“Get out! The whole place’ll go up!” someone shouted.
Hederick, pushing past the injured, was one of the first to reach the door. He ran onto the Inn’s front landing, then stopped, stunned, and gripped the rail for support. Staring northward, he saw the woods blazing and, by the ghastly light of the flames, he could see hundreds of marching creatures, the lurid firelight reflecting off their leathery wings. Draconian ground troops. He watched, horrified, as the front ranks poured into the city of Solace, knowing there must be thousands more behind them. And above them flew creatures out of the stories of children.
Dragons.
Five red dragons wheeled overhead in the flame-lit sky. First one, then another, dove down, incinerating parts of the small town with its fiery breath, casting the thick, magical darkness. It was impossible to fight them—warriors could not see well enough to aim their arrows or strike with their swords.
The rest of the night blurred in Tika’s memory. She kept telling herself she must leave the burning Inn, yet the Inn was her home, she felt safe there, and so she stayed though the heat from the flaming kitchen grew so intense it hurt her lungs to breathe. Just when the flames spread to the common room, the kitchen crashed to the ground. Otik and the barmaids flung buckets of ale on the flames in the common room until, finally, the fire was extinguished.
Once the fire was out, Tika turned her attention to the wounded. Otik collapsed in a corner, shaking and sobbing. Tika sent one of the other barmaids to tend to him, while she began treating the injured. She worked for hours, resolutely refusing to look out of the windows, blocking from her mind the awful sounds of death and destruction outside.
Suddenly it occurred to her that there was no end to the wounded, that more people were lying on the floor than had been in the Inn when it was attacked. Dazed, she looked up to see people straggling in. Wives helped their husbands. Husbands carried their wives. Mothers carried dying children.
“What’s going on?” Tika asked a Seeker guard who staggered in, clutching his arm where an arrow had penetrated it. Others pushed behind him. “What’s happening? Why are these people coming here?”
The guard looked at her with dull, pain-filled eyes. “This is the only building,” he mumbled. “All burning. All …”
“No!” Tika went limp with shock and her knees trembled. At that moment, the guard fainted in her arms and she was forced to pull herself together. The last thing she saw as she dragged him inside was Hederick, standing on the porch, staring out over the flaming town with glazed eyes. Tears streamed unheeded down his soot-streaked face.
“There’s been a mistake,” he whimpered, wringing his hands. “There’s been a mistake made somewhere.”
That had been a week ago. As it turned out, the Inn was not the only building left standing. The draconians knew which buildings were essential to their needs and destroyed all those that were not. The Inn, Theros Ironfeld’s blacksmith shop, and the general store were saved. The blacksmith shop had always been on the ground—because of the inadvisability of having the hot forge located in a tree—but the others had to be lowered to the ground because the draconians found it difficult to get into the trees.
Lord Verminaard ordered the dragons to lower the buildings. After a space had been scorched clear, one of the huge red monsters stuck his claws into the Inn and lifted it. The draconians cheered as the dragon dropped it, not gently, onto the blackened grass. Fewmaster Toede, in charge of the town, ordered Otik to repair the Inn immediately. The draconians had one great weakness, a thirst for strong drink. Three days after the town was taken, the Inn reopened.
“I’m all right now,” Tika told Otik. She sat up and dried her eyes, wiping her nose with her apron. “I haven’t cried once, since that night,” she said, more to herself than to him. Her lips tightened into a thin line. “And I’ll never cry again!” she swore, rising from the table.
Otik, not understanding but thankful that Tika had regained her composure before the patrons arrived, bustled back behind the bar. “Nearly opening time,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “Maybe we’ll have a good crowd today.”
“How can you take their money!” Tika flared.
Otik, fearing another outburst, looked at her pleadingly. “Their money is as good as anyone else’s. Better than most these days,” he said.
