“Yes, my lord.”
Medan rose to his feet. He eyed Dumat. “If something goes wrong, be prepared to act on my command. Not before.”
Dumat gave a nod and stepped aside to allow his commander to precede him, falling into step behind.
“Captain Nogga, my lord,” said the draconian, saluting.
“Captain,” said the Marshal, advancing to meet the draconian. The bozak was enormous, topping Medan by a lizard head, massive shoulders and wing tips. The baaz bodyguards—shorter, but just as muscular—were attentive, alert, and armed to the teeth, of which they had a good many.
“Her Majesty Beryl has sent me,” Captain Nogga announced. “I am to apprise you of the current military situation, answer any questions you might have, and take stock of the situation in Qualinost. Then I am to report back to Her Majesty.”
Medan bowed his acknowledgment. “You must have had a perilous journey, Captain. Traveling through elven territory with only a small guard. It is a wonder you were not attacked.”
“Yes, we heard that you were having difficulty maintaining order in this realm, Marshal Medan,” Nogga returned. “That is one of the reasons Beryl is sending in her army. As to how we came, we flew here on dragonback. Not that I fear the pointy-ears,” he added disparagingly, “but I wanted to take a look around.”
“I hope you find everything to your satisfaction, Captain,” Medan said, not bothering to hide his ire. He had been insulted, and the draconian would have thought it strange if he did not respond.
“Indeed, I was pleasantly surprised. I had been prepared to find the city in an uproar, with rioting in the streets. Instead I find the streets almost empty. I must ask you, Marshal Medan, where are the elves? Have they escaped? Her Majesty would be most unhappy to hear that.”
“You flew over the roads,” Medan said shortly. “Did you see hordes of refugees fleeing southward?”
“No, I did not,” Nogga admitted. “However—”
“Did you see refugees heading east, perhaps?”
“No, Marshal, I saw nothing. Therefore I—”
“Did you notice, as you flew over Qualinost, on the outskirts of the city, a large plot of cleared land, freshly dug-up ground?”
“Yes, I saw it,” Nogga replied impatiently. “What of it?”
“That is where you will find the elves, Captain,” said Marshal Medan.
“I don’t understand,” Captain Nogga said.
“We had to do something with the bodies,” Medan continued offhandedly. “We couldn’t leave them to rot in the streets. The elderly, the sickly, the children, and any who put up resistance were dispatched. The rest are being retained for the slave markets of Neraka.”
The draconian scowled, his lips curled back. “Beryl gave no orders concerning slaves going to Neraka, Marshal.”
“I respectfully remind you and Her Majesty that I receive my orders from Lord of the Night Targonne, not from Her Majesty. If Beryl wishes to take up the matter with Lord Targonne, she may do so. Until then, I follow my lord’s commands.”
Medan straightened his shoulders, a movement that brought his hand near his sword hilt. Dumat had his hand on his sword hilt, and he moved quietly, with seeming nonchalance, to stand near the two baaz. Nogga had no idea that his next words might be his last. If he demanded to see the mass grave or the slave pens, the only thing he would end up seeing would be Medan’s sword sticking out of his scaly gut.
As it was, the draconian shrugged. “I am acting on orders myself, Marshal. I am an old soldier, as are you. Neither of us has any interest in politics. I will report back to my mistress and, as you so wisely suggest, urge her to talk it over with your Lord Targonne.”
Medan eyed the draconian intently, but, of course, there was no way to read the expression on the lizard’s face. He nodded and, removing his hand from his sword hilt, strode past the draconian to stand in the doorway, where he could take a breath of fresh, sweet-scented air.
“I have a complaint to register, Captain.” Medan glanced over his shoulder at Nogga. “A complaint against a draconian. One called Groul.”
“Groul?” Nogga was forced to clump over to where Medan stood. The draconian’s eyes narrowed. “I intended to ask about Groul. He was sent here almost a fortnight ago, and he has not reported back.”
“Nor will he,” said Medan brusquely. He drew in another welcome breath of fresh air. “Groul is dead.”
“Dead!” Nogga was grim. “How did he die? What is this about a complaint?”
“Not only was he foolish enough to get himself killed,” Medan stated,
“he killed one of my best agents, a spy I had planted in the house of the Queen Mother.” He cast a scathing glance at Nogga. “In future, if you must send draconian messengers, make certain that they arrive sober.”
Now it was Nogga’s turn to bristle. “What happened?”
“We are not certain,” Medan said, shrugging. “When we found the two of them—Groul and the spy—they were both dead. At least we have to assume that the pile of dust next to the elf’s corpse was Groul. What we do know is that Groul came here and delivered to me the message sent by Beryl. He had already imbibed a fair quantity of dwarf spirits. He reeked of them. Presumably after he left me, he fell in with the agent, an elf named Kalindas. The elf had long complained over the amount of money he was being paid for his information. My guess is that Kalindas confronted Groul and demanded more money. Groul refused. The two fought and killed each other. Now I am short one spy, and you are short one draconian soldier.”
Nogga’s long, lizard tongue flicked from between his teeth. He fiddled with his sword hilt.
“Strange,” said Nogga at last, his red-eyed gaze intent upon the Marshal, “that they should end up slaying each other.”
“Not so strange,” Medan returned dryly. “When you consider that one was soused and the other was slime.”
Nogga’s teeth clicked together. His tail twitched, scraping across the floor. He muttered something that Medan chose to ignore.
“If that is all, Captain,” the Marshal said, turning his back yet again upon the draconian and walking toward his office, “I have a great deal of work to do. . . .”
“Just a moment!” Nogga rumbled. “The orders Groul carried stated that the Queen Mother was to be executed and her head given over to Beryl. I assume these orders have been carried out, Marshal. I will take the elf’s head now. Or did yet another strange circumstance befall the Queen Mother?”
Pausing, Medan rounded on his heel. “Surely the dragon was not serious when she gave those orders?”
“Not serious!” Nogga scowled.
“Beryl’s sense of humor is well known,” said the Marshal. “I thought Her Majesty was having a jest with me.”
“It was no jest, I assure you, my lord. Where is the Queen Mother?”
Nogga demanded, teeth grating.
“In prison,” Medan said coolly. “Alive. Waiting to be handed over to Beryl as my gift when the dragon enters Qualinost in triumph. Orders of Lord Targonne.”
Nogga had opened his mouth, prepared to accuse Medan of treachery. The draconian snapped it shut again.
Medan knew what Nogga must be thinking. Beryl might consider herself the ruler of Qualinesti. She might consider the Knights to be acting under her auspices, and in many ways they were. But Lord Targonne was still in command of the Dark Knights. More importantly, he was known to be in high favor with Beryl’s cousin, the great red dragon Malystryx. Medan had been wondering how Malys was reacting to Beryl’s sudden decision to move troops into Qualinesti. In that snap of Nogga’s jaws, Medan had his answer. Beryl had no desire to antagonize Targonne, who would most certainly run tattling to Malys that he was being mistreated.