Legacy of Steel Read online

  Outside the city, away from the reek and crowds of the streets, away from the dark gaze of so many eyes, Sara slowed down at last and fell to her knees, panting. The frozen ground chilled her to the bone, and the icy wind cut through her cloak and padded tunic like a knife, but she knelt there in the dead grass and sucked in the clean, cold air in great cleansing breaths. She felt like crying, except no tears would come. She had never felt so empty—empty and frightened and confused.

  She had her answers now. She could go back to Solamnia, find the knights, warn them of the dark knighthood's resurgence, and go back to her village and her home. She would not have to face horaxes or drunken knights or megalomaniacal generals ever again.

  Of course, she would have to leave Cobalt behind. She could never realistically hide him for long around Connersby. She would have to leave the squires in the Sixth Talon, too. But they were adults; they could make up their own minds. They would probably be horrified to know she wanted something else for them.

  So why couldn't she leave? All she had to do was get to her feet and start walking. If the dragons caught her or a patrol stopped her, she could always claim dementia from her concussion. The going would be difficult without Cobalt, but she could make it. She simply had to move—if she wanted to.

  Instead, she remained on the ground, her ankle throbbing, her head aching, and her body getting colder by the minute.

  Sara sighed and said wistfully to herself, "This would be a good time for a god or a goddess to send a sign, a vision, perhaps, or a spiritual enlightenment, something to help me decide what I should do!" It was a shame they had gone and left the poor mortals to slog through the mires of indecision alone.

  It was all so confusing. She couldn't see into the future to guide her path. There was no one she could talk to, no way she could tell if staying in Neraka would do any good. All she had was a deep well of tenacity, a stubborn pride, and the very quiet voice of her heart.

  Be still, whispered the tiny voice in her mind. Listen.

  She knelt in the vast solitude while the wind soared around her and the great arch of the sky slowly darkened toward an early twilight.

  At last she put her hands on the ground and pushed herself to her feet. Her knees refused to unbend at first, and she had to work the joints loose from their stiffened position. Blood flowed back into her feet, making them tingle. Slowly she stood upright, turned around, and walked back to Neraka.

  Her heart had known what to do all along.

  16

  Sara found Fewmet eventually just outside one of the taverns not far from the ramshackle huts of the little Aghar colony and the mountainous city dump. The tavern's location was not auspicious for human business, but draconians and ogres did not seem to mind the constant low-level stench or the occasional ox-stunning odor that drifted over from the dump when the wind was right.

  The stumpy gully dwarf was sitting on a wooden sidewalk, humming softly to himself and gnawing on a bone. When he saw Sara, he bobbed his head and offered her a shy smile, at the same time stuffing his bone out of sight in the rags of his shirt.

  She squatted down beside him. "I've been looking for you," she said lightly.

  He gazed at her in amazement. "Was I lost?"

  "No," she chuckled. "I just didn't know where to find you."

  He suddenly clutched his bone and glared at her suspiciously. "Why you look for Fewmet? No one look for gully dwarf."

  "I just wanted to thank you for helping me the other night. That was very brave of you."

  Fewmet's wrinkled face beamed. "Knight woman nice. Should not feed to horaxes."

  Sara laughed. "No, I was very glad to get out of there."

  The gully dwarf hunkered down and glanced both ways before he said, "I hear you fight mean knight who kicks gully dwarves."

  "News certainly travels fast around here," Sara observed. "Yes, I challenged him."

  "Good. I no like. You remember this: Knight have bad knee. 1 see sometimes. He go to many taverns in city."

  Sara's brow drew together in a frown. "I've never noticed that Massard had a limp."

  "Not always. He try to walk straight. But knee is weak. Remember when you fight." He wagged a filthy finger at her.

  Sara thoughtfully tucked that piece of information away. She expected Massard would choose swords for weapons, which meant she would have little opportunity to exploit the gully dwarf's information. But one never knew when such a tidbit could come in handy.

