Wagons loaded with gold, silver, and steel, boxes of stolen jewels, booty looted from people the armies had conquered, were hauled by fearsome beasts known as mammoths, the only creatures strong enough to drag the heavily laden wagons up the mountain road. Occasionally one of the wagons would tip over and spill its contents or lose a wheel, or one of the mammoths would run berserk and trample its keepers and any one else unfortunate enough to be in its path. At these times, the road was shut down completely, bringing everything to a halt while officers tried to keep their men in order and fumed and fretted at the delay.
The mammoths were gone, died out. The men were gone too. Most of them now old. Some of them now dead. All of them now forgotten. The road was empty, deserted. Only the wind’s whistling breath blew across the road, which, with its smooth, inlaid gravel surface, was considered one of the man-made wonders of Krynn.
The wind was at the backs of the Dark Knights as they galloped down the winding, twisting snake’s back that was the Hundred Mile Road. The wind, a remnant of the storm, howled among the mountain tops, an echo of the Song of Death they had heard in Neraka, but only an echo, not as terrible, not as frightening. The Knights rode hard, rode in a daze, rode without any clear idea of why they rode or where they were heading. They rode in an ecstasy, an excitement that was unlike anything they had ever before experienced.
Certainly Galdar had felt nothing like it. He loped along at Mina’s side, running with new-found strength. He could have run from here to Ice Wall without pause. He might have credited his energy to pure joy at regaining his severed limb, but he saw his awe and fervor reflected in the faces of the men who made that exhilarating, mad dash alongside him. It was as if they brought the storm with them—hooves thundering among the mountain walls, the iron shoes of the horses striking lightning bolts from the rock surface.
Mina rode at their head, urging them on when they would have stopped from fatigue, forcing them to look into themselves to find just a bit more strength than they knew they possessed. They rode through the night, their way lit by lightning flashes. They rode through the day, halting only to water the horses and eat a quick bite standing.
When it seemed the horses must founder, Mina called a halt. The Knights had traversed well over half the distance. As it was, her own roan, Foxfire, could have continued on. He appeared to actually resent the stop, for the horse stamped and snorted in displeasure, his irritated protests splitting the air and bouncing back from the mountain tops.
Foxfire was fiercely loyal to his mistress and to her alone. He had no use for any other being. During their first brief rest stop, Galdar had made the mistake of approaching the horse to hold Mina’s stirrup as she dismounted, as he had been trained to do for his commander and with much better grace than he’d used for Ernst Magit. Foxfire’s lip curled back over his teeth, his eyes gleamed with a wild, wicked light that gave Galdar some idea of how the beast had come by his name. Galdar hastily backed away.
Many horses are frightened by minotaurs. Thinking this might be the problem, Galdar ordered one of the others to attend the commander.
Mina countermanded his order. “Stay back, all of you. Foxfire has no love for any being other than myself. He obeys only my commands and then only when my commands agree with his own instincts. He is very protective of his rider, and I could not prevent him from lashing out at you if you came too near.”
She dismounted nimbly, without aid. Removing her own saddle and bridle, she led Foxfire to drink. She fed him and brushed him down with her own hands. The rest of the soldiers tended to their own weary mounts, saw them safely settled for the night. Mina would not allow them to build a campfire. Solamnic eyes might be watching, she said. The fire would be visible a long distance.
The men were as tired as the horses. They’d had no sleep for two days and a night. The terror of the storm had drained them, the forced march left them all shaking with fatigue. The excitement that had carried them this far began to ebb. They looked like prisoners who have wakened from a wonderful dream of freedom to find that they still wear their shackles and their chains.
No longer crowned by lightning and robed with thunder, Mina looked like any other girl, and not even a very attractive girl, more like a scrawny youth. The Knights sat hunched over their food in the moonlit darkness, muttering that they’d been led on a fool’s errand, casting Mina dark looks and angry glances. One man even went so far as to say that any of the dark mystics could have restored Galdar’s arm, nothing so special in that.
