“Perhaps and perhaps not,” said Flint gruffly. “Not if he was leader of an army. Not if he had responsibilities, people depending on him. He’d know I’d understand—”
Laurana’s face might have been carved of marble, so impassive and pure and cold was her expression. “I never asked for these responsibilities. I never wanted them. We can make it look as if Bakaris escaped—”
“Don’t do it, Laurana!” Tas begged. “He’s the officer who brought back Derek and Lord Alfred’s body at the High Clerist’s Tower, the officer you shot in the arm with the arrow. He hates you, Laurana! I-I saw the way he looked at you the day we captured him!”
Flint’s brows drew together. “The lords and your brother are still below. We’ll discuss the best way to handle this—”
“I’m not discussing anything,” Laurana stated, lifting her chin in the old imperious gesture the dwarf knew so well. “I’m the general. It’s my decision.”
“Maybe you should ask someone’s advice—”
Laurana regarded the dwarf with bitter amusement. “Whose?” she asked. “Gilthanas’s? What would I say? That Kitiara and I want to exchange lovers? No, we’ll tell no one. What would the knights have done with Bakaris anyway? Execute him according to knightly ritual. They owe me something for all I’ve done. I’ll take Bakaris as payment.”
“Laurana"—Flint tried desperately to think of some way to penetrate her frozen mask—“there is a protocol that must be followed in prisoner exchange. You’re right. You are the general, and you must know how important this is! You were in your father’s court long enough—” That was a mistake. The dwarf knew it as soon as he opened his mouth and he groaned inwardly.
“I am no longer in my father’s court!” Laurana flashed. “And to the Abyss with protocol!” Rising to her feet, she regarded the Flint coldly, as if he were someone she had just met. The dwarf was, in fact, strongly reminded of her as he had seen her in Qualinesti, the evening she had run away from her home to follow after Tanis in childish infatuation.
“Thank you for bringing this message. I have a great deal to do before morning. If you have any regard for Tanis, please return to your rooms and say nothing to anyone.”
Tasslehoff cast Flint an alarmed glance. Flushing, the dwarf tried hastily to undo the damage.
“Now, Laurana,” he said gruffly, “don’t take my words to heart. If you’ve made your decision, I’ll support you. I’m just being an old crotchety grandfather, that’s all. I worry about you, even if you are a general. And you should take me with you—like the note says—”
“Me, too!” cried Tas indignantly.
Flint glared at him, but Laurana didn’t notice. Her expression softened. “Thank you, Flint. You too, Tas,” she said wearily. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. But I really believe I should go alone.”
“No,” Flint said stubbornly. “I care about Tanis as much as you. If there’s any chance he is dy—” The dwarf choked and wiped his hand across his eyes. Then he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I want to be with him.”
“Me, too,” mumbled Tas, subdued.
“Very well.” Laurana smiled sadly. “I can’t blame you. And I’m sure he’d want you to be there.”
She sounded so certain, so positive she would see Tanis. The dwarf saw it in her eyes. He made one final effort. “Laurana, what if it’s a trap. An ambush—”
Laurana’s expression froze again. Her eyes narrowed angrily Flint’s protest was lost in his beard. He glanced at Tas. The kender shook his head.
The old dwarf sighed.
11
The penalty of failure.
“There it is, sir,” said the dragon, a huge red monster with glistening black eyes and a wing span that was like the shadows of night. “Dargaard Keep. Wait, you can see it clearly in the moonlight. . . when the clouds part.”
“I see it,” replied a deep voice. The dragon, hearing the dagger-edged anger in the man’s tone, began his descent swiftly, spiraling round and round as he tested the shifting air currents among the mountains. Nervously eyeing the keep surrounded by the rocky crags of the jagged mountains, the dragon looked for a place to make a smooth and easy landing. It would never do to jounce Lord Ariakas.
At the far northern end of the Dargaard Mountains stood their destination—Dargaard Keep, as dark and dismal as its legends. Once—when the world was young—Dargaard Keep had graced the mountain peaks, its rose-colored walls rising in graceful sweeping beauty up from the rock in the very likeness of a rose itself. But now, thought Ariakas grimly, the rose has died. The Highlord was not a poetic man, nor was he much given to flights of fancy. But the fire-blackened, crumbling castle atop the rock looked so much like a decayed rose upon a withering bush that the image struck him forcibly. Black latticework, stretching from broken tower to broken tower, no longer formed the petals of the rose. Instead, mused Ariakas, it is the web of the insect whose poison had killed it.
The great red dragon wheeled a final time. The southern wall surrounding the courtyard had fallen a thousand feet to the base of the cliff during the Cataclysm, leaving a clear passage to the gates of the keep itself. Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, the red saw smooth tiled pavement beyond, broken only here and there by rents in the stonework, suitable for a smooth landing. Even dragons—who feared few things on Krynn—found it healthier to avoid Lord Ariakas’s displeasure.
In the courtyard below, there was a sudden fever of activity, looking like an anthill disturbed by the approach of a wasp. Draconians shrieked and pointed. The captain of the night watch came hurrying to the battlements, looking over the edge into the courtyard. The draconians were right. A flight of red dragons were indeed landing in the courtyard, one of them bearing an officer, too, by the armor. The captain watched uneasily as the man leaped from the dragon saddle before his mount had come to halt. The dragon’s wings beat furiously to avoid striking the officer, sending dust billowing about him in moonlit clouds as he strode purposefully across the stones of the courtyard toward the door. His black boots rang on the pavement, sounding like a death knell.
And—with that thought—the captain gasped, suddenly recognizing the officer. Turning, nearly stumbling over the draconian in his haste, he cursed the soldier and ran through the keep in search of Acting Commander, Garibanus.
Lord Ariakas’s mailed fist fell upon the wooden door with a thunderous blow that sent splinters flying. Draconians scrambled to open it, then shrank back abjectly as the Dragon Highlord stalked inside, accompanied by a blast of cold wind that extinguished the candles and caused torch flames to waver.
Casting a swift glance from behind the gleaming mask of the dragonhelm as he entered, Ariakas saw a large circular hallway spanned by a vaulted, domed ceiling. Two giant curved staircases rose from either side of the entryway, leading up to a balcony on the second level. As Ariakas looked around, ignoring the groveling draconians, he saw Garibanus emerge from a doorway near the top of the stairs, hastily buttoning his trousers and pulling a shirt over his head. The captain of the watch stood—quaking—next to Garibanus, pointing down at the Dragon Highlord.
Ariakas guessed in a moment whose company the acting commander had been enjoying. Apparently he was filling in for the missing Bakaris in more ways than one!
“So that’s where she is!” Lord Ariakas thought in satisfaction. He strode across the hallway and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Draconians scuttled out of his path like rats. The captain of the guard disappeared. Ariakas was fully halfway up the stairs before Garibanus had collected himself enough to address him.
“L-Lord Ariakas,” he stammered, stuffing his shirt into his pants and hurrying down the stairs. “This is an—err— unexpected honor.”
“Not unexpected, I believe?” Ariakas said smoothly, his voice sounding strangely metallic coming from the depths of the dragonhelm.