Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“I cant understand,” Gunthar was saying to his aides. “Why didn’t she attack us? What is she doing?”

“She’s attacking the city directly, man!” Tanis gripped Gunthar by the arms, practically shaking him. “It’s what Dalamar said all along! Kitiara’s plan is to attack Palanthas! She’s not going to fool with us and now she doesn’t have to! She’s going over the High Clerist’s Tower!”

Gunthar’s eyes, barely visible beneath the slits of his helm, narrowed. “That’s insane,” he said coldly, tugging on his mustache. Finally, irritably, he yanked his helm off. “Name of the gods, Half-Elven, what kind of military strategy’s that? It leaves the rear of her army unguarded! Even if she takes Palanthas, she hasn’t got strength enough to hold it. She’ll be caught between the walls of the city and us. No! She has to finish us here, then attack the city! Otherwise we’ll destroy her easily. There’s no escape for her!”

Gunthar turned to his aides. “Perhaps this is a feint, to throw us off-guard. Better prepare for the citadel to strike from the opposite direction—”

“Listen to me!” Tanis raved. “This isn’t a feint. She’s going to Palanthas! And by the time you and the knights get to the city, her brother will have returned through the Portal! And she’ll be waiting for him, with the city under her control!”

“Nonsense!” Gunthar scowled. “She can’t take Palanthas that quickly. The good dragons will rise up to fight—Damn it, Tanis, even if the Palanthians aren’t such great soldiers, they can hold her off through sheer numbers alone!” He snorted. “The knights can march at once. We’ll be there within four days.”

“You’ve forgotten one thing,” Tanis snapped, firmly but politely shoving his way past the knight. Turning on his heel, he called out, “We’ve all forgotten one thing—the element that makes this battle even—Lord Soth!”

Propelled by his powerful hind legs, Khirsah leaped into the air and soared over the walls of the High Clerist’s Tower with graceful ease. The dragon’s strong wing strokes soon caused himself and his rider to overtake the slowly moving citadel. And yet, noted Tanis grimly, the fortress is moving rapidly enough to arrive in Palanthas by dawn tomorrow.

“Not too close,” he cautioned Khirsah.

A black dragon flew over, circling overhead in large, lazy spirals to keep an eye on them. Other blacks hovered in the distance and, now that he was on the same level as the citadel, Tanis could see the blue dragons as well, flying around the gray turrets of the floating castle. One particularly large blue dragon Tanis recognized as Kitiara’s own mount, Skie.

Where is Kit? Tanis wondered, trying unsuccessfully to peer into the windows, crowded with milling draconians, who were pointing at him and jeering. He had a sudden fear she might recognize him, if she were watching, and he pulled his cloak hood over his head. Then, smiling ruefully, he scratched his beard. At this distance, Kit would see nothing more than a lone rider on dragonback, probably a messenger for the knights.

He could picture clearly what would be occurring within the citadel.

“We could shoot him from the skies, Lord Kitiara,” one of her commanders would say. Kitiara’s remembered laughter rang in Tanis’s ears. “No, let him carry the news to Palanthas, tell them what to expect. Give them time to sweat.”

Time to sweat. Tanis wiped his face. Even in the chill air above the mountains, the shirt beneath his leather tunic and armor was damp and clammy. He shivered with the cold and pulled his cloak more closely about him. His muscles ached; he was accustomed to riding in carriages, not on dragons, and he briefly thought with longing of his warm carriage. Then he sneered at himself. Shaking his head to clear it (why should missing one night’s sleep affect him so?), he forced his mind from his discomfort to the impossible problem confronting him.

Khirsah was trying his best to ignore the black dragon still hovering near them. The bronze increased his speed, and eventually the black, who had been sent simply to keep an eye on them, turned back. The citadel was left far behind, drifting effortlessly above mountain peaks that would have stopped an army dead.

Tanis tried to make plans, but everything he thought of doing involved doing something more important first until he felt like one of those trained mice in a fair who runs round and round upon the little wheel, getting nowhere in a tremendous hurry. At least Lord Gunthar had actually bullied and badgered Amothus’s generals (an honorary title in Palanthas, granted for outstanding community service; not one general now serving had actually been in a battle) into mobilizing the local militia. Unfortunately, the mobilization had been regarded as merely an excuse for a holiday. Gunthar and his knights had stood around, laughing and nudging each other as they watched the civilian soldiers stumble through the drills. Following this, Lord Amothus had made a two-hour speech, the militia—proud of its heroics—had drunk itself into a stupor, and everyone had enjoyed himself immensely.

Picturing in his mind the chubby tavern owners, the perspiring merchants, the dapper tailors and the ham-fisted smithies tripping over their weapons and each other, following orders that were never given, not following those that were, Tanis could have wept from sheer frustration. This, he thought grimly, is what will face a death knight and his army of skeletal warriors at the gates of Palanthas tomorrow.

“Where’s Lord Amothus?” Tanis demanded, shoving his way inside the huge doors of the palace before they were open, nearly bowling over an astonished footman.

“A—asleep, sir,” the footman began, “it’s only midmorning—”

“Get him up. Who’s in charge of the Knights?”

The footman, eyes wide, stammered.

“Damn it!” Tanis snarled. “Who’s the highest ranking knight, dim-wit!”

“That would be Sir Markham, sir, Knight of the Rose,” said Charles in his calm, dignified voice, emerging from one of the antechambers. “Shall I send—”

“Yes!” shouted Tanis, then, seeing everyone in the great entry hall of the palace staring at him as if he were a madman, and remembering that panic would certainly not help the situation, the half-elf put his hand over his eyes, drew a calming breath, and made himself talk rationally.

“Yes,” he repeated in a quiet voice, “send for Sir Markham and for the mage, Dalamar, too.”

This last request seemed to confound even Charles. He considered it a moment, then, a pained expression on his face, he ventured to protest, “I am extremely sorry, my lord, but I have no way to way to send a message to—to the Tower of High Sorcery. No living being can set foot in that accursed grove of trees, not even kender!”

“Damn!” Tanis fumed. “I have to talk to him!” Ideas raced through his mind. “Surely you’ve got goblin prisoners? One of their kind could get through the Grove. Get one of the creatures, promise it freedom, money, half the kingdom, Amothus himself, anything! Just get it inside that blasted Grove—”

“That will be unnecessary, Half-Elven,” said a smooth voice. A black-robed figure materialized within the hallway of the palace, startling Tanis, traumatizing the footmen, and even causing Charles to raise his eyebrows.

“You are powerful,” Tanis remarked, drawing near the dark elf magic-user. Charles was issuing orders to various servants, sending one to awaken Lord Amothus and another to locate Sir Markham. “I need to talk to you privately. Come in here.”

Following Tanis, Dalamar smiled coolly. “I wish I could accept the compliment, Half-Elven, but it was simply through observation that I discerned your arrival, not any magical mind-reading. From the laboratory window, I saw the bronze dragon land in the palace courtyard. I saw you dismount and enter the palace. I have need to talk to you as much as you to me. Therefore, I am here.”