Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [172]
Derek raised his sword high in the air. Lifting his voice in the Knight’s salute to the enemy, he galloped forward. The knights behind him picked up his ringing challenge and rode forth out onto the fields where—long ago—Huma had ridden to glorious victory. The footmen marched, their footsteps beating a tattoo upon the stone pavement. For a moment, Lord Alfred seemed about to speak to Sturm and the young knights who stood watching. But he only shook his head and rode away.
The gates swung shut behind him. The heavy iron bar was dropped down to lock them securely. The men in Sturm’s command ran to the battlements to watch.
Sturm stood silently in the center of the courtyard, his gaunt face expressionless.
The young and handsome commander of the dragonarmies in the Dark Lady’s absence was just waking to breakfast and the start of another boring day when a scout galloped into camp.
Commander Bakaris glared at the scout in disgust. The man was riding through camp wildly, his horse scattering cooking pots and goblins. Draconian guards leaped to their feet, shaking their fists and cursing. But the scout ignored them.
“The Highlord!” he called, sliding off his horse in front of the tent. “I must see the Highlord.”
“The Highlord’s gone,” said the commander’s aide.
“I’m in charge,” snapped Bakaris. “What’s your business?”
The ranger looked around quickly, not wanting to make a mistake. But there was no sign of the dread Dark Lady or the big blue dragon she rode.
“The Knights have taken the field!”
“What?” The commander’s jaw sagged. “Are you certain?”
“Yes!” The scout was practically incoherent. “Saw them! Hundreds on horseback! Javelins, swords. A thousand foot.”
“She was right!” Bakaris swore softly to himself in admiration. “The fools have made their mistake!”
Calling for his servants, he hurried back to his tent. “Sound the alarm,” he ordered, rattling off instructions. “Have the captains here in five minutes for final orders.” His hands shook in eagerness as he strapped on his armor. “And send the wyvern to Flotsam with word for the Highlord.”
Goblin servants ran off in all directions, and soon blaring horn calls were echoing throughout the camp. The commander cast one last, quick glance at the map on his table, then left to meet with his officers.
“Too bad,” he reflected coolly as he walked away. “The fight will probably be over by the time she gets the news. A pity. She would have wanted to be present at the fall of the High Clerist’s Tower. Still,” he reflected, “perhaps tomorrow night we’ll sleep in Palanthas, she and I.”
12
Death on the plains.
Tasslehoff’s discovery.
The sun climbed high in the sky. The knights stood upon the battlements of the Tower, staring out across the plains until their eyes ached. All they could see was a great tide of black, crawling figures swarming over the fields, ready to engulf the slender spear of gleaming silver that advanced steadily to meet it.
The armies met. The knights strained to see, but a misty gray veil crept across the land. The air became tainted with a foul smell, like hot iron. The mist grew thicker, almost totally obscuring the sun.
Now they could see nothing. The Tower seemed afloat on a sea of fog. The heavy mist even deadened sound, for at first they heard the clash of weapons and the cries of the dying. But even that faded, and all was silent.
The day wore on. Laurana, pacing restlessly in her darkening chamber, lit candles that sputtered and flickered in the foul air. The kender sat with her. Looking down from her tower window, Laurana could see Sturm and Flint, standing on the battlements below her, reflected in ghostly torchlight.
A servant brought her the bit of maggoty bread and dried meat that was her ration for the day. It must be only mid-afternoon, she realized. Then