Flight of the Fallen l-2 Page 13

  Linsha shivered in a cold that bit deeper than the night’s frost. “Go, Crucible!” she whispered. “Go. Surely there are mages who can help you. Go north and find my father.”

  “I will not leave you,” the dragon hissed. “I had hoped to return to Sanction, but our destiny seems to lie here in the south. We will see it through together.”

  “It is done then,” said the Akkad-Ur. “Remember, dragon. I have but to speak one word and the bolt will begin to bore into your back. One word and this woman is dead. You will go to my tent and wait for me there.”

  Linsha watched Crucible leave the yard. Conflicting emotions swirled around her like the winds of a cyclone-relief that he was still alive, worry that he could still be hurt, fear that the Tarmaks would use him against the people of the plains, but the worst was the guilt. Guilt, like a huge ache, settled into her mind. He had come back because of her, and now he was enslaved because of her. His rationalization of destiny might keep him satisfied for a few days, but in time he would come to resent her, perhaps hate her, for her part in his capture. And what about Lord Bight? The lord governor would not be happy that Sanction’s guardian was now trapped in Missing City. What would Lord Bight do now?

  She heard footsteps approach her, and she looked down to see the Akkad-Ur standing by the foot of the suspended cage. “Thusly our plans fall into place. Do not do anything to jeopardize his well-being. You have seen what I can do to him.”

  Linsha said nothing. She could think of nothing to say.

  When the Tarmak turned on his heel and left, she pressed her aching head back against the cage and let the tears fall.

  If only Crucible had stayed in Sanction…

  14

  News from the Plains

  Varia returned to the camp at Sinking Wells just before dawn with the news Crucible had been captured. At first no one would believe her. She had just returned from her journey to Sanction only the day before and told Mariana and Falaius that Crucible had come back and that he would rescue Linsha-and perhaps some of the others-that night. How could he have failed? How could the Tarmaks have captured a large bronze dragon? It didn’t seem possible.

  Captain Calanbriar observed the small owl for a short while and tactfully suggested she come into the tent and tell her tale again in the quiet of the shelter. The half-elf could see the owl was terribly upset-so upset, in fact, that she had forgotten her usual reticent shyness and was blurting her news out in front of a dozen startled and staring people. Quickly, Mariana took the owl into the command tent and invited Falaius, Sir Hugh, and the two kirath elves to join them.

  The tent, set up under a small cluster of trees, was an airy tribal design that swept over their heads like a canopy. Inside was a low rough table on a tattered rug. A blanket hung in the back to curtain off the small sleeping area, and a few weapons hung from the tent posts. The humans and the elves gathered within, taking places around the table. A young man in a tattered militia uniform brought them cups of water.

  Varia sat on the small rough table and told them exactly how the Tarmaks had managed to enslave a dragon. Her “horn” feathers were clamped tight to her head and her entire body was compressed into a small ball of angry feathers. Even as she told her story, she trembled with emotion and outrage.

  “I found a perch high on the standing wall of the old throne room where I could look down into the court where the Tarmaks are holding the Solamnic Knights. They had put Linsha in a small cage and left her hanging out in plain view.”

  Falaius’s deeply line face turned down into a frown. “Could they have known he was coming?”

  “I don’t know,” Varia said. “We have feared for some time that there is a spy in the militia, but how could someone like that know so quickly that we were back? Crucible shapeshifted into a cat miles away from the city. No one saw him fly in.”

  “Perhaps they were guessing,” Mariana suggested, “or just hoping the dragon would come. Maybe they’ve been hanging Linsha up in that cage for nights now.” She stifled a shudder at the thought of being trapped in a tight metal box for so long.

  The owl shifted her weight from foot to foot. She could understand how skeptical these people felt. She had seen what happened to the dragon, and she still could barely believe it. She described the Abyssal Lance to them, the wicked black weapon with the rust colored barbs enchanted to kill whatever it penetrated. She told them about the crossbow and the bolt made from the tip of the lance.

