed archmagus Drakart, the dark cleric Wyrllish, and the ancient red dragon Harkiel the Bender were attempting to create, perverting the eggs of the good dragons into creatures that would one day live to slay their unwitting parents.

  Ariakas—a sometime magic-user himself—had his doubts as to the practicality of such an ambitious experiment. But if new troops, new and powerful and invincible troops, were to come from these dragon eggs, they would be worth the price of handing over a city’s treasure.

  Ariakas scrawled his name on the line. Rolling up the scroll, he handed it back to Immolatus. “My army is on the march. You and uth Matar will leave in the morning.”

  “I am prepared to depart immediately, sir,” said Kitiara.

  Ariakas frowned. “I said you would leave in the morning.” He placed strong emphasis upon the words.

  Kitiara was respectful but firm. “His Eminence and I should travel under the cover of darkness, sir. The fewer who see us the better. His Eminence attracts a considerable amount of attention.”