“Calm down, will you?”
Groul glared at him with squint lizard eyes. His tongue flicked. Lowering his hand from Gerard’s neck, the draconian drew back. “Sorry,” he muttered. “You startled me.”
The marks of Groul’s claws stung and burned on Gerard’s skin. “My fault,” he said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have wakened you so suddenly.” He held out the scroll case. “Here is the marshal’s answer.”
Groul took it, eyed it to make certain the seal was intact. Satisfied, he thrust it into the belt of his harness, turned and, with a grunt, headed for the door. The creature wasn’t wearing armor, Gerard noted, thinking glumly to himself that the draco didn’t need to wear armor. The thick, scaly hide was protection enough.
Gerard drew in a deep breath, sighed it out, and followed the draconian.
Groul turned. “What are you doing, Nerakan?”
“You are in a hostile land after nightfall. My orders are to accompany you safely to the border,” Gerard said.
“You are going to protect me?” Groul gave a gurgle that might have been a laugh. “Bah! Go back to your soft bed, Nerakan. I am in no danger. I know how to deal with elf scum.”
“I have my orders,” said Gerard stubbornly. “If anything happened to you, the marshal would do the same to me.”
Groul’s lizard eyes glittered in anger.
“I have something with me that might shorten the journey for both of us,” Gerard added. Drawing aside his cloak, he revealed a flask he wore on his hip. , The glitter of anger brightened to a gleam of desire, a gleam swiftly hooded.
“What is in the flask, Nerakan?” Groul asked, his tongue darting out between his sharp teeth.
“Dwarf spirits,” said Gerard. “A gift from the marshal. He asks that once we are safe across the border, we join him in drinking to the downfall of the elves.”
Groul made no more protest about Gerard’s accompanying him.
The two trudged off through the silent streets of Qualinost. Again, Gerard felt eyes watching them, but no one attacked. Gerard was not surprised. The draconian was a fearsome opponent.
Reaching the wilderness, the draconian followed one of the main trails leading into the woods. Then, with a suddenness that took Gerard by surprise, Groul plunged into the forest, taking a route known only to the draconian, or so Gerard guessed. The draconian had excellent night vision, to judge by the rapidity with which he moved through the tangled forest. The moon Was waning, but the stars provided light, as did the glow of the lights of Qualinost. The forest floor was a mass of brush and vines.
Weighed down by his heavy armor, Gerard found the going hard.
He had no need to feign fatigue when he called out for the draconian to halt.
“No need to kill ourselves,” Gerard said, panting. “How about a moment’s rest?”
“Humans!” Groul sneered. He was not even breathing hard, but he came to a halt, looked back at the Knight. To be more precise, the draconian looked at the flask. “Still, this walking is thirsty work. I could use a drink.”
Gerard hesitated. “My orders—”
“To the Abyss with your orders!” Groul snarled.
“I don’t suppose one little nip would hurt,” Gerard said and removed the flask. He drew the cork, sniffed. The pungent, dark and musky odor of dwarf spirits burned his nostrils. Snorting, he held the flask at arm’s length. “A good year,” he said, his eyes tearing.
The draconian snatched the flask and brought it to his mouth.
He took a long drink, then lowered the flask with a satisfied sigh.
“Very good,” he said in husky tones and burped.
“To your health,” Gerard said and put the flask to his mouth.
Keeping his tongue pressed against the opening, he pretended to swallow. “There,” he said with seeming reluctance, putting the cork back in the flask, “that’s enough. We should be on our way.”
“Not so fast!” Groul seized the flask, drew out the cork and tossed it away. “Sit down, Nerakan.”
“But your mission—”
“Beryl isn’t going anywhere,” Groul said, settling himself against the bole of a tree. “Whether she gets this message tomorrow or a year from tomorrow won’t make any difference. Her plans for the elves are already in motion.”
Gerard’s heart lurched. “What do you mean?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He settled down beside the draconian and reached for the flask.
Groul handed it over with obvious reluctance. He kept his gaze fixed on Gerard, grudging every drop the Knight supposedly drank, and snatched it back the moment Gerard lowered it from his lips.
The liquid gurgled down the draconian’s throat. Gerard was alarmed by how much the creature could drink, wondered if one flask would be enough.
Groul sighed, belched and wiped his mouth with the back of a clawed hand.
“You were telling me about Beryl,” Gerard said.
“Ah, yes!” Groul held the flask to the moonlight. “Here’s to my lady dragon, the lovely Beryl. And to the death of the elves.”
He drank. Gerard pretended to drink.
“Yes,” said Gerard. “The marshal told me. She has given the elves six days—”
“Ha, ha! Six days!” Groul’s laugh bubbled in his throat.
“The elves do not have six minutes! Beryl’s army is probably crossing the border as we speak! It is a huge army, the largest seen on Ansalon since the Chaos War. Draconians, goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, human conscripts. We attack Qualinost from without. You Neraka Knights attack the elves from within. The Qualinesti are caught between fire and water with nowhere to run. At last, I will see the day dawn when not one of the pointy-eared scum are left alive.”
Gerard’s stomach twisted. Beryl’s army crossing the border!
Perhaps within a day’s march on Qualinost!
“Will Beryl herself come to ensure her victory?” he asked, hoping that the catch in his throat would be mistaken for an aftereffect of the fiery liquor.
“No, no.” Groul chuckled. “She leaves the elves to us. Beryl is flying off to Schallsea, to destroy the so-called Citadel of Light. And to capture some wretched mage. Here, Nerakan, stop hogging that flask!”
Groul grabbed the flask, slid his tongue over the rim.
Gerard’s hand closed over the hilt of his knife. Slowly, quietly, he drew it from its sheath on his belt. He waited until Groul had lifted the flask one more time. The flask was almost empty. The draconian tilted back his head to retrieve every last drop.
Gerard struck, driving his knife with all his strength into the draconian’s ribs, hoping to hit the heart.
He would have hit the heart on a human, but apparently a draconian’s heart was in a different place. Either that or the creatures didn’t possess hearts, which would not have surprised Gerard.
Realizing that his blow had not killed, Gerard yanked free the bloody knife. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword in the same motion.
Groul was injured but not critically. His grunt of pain rising to a howl of rage, he jumped up out of the brush, roaring in fury, his clawed hand grappling for his sword. The draconian attacked with a hacking blow, meant to split open his opponent’s head.
Gerard parried the blow and managed to knock the sword from Groul’s hand. The weapon fell into the brush at Gerard’s feet. Frantically, he kicked it away as Groul sought to recover it.
Gerard drove his booted foot into Groul’s chin, knocking him back, but not felling him.
Drawing a curved-bladed dagger, Groul leaped into the air, using his wings to lift him well above Gerard. Slashing with his dagger, Groul launched himself bodily at the Knight.
The draconian’s weight and the force of his blow drove Gerard to the ground. He fell heavily, landing on his back, with Groul on top, slavering and snarling and trying to stab Gerard with the dagger. The draconian’s wings beat frantically, flapping in Gerard’s face, stirring up dust that stung Gerard’s eyes. He fought in panicked desperation, striking at Groul with his knife while trying to seize hold of the draconian’s dagger.