Dragonlance 03 - Dragons of Spring Dawning (43 page)

“I give it,” Tanis said, his eyes meeting Kitiara’s without wavering.

Kitiara smiled. Her face relaxed. It was so beautiful once more, that Tanis, startled by the sudden transformation, almost wondered if he had seen that other cruel face at all. Putting her hand on Tanis’s cheek, she stroked his beard.

“I have your word of honor. That might not mean much to other men, but I know you will keep it! One final warning, Tanis,” she whispered swiftly, “you
must
convince the Queen that you are her loyal servant. She is powerful, Tanis! She is a goddess, remember that! She can see into your heart, your soul. You must convince her beyond doubt that you are hers. One gesture, one word that rings false, and she will destroy you. There will be nothing I can do. If you die, so does your Lauralanthalasa!”

“I understand,” Tanis said, feeling his body chill beneath the cold armor.

There was a blaring trumpet call.

“There, that is our signal,” Kitiara said. Pulling her gloves on, she drew the dragonhelm over her head. “Go forward, Tanis. Lead my troops. I will enter last.”

Resplendent in her glittering night-blue dragon-scale armor, Kitiara stepped haughtily to one side as Tanis walked through the ornate doorway into the Hall of Audience.

The crowd began to cheer at the sight of the blue banner. Perched above the audience with the other dragons, Skie bellowed in triumph. Aware of thousands of glittering eyes upon him, Tanis firmly put everything out of his mind except what he must do. He kept his eyes fixed on his destination—the platform in the Hall next to Lord Ariakas’s, the platform decorated with the blue banner. Behind him, he could hear the rhythmic stamp of clawed feet as Kit’s guard of honor marched in proudly. Tanis reached the platform and stood at the bottom of the stairs, as he had been ordered. The crowd quieted then and, as the last draconian filed through the door, a murmur began to sweep through the Hall. The crowd strained forward, anxious to see Kitiara’s entrance.

Waiting within the antechamber, allowing the crowd to wait just a few more moments to enhance the suspense, Kit glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she saw Lord Soth enter the antechamber, his guards bearing a white-wrapped body in their fleshless arms. The eyes of the vibrant, living woman and the vacant eyes of the dead knight met in perfect agreement and understanding.

Lord Soth bowed.

Kitiara smiled, then—turning—she entered the Hall of Audience to thunderous applause.

Lying on the cold cell floor, Caramon struggled desperately to remain conscious. The pain was beginning to subside. The blow that struck him down had been a glancing one, slanting off the officer’s helm he wore, stunning him, but not knocking him out.

He feigned unconsciousness, however, not knowing what else to do. Why wasn’t Tanis here, he thought despairingly, once more cursing his own slowness of mind. The half-elf would have a plan, he would know what to do. I shouldn’t have been left with this responsibility! Caramon swore bitterly. Then,
quit belly-aching, you big ox! They’re depending on you!
came a voice in the back of his mind. Caramon blinked, then caught himself just as he was about to grin. The voice was so like Flint’s, he could have sworn the dwarf was standing beside him! He was right. They were depending on him. He’d just have to do his best. That was all he could do.

Caramon opened his eyes a slit, peering out between half-closed lids. A draconian guard stood almost directly in front of him, back turned to the supposedly comatose warrior. Caramon could not see Berem or the draconian called Gakhan without twisting his head, and he dared not call attention to himself. He could take out that first guard, he knew. Possibly the second, before the other two finished him. He had no hope of escaping alive, but at least he might give Tas and Tika a chance to escape with Berem.

Tensing his muscles, Caramon prepared to launch himself at the guard when suddenly an agonized scream tore through the darkness of the dungeons. It was Berem screaming, a cry so filled with rage and anger that Caramon started up in alarm, forgetting he was supposed to be unconscious.

Then he froze, watching in amazement as Berem lurched forward, grabbed Gakhan, and lifted him off the stone floor. Carrying the wildly flailing draconian in his hands, the Everman hurtled out of the jail cell and smashed Gakhan into a stone wall. The draconian’s head split apart, cracking like the eggs of the good dragons upon the black altars. Howling in rage, Berem slammed the draconian into the wall again and again, until Gakhan was nothing more than a limp, green-bloodied mass of shapeless flesh.

