Ever so carefully Leonidas, Phoulos, and Linsha raised their hands in plain view and walked out of the line of trees onto the path. Half a dozen Brute warriors stepped out of their hiding places, their bows drawn and arrows ready.
From a pine tree nearby, the hunting cry of an owl pierced the night. Linsha pretended not to hear it.
The leader of the Brute patrol said something in his own tongue, and the other five warriors swiftly disarmed the captives and urged them at spearpoint toward the encampment. They were taken to the open space before the large tent and forced to wait under the gruesome trophies on the spears.
Linsha refused to look at the heads for fear she might see someone she knew. She stayed close between the centaurs, keeping in their shadows so she could study the men around her without being too obvious.
The leader went into the tent and, after what seemed a lifetime to Linsha, came out again with the Brute general.
The Rose Knight pulled the leather cap further down over her face, but she needn’t have bothered. The patrol leader hauled her out from between the centaurs and pushed her in front of the general. She drew herself up and stared defiantly up at the impassive gold mask. The general was a tall man, taller than Lanther, and built proportionately with wide shoulders and a chest she could crack rocks on. He wore nothing more than a kilted skirt of fine linen and leather sandals, and all of his exposed skin had been painted blue. His long hair had been plaited into dozens of small braids and twisted with white bird feathers. Dark eyes glittered through the eye holes of the gold mask as he studied her. He reached out and yanked her cap off.
“A woman. Reddish hair in curls. Green eyes like gems. Slender nose with freckles. A large bruise on her face. The description was a good one. You are the Solamnic Knight Linsha Majere.” Ignoring her gasp of surprise, he turned to his warriors. “Good work. Take those two to the slave pens. Bind this one and bring her to my tent.”
Linsha stiffened. Her muscles tensed, and her weight shifted as if she were preparing to run. But powerful hands clamped around her arms and pulled them behind her back. She was marched into the tent and tied with leather strips to one of the strong supporting poles in the center. The thongs bit into the raw skin and scabs around her wrists from the last time she had been bound.
“Tie her feet, too,” the general ordered. “She is trained in the ways of the warrior.”
The men complied and left the tent. Linsha could move nothing more than her head. She looked around and realized she and the general were alone. Gods, she wondered, who has been telling him so much about me?
The Brute moved with athletic ease to a low couch carved from black wood and cushioned with animal pelts. On his left stood a small camp table with writing implements and scrolls. To his right was a matching table with a stoneware bottle and several small cups. Behind him hung an ornate banner decorated with geometric designs surrounding a magnificent lion. A sword stood on a rack close to his hand. Hanging from the tent’s roof, Linsha noticed a long, black-shafted lance, but it was muffled in shadows and she could not see it clearly.
She turned her attention back to the general. He sat on his couch and poured a dark red liquid into a cup. He held it up in a mock salute, but he did not drink.
When he said nothing, she glared at him. “Don’t you ever take off that mask?”
“Not in the presence of outsiders,” he growled. “Now tell me where the bronze dragon is. Tell me about this Scorpion Wadi. Tell me about the militia and its general. Who survived and what do they plan to do?”
“Who are you people?” she countered. “Why did you come here? Do you seriously believe Thunder will allow you to stay?”
The general swirled the drink around in his cup and laughed. “Of course he won’t. He is greedy, envious, vicious, and hates anything that gets in the way of what he wants. He will kill the bronze, increase his totem, and drive us out as soon as he grows weary of our help. We, however, have other plans.” He rose and strode to her, the cup still in his hand. “We are the people of Tarmak, the sons of Amarrel. We have crossed the ocean to claim this city for our own.”
“But it’s not your own. This city was built by the Legion, by Iyesta, and by people who came seeking peace.”
“And now they are dead. The city is ours and we intend to keep it. Now, where is the dragon? What does the militia plan to do?”
Linsha pressed her back into the pole to keep away from him. The paint on his body smelled foul, and the menace in his voice sent her heart racing. His words sent her mind racing, too. She had wondered from the beginning how a dragon like Thunder had organized and planned a complicated and thorough invasion of the Missing City. Now she suspected she knew who had really planned it. From the intonation in his voice, she suspected he had not yet completed his plan. Could it be possible that he was also responsible for the death of the brass dragons?
“The bronze went back to Sanction,” she said, trying not to breathe too much in his proximity.
He shook his head and held the cup closer to her face. “He is injured and cannot fly. Now, where is he?”
“How do you know all this?” she demanded. “How do you know me?”
“You are not the only one who can gather information, Lady Knight. We have had spies in this city for several years. Unfortunately, they are unavailable at this moment, and you conveniently placed yourself in my hands.” He raised his other hand and placed his fingers across her face so his fingertips gripped the sides of her head. His touch felt like steel.
“How did you kill Iyesta?” she snapped.
The general’s mask stared down at her, but she heard the slightest intake of breath as if her question had taken him by surprise. “You are stubborn—and as passionate as any dragon. I helped Thunder kill Iyesta and the three young ones with a gift my father received from the Highlord Ariakas himself—an Abyssal Lance.” He nodded toward the blackshafted lance. “Now, I have lost patience. It is time to give me answers.”
His fingers closed on her skull and a brilliant light flashed through her head, as hot and excruciating as a heated poker. Her jaws were forced open, and he poured the contents of the cup between her lips. The liquid tasted vaguely of wine and herbs, but it burned her mouth and the back of her throat. Terrified, she gagged and tried to spit it out, but she succeeded only in choking on the fiery liquid. What was it? Had he poisoned her?
“Where is the bronze dragon?” he repeated.
Linsha’s body went numb and sagged in the straps holding her to the pole. Only her head remained sensitive to the pain that bore into her skull. She stifled a groan as her vision blurred and her thoughts began to run together. Inside her head, memories of dark rain and pounding thunder mingled with blurry images of the tent. She tried to force an image—any image—into focus, only to see it fade and blend and slip out of her reach.
Then the world turned black and wet. She heard the strange voices again, and this time she recognized the language they spoke. Black silhouettes swam into her vision. She saw the figure with the sword come toward her, and she saw her dagger. Clear and brilliant as a flash of lightning, a piece of her memory floated into place. Her dagger. She had stabbed the black figure in the chest. Sir Morrec had died of a knife wound to the back. As the black figure faded out of focus, the second black silhouette swam into her vision. A blow exploded behind her ear. The rainy night abruptly vanished and the tent slipped back into sight. But the steely touch of the hand on her temples was the same. The colored explosion of pain and the acrid aftertaste of magic was the same.
“The dragon,” demanded the voice.
“You… attacked us. You killed Sir Morrec,” she managed to say. She let her chin drop to her chest. Her hair was wet and her face bathed in sweat. She shook as if from a fever.