  Ignoring the nasty looks and rude remarks of the draconian customers, she went into the tavern and ordered a bowl of stew, a wedge of cheese, and a honey cake. The barman, when he heard what she was going to do with the food, insisted she pay for the utensils, too. Sara shrugged and paid, then carried the food outside to the gully dwarf. The barman flatly refused to let him eat inside.

  Fewmet was delighted. He never got to eat an entire hot meal all by himself. Sara stayed with him, her sword close to her hand, just to ensure no one tried to interfere with his repast. Other gully dwarves gathered close by to watch enviously, but they dared not bother him while the quiet woman stayed beside him.

  He shoveled in his food with both hands, licked every utensil clean, and ate the honey cake in three crumbly bites. Watching him, Sara guessed he could probably get a second meal just by combing his beard. She presented the bowl and plate to him as a gift and solemnly shook his hand.

  When she left, he was busy stuffing his new dishes into his bag and humming the same tuneless song.

  The appointed day of the duel came with the first clear sky Neraka had seen in weeks. The sun climbed into a flawless sky, and for the first time in days, the cold eased to a bearable cool. By noon, the weather was positively balmy for Neraka in late winter, which brought the crowds to the Arena of Death in droves.

  Challenges among the knights had been rare lately due to the scarcity of officers, so a duel between two of the older knights was cause for much anticipation. The fact that one was a man and the other was a woman just made it more interesting. Betting grew heavy the morning of the duel, and by noon, Massard was favored two-to-one.

  In the tents of the Red Quarter, the members of the Sixth Talon hovered around their junior officer until Sara wanted to scream. She appreciated their solicitous efforts to feed her and advise her and prepare her for battle, but all she really wanted was a little distance and some quiet to settle her nervousness. Instead, Derrick insisted he should polish and sharpen her sword. Saunder had found a mail shirt that fit her and was repairing a broken link. Marika fussed over her tea and toasted bread; Kelena polished her boots, and Jacson paced back and forth, demonstrating defensive moves she already knew.

  Sara tried to smile and be gracious, but it became so difficult, she finally took her food and her weapons into her tent and firmly fastened the flap shut behind her. The five knights-in-training exchanged mournful glances and counted the minutes until noon.

  In her tent, Sara drank a cup of her tonic for headaches and lay down on her cot to rest her head.

  Knight Officer Massard appeared shortly thereafter, blowing in like a thunderstorm. He stamped around the tents and shouted, "On your feet, you yellow-backed spawn of gully dwarves. You have work to do." He sneered as they jumped to attention. "Yaufre, put that thing down. Conby won't be needing it. Put out that fire! Clean up this mess! What do you think this is, a latrine?"

  Sara, still in her tent, decided wisely to stay out of sight. Sometimes discretion was the better part of valor. From his overly loud voice and ugly behavior, she got the impression he was trying to lure her out into the open. But this was neither the time nor the place to pick a fight with Massard.

  Massard charged around, snapped orders like bolts of lightning, and punctuated his demands with furious insults. When he was satisfied at last with the order of the camp, he lined the recruits up before his tent.

  "Now that you're finished putting this dump in order," he growled, relishing every word, "you will report to Knight Office
r Darcan at the stables. He has some muck for you to rake."

  "No! We can't—" Jacson inadvertently cried.

  Massard took one step forward to stand before the young squire. His eyes narrowed to mere slits, and before anyone could move, he viciously backhanded the youth across the mouth.

  The blow sent Jacson reeling. Catlike, he caught himself before he stumbled into the fire ring, and he crouched, his hand reaching for his dagger.

  "Jacson, no!" Derrick hissed. The bigger youth grabbed his friend's arms and wrestled him back into line.

  Massard's black eyes glittered. "Wise," he said, his voice full of venom. "Now, move!"

  They knew all the pleading in the world would not help. For some reason, Massard did not want them to accompany Sara to the duel, and because of his rank, they couldn't gainsay him. They shifted in their places. Jacson's face glowed red with fury, and Marika hunched her shoulders and clenched her fists as if ready to strike Massard's sneering face.

