Flight of the Fallen l-2 Read online

  As she drew near to the men, Linsha felt her teeth grind. Only Falaius and Dockett looked pleased to see her. Sir Remmik deliberately angled his body to keep his back turned to her so he would not have to look at or speak to her. The Knight Commander had never forgiven her for several alleged crimes and for surviving the Tarmak attack on the city when most of his favored Knights had been slaughtered. He had declared her blacklisted to all Solamnic Knights, although he’d never had time to send a full report to the Grand Master in Sancrist, and ordered the Knights of the Circle to behave as if she did not exist.

  Linsha found his attitude ludicrous. She knew she was innocent of the crime he despised her for, and in the close proximity of the Wadi, it was difficult to avoid someone who struggled beside you to survive and whom you had worked with for more than a year and a half. Linsha took perverse delight in being unfailingly polite and friendly to Sir Remmik and forcing him to acknowledge her in the presence of others, even when she preferred to punch him in the sneer on his aristocratic face.

  This day, however, enough traces of her bad temper remained to kill any thoughts of playing nice to Sir Remmik. Striding up to the table, she spoke warmly to Falaius and General Dockett, nodded to the centaur, and passed her gaze over the Solamnic Knight as if he did not exist.

  The Legion commander and the militia general were used to such hostilities between the Lord Knight and the exiled Lady Knight, but the centaur looked surprised by their rudeness.

  “Lanther just arrived,” Falaius told Linsha. “He’s in the pens.” He held out a hand to stop her before she turned. “Lady Linsha, this is Horemheb of the Willik clan of Duntollik. He has brought us news you might find interesting.”

  The centaur’s eyebrows rose at the plainsman’s use of the Solamnic title, and his eyes slid from Sir Remmik to Linsha and back in surprise.

  Linsha didn’t blame him. While Sir Remmik still wore the formal blue and silver tunic of the Solamnic Circle and made an effort to keep it clean and repaired, she had lost her armor and her uniform months ago to battle, blood, and exile. Now she wore a stained and battered tunic that looked a little worse for her dunking in the sea, a leather corselet that was two sizes too big, and pants she had washed and repaired so many times there wasn’t much left of the original color. Her boots had holes in the soles and were held together by bits of rope and leather strips. Her auburn hair was shaggy and unkempt, her nails were dirty, and she was thinner than she had been in years. An owl perched on her shoulder. She hardly looked the part of a high-ranking Solamnic Knight.

  Leonidas beside her chuckled and, giving a salute to his kinsman, said, “Do not be fooled by appearances. It takes more than a fancy coat to make a warrior.”

  A rude snort brought Linsha’s attention to Sir Remmik’s face. Anger suffused his lean features and creased heavy frown lines around his nose and across his high forehead. “That’s true, horse-man,” he said fiercely. “It takes morals and obedience to a higher law.”

  Linsha’s temper, already straining at its bit, lashed out. Ignoring Varia’s warning hoot, she leaned forward, her hands on the table, and held him with her eyes. “It also requires an open mind and the ability to see beyond the end of your nose. The Tarmaks killed Sir Morrec. I told you that, but you refuse to accept anything that does not conform to your own fantasies.”

  Sir Remmik leaned forward as well, the other men forgotten. “You have no proof.”

  “I cannot drag the Tarmak leader before you to admit to his complicity,” she retorted. “I have given you my word as a Rose Knight, something which even to you should be inviolate.”

  “You were tried and condemned before a council of your peers. You are an abomination to us. Your word means nothing!”

  “A pretty use of logic!” she spat. “That council was of your making. You-”

  Falaius held up a hand between them and said calmly, “We’ve heard this before.”

  Embarrassed, Linsha stepped back. Why had she let Remmik goad her again? She knew better than to engage in an argument with him, especially in front of a stranger-or Falaius and Dockett. Sir Remmik had convinced himself and much of the Circle that she had killed their commander, Sir Morrec, during an ambush on the night of the great storm. His evidence of her alleged guilt was the presence of her dagger in Sir Morrec’s back and the fact that she had been the only one of the honor guard to survive. She had failed to defend her superior officer, and she had failed to die. In Sir Remmik’s eyes, that alone was enough to condemn her to exile and, if possible, death.

