Dragons of the Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis [192]
“Don’t even squeak!” Flint said, whirling around to face them, a knife flashing in his hand.
The gully dwarves cowered against the wall, shaking their heads frantically, the pots clattering.
The companions reached the top of the stairs and stopped.
“We cross this hall to the door—” Maritta pointed. “Oh, no!” She grasped Tanis’s arm. “There’s a guard at the door. It’s never guarded!”
“Hush, it could be coincidence,” Tanis said reassuringly, although he knew it wasn’t. “Just keep on as we planned.” Maritta nodded fearfully and walked across the hall.
“Guards!” Tanis turned to Sturm. “Be ready. Remember—quick and deadly. No noise!”
According to Gilthanas’s map, the playroom was separated from the children’s sleeping quarters by two rooms. The first was a storeroom which Maritta reported was lined with shelves containing toys and clothing and other items. A tunnel ran through this room to the second—the room that housed the dragon, Flamestrike.
“Poor thing,” Maritta had said when discussing the plan with Tanis. “She is as much a prisoner as we are. The Dragon Highlord never allows her out. I think they’re afraid she’ll wander off. They’ve even built a tunnel through the storeroom, too small for her to fit through. Not that she wants to get out, but I think she might like to watch the children play.”
Tanis regarded Maritta dubiously, wondering if they might encounter a dragon very different from the mad, feeble creature she described.
Beyond the dragon’s lair was the room where the children slept. This was the room they would have to enter, to wake the children and lead them outdoors. The playroom connected directly with the courtyard through a huge door locked with a great oaken beam.
“More to keep the dragon in than us,” Maritta stated.
It must be just about dawning, Tanis thought, as they emerged from the stairwell and turned toward the playroom. The torchlight cast their shadows ahead of them. Pax Tharkas was quiet, deathly quiet. Too quiet—for a fortress preparing for war. Four draconian guards stood huddled together talking at the doorway to the playroom. Their conversation broke off as they saw the women approach.
Goldmoon and Maritta walked in front, Goldmoon’s hood was drawn back, her hair glimmering in the torchlight. Directly behind Goldmoon came Riverwind. Bent over a staff, the Plainsman was practically walking on his knees. Caramon and Raistlin followed, the mage staying close to his brother, then Eben and Gilthanas. All the traitors together, as Raistlin had sarcastically observed. Flint brought up the rear, turning occasionally to glower at the panic-stricken gully dwarves.
“You’re early this morning,” a draconian growled.
The women clustered like chickens in a half-circle around the guards and stood, waiting patiently to be allowed inside.
“It smells of thunder,” Maritta said sharply. “I want the children to have their exercise before the storm hits. And what are you doing here? This door is never guarded. You’ll frighten the children.”
One of the draconians made some comment in their harsh language and two of the others grinned, showing rows of pointed teeth. The spokesman only snarled.
“Lord Verminaard’s command. He and Ember are gone this morning to finish the elves. We’re ordered to search you before you enter.” The draconian’s eyes fastened onto Goldmoon hungrily. “That’s going to be a pleasure, I’d say.”
“For you maybe,” muttered another guard, staring at Sturm in disgust. “I’ve never seen an uglier female in my life than—ugh—” The creature slumped over, a dagger thrust deep into its ribs. The other three draconians died within seconds. Caramon wrapped his hands around the neck of one. Eben hit his in the stomach and Flint lobbed off its head with