“Listen to me, Half-Elven,” Kitiara said, her voice cold and thin and sharp. “I am after one thing and one thing only—the Crown of Power Ariakas wears. That is the reason I captured Laurana, that is all she means to me. I will present the elfwoman to Her Majesty, as I have promised. The Queen will reward me—with the Crown, of course—then she will order the elf taken to the Death Chambers far below the Temple. I care nothing for what happens to the elf after that, and so I give her to you. At my gesture, step forward. I will present you to the Queen. Beg of her a favor. Ask that you be allowed to escort the elfwoman to her death. If she approves of you, she will grant it. You may then take the elfwoman to the city gates or wherever you choose, and there you may set her free. But I want your word of honor, Tanis Half-Elven, that you will return to me.”
“I give it,” Tanis said, his eyes meeting Kitiara’s without wavering,
Kitiara smiled. Her face relaxed. It was so beautiful once more, that Tanis, startled by the sudden transformation, almost wondered if he had seen that other cruel face at all. Putting her hand on Tanis’s cheek, she stroked his beard.
“I have your word of honor. That might not mean much to other men, but I know you will keep it. One final warning, Tanis,” she whispered swiftly, “you must convince the Queen that you are her loyal servant. She is powerful, Tanis! She is a goddess, remember that! She can see into your heart, your soul. You must convince her beyond doubt that you are hers. One gesture, one word that rings false, and she will destroy you. There will be nothing I can do. If you die, so does your Lauralanthalasa!”
“I understand,” Tanis said, feeling his body chill beneath the cold armor.
There was a blaring trumpet call.
“There, that is our signal,” Kitiara said. Pulling her gloves on, she drew the dragonhelm over her head. “Go forward, Tanis. Lead my troops. I will enter last.”
Resplendent in her glittering night-blue dragon-scale armor, Kitiara stepped haughtily to one side as Tanis walked through the ornate doorway into the Hall of Audience.
The crowd began to cheer at the sight of the blue banner. Perched above the audience with the other dragons, Skie bellowed in triumph. Aware of thousands of glittering eyes upon him, Tanis firmly put everything out of his mind except what he must do. He kept his eyes fixed on his destination—the platform in the Hall next to Lord Ariakas’s, the platform decorated with the blue banner. Behind him, he could hear the rhythmic stamp of clawed feet as Kit’s guard of honor marched in proudly. Tanis reached the platform and stood at the bottom of the stairs, as he had been ordered. The crowd quieted then and, as the last draconian filed through the door, a murmur began to sweep through the Hall. The crowd strained forward, anxious to see Kitiara’s entrance.
Waiting within the antechamber, allowing the crowd to wait just a few more moments to enhance the suspense, Kit glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she saw Lord Soth enter the antechamber, his guards bearing a white-wrapped body in their fleshless arms. The eyes of the vibrant, living woman and the vacant eyes of the dead knight met in perfect agreement and understanding.
Lord Soth bowed.
Kitiara smiled, then—turning—she entered the Hall of Audience to thunderous applause.
Lying on the cold cell floor, Caramon struggled desperately to remain conscious. The pain was beginning to subside. The blow that struck him down had been a glancing one, slanting off the officer’s helm he wore, stunning him, but not knocking him out.
He feigned unconsciousness, however, not knowing what else to do. Why wasn’t Tanis here, he thought despairingly, once more cursing his own slowness of mind. The half-elf would have a plan, he would know what to do. I shouldn’t have been left with this responsibility! Caramon swore bitterly. Then, quit bellyaching, you big ox! They’re depending on you!, came a voice in the back of his mind. Caramon blinked, then caught himself just as he was about to grin. The voice was so like Flint’s, he could have sworn the dwarf was standing beside him! He was right. They were depending on him. He’d just have to do his best. That was all he could do.
Caramon opened his eyes a slit, peering out between half-closed lids. A draconian guard stood almost directly in front of him, back turned to the supposedly comatose warrior. Caramon could not see Berem or the draconian called Gakhan without twisting his head, and he dared not call attention to himself. He could take out that first guard, he knew. Possibly the second, before the other two finished him. He had no hope of escaping alive, but at least he might give Tas and Tika a chance to escape with Berem.
Tensing his muscles, Caramon prepared to launch himself at the guard when suddenly an agonized scream tore through the darkness of the dungeons. It was Berem screaming, a cry so filled with rage and anger that Caramon started up in alarm, forgetting he was supposed to be unconscious.
Then he froze, watching in amazement as Berem lurched forward, grabbed Gakhan, and lifted him off the stone floor. Carrying the wildly flailing draconian in his hands, the Everman hurtled out of the jail cell and smashed Gakhan into a stone wall. The draconian’s head split apart, cracking like the eggs of the good dragons upon the black altars. Howling in rage, Berem slammed the draconian into the wail again and again, until Gakhan was nothing more than a limp, green bloodied mass of shapeless flesh.
For a moment no one moved. Tas and Tika huddled together, horrified by the gruesome sight. Caramon fought to piece things together in his pain-befuddled mind while even the draconian guards stood staring at their leader’s body in a paralyzed, dreadful fascination.
Then Berem dropped Gakhan’s body to the ground. Turning, he stared at the companions without recognition. He’s completely insane, Caramon saw with a shudder. Berem’s eyes were wide and crazed. Saliva dripped from his mouth. His hands and arms were slimy with green blood. Finally, realizing that his captor was dead, Berem seemed to come to his senses. He gazed around and saw Caramon on the floor, staring up at him in shock.
“She calls me!” Berem whispered hoarsely.
Turning, he ran down the northern corridor, flinging the startled draconians to one side as they tried to stop him. Never pausing to look behind him, Berem slammed into the partially open iron door at the end of the corridor, the force of his passing nearly tearing the door from its hinges. Clanking against the stone with a dull booming sound, the door swung crazily back and forth. They could hear Berem’s wild shrieking echo down the corridor.
By now, two of the draconians had recovered. One of them ran for the stairway, shouting at the top of its lungs. It was in draconian, but Caramon could understand it well enough.
“Prisoner escape! Call out the guards!”
In answer came shouts and the sound of clawed feet scraping at the top of the staircase. The hobgoblin took one look at the dead draconian and fled toward the staircase and his guardroom, adding his panic-stricken shouts to those of the draconian. The other guard, quickly regaining its feet, jumped into the cell. But Caramon was his feet now, too. This was action. This he could understand. Reaching out, the big man grabbed the draconian around the neck. One jerk of the huge hands, and the creature fell lifeless to the floor. Caramon swiftly snatched the sword from the clawed hand as the draconian’s body hardened into stone.
“Caramon! Look out behind you!” Tasslehoff yelled as the other guard, returning from the stairway, dashed into the cell, its sword raised.
Caramon whirled, only to see the creature fall forward as Tika’s boot caught it in the stomach. Tasslehoff plunged his little knife into the second guard’s body, forgetting—in his excitement—to jerk it free again. Glancing at the stone corpse of the other creature, the kender made a frantic dive for his knife. Too late.