Brothers in Arms

by Margaret Weis

  Kitiara stared, astounded, her brain scrabbling for purchase, trying to make sense of the senseless. She wasn’t certain what had happened, but she knew she was in danger. She drew her sword, splashed through the creek, prepared to face Immolatus’s fury. The damn dragon still didn’t turn around, didn’t move, didn’t stir. Only when she came close to him, close enough to slice off his head, did Kit understand.

  The moment she understood, the illusion of Immolatus standing on the trail disappeared.

  A grating sound above her drew her attention. She looked up in time to see a boulder thundering down the hillside.

  Kitiara fell to her stomach, pressing her body against the sun-warmed rock and covered her head with her hands. The boulder sailed past her, struck an outcropping of rock right below her and bounded into the creek with a splash. Another boulder followed. This one came closer. Immolatus missed again, but he could keep throwing rocks at her all day long. She had no where to go and sooner or later he’d hit his mark.

  “Let him hit it then,” Kit muttered.

  Swiftly, she undid the straps holding the steel breastplate she wore, avoiding yet another boulder.

  Craning her neck, she peered upward. The next boulder came thundering down. Kitiara drew in a deep breath and let it out in a scream, threw her breastplate directly into the boulder’s path. The boulder caught the breastplate a glancing blow, sending it spinning into the creek, the steel flashing red by the light of the setting sun.

  Dropping to her hands and knees, making herself as small as possible, Kit took advantage of the twilight, which would make it difficult for even the dragon to see if he had truly killed her. She used the noise of the falling boulder to cover the sound of her movements, scrambled into the brush alongside the path. She located a small crevice in the cliff face and wormed her way inside, scraping most of the skin off her thighs and her knees and her elbows, but safe for the moment from the dragon. Provided he had fallen for her ruse.

  Kitiara waited, her cheek pressed against the rock, panting for breath. No more boulders came hurtling down the mountainside, but that meant nothing. If he did not believe he’d killed her, he might very well come back to hunt her down. She listened for the sound of his pursuit, cursed her heart for beating so loudly.

  She heard nothing and she began to breathe a bit easier. Yet she did not move. She remained hidden, just in case he was hanging about to watch. Time passed and Kitiara became convinced. The dragon must believe her to be dead. She would have been nothing more to him than a bright flash of armor on the mountain and he had seen that bright flash fall, heard her death cry. Arrogant as he was, Immolatus would easily convince himself that his clever little ruse had worked. He would wait a few moments to make certain, but, sure of himself and eager for his vengeance, he would not linger long, not with the smell of eggs in his nostrils.

  “Still,” Kitiara reminded herself ruefully, “I underestimated him once and nearly died for my mistake.”

  She would not do the same again.

  Kitiara waited another few moments then, impatient, cramped and uncomfortable, she made up her mind that a fight would be preferable to being wedged between two slabs of rock. She slid cautiously out from her hiding place. Crouched on the trail, she peered upward, searching the shadows for a bit of red robe or a red wing tip or the glitter of a red scale.

  Nothing. The mountainside was desolate, as far as she could see.

  Seating herself on the trail, Kitiara examined her sword to make certain it had suffered no damage. Satisfied as to her weapon, she next looked for damage to herself. Cuts and bruises, that was about the extent of it. She dug a few sharp pieces of rock out of the palms of her hands, sucked blood from a deep cut on her knee, and wondered gloomily what to do next.

  Give up, return to camp. That was the sensible course of action. To do so was to admit defeat and Kitiara had been defeated only once in her life and that was in love, not battle. Her own thoughts were bloody with vengeance. Up to now, she would have been content to merely stop Immolatus from destroying the eggs. Now she wanted him dead. She would make him pay for those few horrible moments she’d spent cowering in terror on the mountainside. She’d track the damn dragon through the mountains all night, if that was what it took to catch him.

  Fortunately, Solinari would shine brightly tonight. And if Kit was very lucky or if Queen Takhisis was inclined to lend her aid, the dragon would manage to lose himself in the mountains during the night. He’d already started up the mountains the wrong way, to judge by the direction of the boulders.