Galdar could have silenced them by pointing out that no dark mystic had restored his arm, though he had begged them often enough. Whether they refused because their powers were not strong or because he lacked the steel to pay them, it was all the same to him. The dark mystics of the Knights of Neraka had not given him an arm. This strange girl had and he was dedicated to her for life. He kept quiet, however. He was ready to defend Mina with his life, should that become necessary, but he was curious to see how she would handle the increasingly tense situation.
Mina did not appear to notice that her command was slowly slipping away. She sat apart from the men, sat above them, perched on an enormous boulder. From her vantage point, she could look out across the mountain range, jagged black teeth taking a bite out of the starry sky. Here and there, fires from the active volcanoes were blots of orange against the black. Withdrawn, abstracted, she was absorbed in her thoughts to the point that she seemed totally unaware of the rising tide of mutiny at her back.
“I’ll be damned if I’m riding to Sanction!” said one of the Knights. “You know what’s waiting for us there. A thousand of the cursed Solamnics, that’s what!”
“I’m off to Khur with the first light,” said another. “I must have been thunderstruck to have come this far!”
“I’ll not stand first watch,” a third grumbled. “She won’t let us have a fire to dry out our clothes or cook a decent meal. Let her stand first watch.”
“Aye, let her stand first watch!” The others agreed.
“I intend to,” said Mina calmly. Rising from her seat, she descended to the road. She stood astride it, her feet planted firmly. Arms crossed over her chest, she faced the men. “I will stand all the watches this night. You will need your rest for the morrow. You should sleep.”
She was not angry. She was not sympathetic. She was certainly not pandering to them, did not seem to be agreeing with them in hope of gaining their favor. She was making a statement of fact, presenting a logical and rational argument. The men would need their rest for the morrow.
The Knights were mollified, but still angry, behaving like children who’ve been made the butt of a joke and don’t like it. Mina ordered them to make up their beds and lie down.
The Knights did as they were told, grumbling that their blankets were still wet and how could she expect them to sleep on the hard rock? They vowed, one and all, to leave with the dawn.
Mina returned to her seat upon the boulder and looked out again at the stars and the rising moon. She began to sing.
The song was not like the Song of Death, the terrible dirge sung to them by the ghosts of Neraka. Mina’s song was a battle song. A song sung by the brave as they march upon the foe, a song meant to stir the hearts of those who sing it, a song meant to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies.
Glory calls us
With trumpet’s tongue,
calls us do great deeds
on the field of valor,
calls us to give our blood
to the flame,
to the ground,
the thirsty ground,
the holy fire.
The song continued, a paean sung by the victors in their moment of triumph, a song of reminiscence sung by the old soldier telling his tale of valor.
Closing his eyes, Galdar saw deeds of courage and bravery, and he saw, thrilling with pride, that he was the one performing these heroic feats. His sword flared with the purple white of the lightning, he drank the bloo
d of his enemies. He marched from one glorious battle to the next, this song of victory on his lips. Always Mina rode before him, leading him, inspiring him, urging him to follow her into the heart of the battle. The purple white glow that emanated from her shone on him.
The song ended. Galdar blinked, realized, to his astonishment and chagrin, that he had fallen asleep. He had not meant to, he had intended to stand watch with her. He rubbed his eyes, wished she would start singing again. The night was cold and empty without the song. He looked around to see if the others felt the same.
They slumbered deeply and peacefully, smiles on their lips. They had laid their swords within reach on the ground beside them. Their hands closed over the hilts as if they would leap up and race off to the fray in an instant. They were sharing Galdar’s dream, the dream of the song.
Marveling, he looked at Mina to find her looking at him.
He rose to his feet, went to join her upon her rock.
“Do you know what I saw, Commander?” he asked.
Her amber eyes had caught the moon, encased it. “I know,” she replied.