  Derrick forced his hand to salute his talon leader. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly. He turned to the others and drooped his right eye in a slow wink. His gesture acted as a balm to the others. They understood and allowed themselves to relax. Still angry but resigned, they followed Derrick away from the tents and off to the western edge of the tent ring, where a large complex of paddocks and stables housed the knighthood's horses.

  Massard watched them go. Worthless, the lot of them, he thought. He had never seen such a group of weak, spineless, whining children in his life. They were worse than goblins. Well, as soon as he dealt with that conniving, boot-licking tramp, he'd beat some backbone into those brats or kill them trying.

  He wrenched off his sword belt and stomped to his tent. Flinging open the flap, he tossed his sword on the rumpled blankets of his cot and was about to leave when something caught his eye—a bottle, sitting on the stool near his bed. A familiar clay bottle, with the wax-sealed cork and the maker's mark of his favorite dwarf spirits. His mouth went dry. He should not drink, not this close to a duel in which he would have to fight for his rank and reputation. He realized the drink slowed his reflexes and did strange things to his vision.

  Yet again, why should he worry? The woman he was facing was no knight. She hadn't trained for twenty years or fought with Lord Ariakan during that glorious summer the Knights of Takhisis conquered Ansalon. True, she could handle a sword, but he was certain she would not be able to survive what he had in mind.

  His hand reached for the bottle. He pulled the cork and inhaled the earthy fumes with a sigh of pleasure. Without bothering to wonder why a bottle of dwarven spirits had been left in his tent, he tipped the bottle up and let the fiery liquid burn a trail to his stomach.

  Sara woke with a start. A noise, a light scratching noise that sounded like nails on fabric, disturbed her. She sat up, dazed, and stared at the dim yellowish light that leaked through the tent walls. She had been doing this all too often since Red Eric's brigands cracked her head. Every time she sat or lay down, she fell asleep.

  The scratching came again, louder this time, and the tent Material jiggled under the pressure. Someone was at the door.

  Sara groggily rose and opened the flap. A goblin face full of obsequious goodwill peered up at her. She recognized General Abrena's messenger in his filthy tunic and bits of purloined armor.

  Her eyes flew to the sky to find the sun. "Oh, no! What time is it?" she cried.

  The goblin peered upward, too, wondering what the fuss was about. "It's midday. High sun. General sent me to fetch you. She says almost time."

  Rubbing her neck, Sara tried to calm down. She tied her hair back out of her way, then she picked up her new sword and her dagger and strapped them on. If Massard chose any other weapon, the general would supply one. She had no armor to wear—she'd never had more than the basic pieces she had worn during training years ago, and those were long gone—so she slipped on the heavy chain mail Saunder gave her. It was better than nothing.

  She strode outside into the bright sunshine, the goblin at her heels. The camp seemed strangely empty without the squires. Now that the time had come to leave, she missed their noisy support. It was just like Massard's vindictive pettiness to send them to some onerous task instead of letting them witness the duel.

  "Has Knight Officer Massard already left?" she asked.

  The goblin shrugged his knobby shoulders. "Not in tent. Must have."

  "Good." Sara pulled out her new thong decorated with dragon-scale disks. She had made a new one to replace the missing one the same day she woke from her long sleep.

  "You won't need that. I'm right here."

  Sara twisted around at the sound of the deep voice and saw Cobalt's horned head lying lazily on the ground beside her tent. The rest of the large dragon lifted himself off the ground from behind her tent and ambled around beside her. In the noon sun, his deep blue scales glowed with a richness all their own.

  The goblin yelped and hid behind Sara's legs.

  "Would you like a ride to the arena?" Sara asked goblin in an effort to be polite.

  "No," said Cobalt and the goblin in one voice. The goblin scurried off before she could make any more dreadful suggestions.

  Cobalt waited while Sara quickly saddled him. He extended his leg so she could climb up to his back, and as soon as she was settled in the saddle, he thrust off with his powerful hind legs into the cool blue sky.

