The group had separated from the knights, not a pleasant parting. The knights had tried to convince them to escape with them into the hills. When the companions refused, Derek demanded that Tasslehoff accompany them, since the kender alone knew the location of the dragon orbs. Tanis knew Tas would only run away from the knights and was forced to refuse again.
‘Bring the kender, Sturm, and come with us,’ Derek commanded, ignoring Tanis.
‘I cannot, sir,’ Sturm replied, laying his hand on Tanis’s arm. ‘He is my leader, and my first loyalty is to my friends.’
Derek’s voice was cold with anger. ‘If that is your decision,’ he answered, ‘I cannot stop you. But this is a black mark against you, Sturm Brightblade. Remember that you are not a knight. Not yet. Pray that I am not there when the question of your knighthood comes before the Council.’
Sturm became as pale as death. He cast a sideways glance at Tanis, who tried to hide his astonishment at this startling news. But there was no time to think about it. The sound of the horns, screaming discordantly on the chill air, was coming closer and closer each second. The knights and the companions parted; the knights heading for their camp in the hills, the companions returning to town.
They found the townspeople outside their houses, speculating on the strange horn calls, which they had never heard before and did not understand. One Tarsian alone heard and understood. The Lord in the council chamber rose to his feet at the sound. Whirling, he turned upon the smug-looking draconian seated in the shadows behind him.
‘You said we would be spared!’ the Lord said through clenched teeth. ‘We’re still negotiating—’
‘The Dragon Highlord grew weary of negotiation,’ the draconian said, stifling a yawn. ‘And the city will be spared—after it has been taught a lesson, of course.’
The Lord’s head sank into his hands. The other council members, not fully comprehending what was happening, stared at each other in horrified awareness as they saw tears trickle through the Lord’s fingers.
Outside, the red dragons were visible in the skies, hundreds of them. Flying in regimented groups of three to five, their wings glistened flame red in the setting sun. The people of Tarsis knew one thing and one thing only: death flew overhead.
As the dragons swooped low, making their first passes over the town, the dragonfear flowed from them, spreading panic more deadly than fire. The people had one thought in their minds as the shadows of the wings blotted out the dying light of day—escape.
But there was no escape.
After the first pass, knowing now that they would meet no resistance, the dragons struck. One after the other, they circled, then dropped from the sky like red-hot shot, their fiery breath engulfing building after building with flame. The spreading fires created their own windstorms. Choking smoke filled the street, turning twilight into midnight. Ash poured down like black rain. Screams of terror changed to screams of agony as people died in the blazing abyss that was Tarsis.
And as the dragons struck, a sea of fear-crazed humanity surged through the flame-lit streets. Few had any clear idea of where they were going. Some shouted they would be safe in the hills, others ran down by the old waterfront, still others tried to reach the city gates. Above them flew the dragons, burning at their discretion, killing at their leisure.
The human sea broke over Tanis and the companions, crushing them into the street, swirling them apart, smashing them up against buildings. The smoke choked them and stung their eyes, tears blinded them as they fought to control the dragonfear that threatened to destroy their reason.
The heat was so intense that whole buildings blew apart. Tanis caught Gilthanas as the elf was hurled into the side of a building. Holding onto him, the half-elf could only watch helplessly as the rest of his friends were swept away by the mob.
‘Back to the Inn!’ Tanis shouted. ‘Meet at the Inn!’ But whether they heard him or not, he could not say. He could only trust that they would all try to head in that direction.
Sturm caught hold of Alhana in his strong arms, half-carrying, half-dragging her through the death-filled streets. Peering through the ash, he tried to see the others, but it was hopeless. And then began the most desperate battle he had ever fought, striving to keep his feet and support Alhana as time and again the dreadful waves of humanity broke over them.
Then Alhana was ripped from his arms by the shrieking mob, whose booted feet trampled all that lived. Sturm flung himself into the crowd, shoving and bashing with his armored arms and body, and caught Alhana’s wrists. Deathly pale, she was shaking with fright. She hung onto his hands with all her strength, and finally he was able to pull her close. A shadow swept over them. A dragon, screaming cruelly, bore down upon the street that heaved and surged with men, women, and children. Sturm ducked into a doorway, dragging Alhana with him, and shielded her with his body as the dragon swooped low overhead. Flame filled the street; the screams of the dying were heart-rending.
‘Don’t look!’ Sturm whispered to Alhana, pressing her against him, tears streaming down his own face. The dragon passed, and suddenly the streets were horribly, unbearably still. Nothing moved.
‘Let’s go, while we can,’ Sturm said, his voice shaking. Clinging to each other, the two stumbled out of the doorway, their senses numbed, moving only by instinct. Finally, sickened and dizzy from the smell of charred flesh and smoke, they were forced to seek shelter in another doorway.
For a moment, they could do nothing but hold onto each other, thankful for the brief respite, yet haunted by the knowledge that in seconds they must return to the deadly streets.
Alhana rested her head against Sturm’s chest. The ancient, old-fashioned armor felt cool against her skin. Its hard metal surface was reassuring, and beneath it she could feel his heart beat, rapid, steady, and soothing. The arms that held her were strong, hard, well-muscled. His hand stroked her black hair.
Alhana, chaste maiden of a stern and rigid people, had long known when, where, and whom she would marry. He was an elflord, and it was a mark of their understanding that—in all the years since this had been arranged—they had never touched. He had stayed behind with the people, while Alhana returned to find her father. She had strayed into this world of humans, and her senses reeled from the shock. She detested them, yet was fascinated by them. They were so powerful, their emotions raw and untamed. And just when she thought she would hate and despise them forever, one stepped apart from the others.
Alhana looked up into Sturm’s grieved face and saw etched there pride, nobility, strict inflexible discipline constant striving for perfection—perfection unattainable. And thus the deep sorrow in his eyes. Alhana felt herself drawn to this man—this human. Yielding to his strength, comforted by his presence, she felt a sweet, searing warmth steal over her, and suddenly she realized she was in more danger from this fire than from the fire of a thousand dragons.
‘We’d better go,’ Sturm whispered gently, but to his amazement Alhana pushed herself away from him.
‘Here we part,’ she said, her voice cold as the night wind. ‘I must return to my lodging. Thank you for escorting me.’
‘What?’ Sturm said. ‘Go by yourself? That’s madness.’ He reached out and gripped her arm. ‘I cannot allow—’ The wrong thing to do, he realized, feeling her stiffen. She did not move but simply stared at him imperiously until he released her.
‘I have friends of my own,’ she said, ‘as you do. Your loyalty is to them. My loyalty is to mine. We must go our separate ways.’ Her voice faltered at the look of intense pain on Sturm’s face, still wet with tears. For a moment Alhana could not bear it and wondered if she would have the strength to continue. Then she thought of her people—depending on her. She found the strength. ‘I thank you for your kindness and your help, but now I must go, while the streets are empty.’