  Falaius slammed a hand on the table, causing Varia to jump. “How does this Tarmak control it? That’s what I don’t understand. This is a weapon created in a war long past by men far different from the Brutes.”

  “The Brutes fought in that war,” Mariana reminded him. “The weapon was given to them by the Dark Knights. The Knights probably gave them the spells to control it as well.”

  “So why do their spells work, while our mystics are relegated to poultices and herbal teas for healing?” Sir Hugh said. He sat sullenly at the table, the sole representative of the Solamnic Knights. Exhaustion colored his square face with gray and tainted his voice with impatience.

  “I do not know,” Varia said. “I have seen the Tarmak general in daylight, and I know he wears a necklace made of dragon’s teeth.” She saw Mariana’s fair face darken with anger. “But maybe there is something else. Maybe he has some artifacts from Istar or a power from his own land we know nothing about.”

  “Where is Crucible now?” asked the Legion Commander.

  Varia hissed a little sound of displeasure. “The Tarmaks have chained him to a tree beside their headquarters in the city square. They are making a spectacle of him.”

  The half-elf shook her fair head. “Where is Linsha?”

  “She was put back with men. I counted three Legionnaires and fourteen Knights, including Sir Remmik and Lady Linsha.”

  “They are in the dragon’s lair?” asked Falaius.

  “In the old complex of ruins behind the throne room,” Varia said.

  Sir Hugh sat up a little straighten Falaius and the captain were looking very thoughtful. “What are you thinking?”

  Mariana paused before she answered. Her eyes, one of blue and one of green, stared thoughtfully into the distance. “If we could free Linsha-”

  “And the others,” Falaius put in.

  “And the others. We need her. And it might weaken the Tarmaks’ hold over Crucible.” She looked to Varia. “Do you think this is so?”

  The owl slowly blinked her round eyes. She thought about what she knew of Crucible and bobbed her head. “It is possible.”

  Some of the despair lifted from Sir Hugh’s face and his expression grew lighter. “If Linsha is free, then all we’d have to do is figure out how to remove that bolt from Crucible’s neck.”

  “Will the Tarmaks not kill him if she escapes?” said one of the elves.

  Varia stepped around to look at the newcomers. She had noticed them the day before, and she was pleased to see them again, for she had finally learned the truth of the disappearance of the Shield over Silvanesti. “As long that dart is in his neck, I do not think Crucible will try to leave. We must find a way to remove it without killing him.”

  A loud shout rang out outside, drawing everyone’s attention. They leaped to their feet just as a scout pushed into the tent. Dirty and sweaty, he saluted both commanders and said, “A rider coming. Fast. From the north. A tribesman, I think.”

  Mariana extended an arm to Varia and settled the owl on her shoulder before she followed the others outside. They could see a horseman coming along a trail that lay between two low hills. A reddish plume of dust flew from the horse’s hooves.

  The older elf shaded his eyes to better see the rider. “It is a young man, a tribesman,” he said. “His horse is lathered and weary.”

  With surprising speed, the militia reached for their weapons and ran to their posts. The few women and older folk in the camp immediately disappeared from sight, hiding out in the dunes and outcroppin
gs. A dozen or so militia grouped around Mariana, Falaius, and the others and set arrows to their bows. A tense silence fell over the Wells.

  The hoofbeats grew louder. Along the dusty road the rider came as if all the forces of Neraka were on his heels. Wisely, he reined his mount to a stop just out of arrow range and raised his arms to show he had no weapon in his hands.

  “I bring word from my chieftain to the forces of Iyesta!” he called. “Do you know where I can find Scorpion Wadi?”

  Mariana sighed before she called, “The Wadi is nothing more than a graveyard! We are all that is left of the dragonlord’s forces!”

  The rider slid off his steaming horse and gratefully handed the reins to a soldier.