  If you make up your mind to do a thing, do it. Don’t bother with the how and the why. Just do it.

  Grimly, resolutely, Kitiara began her climb up the mountainside.

  15

  THE NIGHT WAS A LONG ONE FOR KITIARA, SLOGGING THROUGH THE mountains. The night was also long for Immolatus. Kit’s prayers were answered, he did manage to lose his way. Immolatus was tempted more than once to return to his dragon body with its glorious wings, wings that would carry him off this damnable mountain, wings that would carry him into the skies.

  But Immolatus had the impression that the sneaky god Paladine had set spies on him, was watching for him. Immolatus imagined golden dragons lurking on the mountaintop, just waiting for him to change form to pounce upon him. Little as he liked to admit it, this human body was a useful disguise. If only it wasn’t so weak. The dragon sat down for just a few moments to rest and woke later from a nap he’d never meant to take, to find that it was almost dawn.

  The night was long for the men in the warehouse, who had finally been given their orders for the predawn attack and who, while not looking forward to the morning, would just as soon have it over.

  The night was a short one for the lord mayor, who faced the coming dawn with extreme apprehension. The night was short for the people of Hope’s End, well aware that this night might be their last. The night was extremely short for the baron, who had to reach his camp before the dawn.

  The night was just another night for Commander Kholos, who snored all the way through it.

  “You wanted to be wakened early, sir.” Master Vardash entered the commander’s tent, stood respectfully beside the bed, another prize from one of the manor houses, lugged along at considerable cost and inconvenience.

  “What? What is it? What’s going on?” Kholos blinked at his officer, who was lighting a lamp on the desk.

  “It is nearly dawn, sir. You wanted me to waken you early. The city comes under assault today.”

  “Oh, yes.” The commander yawned, scratched himself. “I suppose I had better get up then.”

  “Here is your ale, sir. The venison steaks are coming. The cook wants to know if you’ll have potatoes or bread this morning.”

  “Both. And tell him to put some onions in those potatoes. I had an idea last night,” Kholos added, seating himself on the bed and pulling on his boots. “Is that wizard Immolatus still around?”

  “I suppose so, sir,” Vardash answered slowly, trying to remember. “I haven’t seen him recently, but then he keeps to himself.”

  “Eating our rations and not doing a damn thing to earn it. Well, I have work for him this morning. I was thinking that when the baron’s men reach the wall—what’s left of them after our archers are finished—the wizard could work some sort of magic, drop the wall on them. What do you think?”

  “It’s an awfully big wall, sir,” suggested Vardash hesitantly.

  “I know it’s a big wall,” Kholos returned peevishly, “but these wizards must have spells to handle that sort of thing. Or what use are they? Have the blasted wizard report to me. I’ll ask him myself.”

  Kholos rose to his feet, naked except for his boots. Long, thick hair covered most of his body, except where his battle scars roped and slashed through the thick pelt. As he spoke, he scratched at himself again, captured a flea and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger.

  Vardash dispatched a soldier to find the wizard. Breakfast arrived. Th
e general devoured the still-bloody steaks, a loaf of bread, and quantities of potatoes and onions, all the while issuing orders in preparation for the day’s battle. Though the sky was still dark, with dawn presaged by only a hint of pink along the horizon, the camp was up and doing. The men were eating breakfast, to judge by the noise coming from the mess tent.

  The sky grew perceptibly brighter. A bird practiced a tentative call or two. His aide assisted Commander Kholos to dress and helped him on with his armor, which was heavy and massive. The aide had to ask Vardash for assistance with the commander’s breastplate, which required two men to lift it. An ordinary human would have sunk to the ground beneath it. Commander Kholos gave a grunt, banged himself on the chest a few times to position the breastplate, adjusted his bracers, and pronounced himself ready.

  A soldier arrived to say that the wizard was not in his tent, neither was Commander uth Matar. No one had seen either of them for some time now. One soldier said he had overheard uth Matar saying something to the wizard about the job being finished and returning to Sanction.

