“I will see the elf bitch,” Nogga said sullenly. “To make certain there are no tricks.”
The Marshal gestured toward the stairs that led to the dungeons located below the main building. “The corridor is narrow,” the Marshal said, when the baaz would have followed after their commander. “We will all be a tight fit.”
“Wait here,” Nogga growled to the baaz.
“Keep them company,” said Medan to Dumat, who nodded and almost, but not quite, smiled.
The draconian stumped down the spiral stairs. Cut out of the bedrock, the stairs were rough and uneven. The dungeons were located far underground, and they soon lost the sunlight. Medan apologized for not having thought to bring a torch with him and hinted that perhaps they should go back.
Nogga brushed that aside. Draconians can see well in the darkness, and he was having no difficulty. Medan followed several paces after the captain, groping his way in the darkness. Once, quite by accident, he stepped hard on Nogga’s tail. The draconian grunted in irritation. Medan apologized politely. They wound their way downward, finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs.
Here torches burned on the walls, but by some strange fluke they gave little light and created a great deal of smoke. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Nogga blinked and grumbled, peering this way and that in the thick atmosphere. Medan shouted for the gaoler, who came to meet them. He wore a black hood over his head, in the manner of an executioner, and was a grim and ghostly figure in the smoke.
“The Queen Mother,” Medan said.
The gaoler nodded and led them to a cell that was nothing more than an iron-barred cage set into a rock wall. He pointed silently inside. An elf woman crouched on the floor of the cell. Her long golden hair was lank and filthy. Her clothes were rich, but torn and disheveled, stained with dark splotches that might have been blood. Hearing the Marshal’s voice, she rose to meet them, stood facing them defiantly. Although there were six cells in the dungeon, the rest were empty. She was the only prisoner.
The draconian approached the cell. “So this is the famous Golden General. I saw the elf witch once long ago in Neraka at the time of the fall.”
He looked her up, and he looked her down, slowly, insultingly. Laurana stood at ease, calm and dignified. She regarded the draconian steadfastly, without flinching. Marshal Medan’s hand clasped spasmodically over the hilt of his sword.
I need this lizard alive, he reminded himself.
“A pretty wench,” said Nogga with a leer. “I remember thinking so at the time. A fine wench to bed, if one can stomach the stench of elf.”
“A wench who proved something of a disaster to you and your kind,”
Medan could not refrain from observing, though he realized almost the moment the words were said that the remark had been made a mistake. Nogga’s eyes flared in anger. His lips curled back from his teeth, the tip of his long tongue flicked out. Staring at Laurana, he sucked his tongue in with a seething breath. “By the lost gods, elf, you will not look at me so smugly when I am through with you!”
The draconian seized hold of the iron-barred door. Muscles on his gigantic arms bunched. With a jerk and a pull, he wrenched the door free of its moorings and flung the door to one side, nearly crushing the gaoler, who had to make a nimble jump to save himself. Nogga bounded inside the cell.
Caught off guard by the draconian’s sudden violent outburst, Medan cursed himself for a fool and leaped to stop him. The gaoler, Planchet, was closer to the draconian, but his way was impeded by the iron door that Nogga had tossed aside and that was now leaning at a crazy angle against one of the other cells.
“What are you doing, Captain?” Medan shouted. “Have you lost your senses? Leave her alone! Beryl will not want her prisoner damaged.”
“Bah, I’m only having a little fun,” Nogga growled, reaching out his hand.
Steel flashed. From the folds of her dress, Laurana snatched a dagger. Nogga skidded to a halt, his clawed feet scraping against the stone floor. He stared down in astonishment to find the dagger pressed against his throat.
“Don’t move,” Laurana warned, speaking the draconian’s own language.
Nogga chuckled. He had recovered from his initial amazement. Defiance added spice to his lust, and he knocked aside the dagger with his clawed hand. The blade slit his scaled skin, spattering blood, but he ignored the wound. He seized hold of Laurana. Still holding the dagger, she stabbed at him, while she struggled in his strong grasp.
“I said let her go, Lizard!”
Locking his fists together, Medan struck Nogga a solid thwack on the back of the head. The blow would have felled a human, but Nogga was barely distracted by it. His clawed hands tore at Laurana’s dress. Planchet finally managed to kick aside the cell door. Grabbing hold of a flaring torch, he brought it down on the draconian’s head. Cinders flew, the torch broke in half.
“I’ll be back to you in a moment,” Nogga promised with a snarl and flung Laurana against the wall. Teeth bared, the draconian turned to face his assailants.
“Don’t kill him!” Medan ordered in Elvish, and punched the draconian in the gut, a blow that doubled him over.
“Do you think there’s a chance we might?” Planchet gasped, driving his knee into the draconian’s chin, snapping his head back. Nogga sank to his knees, but he was still trying to regain his feet. Laurana grabbed hold of a wooden stool and brought it down on the draconian’s head. The stool smashed into splinters, and Nogga slumped to the floor. The draconian lay on his belly, legs spraddled, the fight gone out of him at last.
The three of them stood breathing heavily, eyeing the draconian.
“I am deeply sorry, Madam,” said Medan, turning to Laurana. Her dress was torn. Her face and hands were spattered with the draconian’s blood. His claws had raked across the white skin of her breasts. Drops of blood oozed from the scratches, sparkled in the torchlight. She smiled, exultant, grimly triumphant.
Medan was enchanted. He had never seen her so beautiful, so strong and courageous, and at the same time so vulnerable. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he put his arms around her, drew her close.
“I should have known the creature would try something like this,”
Medan continued remorsefully. “I should never have put you at such risk, Laurana. Forgive me.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. She said a soft word of reassurance and then, ever so gently, she slipped out of his grasp, her hand drawing the tatters of her dress modestly over her breasts.
“No need to apologize, Marshal,” she said, her eyes alight with mischief. “To be truthful, I found it quite exhilarating.”
She looked down at the draconian. Her voice hardened, her hand clenched. “Many of my people have already given their lives in this battle. Many more will die in the last fight for Quali-nost. At last I feel I am doing my share, small though that may be.”
When she looked back up at him, the mischief sparkled. “But I fear we have damaged your messenger, Marshal.”
Medan grunted something in response. He dared not look at Laurana, dared not remember her warmth as she had rested, just a moment, in his arms. All these years, he had been proof against love, or so he had convinced himself. In reality, he had fallen in love with her long ago, pierced through by love for her, for the elven nation. What bitter irony that only now, at the end, had he come to fully understand.
“What do we do with him, sir?” Planchet asked. The elf was limping, favoring a sore knee.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to haul that heavy carcass of his up the stairs,” Medan said harshly. “Planchet, escort your mistress to my office. Bolt the door behind you and remain there until you receive word that it is safe to leave. On your way there, tell Dumat to come down here and bring those baaz with him.”