Margaret Weis - Dragons of a Lost Star

“What happened?” Odila gasped, snatching off her helm to see better.

“Who did this? Why did the gates not open? Who barred them?” She stared at the walls that were silent and empty. “Where are our archers? Why have they left their posts?”

In an answer that seemed almost personal, so nearly did it coincide with Odila’s question, a lone figure came to stand atop the city’s outer walls above the gates that had had remained closed and barred against their own defenders.

The dead soldiers of Solanthus lay stacked in front of the city gate, an offering before an enormous altar. An offering to the girl Mina, whose black armor was sleek in the moonlight.

“Knights of Solamnia. Citizens of Solanthus.” Mina addressed them, her voice ringing so that none on that bloody field had to strain to hear.

“Through the might of the One God, the city of Solanthus has fallen. I hereby claim the city of Solanthus in the name of the One God.”

Hoarse cries of shocked anger and disbelief rose from the battlefield. Lord Tasgall spurred his horse forward. His armor was dark with blood, his right arm hung limply, uselessly at his side.

“I do not believe you!” he shouted. “Perhaps you have won the outer walls, but you cannot fool me into thinking you have conquered the entire city!”

Archers appeared on the walls, archers wearing the emblems of Neraka. Arrows landed all around him; stuck, quivering, in the ground at his feet.

“Look to the heavens,” said Mina.

Reluctantly, Lord Tasgall raised his head, his gaze searching the skies. He did not have to search long to see defeat.

Black wings slid over the stars, blotting them from view. Black wings sliced across the face of the moon. Dragons wheeled in the air, flying in low victorious circles over the city of Solanthus.

Dragonfear, awful and debilitating,, shook Lord Tasgall and all the Solamnic Knights, caused more than one to quail and fling up his arm in terror or grip his weapon with hands that sweat and trembled. No arrows from Solanthus fired at the dragons. No machines spewed forth flaming oil. One horn call alone had sounded the alarm at the start of battle, and that had been silenced in death.

Mina had spoken truly. The battle was over. While the Solamnic Knights had been held hostage by the dead and ambushed by the living, Mina and the remainder of her forces had flown on dragonback unimpeded into a city that had been emptied of most of its defenders.

“Knights of Solamnia,” Mina continued, “you have witnessed the power of the One God, who rules the living and the dead. Go forth and carry word of the One God’s return into the world with you. I have given the dragons orders not to attack you. You are free to leave. Go where you will.” She waved her hand in a graceful, magnanimous gesture. “Even to Sanction. For that is where the gaze of the One God turns next. Tell the defenders of Sanction of the wonders you have seen this night. Tell them to fear the One God.”

The Lord Knight sat unmoving in his saddle. He was in shock, stunned and overwhelmed by this unexpected turn of events. Other Knights rode or walked or limped to stand at his side. They gathered around him. Judging by their raised voices, some were demanding that they ride to the attack. Gerard snorted in derision. Let them, he thought. Let this horde of dragons come down and snap off their fool heads. Idiots like that don’t deserve to live and should certainly never father progeny. One had only to look up into the sky to see that there was nothing left for the Solamnic Knighthood in Solanthus.

Mina spoke one last time. “The night wanes. The dawn approaches. You have one hour to depart in safety. Any who remain within sight of the city walls by this day’s dawning will be slain.” Her voice grew gentle.

“Have no fear for your dead. They will be honored, for they now serve the One God.”

The bluster and the fury of the defeated Knights soon blew out. Those few foot soldiers who had escaped alive began to straggle off across the fields, many looking backward over their shoulders as if they could not believe what had happened and must constantly assure themselves by staring at the gruesome sight of their comrades crushed to death beneath the rubble of the once-mighty city.

The Knights managed to salvage what dignity they had left and returned to the field to pick up their fallen. They would not leave their dead behind, no matter what Mina or the One God promised. Lord Tasgall remained seated on his horse. He had removed his helm to wipe away the sweat. His face was grim and fixed, his complexion as white as that of the ghosts.

Gerard could not look at him, could not bear to see such suffering. He turned away.

Odila had not joined the rest of the Knights. She had not appeared even to see what was transpiring. She sat her horse, staring at the wall where the girl Mina had been standing.

Gerard had planned to go assist the other Knights with the wounded and dead, but he didn’t like the expression on Odila’s face. He grasped hold of her boot, jogged her foot to gain her attention.

She looked down at him and didn’t seem to recognize him.

“The One God,” Odila said. “The girl speaks the truth. A god has returned to the world. What can mortals do against such power?”

Gerard looked up to where the dragons danced in the heavens, flying triumphant amidst ragged wispy clouds that were not clouds, but the souls of the dead, still lingering.

“We do what she told us to do,” Gerard said flatly, glancing back at the walls of the fallen city. He saw the minotaur standing there, watching the Solamnic Knights’ retreat. “We ride to Sanction. We warn them of what is coming.”

In the dark hours before the dawn, on the day the dragon Beryl had appointed for the destruction of Qualinost, Marshal Medan took his breakfast in his garden. He ate well, for he would need the reserves of energy food provided later in the day. He had known men unable to swallow a mouthful before a fight or those who ate and then disgorged the contents of their stomachs shortly after. He had disciplined himself long ago to eat a large meal before a campaign and even to enjoy it. He was able to accomplish this by focusing on each single minute as it happened, looking neither ahead to what must come or behind to what might have been. He had made his peace with the past last night before he slept—another discipline. As to what brief future might remain to him, he put his trust in himself. He knew his limits; he knew his strengths. He knew and trusted his comrades.

He dipped the last of the season’s strawberries in the last of his elven wine. He ate olive bread and soft white cheese. The bread was hard and a week old, for the bakery fires had not been lighted these many days, the bakers either having left Qualinost or gone into hiding, working toward this day. Still, he relished the taste. He had always enjoyed olive bread. The cheese, spread on the bread, was excellent. A simple pleasure, one he would miss in death.

Medan did not believe in life beyond the grave. No rational mind could, as far as he was concerned. Death was oblivion. Each night’s short sleep prepares us for the final night’s long one. Yet he thought that even in oblivion, he would miss his garden and the soft cheese on the fragrant bread, he would miss moonlight shining on golden hair. He finished the cheese, scattered bread crumbs to the fish. He sat for another hour alone in the garden, listening to the sparrow sing her mournful song. His eyes misted for a moment, but that was for the birdsong that would for him be silenced, and for the beauty of the late-blooming flowers that he also would miss. When his eyes misted, he knew it was time to depart. The Dark Knight Dumat was on hand to assist Medan into his armor. The Marshal would not wear full plate this day. Beryl would notice and find it suspicious. The elves had been killed, driven out, vanquished. The elven capital city was being delivered to her without a fight. Her Marshal was here to greet her in triumph. What use did he have for armor? Besides that, Medan needed to be free to move swiftly, and he was not going to be encumbered by heavy plate or chain mail. He wore his ceremonial armor