  “I bring news.” His face glowed with a light of importance even the news of another disaster could not dampen. “The green dragon, Beryl, is dead. She died during the fall of Qualinesti. The elves’ city is destroyed, but the king saved many of his people by evacuating them through underground tunnels. They are making their way across the Plains even now.”

  The young rider, lost in the import of his news, suddenly became aware that people were staring at him in a silent state of shock. No one moved. No sound was made. He cleared his throat to continue when he saw the two Silvanesti elves standing close by. Their pale, elegant faces were rigid with horror.

  The eldest elf seemed to shake himself and he laid a hand on his companion’s shoulder for support. “Why are the Qualinesti crossing the Plains?” he asked.

  “I… I don’t know exactly,” the rider stammered. “They have been driven from their lands by the Knights of Neraka and the forces of the green dragon. I guess they hope to seek shelter with your people.”

  The two elves exchanged a look of dread. “We must leave,” the elder said to Mariana. “We must see for ourselves.”

  Without a further word, they retrieved their horses from the picket line, saddled them, and were away in less time than it took for Falaius to salute the tribesman and draw him into the commander’s tent.

  “Come, boy Tell us again, and this time fill in some details.”

  The same news arrived in Missing City the next night, brought by one of the Tarmak long-range patrols. The patrol, sent out to gather information about the lands north of the city, had come across another messenger heading for City of Morning Dew. After capturing him and extracting his news, they felt it was important enough to bring it themselves to the Akkad-Ur. They found him in his headquarters in the city square where the city’s lord mayor and his council used to meet. Outside, they were astonished to see a bronze dragon crouched balefully under the shade of a large yew.

  The Akkad-Ur was not pleased to see them so soon, but he listened to their news and interrogated their prisoner. When he was satisfied he gave each warrior a coveted steel dagger from the treasury of the dead dragonlord.

  “Throw him in the slave pens,” he ordered, indicating the cowering tribesman. Then he paused and a slight smile eased across his face. “Better still, take him to the old palace and put him in with the Knights. We’ll let the woman brood a little further on disaster. And summon the dekegul.”

  He leaned both hands on his work table and studied his latest map while the warriors bowed and left to obey his orders. Quickly his hand snatched another map from a stack and another and another until he had most of the Plains of Dust as far west as the Kharolis Mountains and Thorbardin spread out before him. He pondered the maps for a long time. There it was spread out before him. A land ready for the taking.

  It was too good to keep to himself. Gloating, he went outside, past his guards, and across the street to the yew where the bronze dragon sat chained and waiting for his command. For once the Akkad-Ur did not bother to don his ceremonial mask, and his long face and aquiline nose were exposed to the bronze dragon’s sullen view. Crucible glanced at him briefly then turned his head away and glared into the darkness that had fallen over the city.

  Too energized to stand still, the Akkad-Ur paced in front of Crucible only a few steps away from the limit of the short chain that bound the dragon.

  “This seems to be a disastrous year for dragons,” he said, knowing full well that Crucible was listening to him. “I have heard from my scouts that Thunder and Iyesta were not the only dragons to fall this summer. The dragon Beryllinthranox has also died.”

  In spite of his efforts to appear disinterested, Crucible’s ears swiveled around to hear the Tarmak better.

  The Akkad-Ur continued to pace back and forth. “She invaded the Qualinesti Forest and destroyed the city of Qualinost. But in the course of the invasion, she was killed. It’s a shame really. All those elves displaced and wandering. But there you are. The fortunes of war.” He stopped in front of Crucible and crossed his arms. “You certainly know what that means. The deaths of these three dragons leaves the entire Plains of Dust now available to the first conqueror strong and daring enough to take it.”

  Crucible’s head swung around until he was staring down at the Tarmak, his golden eyes as cold as a winter dawn.

  The Akkad-Ur gave the dragon a short, derisive bow and turned on his sandalled heel. He made it nearly ten paces back toward his headquarters when the dekegul, the Akkad-Ur’s commanders of the army, came running at his command. They saluted and waited eagerly for his news.