For a moment no one moved. Tas and Tika huddled together, horrified by the gruesome sight. Caramon fought to piece things together in his pain-befuddled mind while even the draconian guards stood staring at their leader’s body in a paralyzed, dreadful fascination.

Then Berem dropped Gakhan’s body to the ground. Turning, he stared at the companions without recognition. He’s completely insane, Caramon saw with a shudder. Berem’s eyes were wide and crazed. Saliva dripped from his mouth. His hands and arms were slimy with green blood. Finally, realizing that his captor was dead, Berem seemed to come to his senses. He gazed around and saw Caramon on the floor, staring up at him in shock.

“She calls me!” Berem whispered hoarsely.

Turning, he ran down the northern corridor, flinging the startled draconians to one side as they tried to stop him. Never pausing to look behind him, Berem slammed into the partially open iron door at the end of the corridor, the force of his passing nearly tearing the door from its hinges. Clanking against the stone with a dull booming sound, the door swung crazily back and forth. They could hear Berem’s wild shrieking echo down the corridor.

By now, two of the draconians had recovered. One of them ran for the stairway, shouting at the top of its lungs. It was in draconian, but Caramon could understand it well enough.

“Prisoner escape! Call out the guards!”

In answer came shouts and the sound of clawed feet scraping at the top of the staircase. The hobgoblin took one look at the dead draconian and fled toward the staircase and his guardroom, adding his panic-stricken shouts to those of the draconian. The other guard, quickly regaining its feet, jumped into the cell. But Caramon was on his feet now, too. This was
action. This he could understand. Reaching out, the big man grabbed the draconian around the neck. One jerk of the huge hands, and the creature fell lifeless to the floor. Caramon swiftly snatched the sword from the clawed hand as the draconian’s body hardened into stone.

“Caramon! Look out behind you!” Tasslehoff yelled as the other guard, returning from the stairway, dashed into the cell, its sword raised.

Caramon whirled, only to see the creature fall forward as Tika’s boot caught it in the stomach. Tasslehoff plunged his little knife into the second guard’s body, forgetting—in his excitement—to jerk it free again. Glancing at the stone corpse of the other creature, the kender made a frantic dive for his knife. Too late.

“Leave it!” Caramon ordered, and Tas stood up.

Guttural voices could be heard above them, feet scraping and clawing down the stairs. The hobgoblin had reached the stairs and was waving his hands frantically and pointing back at them. His own shouts rose above the noise of the descending troops.

Caramon, sword in hand, glanced uncertainly at the stairs, then down the northern corridor after Berem.

“That’s right! Follow Berem, Caramon,” Tika said urgently. “Go with him! Don’t you see? ‘She’s calling me,’ he said. It’s his sister’s voice! He can hear her calling to him. That’s why he went crazy.”

“Yes …” Caramon said in a daze, staring down the corridor. He could hear the draconians plunging down the winding stairs, armor rattling, swords scraping against the stone walls. They had only seconds. “Come on—”

Tika grasped Caramon by the arm. Digging her nails into his flesh, she forced him to look at her, her red curls a mass of flaming color in the flickering torchlight.

“No!” she said firmly. “They’ll catch him for certain and then it
will
be the end! I’ve got a plan. We must split up. Tas and I will draw them off. We’ll give you time. It’ll be all right, Caramon,” she persisted, seeing him shake his head. “There’s another corridor that leads east. I saw it as we came in. They’ll chase us down that way. Now, hurry, before they see you!”

Caramon hesitated, his face twisted in agony.

“This is the end, Caramon!” Tika said. “For good or for evil. You must go with him! You must help him reach her! Hurry, Caramon! You’re the only one strong enough to protect him. He needs you!”

Tika actually shoved the big man. Caramon took a step, then looked back at her.

