Patiently Gakhan kept on their trail. He knew of the group’s separation, hearing reports of them from Silvanesti—where they drove off the great green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, and then from Ice Wall, where Laurana killed the dark elven magic-user, Feal-Thas. He knew of the discovery of the dragon orbs— the destruction of one, the frail mage’s acquisition of the other.
It was Gakhan who followed Tanis in Flotsam, and who was able to direct the Dark Lady to them aboard the Perechon. But here again, as before, Gakhan moved his game piece only to find an opponent’s piece blocking a final move. The draconian did not despair. Gakhan knew his opponent; he knew the great power opposing him. He was playing for high stakes—very high stakes indeed.
Thinking of all this as he left the Dark Majesty’s Temple— where even now the Dragon Highlords were gathering for High Conclave—Gakhan entered the streets of Neraka. It was light now, just at the end of day. As the sun slid down from the sky, its last rays were freed from the shadow of the citadels. It burned now above the mountains, gilding the still snowcapped peaks blood red.
Gakhan’s reptilian gaze did not linger on the sunset. Instead it flicked among the streets of the tent town, now almost completely empty since most of the draconians were required to be in attendance upon their lords this evening. The Highlords had a notable lack of trust in each other and in their Queen. Murder had been done before in her chambers—and would, most likely, be done again.
That did not concern Gakhan, however. In fact, it made his job easier. Quickly he led the other draconians through the foul-smelling, refuse-littered streets. He could have sent them on this mission without him, but Gakhan had come to know his great opponent very well and he had a distinct feeling of urgency. The wind of momentous events was starting to swirl into a huge vortex. He stood in the eye now, but he knew it would soon sweep him up. Gakhan wanted to be able to ride those winds, not be hurled upon the rocks.
“This is the place,” he said, standing outside of a beer tent. A sign tacked to a post read in Common—The Dragon’s Eye, while a placard propped in front stated in crudely lettered Common: “Dracos and goblins not allowed.” Peering through the filthy tent flap, Gakhan saw his quarry. Motioning to his escorts, he thrust aside the flap and stepped inside.
An uproar greeted his entrance as the humans in the bar turned their bleary eyes on the newcomers and—seeing three draconians—immediately began to shout and jeer. The shouts and jeers died almost instantly, however, when Gakhan removed the hood that covered his reptilian face. Everyone recognized Lord Kitiara’s henchman. A pall settled over the crowd thicker than the rank smoke and foul odors that filled the bar. Casting fearful glances at the draconians, the humans hunched their shoulders over their drinks and huddled down, trying to become inconspicuous.
Gakhan’s glittering black gaze swept over the crowd.
“There,” he said in draconian, motioning to a human slouched over the bar. His escorts acted instantly, seizing the one-eyed human soldier, who stared at them in drunken terror.
“Take him outside, in back,” Gakhan ordered.
Ignoring the bewildered captain’s protests and pleadings, as well as the baleful looks and muttered threats from the crowd, the draconians dragged their captive out into the back. Gakhan followed more slowly.
It took only a few moments for the skilled draconians to sober their prisoner up enough to talk—the man’s hoarse screams caused many of the bar’s patrons to lose their taste for their liquor—but eventually he was able to respond to Gakhan’s questioning.
“Do you remember arresting a dragonarmy officer this afternoon on charges of desertion?”
The captain remembered questioning many officers today ... he was a busy man . . . they all looked alike. Gakhan gestured to the draconians, who responded promptly and efficiently.
The captain screamed in agony. Yes, yes! He remembered! But it wasn’t just one officer. There had been two of them.
“Two?” Gakhan’s eyes glittered. “Describe the other officer.”
“A big human, really big. Bulging out of his uniform. And there had been prisoners...”
“Prisoners!” Gakhan’s reptilian tongue flicked in and out of his mouth. “Describe them!”
The captain was only too happy to describe. “A human woman, red curls, breasts the size of...”
“Get on with it,” Gakhan snarled. His clawed hands trembled. He glanced at his escorts and the draconians tightened their grip.
Sobbing, the captain gave hurried descriptions of the other two prisoners, his words falling over themselves.
“A kender,” Gakhan repeated, growing more and more excited. “Go on! An old man, white beard—” He paused, puzzled. The old magic-user? Surely they would not have allowed that decrepit old fool to accompany them on a mission so important and fraught with peril. If not, then who? Someone else they had picked up?
“Tell me more about the old man,” Gakhan ordered.
The captain cast desperately about in his liquor-soaked and pain-stupefied brain. “The old man . . . white beard...”
“Stooped?”
“No ... tall, broad shoulders... blue eyes. Queer eyes—” The captain was on the verge of passing out. Gakhan clutched the man in his clawed hand, squeezing his neck.
“What about the eyes?”
Fearfully the captain stared at the draconian who was slowly choking the life from him. He babbled something.
“Young... too young!” Gakhan repeated in exultation. Now he knew! “Where are they?”
The captain gasped out a word, then Gakhan hurled him to the floor with a crash.
The whirlwind was rising. Gakhan felt himself being swept upwards. One thought beat in his brain like the wings of a dragon as he and his escorts left the tent, racing for the dungeons below the palace.
The Everman... the Everman... the Everman!
7
The Temple of the Queen of Darkness.
“Hurt . . . lemme ’lone . . .”
“I know, Tas. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to wake up. Please, Tas!”
An edge of fear and urgency in the voice pierced the pain-laden mists in the kender’s mind. Part of him was jumping up and down, yelling at him to wake up. But another part was all for drifting back into the darkness that—while unpleasant— was better than facing the pain he knew was lying in wait for him, ready to spring—
“Tas... Tas...” A hand patted his cheek. The whispered voice was tense, tight with terror kept under control. The kender knew suddenly that he had no choice. He had to wake up. Besides, the jumping-up-and-down part of his brain shouted, you might be missing something!
“Thank the gods!” Tika breathed as Tasslehoff’s eyes opened wide and stared up at her. “How do you feel?”
“Awful,” Tas said thickly, struggling to sit up. As he had foreseen, pain leaped out of a corner and pounced on him. Groaning, he clutched his head.
“I know... I’m sorry,” Tika said again, stroking back his hair with a gentle hand.
“I’m sure you mean well, Tika,” Tas said miserably, “but would you mind not doing that? It feels like dwarf hammers pounding on me.”
Tika drew back her hand hurriedly. The kender peered around as best he could through one good eye. The other had nearly swollen shut. “Where are we?”
“In the dungeons below the Temple,” Tika said softly. Tas, sitting next to her, could feel her shiver with fear and cold. Looking around, he could see why. The sight made him shudder, too. Wistfully he remembered the good old days when he hadn’t known the meaning of the word of fear. He should have felt a thrill of excitement. He was—after all—someplace he’d never been before and there were probably lots of fascinating things to investigate.
But there was death here, Tas knew; death and suffering. He’d seen too many die, too many suffer. His thoughts went to Flint, to Sturm, to Laurana.... Something had changed inside Tas. He would never again be like other kender. Through grief, he had come to know fear, fear not for himself but for others. He decided right now that he would rather die himself than lose anyone else he loved.