  Thankfully neither the militia nor the Legion fed on Sir Remmik’s idea of the truth. They accepted Linsha into their ranks, gave her sanctuary, and protected her from Sir Remmik’s wrath. Falaius had even offered her a place in the Legion, an honor for which she was truly grateful. But in spite of the fact this was the second time members of the Order had tried to convict her and blacklist her, the Solamnic Knighthood was too deeply ingrained in her bones. She wasn’t ready to give up on it yet.

  She bowed apologetically to the centaur. “Forgive us. It is an old feud.”

  Sir Remmik backed away, too, and had the grace to looked slightly ashamed.

  On the woman’s shoulder, Varia huffed out her feathers and made a low-throated grumbling sound of indignation. Although she had a vast range of sounds and voices, she preferred to remain quiet in the presence of strangers.

  “As I was saying,” Falaius said, “Horemheb has come from Duntollik with news.”

  The rangy centaur shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard, then returned to his business. “In truth, I bring news. But I came to seek news as well. For years we have kept a close watch on the blue dragon, Thunder, since his realm borders on our own. Many times he has flown over Duntollik to spread terror and raid our villages. I think he would have driven us out long ago if Beryl and Sable had not forbidden him to seek more territory. Lately, though, our chieftains have grown concerned. We have not seen either Iyesta or Thunder these past three months, and news from the Missing City has completely stopped. I was sent south to find out what is happening.”

  Falaius pointed to the maps and said to Linsha, “We have told him of the storm, the invasion, and the fall of the city. Since you are here, you can fill in the rest.”

  Sir Remmik had not left the table, and Linsha could feel his pent-up anger radiating off him like heat waves on the sand. He had never fully believed her story of the death of the dragons-he didn’t want to believe her part in it-and he probably feared she would lie again. Linsha pushed him from her mind and let her thoughts slip back to midsummer and the dark-drowned caverns below the city. In her mind’s eye she saw them again, the huge corpses, two withered and reduced to heaps of bones and scales; one rotting in the sands of the empty dragon nest.

  “They’re dead,” she said at last.

  Horemheb started as if stung. “Both of them? By the gods! What happened?”

  “The Tarmaks brought an Abyssal Lance. Thunder used it to kill Iyesta during the storm. Crucible and I and a centaur named Azurale turned it against him and killed him just after the city fell. Their bodies are beneath the Missing City, so the news has not spread quickly.”

  The Willik centaur rubbed his bearded chin. He looked stunned. “Falaius has told me of the Tarmaks, but who is Crucible, and what is an Abyssal Lance?”

  “Crucible is a bronze dragon who helped us for a while. He has since returned to his lair near Sanction.” Linsha paused, took a deep breath, and went on. “The Abyssal Lance is a vile weapon. I was told a few were made during the Chaos War. A Dark Knight presented one to the Tarmaks-the Brutes as you might know them-who used it as a lure to overcome Thunder’s fear of Iyesta. They convinced him to help them invade the city in return for a large share of her treasure.” She grimaced. “As soon as Iyesta was dead and the Missing City had fallen, the Tarmaks left the lance for us to steal, knowing we would try to kill Thunder.”

  “Why would they do that if he was
their ally?” Horemheb asked, still trying to absorb the monumental news.

  Linsha lifted her free shoulder in a shrug. “You know Thunder. He was vicious, greedy, and unpredictable. I think they hoped we would rid them of him before he became a problem for them.”

  “They wanted Iyesta’s city for themselves,” General Dockett said.

  “They won’t stop there. I believe they want her entire realm.”

  Linsha turned at the sound of the new voice and grinned at the tall man coming to join them. Lanther’s eye caught hers, and his weathered face broke into a matching smile of pleasure. Dark-haired and lanky, he had been a formidable warrior once until a serious injury two years ago had left him with a limp and a livid scar down his right cheek. The injury had sent him into semi-retirement in the Missing City while still in his forties.

