“Still, it is best not to take chances. We are the only three who know Mina’s secret, and we must guard the secret as we promised. If word got out, the news would spread like a grass fire in the dry season and that would ruin everything. The soldiers’ grief must appear to be real.”
“Perhaps they are wiser than we are,” Galdar muttered. “Perhaps they know the truth, and we are the ones who have been deluded.”
“What would you have us do, minotaur?” Dogah demanded, his black brows forming a solid bar across his thick nose. “Would you disobey her?”
“Even if she is . . .” Samuval paused, not wanting to speak aloud the ill-omened word. “Even if something did go wrong,” he amended, “those commands she gave us would be her last commands. I, for one, will obey them.”
“I also,” said Dogah.
“I will not disobey her,” said Galdar, choosing his words carefully, “but let us face it, her commands are contingent upon one thing happening, and thus far her prediction has not yet come to pass.”
“She foretold an attempt on her life,” argued Captain Samuval. “She foretold that the foolish elf would be the cat’s paw. Both came true.”
“Yet, she did not foretell the use of the poison ring,” Galdar said, his voice harsh. “You saw the needle. You saw that it punctured her skin.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, glanced at his comrades from beneath narrowed eyes. He had something on his mind, something unpleasant to judge by the frown, but he seemed uncertain whether to speak his thought or not.
“Come, Galdar,” said Samuval finally. “Out with it.”
“Very well.” Galdar looked from one to the other. “You have both heard her say that even the dead serve the One God.”
Dogah shifted his bulk in the chair that creaked beneath his weight. Samuval picked at the wax from the guttered candle. Neither made any response.
“She promised the One God would confound her enemies,” Galdar continued, his tone heavy. “She never promised we should see her again alive—”
“Hail the command tent,” a voice shouted. “I have a message from Lord Targonne. Permission to enter?”
The three officers exchanged glances. Dogah rose hastily to his feet and hurriedly untied the flaps. The messenger entered. He wore the armor of a dragonrider, and he was wind-blown and dust-covered. Saluting, he handed Dogah a scrollcase.
“No reply is expected, my lord,” the messenger said.
“Very well. You are dismissed.” Dogah eyed the seal on the scrollcase and again exchanged glances with his comrades.
When the messenger had gone, Dogah cracked the seal with a sharp rap on the table. The other two looked on expectantly as he opened the case and withdrew the scroll. He unfurled it, cast his gaze over it, and lifted his eyes, glittering black with triumph.
“He is coming,” he said. “Mina was right.”
“Praise the One God,” said Captain Samuval, sighing with relief. He nudged Galdar. “What do you say now, friend?”
Galdar shrugged, nodded, said nothing aloud. When the others had gone, shouting for their aides, giving orders to make ready for his lordship’s arrival, Galdar remained alone in the tent where Mina’s spirit lingered.
“When I touch your hand and feel your flesh warm again, then I will praise the One God,” he whispered to her. “Not before.”
Lord Targonne arrived about an hour after sunrise, accompanied by six outriders. His lordship rode a blue dragon, as did the others. Unlike many high-ranking Knights of Neraka, Targonne did not keep a personal dragon but preferred to use one from the stables. This cut down on his own out-of-pocket expenditures, or so he always claimed. In truth, if he had wanted to keep his own dragon, he would have done so and charged the care and feeding to the Knighthood. As it was, Targonne did not keep a dragon because he neither liked nor trusted dragons. Perhaps this was because as a mentalist, Targonne knew perfectly well that dragons neither liked nor trusted him.
He took no pleasure in dragon flight and avoided it when possible, preferring to make his journeys on horseback. In this instance, however, the sooner this annoying girl went up in flames the better, as far as Targonne was concerned, and he was willing to sacrifice his own personal comfort to see this accomplished. He brought other dragonriders with him not so much because he wished to make a show or that he feared attack, but that he was convinced his dragon was going to do something to imperil him— either take it into its head to plummet from the skies or be struck by lightning or dump him off deliberately. He wanted additional riders around him so that they could rescue him.
His officers knew all this about Targonne. In fact, Dogah was laughing about this to Galdar and Captain Samuval as they watched the blue dragons fly in tight circles to a landing. Mina’s army was drawn up in formation on the battlefield, with the exception of the few who were still at work on the pyre. Mina’s funeral would be held at noon, the hour she herself had chosen.
“Do you think any of them would really risk their necks to save the mercenary old buzzard?” Samuval asked, watching the circling blues.
“From what I’ve heard, most of his staff would just as soon see him bounce several times off sharp rocks while falling into a bottomless chasm.”
Dogah grunted. “Targonne makes certain he will be saved. He takes along as escort only those officers to whom he owes large sums of money.”
The blue dragons settled to the ground, their wings stirring up great clouds of dust. The dragonriders emerged from the cloud. Sighting the waiting honor guard, they headed in that direction. Mina’s cadre of officers approached to greet his lordship.
“Which one is he?” asked Captain Samuval, who had never met the leader of the Knights of Neraka. The captain’s curious gaze ranged over the tall, well-built, grim-faced Knights who were moving with rapid stride toward him.
“The little runt in the middle,” said Galdar.
Thinking the minotaur was making sport of him, Captain Samuval chuckled in disbelief and looked to Dogah for the truth. Captain Samuval saw Dogah’s gaze focus tensely on the short man who was almost bent double from coughing in the dust, waving his hand to clear the air. Galdar was also keeping close watch on the little man. The minotaur’s hands clenched and unclenched.
Targonne did not cut a very prepossessing figure. He was short, squat and somewhat bowlegged. He did not like wearing full armor, for he found it chafed him, and he made concession to his rank by wearing only a breastplate. Expensive, hand-tooled, it was made of the finest steel, embossed in gold, and suited his exalted station. Due to the fact that Lord Targonne was stoop-shouldered, with a caved-in chest and slightly curved back, the breastplate did not fit well, but hung forward, giving the unfortunate impression of a bib tied around the neck of a child, rather than the armor of a valiant Knight.
Samuval was not impressed with Targonne’s appearance, but nonetheless, he had heard stories about Targonne’s ruthless and coldblooded nature and thus did not find it at all strange that these two officers were so apprehensive of this meeting. All knew that Targonne had been responsible for the untimely death of the former leader of the Knights, Mirielle Abrena, and a great many of her followers, though no one ever mentioned such a thing aloud.
“Targonne is sly, cunning, and subtle, with an amazing ability to probe deeply into the minds of those he encounters,” warned Dogah. “Some even claim that he uses this ability to infiltrate the minds of enemies and bend them to his will.”
Small wonder, thought Samuval, that the mighty Galdar, who could have lifted Targonne and tossed him around like a child, was panting with nervousness. The rank bovine odor was so strong that Samuval edged upwind to keep from gagging.
“Be prepared,” Galdar warned in a low rumble.