Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (37 page)

“Yes,” said Brian reluctantly, “he’s out there.”

“What of it?” Aran asked, shrugging.

“He’s spying on us.” Derek motioned them closer. “Speak Solamnic and keep your voices down. I do not trust him. He and his sister mean to steal the dragon orb.”

“So do we,” said Aran, with a cavernous yawn.

“They mean to steal it from us,” Derek said, “and if they get their hands on it, they will take it back to the elves.”

“Whereas we’re taking it for humans,” said Aran.

“There’s a difference,” said Derek sternly.

“Oh, of course,” said Aran, grinning. “We’re humans and they’re elves, which makes us good and them bad. I understand completely.”

“I will not even dignify that with a comment,” Derek returned. “We knights should be the ones to determine the best way to make use of the orb.”

Brian sat up as straight as he could, given that his head brushed the tent ceiling. “Lord Gunthar has promised that the knights will take the orb to the Whitestone Council. The elves are part of that council and they will have a say in what happens to the orb.”

“I have been giving that matter some thought,” said Derek. “I am not certain that is the wisest decision, but we can determine all that later. For the moment, we must keep an eye on that elf and his friends. I believe they are all in this together, including Brightblade.”

“So we’re spying on them now? What does the Measure have to say about that?” Aran asked dryly.

“‘Know your enemy,’ “Derek replied.

Laurana knew quite well Gilthanas was leaving to spy on Derek. She also knew she could do nothing to stop him. She squirmed uncomfortably. Only hours before she had thought she could never be warm again. Now she was growing uncomfortably hot and was feeling slightly nauseated from the smell of the smoke of the peat fires, the closeness of so many bodies, and the strong odor of fish. She started to leave, but Sturm detained her with a look, and Laurana sat back down.

Harald had been extremely astonished at Derek’s statement about laying siege to Ice Wall Castle. Frowning, the chief turned his gaze on Sturm. He sat patiently under the chief’s scrutiny, waiting for him to speak.

“Crazy, is he?” Harald said.

“No, Chieftain,” Sturm returned, startled by the comment. “Derek Crownguard is a high-ranking member of our knighthood. He has traveled a great distance on his quest for this dragon orb.”

Harald grunted. “He talks of raising armies, of going to Ice Wall Castle to attack the wizard where he lairs. My warriors do not lay siege to castles. We will fight, if we are attacked. If we are outnumbered, we have our swift boats to carry us across the ice and away from danger.”

Harald eyed Sturm curiously. “You’re a knight, aren’t you?” The chief pointed at Sturm’s long mustaches. “You travel in the company of knights. Why aren’t you with them, making plans or whatever it is they are doing?”

“I am not one of their party, sir,” said Sturm, avoiding the question of whether he was or was not a knight. “My friends and I met up with Derek and his fellow knights in Tarsis. The city was attacked and destroyed by the dragonarmy, and we barely escaped with our lives. We thought it prudent to travel together.”

Harald scratched his beard. “Tarsis destroyed, you say?”

Sturm nodded.

“I had not realized this war you spoke of was so close to Icereach. What about Rigitt?” Harald looked worried. “Our boats sail those waters. We take our fish to their markets.”

“The city had not been attacked when last we saw it,” Sturm replied. “I believe that for the moment Rigitt will be safe. The dragonarmies extended their reach too far when they attacked Tarsis and were forced to withdraw. But if Feal-Thas grows in strength here in Ice Wall, he can provide the protection the armies of darkness need to maintain their supply lines and Rigitt will fall, as will many other cities along the coastline. Then the darkness will cover all of Ansalon.”

Harald was perplexed by this. “Feal-Thas is not alone in his evil ambitions? There are others?”

“Your priest is right,” Laurana told him. “The white dragon was a portent. Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, has returned and brought with her evil dragons. She has raised armies of darkness. She seeks to conquer and enslave the world.”

The other Ice Folk in the tent had stopped their work and were listening silently, their faces expressionless.

“A man sees the darkness coming and he fears only for himself,” Harald remarked. “He never thinks of others.”

“And if he does think of others, too often he says, ‘Let them fend for themselves’,” Laurana added sadly.

She was thinking of the dwarves of Thorbardin, who had decided to fight the dragonarmies but had refused to do so in the company of humans and elves. Gilthanas was here to obtain the dragon orb for the elves, to make certain the humans did not take it. If Derek and the knights were the ones to claim the dragon orb, they would take it for their own.

“I do not see your people coming to help the Ice Folk,” said Harald, bristling. He had mistaken her meaning and was offended.

“We have come—” Sturm began.