“Humpf!” Tika snorted. Her thick red curls quivered as she stalked angrily across the floor. Otik, knowing her temper, stepped backward. It didn’t help. He was caught. She jabbed her finger into his fat stomach. “How can you laugh at their crude jokes and cater to their whims?” she demanded. “I hate the stench of them! I hate their leers and their cold, scaly hands touching mine! Someday I’ll—”
“Tika, please!” Otik begged. “Have some regard for me. I’m too old to be carried off to the slave mines! And you, they’d take you tomorrow if you didn’t work here. Please behave—there’s a good girl!”
Tika bit her lip in anger and frustration. She knew Otik was right. She risked more than being sent off in the slave caravans that passed through town almost daily—an angered draconian killed swiftly and without mercy. Just as she was thinking this, the door banged open and six draconian guards swaggered in. One of the them pulled the CLOSED sign off the door and tossed it into a corner.
“You’re open,” the creature said, dropping into a chair.
“Yes, certainly.” Otik grinned weakly. “Tika …”
“I see them,” Tika said dully.
2
The stranger. Captured!
The crowd at the Inn that night was sparse. The patrons were now draconians, though occasionally Solace residents came in for a drink. They generally did not stay long, finding the company unpleasant and memories of former times hard to bear.
Tonight there was a group of hobgoblins who kept wary eyes on the draconians and three crudely dressed humans from the north. Originally impressed into Lord Verminaard’s service, they now fought for the sheer pleasure of killing and looting. A few Solace citizens sat huddled in a corner. Hederick, the Theocrat, was not in his nightly spot. Lord Verminaard had rewarded the High Theocrat’s service by placing him among the first to be sent to the slave mines.
Near dusk, a stranger entered the Inn, taking a table in a dark corner near the door. Tika couldn’t tell much about him—he was heavily cloaked and wore a hood pulled low over his head. He seemed fatigued, sinking down into his chair as though his legs would not support him.
“What will you have?” Tika asked the stranger.
The man lowered his head, pulling down one side of his hood with a slender hand. “Nothing, thank you,” he said in a soft, accented voice. “Is it permissible to sit here and rest? I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“How about a glass of ale while you wait?” Tika smiled.
The man glanced up, and she saw brown eyes flash from the depths of his hood. “Very well,” the stranger said. “I am thirsty. Bring me your ale.”
Tika headed for the bar. As she drew the ale, she heard more customers entering the Inn.
“Just a half second,” she called out, unable to turn around. “Sit anywhere you’ve a mind. I’ll be with you soon as I can!” She glanced over her shoulder at the newcomers and nearly dropped the mug. Tika gasped, then got a grip on herself. Don’t give them away!
“Sit down anywhere, strangers,” she said loudly.
One of the men, a big fellow, seemed about to speak. Tika frowned fiercely at him and shook her head. Her eyes shifted to the draconians seated in the center of the room. A bearded man led the group past the draconians, who examined the strangers with a great deal of interest.
They saw four men and a woman, a dwarf, and a kender. The men were dressed in mud-stained cloaks and boots. One was unusually tall, another unusually big. The woman was cloaked in furs and walked with her hand through the arm of the tall man. All of them seemed downcast and tired. One of the men coughed and leaned heavily upon a strange-looking staff. They crossed the roo
m and sat down at a table in the far corner.
“More refugee scum,” sneered a draconian. “The humans look healthy, though, and all know dwarves are hard workers. Wonder why they haven’t been shipped out?”
“They will be, soon as the Fewmaster sees them.”
“Perhaps we should take care of the matter now,” said a third, scowling in the direction of the eight strangers.
“Naw, I’m off duty. They won’t go far.”
The others laughed and returned to their drinking. A number of empty glasses already sat before each of them.
Tika carried the ale to the brown-eyed stranger, set it before him hurriedly, then bustled back to the newcomers.
“What’ll you have?” she asked coldly.
The tall, bearded man answered in a low, husky voice. “Ale and food,” he said. “And wine for him,” he nodded at the man who was coughing almost continually.
The frail man shook his head. “Hot water,” he whispered.
Tika nodded and left. Out of habit, she started back toward where the old kitchen had been. Then, remembering it was gone, she whipped around and headed for the makeshift kitchen that had been built by goblins under draconian supervision. Once inside, she astounded the cook by grabbing the entire skillet of fried spiced potatoes and carrying it back out into the common room.