“Will you do that for me, for us? Will you lead us to victory?”
The amber eyes, holding the moon captive, turned upon him. “I will.”
“Is it your god who promises you this?”
“It is,” she replied gravely.
“Tell me the name of this god, that I may worship him,” said Galdar.
Mina shook her head slowly, emphatically. Her gaze left the minotaur, went back to the sky, which was unusually dark, now that she had captured the moon. The light, the only light, was in her eyes. “It is not the right time.”
“When will it be the right time?” Galdar pursued.
“Mortals have no faith in anything anymore. They are like men lost in a fog who can see no farther than their own noses, and so that is what they follow, if they follow anything at all. Some are so paralyzed with fear that they are afraid to move. The people must acquire faith in themselves before they are ready to believe in anything beyond themselves.”
“Will you do this, Commander? Will you make this happen.”
“Tomorrow, you will see a miracle,” she said.
Galdar settled himself upon the rock. “Who are you, Commander?” he asked. “Where do you come from?”
Mina turned her gaze upon him and said, with a half-smile, “Who are you, Subcommander? Where do you come from?”
“Why, I’m a minotaur. I was born in—”
“No.” She shook her head gently. “Where before that?”
“Before I was born?” Galdar was confused. “I don’t know. No person does.”
“Precisely,” said Mina and turned away.
Galdar scratched his horned head, shrugged in his turn. Obviously she did not want to tell him, and why should she? It was none of his business. It made no difference to him. She was right. He had not believed in anything before this moment. Now he had found something in which to believe. He had found Mina.
She confronted him again, said abruptly, “Are you still tired?”
“No, Talon Leader, I am not,” Galdar replied. He had slept only a few hours, but the sleep had left him unusually refreshed.
Mina shook her head. “Do not call me ‘Talon Leader.’ I want you to call me ‘Mina.’ ”
“That is not right, Talon Leader,” he protested. “Calling you by your name does not show proper respect.”
“If the men have no respect for me, will it matter what they call me?” she returned. “Besides,” she added with calm conviction, “the rank I hold does not yet exist.”
Galdar really thought she was getting a bit above herself now, needed taking down a notch or two. “Perhaps you think you should be the ‘Lord of the Night,’ ” he suggested by way of a joke, naming the highest rank that could be held by the Knights of Neraka.
Mina did not laugh. “Someday, the Lord of the Night will kneel down before me.”
Galdar knew Lord Targonne well, had difficulty imagining the greedy, grasping, ambitious man kneeling to do anything unless it might be to scoop up a dropped copper. Galdar didn’t quite know what to say to such a ludicrous concept and so fell silent, returning in his mind to the dream of glory, reaching for it as a parched man reaches out to water. He wanted so much to believe in it, wanted to believe it was more than mirage.
“If you are certain you are not tired, Galdar,” Mina continued, “I want to ask a boon of you.”
“Anything, Tal—Mina,” he said, faltering.
“Tomorrow we ride into battle.” A little frown line marred Mina’s smooth complexion. “I have no weapon, nor have I ever been trained in the use of one. Have we time to do so tonight, do you think?”
Galdar’s jaw went slack. He wondered if he’d heard correctly. He was so stunned, he could at first make no reply. “You … you’ve never wielded a weapon?”
Mina shook her head calmly.
“Have you ever been in battle, Mina?”
She shook her head again.
“Have you ever seen a battle?” Galdar was feeling desperate.
“No, Galdar.” Mina smiled at him. “That is why I am asking for your help. We will go a little ways down the road to practice, so that we will not disturb the others. Do not worry. They will be safe. Foxfire would warn me if an enemy approached. Bring along whatever weapon you think would be easiest for me to learn.”
Mina walked off down the road to find a suitable practice field, leaving an amazed Galdar to search through the weapons he and the others carried, to find one suitable for her, a girl who had never before held a weapon and who was, tomorrow, going to lead them into battle.