Harald snorted. “You would have me believe you came all this distance to fight for the Ice Folk? The kender says you are here seeking some sort of dragon something.”

“A dragon orb. It is a powerful magical artifact. Feal-Thas is rumored to have it in his possession. It is true the knights have come seeking the orb, but if Feal-Thas is killed, that would benefit your people as well.”

“What of the wizard who will come after him?” Harald asked. “Or will you and this dragon orb stay here in Icereach to help us fight the next evil?”

Sturm seemed as if he was about to say something more. He let the words go in a sigh and lowered his gaze, stared down at his hands that were unconsciously smoothing and stroking the white fur sleeve of his coat.

Harald eyed Sturm and frowned. “You have the look of a man who has eaten bad eel.”

“As to fighting Feal-Thas,” said Sturm, “you may have no choice, sir. The draconians got a good look at us. They must have recognized us for Solamnic knights. They will report back to the wizard, who will wonder what Solamnics are doing so far from home. You say his wolf-scouts are watching your camp. They will tell him you have taken us in—”

“—and Feal-Thas will bring war down on us whether we want it or not,” Harald finished. He glared at Sturm and growled, “This is a fine kettle of fish!”

“I am sorry, sir,” Laurana said, guilt-stricken. “I did not realize we might be putting your people in danger! Sturm, isn’t there something we can do? We could leave—” She stood up, as though prepared to depart on the instant.

“I’m sure Derek and the others are making plans for this now,” said Sturm.

“I’m not,” Flint muttered into his beard.

Harald drew in a breath, but his words were interrupted. The old man, the priest Raggart, came hobbling into the chieftent, accompanied by Elistan. Everyone in the tent rose in respect, including Harald. Raggart walked up to Harald. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.

“I have joyful news,” said Raggart, speaking Common out of deference to the strangers. “The gods are with us once more. This man is a cleric of Paladine. At his suggestion, I prayed to the Fisher God, and he answered my prayers.” The old man touched a medallion similar to Elistan’s, but graced with the symbol of the god known as Habakkuk to some, the Fisher God to the Ice Folk.

Harald clasped Raggart’s hand and said something in low tones to the old man in their own language. The chief turned to Sturm.

“It seems you bring death in one hand and life in the other, sir. What are we to do?”

“I’m sure Derek will tell us,” Sturm said dryly.

8

Midnight prayers in the Dark Abbey.

itiara spent some time searching the storeroom prison for something she could use as a weapon. This was a thankless task, considering she had been left in total darkness. The bozak had inspected the room before locking her in here, and she herself had looked around swiftly before he took the light, and she had not seen anything. Still, she had nothing else to do except think about her upcoming demise, and anything was better than that. She stumbled over crates and stubbed her toes on barrels, scraped her hand on a bent nail, and bumped her head walking into a wall, eventually coming up with a weapon—of sorts.

She kicked apart a packing crate and fashioned one of the broken slats for use as a club. To make it more lethal, she pried out some nails from the lid of a barrel, and, using another plank as a hammer, drove the nails into the end of her makeshift club, so that it was studded with points. Kit did not hope to be able to fight her way free. She hoped to put up such a vicious battle they would be forced to kill her.

This done, there was nothing else to do. She paced the storeroom until she was exhausted, then sat down on the chair. She lost all sense of time. The darkness swallowed the minutes, the hours. She was determined not to sleep, for she had no intention of wasting her few remaining hours of life in slumber, yet the silence and the boredom, the fear and the tension got the best of her. She closed her eyes. Her head sank down on her breast.

She woke suddenly from her fitful doze, thinking she’d heard sounds outside the door. She was right. Someone was putting a key in the lock.

It was time. Her executioner was here.

Kit’s heart clogged her throat. She could not catch her breath, and she thought for one moment she might die of sheer terror. Then, with a gasp, she could breathe again. She grabbed hold of the club and crept across the room, groping her way in the darkness until she found the door. She put her back against the wall. When the door opened, those looking in would not see her. They would be surprised and she would have her chance. She crouched, club in hand, and waited.

The door creaked open slowly, an inch at a time, as though someone were pushing it stealthily, fearing to make too much noise. This was odd. An executioner would have just thrust it open. Light spilled inside, not the harsh light of day or the flaring light of torches, but a thin beam of light that went stabbing and poking about the storeroom, falling on the empty chair, then glancing off barrels and boxes. The air was scented with the fragrance of exotic flowers.

No executioner smelled that good.

“Kitiara?” whispered a voice—a woman’s voice.

Kitiara lowered the plank. Keeping it hidden against her thigh, she stepped around the door. A woman swathed in a black velvet cape with a deep purple lining stood in the door. She pulled the hood back from her head. The light of her ring shone full on her face.