  He stopped beside her, gave Varia a wink with a bright blue eye, and bowed gravely to the messenger. “Your pardon for the interruption,” he said.

  Introductions were made again to acquaint Horemheb with Lanther. The centaur studied the Legionnaire carefully and nodded once. “You have seen your share of fighting these past years,” he observed.

  Lanther laughed, a sharp sound of grim humor. “What gave it away? The scars or the limp?”

  “Those, and the tales that are told about you in the City of Morning Dew. I went there before I made my way down here, and they are still telling stories of your rescues in the tavern.”

  “Ah yes, the Sunken Ship.” Lanther turned to Linsha, who had never been to the City of Morning Dew and said, “It’s an old boat they grounded at the edge of the swamp and converted into the city’s only tavern, inn, watering hole, gathering spot, and gaming house. All the Legionnaires go there to sit around and tell wild stories of their exploits.”

  She crossed her arms. She knew the tales, too-of his dangerous trips into Sable’s black swamp to rescue slaves and escaped prisoners-but she couldn’t helping asking, “So who did you have to rescue from the tavern?”

  “Two barmaids and a confused crocodile.”

  His comment brought several smiles, a chuckle from Dockett, and gave them all a moment of lighthearted humor-something rare in that canyon. As soon as it faded, Horemheb returned to his questions.

  “What did you mean they want Iyesta’s realm?” The centaur asked, unable to disguise his alarm.

  Lanther tapped a forefinger on a map. “The Tarmaks do not seem content to stay where they are. From the news I have picked up from prisoners and our few spies in the city, the Tarmaks are building a new army-one equipped for a land campaign rather than a seaborne invasion.”

  Sir Remmik agreed. He despised the Legionnaire, but he knew the business of supplies, shipping, and organizing an army, and he, too, had been keeping a watch on the port. “They are receiving several ships a week-filled with reinforcements and supplies. They have already outstripped us in numbers, and they are far better equipped.”

  “Where are they coming from? I thought these Brutes were only a slave race controlled by the Knights of Neraka?”

  Linsha shook her head. “We don’t know. Even their mercenaries have no knowledge of their origins.”

  “At least we’ve seen no indication of Dark Knight involvement,” Falaius added. “The Tarmaks seem to be attacking us on their own initiative.”

  Horemheb rubbed a large hand across his face and looked pensive. “I will have to get this news back to Duntollik. If this realm falls to these Tarmaks…”

  He didn’t need to finish. They all understood the pressures of Duntollik’s geography.

  Linsha, the men, the centaurs, and Varia stared down at the maps scattered across the table. No one had to explain the grim truth staring them in the face. The forces of Iyesta had refused to admit defeat even after the city fell. Led by the three commanders, they had formed a thin line of defensive positions, fortified outposts, and roving patrols anchored on the Scorpion Wadi that surrounded the Missing City in a rough half-circle. At first they had waged a successful campaign to keep the mercenaries and the Tarmaks confined within the boundaries of the city. But as the weeks passed and the numbers of besiegers dwindled, the effort to contain the Tarmaks had become little more than a waiting game. Before too long, Iyesta’s forces would either have to find another way to keep fighting or retreat back into the empty Plains of Dust.

  “How long do you think it will be?” Horemheb asked quietly.

  “If they are planning a campaign for this year,” General Dockett replied, “they will have to move before winter.”

  Linsha stirred, remembering what Falaius had told her. The centaur had come with news of his own. “What about your people? What is the news from Duntollik?”

  A look of frustration marred the centaur’s face. “We are watching and preparing what we can. Something is happening in Qualinesti. There have been large troop movements over the border and a great deal of activity among the dwarves in Thorbardin. Sable has been quiet, but we heard disturbing news from Schallsea.”

  The men bent over their maps again, intent on gleaning every bit of information from Horemheb’s news. Soon they were asking questions of their own, jabbing at the maps, and talking to the centaur.