“Ale all around and a mug of hot water!” she called to Dezra behind the bar. Tika blessed her stars that Otik had gone home early. “Itrum, take that table.” She motioned to the hobgoblins as she hurried back to the newcomers. She slammed the skillet down, glancing at the draconians. Seeing them absorbed in their drinking, she suddenly flung her arms around the big man and gave him a kiss that made him flush.
“Oh, Caramon,” she whispered swiftly. “I knew you’d come back for me! Take me with you! Please, please!”
“Now, there, there,” Caramon said, patting her awkwardly on the back and looking pleadingly at Tanis. The half-elf swiftly intervened, his eyes on the draconians.
“Tika, calm down,” he told her. “We’ve got an audience.”
“Right,” she said briskly and stood up, smoothing her apron. Handing plates around, she began to ladle out the spiced potatoes as Dezra brought the ale and hot water.
“Tell us what happened to Solace,” Tanis said, his voice choked.
Quickly Tika whispered the story as she filled everyone’s plate, giving Caramon a double portion. The companions listened in grim silence.
“And so,” Tika concluded, “every week, the slave caravans leave for Pax Tharkas, except now they’ve taken almost everyone—leaving only the skilled, like Theros Ironfeld, behind. I fear for him.” She lowered her voice. “He swore to me last night that he would work for them no more. It all started with that captive party of elves—”
“Elves? What are elves doing here?” Tanis asked, speaking too loudly in his astonishment. The draconians turned to stare at him; the hooded stranger in the corner raised his head. Tanis hunched down and waited until the draconians turned their attention to their drinks. Then he started to ask Tika more about the elves. At that moment, a draconian yelled for ale.
Tika sighed. “I better go.” She set the skillet down. “I’ll leave that here. Finish them off.”
The companions ate listlessly, the food tasting like ashes. Raistlin mixed his strange herbal brew and drank it down; his cough improved almost immediately. Caramon watched Tika as he ate, his expression thoughtful. He could still feel the warmth of her body as she had embraced him and the softness of her lips. Pleasant sensations flowed through him, and he wondered if the stories he had heard about Tika were true. The thought both saddened him and made him angry.
One of the draconians raised its voice. “We may not be men like you’re accustomed to, sweetie,” it said drunkenly, flinging its scaled arm around Tika’s waist. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t find ways of making you happy.”
Caramon rumbled, deep in his chest. Sturm, overhearing, glowered and put his hand on his sword. Catching hold of the knight’s arm, Tanis said urgently, “Both of you, stop it! We’re in an occupied town! Be sensible. This is no time for chivalry! You, too, Caramon! Tika can handle herself.”
Sure enough, Tika slipped deftly out of the draconian’s grip and flounced angrily into the kitchen.
“Well, what do we do now?” Flint grumbled. “We came back to Solace for supplies and find nothing but draconians. My house is little more than a cinder. Tanis doesn’t even have a vallenwood tree, much less a home. All we’ve got are platinum Disks of some ancient goddess and a sick mage with a few new spells.” He ignored Raistlin’s glower. “We can’t eat the Disks and the magician hasn’t learned to conjure up food, so even if we knew where to go, we’d starve before we got there!”
“Should we still go to Haven?” Goldmoon asked, looking up at Tanis. “What if it is as bad as this? How do we know the Highseeker Council is even in existence?”
“I don’t have the answers,” Tanis said, sighing. He rubbed his eyes with his hand. “But I think we should try to reach Qualinesti.”
Tasslehoff, bored by the conversation, yawned and leaned back in his chair. It didn’t matter to him where they went. Examining the Inn with intense interest, he wanted to get up and look at where the kitchen had burned, but Tanis had warned him before they entered to stay out of trouble. The kender contented himself with studying the other customers.
He immediately noticed the hooded and cloaked stranger in the front of the Inn watching them intently as the conversation among the companions grew heated. Tanis raised his voice, and the word “Qualinesti” rang out again. The stranger set down his mug of ale with a thud. Tas was just about to call Tanis’s attention to this when Tika came out of the kitchen and slammed food down in front of the draconians, skillfully avoiding their clawed hands. Then she walked back over to the group.
