“As I am sure you know,” he went on, “Galifar ir’Dramon was a junior officer of the Vedykar Lancers. Like many of his comrades, he was a graduate of the Rekkenmark Academy, of good family, and with a distinguished record, both as a cadet and on active service.”
“What I found even more interesting, though, is the fact that he had a brother—a young man of about your age, in fact—who deserted from the Rekkenmark Academy some five and a half years ago, apparently to escape court-martial for the murder of a fellow cadet. That would have been at about the time you enlisted in the Company of the Skull, would it not?”
Mordan sat still, and said nothing.
“The name of the missing cadet is Kasmir ir’Dramon, and it appears that he is still wanted in connection with the murder. A curious coincidence, don’t you agree, between that name and yours? Kaz is a common abbreviation of Kasmir, I believe, and Mordan happens to be an anagram of Dramon.” He chuckled softly.
“But you must forgive me,” he went on. “I am afraid that I have the curiosity and weakness for speculation that is so often attributed to my race. And I am sure that a young man of your intelligence and talents would not have chosen such an obvious method of disguising his name. It cannot be anything more than coincidence—like the fact that his records show him to have an aberrant dragonmark similar to yours. Pure coincidence. The fugitive Kasmir ir’Dramon remains at large and has left no trace of his whereabouts.”
“But now,” he said, “to return to the matter at hand. I had the opportunity to speak with your unfortunate friend Falko—after his demise, sadly, which was most inconvenient. He was good enough to tell me that you were the source of a certain badge, which he showed to one of my colleagues in Karrlakton. May I ask where you got it?”
“From the young lady,” Mordan replied.
The gnome’s smile brightened. “Ah,” he said, “how interesting! I must remember to ask her about it. I am looking forward very much to speaking with her.”
“Another thing I learned,” he continued, “is that you recognized the smuggler who sold him the swords belonging to the stolen zombies. He said that this individual was a former member of the Vedykar Lancers. I take it that you are sure of this?”
Mordan nodded.
“Unfortunately, Falko was unable to provide me with the name of this person. Do you happen to know it?”
Mordan thought for a moment. He was reluctant to give away what he knew, but he had also heard rumors about what happened to those who fell foul of the Ministry of the Dead. He decided to cooperate for now.
“His name was Berend Hintram,” he said. “He graduated from Rekkenmark in the same class as Galifar ir’Dramon.”
Haldin nodded and made a note. “Thank you,” he said, with an ingratiating smile. “Now, for reasons that you will no doubt appreciate, the Ministry is anxious to find both the Vedykar Lancers and the other unit. So anxious, in fact, that I am authorized to offer you an exchange of information—subject to the preservation of state secrets, of course.”
He noticed Mordan’s look of surprise and made a small shrug of helplessness.
“It is all really most awkward,” he went on, “but the unexpected death of a certain official has had an unintended and extremely inconvenient side-effect. This official was privy to certain information of a sensitive nature, which for reasons of security was never recorded. Among this information, which died with the unfortunate official, is the whereabouts of these two units.”
Mordan’s jaw dropped. “You lost them?” he said, incredulous.
“I know,” said Haldin, with an apologetic smile, “it really is most unfortunate. And of course, I need not remind you that this is a state secret, revealed to you in strictest confidence, under penalty of treason. But since you have been so helpful in the matter of Berend Hintram, I feel it is the least I can do.”
“So the story about the Lancers being lost on the Day of Mourning was a lie?”
The gnome’s smile changed, from one of apology to one of amusement.
“Come now,” he said. “I’m sure you already knew that. Although for what it’s worth, only a very few people were ever privy to that knowledge.”
“What about the undead smugglers?” asked Mordan. “Are there more Lancers involved?”
“I’m afraid that the investigation is not yet complete,” Haldin replied, “although a few individuals are assisting the Ministry with its enquiries. So far, none of them has any known connection with the Vedykar Lancers. Based on what we have been able to discover so far, it appears that the smugglers are all members of the Order of the Emerald Claw.”
Mordan thought for a moment. “I thought the King had the Emerald Claw disbanded.” he said.
“You are quite correct,” Haldin replied, “although you will forgive me if I do not go into details. However, we have been aware for some time that the order is still active, in defiance of the King’s decree. It has gone underground, as you might say, and is involved in a variety of criminal activities. The theft and smuggling of military undead is only one such operation.”
“So Hintram was a member of the Emerald Claw?”
“We have yet to establish that for certain, but it seems likely.”
High above the Cyre River, a patch of deeper darkness crossed the night sky. Its shape was indistinct, and it moved swiftly. No one on the ground would have noticed anything more than the momentary shadowing of stars as it passed, as if by a small and fast-moving cloud.
Marbulin Dravuliel gazed out over the rail of the flying ship, his keen elf eyes watching the countryside slip away below him. Build of darkwood, the vessel was more than a hundred feet long, her sleek lines broken only by the four great binding struts holding the ring of dark energy that girdled the vessel. Behind him on the afterdeck, one of his cadaverous servants manned a great wheel of wood and black iron, steering the ship through the night.
At his master’s signal, the helmsman swung the wheel to the left, turning away from the dark river and the pale mist of the Mournland. Before long, the bluish flare of a lightning rail carriage could be seen on the ground far below; the ship turned south to follow it, keeping pace easily.
“How much longer?”
The necromancer turned to the tall figure beside him, and smiled indulgently.
“Patience, Captain,” he said. “Your warriors will be in action soon enough.”
The newcomer had the same wiry build and fierce eyes as the assassin Rolund, but he wore half-plate armor over a faded Karrnathi uniform. On his shoulder was a badge bearing a letter V with two crossed lances, surrounded by a wreath—the insignia of the Vedykar Lancers. His features were those of a typical Karrn, but paler. His hair was the color of ivory, and his eyes were almost completely white, with only a trace of blue. His skin, where it could be seen, was the color of parchment, and covered with tattooed symbols in dark ink.
“What of the vampire?” he asked. His master shrugged casually.
“There will be time for her later,” he said. “We may yet hear from Rolund—and if not, she will continue with her quest to find us. After tonight’s business is concluded, we can make sure she succeeds.”
“Are your … men ready?” he asked, after a moment’s silence.
The captain nodded. “We are always ready.”
“That is good,” said Dravuliel, “but you must be sure to wait until the gates are open. I would hate to see you incur any unnecessary casualties.”
The captain grinned savagely. His teeth were white and sharp, like those of a great shark. “We are not afraid,” he said proudly.
The necromancer smiled. “Of course not,” he replied. “You have no reason to be. My motives are entirely selfish. I wish to save myself the trouble of re-animating too many of you after the battle.”