  Linsha listened for a moment, hoping to hear the news about Schallsea, then felt herself pulled back by a hand on her arm. “Come see this prisoner who spoke of the eggs,” Lanther whispered. “He won’t last much longer.”

  She turned to go, but Horemheb stopped her with one last question. “Lady, where is this Abyssal Lance you spoke of? Do you still have it?”

  Linsha could not speak for a moment through the welter of emotions that suddenly assailed her. Anger, shame, dismay, and regret whipped on by a deep-seated fear-all charged through her thoughts.

  “I don’t know where it is,” she said at last. “We were forced to leave it in Thunder’s body, and when we returned to retrieve it, it was gone.”

  She said nothing more, nor did she wait to hear any possible disappointed comments or critical remarks from anyone. She’d already heard them all or said them to herself. She turned and walked away with Lanther, leaving Leonidas, Horemheb, and the men to finish their discussion.

  4

  Into the Labyrinth

  The prisoner huddled against the wall of the stone cell. There were only three holding cells in the Post, all carved into the rock wall of the canyon and all large enough to hold at least five large men. The prisoner, the sole occupant of his cell, looked small and pathetic on the floor, like a pale pile of bloody rags.

  Linsha eyed him critically. “Another one?” she said with some disapproval.

  Lanther was not known for his ability to treat enemy prisoners with kid gloves. He was usually a patient and deliberate man, but almost two years ago he had spent too many days in the hands of Sable’s guards after they caught him in the swamp. He still bore the limp and the scars to prove it. Since that time he had little patience or mercy left to offer uncooperative enemy prisoners.

  He shrugged at her question. “In truth, we found him like this. I think the mercenaries left him out in the Rough to die.”

  The Rough, the rock-strewn, scrubby grasslands on the outskirts of the Missing City certainly would have finished off a wounded man-if the wild dogs, the lions, or the ants did not find him first.

  Linsha looked closer at the prisoner and realized the tatters and rags she had taken for his clothes were just an undertunic and some leggings. There was no sign of boots, cloak, outer tunic, vest, jerkin, or even armor. The man had been stripped of everything but his undergarments.

  “Did your men take-?”

  “We would have if he’d had any, but he was left the way you see him. I think he irritated someone.” He pulled the rough wooden door open further, lifted a torch from its bracket, and thrust it into the gloom.

  The two stepped inside. Varia dropped from Linsha’s shoulder and glided into the darkness of the cell. Extending her taloned feet, she landed gently on the wounded man’s
back. The prisoner did not move. The owl craned her neck to study the man’s face half-hidden by his out-flung arm.

  “This one is dead,” Varia hooted softly. She hopped to the ground close to his head.

  Lanther swore and hurried over. Rolling the man over, he held the torch over the slack, battered face.

  A stink of urine, sweat, and old blood rose from the body. The corpse’s face stared glassily through half-closed lids. He was a young man, Linsha noticed, too short to be a Tarmak and too well fed and heavily muscled to be one of the townsfolk still living in the city. A mercenary, probably. He had been viciously beaten on his head and torso and whipped across his back. She also noticed some odd burn marks on his temples. What had he done to deserve such treatment?

  She knelt beside the body and closed the bruised eyelids. “Leonidas mentioned the eggs?”

  Lanther irritably pushed a hank of dark hair out of his eyes and glared down at the corpse. “Gods blast it. I wanted you to hear this man’s story from his own lips.”

  “Does it matter? Did you think I wouldn’t trust you? Since he can’t, you tell me.”

  With an abruptness marked with annoyance, Lanther rolled the body back onto its stomach. “He claimed the Tarmaks have moved the dragon eggs back into the labyrinth. He didn’t know why, and he was hazy about where. Apparently he wasn’t supposed to be down in the tunnels-none of them are because some of Iyesta’s guardians are still loose down there. But he said they-meaning the mercenaries-went down there often through Iyesta’s throne room to look for more treasure.”