  “Who gave them permission to return to Sanction?” Kholos demanded angrily. “They were supposed to bring me a map showing me where to find those blasted dragon eggs!”

  “They were acting under Lord Ariakas’s direct orders, sir,” Vardash reminded him respectfully. “Perhaps the general changed his mind. Perhaps he intends to search for the eggs himself. To be honest, Commander, I think we are well rid of the wizard. I did not altogether trust him.”

  “I didn’t plan on trusting him,” Kholos returned irritably. “I just wanted him to knock down a single goddam wall. How hard can that be? Still and all, I guess you’re right. Hand me my sword. And I’ll take the battle-axe as well. We’ll count on the archers to dispose of the baron’s men. Do they have their orders, master? They know what to do?”

  “Yes, sir. Their orders are to shoot them in the back, sir, the minute they’ve captured the gate. A far better plan than trusting to magic, if I may say so, sir.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Vardash. Between our archers and those in the city, the baron’s army should be wiped out by—what time would you say, Vardash?”

  “Noon, I should think, sir.”

  “Really? That late? I was thinking midmorning myself. A wager?”

  “I would be delighted, sir,” Vardash said without enthusiasm.

  He never won a wager with Kholos, who, no matter what the outcome, conveniently remembered the terms of the bet as being favorable to himself. If the baron’s men were still alive and kicking by noon, the commander would recall that he’d said noon himself and that it was Vardash who’d been overly optimistic and said midmorning.

  Kholos was in a good humor. The city would most certainly fall into his hands this day. Tonight, he’d be sleeping in the lord mayor’s bed, perhaps with the lord mayor’s wife, if she wasn’t a cow. If she was, he’d have his pick of the rest of the women of the town. He’d spend a day or two mopping up any resistance, selecting the choicest slaves, putting to death those who didn’t make the cut, loading the wagons with loot, and then he’d set fire to the city. Once Hope’s End was in ashes, he would start on the long, but triumphant road back to Sanction.

  The mercenary camp was also up and at ’em this morning.

  “Sir, you asked to be wakened before sunup,” Commander Morgon started to say, then saw it wasn’t necessary.

  The baron was already awake. He had arrived back in camp just an hour earlier, lain down for a brief rest, and was now lying on his cot, mulling over his plans for the day. Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, he pulled on his tall leather boots. He was already wearing his breeches and shirt.

  “Breakfast, sir?” Morgon asked.

  The baron nodded. “Yes, have all the officers meet me in my command tent and have breakfast served there.”

  “Venison steaks and potatoes with onions, sir?” Morgon suggested with a grin.

  The baron looked up, eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to do, Morgon, kill me before the enemy has a crack at me?”

  “No, sir.” Morgon laughed. “I’ve just returned from the camp of our gallant allies. That is Commander Kholos’s favorite meal before a battle.”

  “I hope it gives him heartburn,” said the baron grumpily. “I’ll have the usual. Toast strips soaked in honey wine. And tell cook to mix up an egg in that. What did our gallant allies have to say for themselves?”

  “The commander wishes us luck with our attack, and promises to support us on the way in.”

  The two exchanged glances.

  “Very good, Morgon,” the baron replied. “You have your orders. You know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir.” Morgon saluted and departed.

  The baron met with his officers, went over the plans for the assault on the gate.

  “I’m not asking for questions, gentlemen,” he said at the conclusion of the meeting. “I don’t have the answers. Good luck to us all.”

  Four buglers, four drummers, a standard-bearer, several staff officers, five runners, and ten bodyguards formed the command group in the center of the infantry line.

  “Uncase the standard,” the baron ordered.

  The standard-bearer pulled a lanyard attached to the top of the standard, caused the rolled flag to unfurl. The symbol of the bison fluttered above the army.

  “Buglers—sound the call to arms!”

  The four buglers blasted out notes in unison, repeating the short call three times. Morgon touched the baron’s arm, pointed. Across the field, the first companies of Kholos’s army were moving into position on the right flank.

  When Kholos’s heavy infantry had formed in the center of his line, the commander’s standard went up, indicating he was in position.