  “Tomorrow the next shipment of reinforcements and supplies arrives. In three days we march. We will take the army north and west to consolidate our hold on Iyesta’s realm as planned and take the remaining lands of the Plains of Dust. In the name of our emperor, we shall establish a new realm where the Tarmak nation will grow strong.”

  The dekegul cheered.

  Distracted by his plans and visions of conquest, the Akkad-Ur paid no heed to the dragon behind him. Gesturing to his officers to follow, he strode back to his office to make further plans.

  The dragon watched him go. Did you hear that? He sent his thought to a creamy white and brown owl sitting motionless in the depths of the yew tree.

  Yes. If he goes north and west, he will soon reach Duntollik, the owl replied in his mind. And if he takes that the rest of the northern Plains will fall.

  He may decide to finish off the militia before he goes. He has ignored them thus far, hut he is known to rid himself of loose ends.

  That is very likely. He knows where they are.

  Take the news to Linsha. And to Mariana. Perhaps the militia should flee north and warn Duntollik.

  I will tell them. Be careful, Crucible. The owl dropped from her branch and drifted silently away on the night wind.

  You, too, small one.

  15

  Escape

  The first storm of autumn came early that year in a chilly, blustery wall of clouds that moved in from the southwest and blew over the city. That night the fleet of Tarmak ships arrived. In the lashing rain and pounding waves, the ships staggered into the harbor and signaled for help. Every available Tarmak was pulled out of the city and sent to the harbor to help the warriors disembark, to unload the shipment of Damjatt horses, and to batten down the ships. They made no attempt to unload the supplies and stacks of weapons that lay within the holds. Those could wait until the sea calmed. But the horses were exhausted, and the warriors were seasick and thoroughly tired of the cramped conditions on the ships. Tarmaks and horses alike wanted off, and the Akkad-Ur wanted them to have time to recover before they marched north. Unfortunately, the docks and the harbor facilities were only primitive makeshift structures set up after the huge storm in the early summer had destroyed the entire waterfront. Only one ship at a time could be brought to the one long pier, and it had to be carefully roped at the bow and stern to prevent the ship from being smashed to splinters in the heavy surf. The difficult process of unloading the Tarmaks and their horses from each ship took most of the night.

  The storm also caused some minor damage and flooding in the town. The wind ripped off some roofs and blew down a few trees. The rain flooded cellars, dripped through old ceili
ngs and ran gurgling through the streets. But it filled rain barrels in town and filled the stock ponds and dry creeks for miles around the city. The storm also offered one service to the beleaguered militia they had not looked for. It offered them excellent cover when they raided the slave pens just outside the dragon’s palace.

  Using a few tricks they learned from the Tarmaks, a small group of Legionnaires led by Falaius eased through the driving rain to the rear of one of the high makeshift fences that formed the complex of pens and waited for the guards to make their rounds.

  They killed three without a sound and moved the bodies out of sight in the ruins. While the Legionnaires protected their flanks, a party of militia went to work on the stockade fence. The fence was crafted of pointed upright poles woven together with strips of green wood tied with stout rope. It was strong enough to hold unarmed people within, flexible enough to prevent a centaur from kicking it over, and high enough to keep the centaurs from jumping over. But it was not impervious to determined soldiers with stout knives and axes. They reduced a section of the wall to collapsed strips of wood and bits of rope in short order.

  Mariana and Sir Hugh slipped into the compound. In the dark and rain they went from one huddled group to another and sent them moving silently toward the hole in the fence. The pen they had penetrated held mostly the centaurs from Linsha’s captured party, soldiers captured in the field, and a few craftspeople from the city. Every one snatched at the opportunity to escape and followed Mariana’s orders without question.

  Every one except Leonidas. The young buckskin ambled casually to the back of the pen and ducked quietly through the hole as everyone else did, but the moment he was out he grabbed Sir Hugh’s arm.