Galdar cudgeled his brain, tried to knock some common sense back into his head. A dream seemed reality, reality seemed a dream. Drawing his dagger, he stared at it a moment, watched the moonlight flow like quicksilver along the blade. He jabbed the point of the dagger into his arm, the arm Mina had restored to him. Stinging pain and the warm flow of blood indicated that the arm was real, confirmed that he was indeed awake.
Galdar had given his promise, and if he had one thing left to him in this life that he hadn’t sold, battered, or flung away, it was his honor. He slid the dagger back into its sheath upon his belt and looked over the stock of weapons.
A sword was out of the question. There was no time to train her properly in its use, she would do more damage to herself or those around than to a foe. He could find nothing that he deemed suitable, and then he noticed the moonlight shining on one weapon in particular, as if it were trying to bring it to his attention—the weapon known as a morning star. Galdar eyed it. Frowning thoughtfully, he hefted it in his hand. The morning star is a battlehammer adorned with spikes on the end, spikes the fanciful said give it the look of a star, hence its name. The morning star was not heavy, took relatively little skill to learn to use, and was particularly effective against knights in armor. One simply bashed one’s opponent with the morning star until his armor cracked like a nutshell. Of course, one had to avoid the enemy’s own weapon while one was doing the bashing. Galdar picked up a small shield and, armed with these, trudged off down the road, leaving a horse to stand watch.
“I’ve gone mad,” he muttered. “Stark, staring mad.”
Mina had located an open space among the rocks, probably used as a wayside camping place for those long-ago armies that had marched along the road. She took hold of the morning star, eyed it critically, hefted it to test its weight and balance. Galdar showed her how to hold the shield, where to position it for best advantage. He instructed her in the use of the morning star, then gave her some simple exercises so that she could accustom herself to the feel of the weapon.
He was gratified (and relieved) to learn that Mina was a quick study. Though her frame was thin, she was well-muscled. Her balance was good, her movements were graceful and fluid. Galdar raised his own shield, let her take a few practice blows. Her first strike was impressive, her second drove him backward, her third put a gr
eat dent in his shield and jarred his arm to the marrow.
“I like this weapon, Galdar,” she said approvingly. “You have chosen well.”
Galdar grunted, rubbed his aching arm, and laid down his shield. Drawing his broadsword from its sheathe, he wrapped the sword in a cloak, bound the cloth around it tightly with rope, and took up a fighting stance.
“Now we go to work,” he said.
At the end of two hours, Galdar was astonished at his pupil’s progress.
“Are you certain you have never trained as a soldier?” he asked, pausing to catch his breath.
“I have never done so,” said Mina. “Look, I will show you.” Dropping her weapon, she held out the hand that had been wielding the morning star to the moonlight. “Judge my truthfulness.”
Her soft palm was raw and bloody from opened blisters. Yet she had never once complained, never flinched in her strikes, though the pain of her wounds must have been excruciating.
Galdar regarded her with undisguised admiration. If there is one virtue the minotaurs prize, it is the ability to bear pain in stoic silence. “The spirit of some great warrior must live in you, Mina. My people believe that such a thing is possible. When one of our warriors dies courageously in battle, it is the custom in my tribe to cut out his heart and eat it, hoping that his spirit will enter our own.”
“The only hearts I will eat will be those of my enemies,” said Mina. “My strength and my skill are given to me by my god.” She bent to pick up the morning star.
“No, no more practice this night,” said Galdar, snatching it out from under her fingers. “We must tend to those blisters. Too bad,” he said, eyeing her. “I fear that you will not be able to even set your hand to your horses’ reins in the morning, much less hold a weapon. Perhaps we should wait here a few days until you are healed.”
“We must reach Sanction tomorrow,” said Mina. “So it is ordered. If we arrive a day late, the battle will be finished. Our troops will have suffered a terrible defeat.”
Dragons of a Fallen Sun Page 11