“Iolanthe?” Kit asked in profound astonishment, the name coming to her at the last moment.

“Thank the Queen!” Iolanthe breathed, seizing hold of Kitiara’s arm and hanging onto it as though relieved to touch something solid and real. Light beamed from a ring on her finger, stabbed wildly about the room. “I didn’t know if I would find you still alive!”

“For the time being,” said Kitiara, not certain what to make of this unexpected visitor. She shook loose the woman’s grip and looked out past Iolanthe, thinking she must have brought guards with her. There was no one there. She could not hear breathing or the jingle of armor or the shuffle of boots.

Suspicious, fearing some trap, though she could not possibly imagine what, Kitiara rounded on the witch.

“What are you doing here?” Kit demanded. “Did Ariakas send you? Is this some new torment?”

“Keep your voice down! I silenced the guards at the door, but others may come at any moment. As for why I am here, Ariakas did not send me.” Iolanthe paused, then said quietly, “Takhisis did.”

“Takhisis!” Kitiara repeated, her astonishment growing. “I don’t understand.”

“Our Queen heard your prayer and she bid me set you free. You must keep your vow to her, however,” Iolanthe added. “You must spend the night in Dargaard Keep.”

Kitiara was stunned. She had said that prayer out of desperation, never believing for a moment there were immortal ears to hear, or immortal hands to turn the key in the lock. The thought that Takhisis had not only heard but had answered and now expected her to keep her promise was almost as frightening as the cruel death she was facing.

Kit would have felt considerably better if she had known that while Takhisis may have been listening, it was Iolanthe’s ears that had heard her prayer. The witch had splashed perfume on her hands to mask the scent of burnt hair.

“Did you bring me a weapon?” Kit demanded.

“You won’t need one.”

“I will if they try to capture me. I won’t die with my guts hanging out,” she added harshly.

Iolanthe hesitated, then she reached into her tight-fitting sleeve and drew out a long poignard, the type that wizards are permitted to carry in their own defense. She handed it to Kit, who grimaced at the lightweight, fragile-looking blade.

“I guess I should thank you,” said Kit ungraciously. She didn’t like to be beholden to anyone, much less this perfumed trollop. Nevertheless, a debt was a debt. “I owe you one …”

Thrusting the poignard in her belt, she started to walk out the door.

“Bless the woman!” Iolanthe exclaimed, aghast. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” said Kit shortly.

“Will you walk about the Queen’s temple dressed like that?” Iolanthe gestured at Kit, who had on what she usually wore beneath her armor—a blue gambeson embroidered in golden thread with the symbol of the Blue Dragonarmy.

Kit shrugged and kept walking.

“No strangers are allowed in the Temple after the close of evening worship,” Iolanthe warned her. “The dark priests patrol the halls. You might as well not bother leaving your prison at all, for they will be returning you to it shortly. And what will you do about the magical dragon traps at each gate?”

Each of the gates was guarded by the armies of a different Highlord, each dedicated to one of the colors of chromatic dragons. Thus there was a red gate, a blue gate, a green gate, and so on. Each gate had traps that mimicked the breath weapon of the dragon it honored. The corridor leading to the red gate was lined with the stone heads of red dragons that would breathe fire on any hapless interloper, incinerating him before he was halfway down the corridor. The Gate of the Blue Dragon crackled with lightning, that of the green dragon spewed poisonous gas.

“I know the phrase to disarm the traps,” Kit said over her shoulder. “Every Highlord does.”

“Ariakas ordered the phrases changed after you were arrested,” said Iolanthe.

Kitiara halted. Her hands clenched. She stood a moment, cursing beneath her breath, then turned to face the witch.

“Do you know the new password?”

Iolanthe smiled. “Who do you think worked the magic?”

Kitiara didn’t trust this witch. She didn’t understand what was going on. She found it difficult to believe Iolanthe’s story that Queen Takhisis had sent her, yet how could the witch have known about Kit’s prayer? Like it or not, Kit was going to have to put her life into this woman’s hands, and Kit did
not
like it!

“So what is your plan?” she asked.

Iolanthe shoved a bundle of cloth at Kit. “First, put this on.”

Kit shook out the folds of the black velvet robes worn by the dark priests. A sensible idea, she had to admit. She fumbled her way into the garb, trying to shove her head into the sleeve hole in her haste, and then putting the robes on backward. With Iolanthe’s help, Kit managed to sort it out. The black, smothering folds enveloped her.

“Now what?”

