“I believe that Skie is involved in some deep plot that will result in his downfall,” Razor told Gerard. “If so, it will be a punishment for slaying his own kind. If we even are his own kind,” he added, as an afterthought.
“He’s a blue dragon, isn’t he?” Gerard asked, looking longingly at the creek and hoping the dragon settled himself soon.
“Yes, sir,” said Razor. “But he has grown so that he is far larger than any blue ever seen on Krynn before. He is larger than the reds—except Malystryx—a great bloated monster. My brethren and I have often commented on it.”
“Yet he fought in the War of the Lance,” said Gerard. “Is this satisfactory? There don’t appear to be any caves.”
“True, sir. He was a loyal servant to our departed queen. But one has to wonder, sir.”
Unable to find a cave large enough to hold him, Razor pronounced the depression a good start, declared his intention to widen it by blasting chunks of rock out of the side of the cliff. Gerard watched from a safe distance as the blue dragon spat bolts of lightning that blew huge holes in the solid rock, sending boulders splashing into the water and causing the ground to shake beneath his feet.
Certain that the noise of the splitting rock, the blasting explosions, and the concussive thunder must be heard in Solanthus, he feared a patrol would be sent out to investigate.
“If the Solanthians hear anything at all, sir,” Razor said during a rest break, “they will think it is merely a coming storm.”
Once he had created his cave and the dust had settled and the numerous small avalanches had stopped, Razor retired inside to rest and enjoy his meal.
Gerard removed the saddle from the dragon’s back—a proceeding that took some time since he was not familiar with the complicated harness. Razor offered his assistance, and once this was done and Gerard had dragged the heavy saddle into a corner of the cave, out of the way, he left the dragon to his meal and his slumber.
Gerard traveled downstream a good distance until he found a place shallow enough for bathing. He stripped off his leathers and undergarments and waded, naked, into the rippling stream.
The water was deep and cold. He gasped, shivered, and, gritting his teeth, plunged in headfirst. He was not a particularly good swimmer, so he stayed clear of the deeper part of the stream where the current ran swift. The sun was warm, the cold tingled his skin, felt invigorating. He began to splash and leap about, at first to keep the blood flowing and then because he was enjoying himself.
For a few moments, at least, he was free. Free of all his worries and anxieties, free of responsibility, free of anyone telling him what to do. For a few moments, he let himself be a child again.
He tried to catch fish with his bare hands. He dog-paddled beneath the overhanging willow trees. He floated on his back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin and the refreshing contrasting cold of the water. He scrubbed off the caked-on dirt and blood with a handful of grass, all the while wishing he had some of his mother’s tallow soap.
Once he was clean, he could examine his wounds. They were inflamed but only slightly infected. He had treated them with a salve given to him by the Queen Mother, and they were healing well. Peering at his reflection in the water, he grimaced, ran his hand over his jaw. He had a stubbly growth of beard, dark brown, not yellow, like his hair. His face was ugly enough without the beard, which was patchy and splotchy and looked like some sort of malignant plant life crawling up his jaw.
He thought back to the time in his youth when he’d tried in vain to grow the silky flowing mustache that was the pride of the Solamnic Knighthood. His mustache proved to be rough and bristly, stuck out every which way like his recalcitrant hair. His father, whose own mustache was full and thick, had taken his son’s failure as a personal affront, irrationally blaming whatever was rebellious inside Gerard for manifesting itself through his hair.
Gerard turned to wade back to where he had left his leathers and his pack, intending to retrieve his knife and shave off the stubble. A flash of sunlight off metal half-blinded him. Looking up on the bank, he saw a Solamnic Knight.
The Knight was clad in a leather vest, padded for protection, worn over a knee-length tunic that was belted at the waist. The flash of metal came from a half-helm that covered the head but had no visor. A red ribbon fluttered from the top of the half-helm, the padded vest was decorated with a red rose. A long bow slung over the shoulders indicated that the Knight had been out hunting, as evidenced by the carcass of a stag hanging over the back of a pack mule. The Knight’s horse was nearby, head down, grazing.
Gerard cursed himself for not having kept closer watch. Had he been paying attention, instead of larking about like a schoolboy, he would have heard horse and rider approaching.
The Knight’s booted foot was planted firmly atop Gerard’s sword belt and sword. The Knight held a long sword in one gloved hand. In the other, a coil of rope.
Gerard could not see the Knight’s face, due to the shadows of the trees, but he had no doubt that the expression would be grim and stern and undoubtedly triumphant.
He stood in the middle of the stream that was growing colder by the second and pondered on the odd quirk in human nature that makes us feel we are far more vulnerable naked than when wearing clothes. Shirt and breeches will not stop arrow, knife, or sword, yet had he been dressed, Gerard would have been able to face this Knight with confidence. As it was, he stood in the stream and gaped at the Knight with about as much intelligence as the fish that were making darts at his bare legs.
“You are my prisoner,” said the Solamnic, speaking Common. “Come forth slowly and keep your hands raised so that I may see them.”
Gerard’s discomfiture was complete. The Knight’s voice was rich and mellow and unquestioningly feminine. At that moment, she turned her head to glance warily about her, and he saw two long thick braids of glossy blue-black hair streaming out from beneath the back of the halfhelm. Gerard felt his skin burn so hot that it was a wonder the water around him didn’t steam.
“Lady Knight,” he said when he could find his voice, “I concede readily that I am your prisoner, at least for the moment, until I can explain the unusual circumstances, and I would do as you command, but I am . . . as you can see . . . not dressed.”
“Since your clothes are here on the bank, I did not think that you would be,” the Knight returned. “Come out of the water now.”
Gerard thought briefly of making a dash for it to the opposite bank, but the stream ran deep and swift, and he was not that good a swimmer. He doubted if he could manage it. He pictured himself floundering in the water, drowning, calling for help, destroying what shreds of dignity he might have left.
“I don’t suppose you would turn your head, Lady, and allow me to dress myself?” he asked.
“And let you stab me in the back?” Laughing she leaned forward. “Do you know, Knight of Neraka, I find it amusing that you, a champion of evil, who has undoubtedly slaughtered any number of innocents, burned villages, robbed the dead, looted, and raped, are such a shrinking lily.”
She was pleased with her joke. The emblem of the Dark Knights on which her foot rested, was the skull and the lily.
“If it makes you feel better,” the Lady Knight continued, “I have served in the Knighthood for twelve years, I have held my own in battle and tourney. I have seen the male body not only unclothed but ripped open. Which is how I will view yours if you do not obey me.” She raised her sword. “Either you come out or I will come in after you.”
Gerard began to splash through the water toward the bank. He was angry now, angry at the mocking tone of the woman, and his anger in part alleviated his embarrassment. He looked forward to fetching his pack and exhibiting his letter from Gilthas, proving to this female jokester that he was a true Knight of Solamnia here on an urgent mission and that he probably outranked her.