  The baron nodded. “Very well, lads. This is the big finish. Time to earn our pay. Or not,” he muttered into his beard. He paused a moment, wondering if he’d made the right decision. Too late now if he hadn’t. Shrugging, he sat up straight on his horse. “Buglers!” he shouted. “Sound Advance!”

  A single note, held long and wailing, echoed back from the mountains. The note’s end was punctuated by a boom from the four drummers, beating in unison, pounding out a continuous and slow cadence. The companies moved forward in battle line.

  The baron looked down the left of the line. The polished breastplates shone in the newly risen morning sun. Sunlight glinted off spearpoints. The men carried spears and shields with short swords sheathed. The archers had taken up their positions to the far left of the line. They wore no breastplates, but carried large wooden shields that had spikes at the bottom tips. When the archers stopped to fire, they would plant the shields in the ground and fire from behind.

  To the baron’s right, a company of eight men carried a huge battering ram made of solid oak tipped with iron. Each man held a shield he would use to cover his head and body from attack while the ram battered the gates. More men marched alongside, ready to run in and take over a position if a man fell.

  The men moved forward, rank upon rank. They could see soldiers crowding the top of the city’s wall, but there was no answering fire. Not yet. The attackers were still out of range. The regiment neared the creek bed. The baron watched the tops of the battlements closely.

  “Wait for it, wait for it.” He issued the order to himself.

  A flag flew up the flag post atop the wall, accompanied by the deadly hum of hundreds of loosed arrows.

  “Now!” the baron yelled.

  The buglers blew Charge, the drummers pounded a furious rhythm.

  The men ran forward, fast enough to evade the first volley. Arrows thunked into the ground behind them. No one fell.

  The men hauling the battering ram came within a hundred yards of the wall, heading straight for the gate.

  The city loosed a second volley. Every man in the regiment ran harder, faster, trying to get ahead of the deadly rain of arrows. Again they outran them. None of the arrows hit, all fell behind the regiment’s
lines. The men cheered and jeered at the enemy.

  The last hundred yards were a sprint. The line lost cohesion as everyone dashed toward the objective. The battering ram crew closed on the gate, came to a stop.

  The men swung back once, then let the weight of the ram smack into the gate. The giant wooden structure resounded with a hollow boom. The gates flew open.

  Across the field, Commander Kholos turned to his archers.

  “Now! Now! They’ve breached the gates! Fire!”

  A hundred archers fired into the mercenary’s rear ranks. Before the first volley had hit home, a second was in the air.

  The baron’s troops had converged on the open gate, pushing to get through. A few soldiers fell, but not nearly as many as Kholos had hoped. Fuming, he turned to glare at his archers.

  “Punishment detail for any man who misses a shot!” he yelled.

  The archers reloaded, and fired two more volleys. But they were fast running out of targets.

  “The fighting must have moved inside, sir,” Vardash said. “The baron’s men have breached the city’s defenses. Should I send the archers forward? Apparently the fools haven’t figured out that we’re firing on them.”

  Kholos frowned. Something was wrong. He called for his spyglass, raised it to his eye, stared intently at the city gate. Snapping the glass shut, his goblinish face livid with fury, he turned to his signal drummers.

  “Quickly! Sound Attack!”

  Vardash turned. “Attack, sir? Now? I thought we were going to let the baron’s men do the brunt of the fighting?”

  Kholos struck Vardash a blow that crushed his jaw, sent him sprawling backward into the mud.

  “You idiot!” Kholos howled, jumping over Vardash’s unmoving body, racing forward to take his place at the head of the troops. “The bastards have tricked us! There is no fighting at the gate.”

  16

  KITIARA PULLED HERSELF CAUTIOUSLY UP THE LAST ROCK LEDGE leading to the cavern’s hidden entrance. She moved slowly, testing every hand- and foothold, taking care not to dislodge any rocks whose clattering fall might alert the dragon. Reaching the top, she crouched, sword in hand, looking and listening, thinking he might be lying in wait for her, to ambush her.