“Tika …” he began, trying to think of some argument against this wild scheme. But before he could finish, Tika kissed him swiftly and—grabbing a sword from a dead draconian—ran from the jail cell.

“I’ll take care of her, Caramon!” Tas promised, dashing after Tika, his pouches bouncing wildly all around him.

Caramon stared after them a moment. The hobgoblin jailor shrieked in terror as Tika ran straight for the creature, brandishing her sword. The jailor made a wild grab for her, but Tika hacked at him so ferociously that the hobgoblin fell dead with a gurgling scream, his throat cut.

Ignoring the body that slumped to the floor, Tika hurried down the corridor, heading east.

Tasslehoff, right behind her, took a moment to stop at the bottom of the stair. The draconians were visible now, and Caramon could hear the kender’s shrill voice shouting taunts at the guards.

“Dog-eaters! Slime-blooded goblin-lovers!”

Then Tas was off, dashing after Tika who had vanished from Caramon’s sight. The enraged draconians—driven wild by the kender’s taunts and the sight of their prisoners escaping—did not take time to look around. They charged after the fleet-footed kender, their curved swords gleaming, their long tongues flicking in anticipation of the kill.

Within moments, Caramon found himself alone. He hesitated another precious minute, staring into the thick darkness of the gloomy cells. He could see nothing. The only thing he could hear was Tas’s voice yelling “dog-eaters.” Then there was silence.

“I’m alone …” thought Caramon bleakly. “I’ve lost them … lost them all. I must go after them.”

He started toward the stairs, then stopped. “No, there’s Berem. He’s alone, too. Tika’s right. He needs me now. He needs me.”

His mind clear at last, Caramon turned and ran clumsily down the northern corridor after the Everman.

D
ragon Highlord Toede.”

Lord Ariakas listened with lazy contempt to the calling of the roll. Not that he was bored with the proceedings. Quite the contrary. Assembling the Grand Council had not been his idea. He had, in fact, opposed it. But he had been careful not to oppose it too vehemently. That might have made him appear weak; and Her Dark Majesty did not allow weaklings to live. No, this Grand Council would be anything but boring.…

At the thought of his Dark Queen, he half-turned and glanced swiftly up into the alcove above him. The largest and most magnificent in the Hall, its great throne remained empty still, the gate that led into it lost in the living, breathing darkness. No stairs ran up to
that
throne. The gate itself provided the only entrance and exit. And as to where the gate led, well,
it was best not to think of such things. Needless to say, no mortal had passed beyond its iron grillwork.

The Queen had not yet arrived. He was not surprised. These opening proceedings were beneath her. Ariakas hunched back in his throne. His gaze went—appropriately enough—he thought bitterly, from the throne of the Dark Queen to the throne of the Dark Lady. Kitiara was here, of course. This was her moment of triumph—so she thought. Ariakas breathed a curse upon her.

“Let her do her worst,” he murmured, only half-listening as the sergeant repeated the name of Lord Toede once more. “I am prepared.”

Ariakas suddenly realized something was amiss. What? What was happening? Lost in his thoughts, he had paid no attention to the proceedings. What was wrong? Silence … a dreadful silence that followed … what? He cast about in his mind, trying to recall what had just been said. Then he remembered and came back from his dark thoughts to stare grimly at the second throne to his left. The troops in the hall, mostly draconian, heaved and swayed like a sea of death below him as all eyes shifted to the same throne.

Though the draconian troops belonging to Lord Toede were present, their banners mingling with the banners of the other draconians standing at attention in the center of the Hall of Audience, the throne itself was empty.

Tanis, from where he stood upon the steps of Kitiara’s platform, followed Ariakas’s gaze, stern and cold beneath the crown. The half-elf’s ears had pricked at the sound of Toede’s name. An image of the hobgoblin came swiftly to his mind as he had seen him standing in the dust of the road to Solace. The vision brought back thoughts of that warm autumn day that had seen the beginning of this long, dark journey. It brought back memories of Flint and Sturm.… Tanis gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate on what was happening. The past was over, finished, and—he hoped fervently—soon forgotten.