Margaret Weis: Dragons of the Fallen Sun

“Tell the silly chit to run back home to mama,” said one Knight impatiently. “What do we do, Subcommander?”

“I say we get out of here,” said another. “I’ll walk all night if I have to.”

The others muttered their assent.

Galdar looked to the heavens. The sky was clear. Thunder rumbled, but in the distance. Far away, lightning flashed purple on the western horizon. The moon gave light enough to travel.

Galdar was tired, unusually tired. The men were hollow-cheeked and gaunt, all of them near exhaustion. Yet he knew how they felt.

“We’re moving out,” he said. “But first we need to do something with that.” He jerked a thumb at the smoldering body of Ernst Magit.

“Leave it,” said one of the Knights.

Galdar shook his homed head. He was conscious, all the while, of the girl watching him intently with those strange eyes of hers.

“Do you want to be haunted by his spirit the rest of your days?” Galdar demanded.

The others eyed each other, eyed the body. They would have guffawed at the thought of Magit’s ghost haunting them the day before. Not now.

“What do we do with him?” demanded one plaintively. “We can’t bury the bastard. The ground’s too hard. We don’t have any wood for a fire.”

“Wrap the body in that tent” said Mina. “Take those rocks and build a cairn over him. He is not the first to die in the valley of Neraka,” she added coolly, “nor will he be the last.”

Galdar glanced over his shoulder. The tent they had strung between the monoliths remained intact though it sagged with an accumulation of rainwater.

“The girl’s idea is a good one,” he said. “Cut down the tent and use it for a shroud. And be quick about it. The quicker we’re finished, the quicker we’re away. Strip off his armor” he added. “We’re required to take it back to headquarters as proof of his death.”

“How?” asked one of the Knights, grimacing. “His flesh is stuck to the metal like a steak seared on a gridiron.”

“Cut it off,” said Galdar. “Clean it up as best you can. I wasn’t that fond of him that I want to be hauling bits of him around.”

The men went about their grisly task with a will, eager to be done and away.

Galdar turned back to Mina, found those amber eyes, large, intent upon him.

“You had best go back to your family, girl,” he said gruffly. “We’ll be traveling hard and fast. We won’t have time to coddle you. Besides, you’re a female. These men are not very great respecters of women’s virtues. You run along home.”

“I am home,” said Mina with a glance around the valley. The black monoliths reflected the cold light of the stars, summoned the stars to shine pale and chill among them. “And I have found my family. I will become a Knight. That is my calling.”

Galdar was exasperated, uncertain what to say. The last thing he wanted was this fey woman-child traveling with them. But she was so self-possessed, so completely in control of herself and in control of the situation that he could not come up with any rational argument.

Thinking the matter over, he made to return his sword to its sheath. The hilt was wet and slippery, his grip on it awkward. He fumbled, nearly dropped the sword. Managing to hang onto it by a desperate effort, he looked up fiercely, glowering, daring her to so much as smile with either derision or pity.

She watched his struggles, said nothing, her face expressionless.

Galdar shoved the sword into the sheath. “As to joining the Knighthood, the best thing to do is go to your local headquarters and put in your name.”

He continued with a recitation of the recruitment policies, the training involved. He launched into a discourse about the years of dedication and self-sacrifice, all the while thinking of Ernst Magit, who had bought his way into the Knighthood, and suddenly Galdar realized that he’d lost her.

The girl was not listening to him. She seemed to be listening to another voice, a voice he could not hear. Her gaze was abstracted, her face smooth, without expression.

His words trailed off.

“Do you not find it difficult to fight one handed?” she asked.

He regarded her grimly. “I may be awkward,” he said caustically, “but I can handle a sword well enough to strike your shorn head from your body!”

She smiled. “What are you called?”

He turned away. This conversation was at an end. He looked to see that the men had managed to separate Magit from his armor, were rolling the still-smoking lump of a corpse onto the tent.

“Galdar, I believe,” Mina continued.

He turned back to stare at her in astonishment, wondering how she knew his name.

Of course, he thought, one of the men must have spoken it.

But he could not recall any of them having done so.

“Give me your hand, Galdar,” Mina said to him.

He glowered at her. “Leave this place while you have a chance, girl! We are in no mood for silly games. My commander’s dead. These men are my responsibility. We have no mounts, no food.”

“Give me your hand, Galdar,” said Mina softly.

At the sound of her voice, rough, sweet, he heard again the song singing among the rocks. He felt his hackles rise. A shudder went through him, a thrill flashed along his spine. He meant to turn away from her, but he found himself raising his left hand.

“No, Galdar,” said Mina. “Your right hand. Give me your right hand.”

“I have no right hand!” Galdar cried out in rage and anguish.

The cry rattled in his throat. The men turned, alarmed, at the strangled sound.

Galdar stared in disbelief. The arm had been cut off at the shoulder. Extending outward from the stump was a ghostly image of what had once been his right arm. The image wavered in the wind, as if his arm were made of smoke and ash, yet he could see it clearly, could see it reflected in the smooth black plane of the monolith. He could feel the phantom arm, but then he’d always felt the arm even when it wasn’t there. Now he watched his arm, his right arm, lift; watched his hand, his right hand, reach out trembling fingers.

Mina extended her hand, touched the phantom hand of the minotaur.

“Your sword arm is restored,” she said to him.

Galdar stared in boundless astoundment.

His arm. His right arm was once again. . .

His right arm.

No longer a phantom arm. No longer an arm of smoke and ash, an arm of dreams to be lost in the despair of waking. Galdar closed his eyes, closed them tight and then opened them.

The arm remained.

The other Knights were struck dumb and motionless. Their faces dead white in the moonlight, they stared at Galdar, stared at the arm, stared at Mina.

Galdar ordered his fingers to open and clench, and they obeyed. He reached out with his left hand, trembling, and touched the arm.

The skin was warm, the fur was soft, the arm was flesh and bone and blood. The arm was real.

Galdar reached down the hand and drew his sword. His fingers closed over the hilt lovingly. He was suddenly blinded by tears.

Weak and shivering, Galdar sank to his knees. “Lady,” he said, his voice shaking with awe and wonder, “I do not know what you did or how you did it, but I am in your debt for the rest of my days. Whatever you want of me, I grant you.”

“Swear to me by your sword arm that you will grant me what I ask,” Mina said.

“I swear!” Galdar said harshly.

“Make me your commander,” said Mina.

Galdar’s jaw sagged. His mouth opened and closed. He swallowed. “I. . . I will recommend you to my superiors. . .”

“Make me your commander,” she said, her voice hard as the ground, dark as the monoliths. “I do not fight for greed. I do not fight for gain. I do not fight for power. I fight for one cause, and that is glory. Not for myself, but for my god.”