“Could I have some more potatoes?” Caramon asked.
“Of course.” Tika smiled at him and picked up the skillet to return to the kitchen. Caramon felt Raistlin’s eyes on him. He flushed and began to play with his fork.
“In Qualinesti—” Tanis reiterated, his voice rising as he contested a point with Sturm who wanted to go north.
Tas saw the stranger in the corner rise and start walking toward them. “Tanis, company,” the kender said softly.
The conversation ceased. Their eyes on their tankards, all of them could feel and hear the approach of the stranger. Tanis cursed himself for not noticing him sooner.
The draconians, however, had noticed the stranger. Just as he reached the creatures’ table, one of the draconians stuck out its clawed foot. The stranger tripped over it, stumbling headlong into a nearby table. The creatures laughed loudly. Then a draconian caught a glimpse of the stranger’s face.
“Elf!” the draconian hissed, pulling off the hood to reveal the almond-shaped eyes, slanted ears, and delicate, masculine features of an elflord.
“Let me pass,” the elf said, backing up, his hands raised. “I was only going to exchange a word of greeting with these travelers.”
“You’ll exchange a word of greeting with the Fewmaster, elf,” the draconian snarled. Jumping up and grabbing the stranger’s cloak collar, the creature shoved the elf back up against the bar. The other two draconians laughed loudly.
Tika, on her way back to the kitchen with the skillet, stalked over toward the draconians. “Stop this!” she cried, taking hold of one of the draconians by the arm. “Leave him alone. He’s a paying customer. Same as you.”
“Go about your business, girl!” The draconian shoved Tika aside, then grabbed the elf with a clawed hand and hit him, twice, across the face. The blows drew blood. When the draconian let go, the elf staggered, shook his head groggily.
“Ah, kill him,” shouted one of the humans from the north. “Make him screech, like the others!”
“I’ll cut his slanty eyes out of his head, that’s what I’ll do!” The draconian drew his sword.
&nb
sp; “This has gone far enough!” Sturm rushed forward, the others behind him, though all feared there was little hope of saving the elf—they were too far from him. But help was closer. With a shrill cry of rage, Tika Waylan brought her heavy iron skillet down on the draconian’s head.
There was a loud clunking sound. The draconian stared stupidly at Tika for an instant, then slithered to the floor. The elf jumped forward, drawing a knife as the other two draconians leaped for Tika. Sturm reached her side and clubbed one of the draconians with his sword. Caramon caught the other up in his great arms and tossed it over the bar.
“Riverwind! Don’t let them out the door!” Tanis cried, seeing the hobgoblins leap up. The Plainsman caught one hobgoblin as it put its hand on the doorknob, but another escaped his grasp. They could hear it shouting for the guard.
Tika, still wielding her skillet, thunked a hobgoblin over the head. But another hobgoblin, seeing Caramon charge over, leaped out of the window.
Goldmoon rose to her feet. “Use your magic!” she said to Raistlin, grabbing him by the arm. “Do something!”
The mage looked at the woman coldly. “It is hopeless,” he whispered. “I will not waste my strength.”
Goldmoon glared at him in fury, but he had returned to his drink. Biting her lip, she ran over to Riverwind, the pouch with the precious Disks of Mishakal in her arms. She could hear horns blowing wildly in the streets.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Tanis said, but at that moment one of the human fighters wrapped his arms around Tanis’s neck, dragging him to the floor. Tasslehoff, with a wild shout, leaped onto the bar and began flinging mugs at the half-elf’s attacker, narrowly missing Tanis in the process.
Flint stood in the midst of the chaos, staring at the elven stranger. “I know you!” he yelled suddenly. “Tanis, isn’t this—”
A mug hit the dwarf in the head, knocking him cold.
“Oops,” said Tas.
Tanis throttled the northerner and left him unconscious under a table. He grabbed Tas off the bar, set the kender on the floor, and knelt down beside Flint who was groaning and trying to sit up.
Dragons of Autumn Twilight Page 30