“We will attend the midnight rites in the Dark Abbey,” Iolanthe explained. “There we will mingle with the crowd and leave with them, for the dragon traps will be disabled to allow them to pass. We must hurry,” she added. “The service has already started. Fortunately, the Abbey is not far from here.”

They left the storeroom; the glow from Iolanthe’s magical ring lit the way through Ariakas’s chambers. The main door stood slightly ajar.

“What about the guards?” Kit asked in a whisper.

“Dead,” Iolanthe replied dispassionately.

Kit peered cautiously around the door. By the light of the witch’s ring, she saw two piles of stone dust—the remnants of two baaz draconians. Kitiara regarded the witch with new respect.

Iolanthe lifted the hem of her robes to keep them out of the dust and stepped gingerly over the remains, her mouth twisting in disgust. Kit walked right through the piles, kicking dust everywhere.

“We should get rid of that,” she said, pointing back at the disturbed dust heaps. “Anyone who sees it will know that’s a dead draco.”

“No time,” said Iolanthe. “We’ll have to take our chances. Fortunately, this hall is rarely lit. And few people ever have reason to come to this part of the Temple. This way.”

Kitiara recognized the staircase by which she had descended in the company of the guards. She and Iolanthe passed it and continued on, and soon she could hear voices chanting, praising the Dark Queen. Kitiara had never attended one of the services in the Dark Abbey. She had, in fact, gone out of her way to avoid them. She was not even sure where the Dark Abbey was located. She had the vague idea it was opposite the dungeons. The corridors were lit with a purplish-white light that had no apparent source, but seemed to shine eerily from the walls. The light had the effect of washing out all color, all distinguishing features, all differences, making every object ghastly white etched with darkness.

Everyone who walked these corridors, even those who walked them daily, experienced the sense of unreality. Floors were not quite level, walls slanted oddly, corridors shifted position, chambers were not where they should be, doors were not where they had been the day before. Iolanthe, guided by the light of her ring, walked the strange halls with assurance. On her own, Kit would have been hopelessly lost.

She assumed the chanting emanated from the service. She had thought it would be easy to follow the voices, but sounds were distorted down here. Sometimes the chanting dinned in her ears and she was certain they must have arrived at the Abbey, only to find, with another turning, the chants fading away almost to silence. Then they would boom loudly again at the next turning. At one point in the service, a shrill scream reverberated through the corridors, causing the hair on the back of Kit’s neck to prickle. The horrible scream ended abruptly.

“What was that?” Kit asked.

“The evening’s sacrifice,” said Iolanthe. “The Abbey is up ahead.”

“Thank the Queen,” Kit muttered. She had never before been on the dungeon level, and she could not wait to leave. Kit liked her life uncomplicated, not cluttered up with gods—which reminded her uneasily of her bargain with her Queen. Kit put that out of her mind. She had more urgent matters to consider and, besides, Takhisis hadn’t saved her yet.

Rounding a curve, she and Iolanthe almost ran into one of the dark priests. Kitiara yanked her cowl down to hide her face, and she kept her head lowered. Her hand, folded in the capacious sleeve, grasped the poignard’s hilt.

The dark priest eyed them. Kit held her breath, but the man’s frowning gaze was fixed on Iolanthe. He pulled back his hood to glare at her. He was pale, gaunt, and cadaverous. A hideous red weal ran across his nose.

“You are here at a late hour, Black Robe,” he said to Iolanthe in disapproving tones.

Kit’s grip on the poignard tightened.

Iolanthe drew back the folds of her hood. The eerie light illuminated her face, shimmered in her violet eyes.

The dark priest looked startled, and fell back a step.

“I see you recognize me,” Iolanthe said. “My escort and I are here for the service and I am late, so I ask that you do not detain us.”

The dark priest had recovered from his shock. He glanced without interest at Kit, turned back to Iolanthe. “You are indeed late, Madame. The service is almost half over.”

“Therefore I am certain you will excuse us.”

Iolanthe swept past him, her black robes rustling around her, the scent of flowers lingering in the hallway. Kit followed humbly. She glanced over her shoulder, pushing aside her cowl to keep an eye on the dark priest. He stared after them and for a moment Kit thought he meant to come after them. Then, muttering something, he turned and stalked off.

“I’m not sure you’re such a safe companion,” said Kitiara. “You’re not very popular around here.”

“The dark priests do not trust me,” said Iolanthe calmly. “They do not trust any magic-user. They do not understand how we can be loyal to Takhisis and at the same time serve Nuitari.”

She smiled disdainfully. “And they are jealous of my power. The Nightlord is trying to convince Ariakas that wizards should be banned from the Temple. Some of his clerics want us thrown out of the city. Hardly feasible, considering the Emperor is himself a user of magic.