  Sara was grateful that he did not question the wisdom of her challenge. All she wanted now was a few minutes of quiet. She ran her hand down his long sapphire neck, enjoying the smoothness of his scales beneath her palm. She could feel his life-force surge beneath the protective scales in a hidden current of power and energy. She was thankful more than she could say that he freely gave her his support and companionship.

  The dragon winged over Neraka, past the main gate, the Queen's Way, and the temple ruin to the southeastern side of the city, where the Arena of Death sat just to the south of the ex-lord mayor's playground.

  The arena, a remnant of Queen Takhisis's days in the city, was an oval-shaped coliseum used for various bloody entertainments and killing sports. Its attractions were quite popular with Neraka's residents and quite lucrative for officials, who charged a few coppers for admission, sold beverages and food, and ran a betting ring. Consequently the lord mayor, and now General Abrena, made a habit of presenting events whenever possible. A duel between two officers wasn't quite as exciting as watching a mass slaughter of captives by hungry tigers, but there would be enough interest to draw a crowd. Especially since the news of Sara's brush with the horaxes in the ruin had spread through the city.

  Cobalt circled around to overfly the arena, giving his rider a chance to see it from above. It was no wonder there was talk of repairing the place. It was a wreck. Too many years had passed, too much blood had been spilled in the sands, too many overenthusiastic fans had trampled over the seats, hacked at the stone with their weapons, or broken every awning and railing in sight.

  This day, a fair-sized crowd gathered in the dilapidated tiers of seats and cheered when the large blue spread his wings wide and coasted to the sand-covered door of the arena.

  General Abrena, several of her commanding officers from the Order of the Lily, and the Nightlord from the Order of the Skull walked across the sand to meet Sara. Lord Knight Cadrel carried the scepter of the adjudicator, the knighthood's judge in matters of contention.

  Sara had seen duels often enough to know the procedure. She slid down from Cobalt's back, formally saluted the officers, and bowed to the Nightlord in his gray robes. "May Queen Takhisis walk with me this day and guide my efforts in her service."

  "Fight with honor, Knight Warrior," replied the priest.

  Governor-General Abrena frowned over Sara's mail shirt. "You wear no armor," she observed critically.

  Sara stood straighter under the heavy mail. "My armor was lost, General. I have not been able to replace it yet."

  "And yet you willingly fight a duel i
n simple mail?" She shook her head at the stupidity of certain knights. "I would prefer to keep you alive, Conby. Knight Officer Massard has not appeared yet; we have time to find you something better than that."

  Cobalt suddenly growled deep in his throat. "He comes."

  Another ragged cheer rose from the crowd as a lone figure entered the arena at the far end and swaggered across the open space to the group of officers. He tripped once but regained his balance and came to a halt in front of Governor-General Abrena. Knight Officer Massard saluted rather crookedly.

  Mirielle's eyes narrowed, and her full lips tightened in disapproval. Her nose wrinkled suspiciously.

  Massard suddenly belched. The reek of spirits on his clothes and breath reached out to them all. The adjudicator rolled his eyes. The others stifled mingled sounds of disgust and amusement.

  "Knight Officer," snapped the general, giving him a withering glare, "you are a disgrace. Where is your pride? In the bottom of some latrine? How dare you show up here to fight a duel of honor in this condition?"

  Massard planted his fists on his hips. "What difference does it make?" he bellowed belligerently. "I can fight her on one leg."

  "Do you wish to let the challenge stand?" the adjudicator said in a hard voice.

  "Blast it, yes! What'd ya think I came here for?"

  "What weapon do you choose?"

  "None." Massard turned his black gaze on Sara. "I'm gonna kill her with my bare hands."

  Shocked, the knights began talking among themselves in harsh whispers. Bare-knuckled fighting was not considered an honorable alternative in duels. That sort of brawling was usually relegated to the lowest ranks of mercenaries and draconians.

  Sara leaned back against Cobalt and tried to mask her emotions-. The idea of fighting a big hulk like Massard with nothing but her fists scared her silly. At least with a sword, she would have a chance to wear him down and wounded him This way she wouldn't have a hope.