“On your feet, men!” Mina shouted. “Take up your arms. This day we march to Silvanost. And there is no force in the world that can stop us!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
From Day to Night
Faces.
Faces floating over him. Bobbing and receding on a rippling surface of pain. When Gerard rose to the surface, the faces were very close to him—strange faces, with no expression, corpses, drowned in the dark sea in which he floundered. The pain was worse closest to the surface, and he didn’t like the faceless faces so near his own. He let himself sink back into the darkness, and there was some part of him that whispered he should cease struggling and give himself to the sea and become one of the faceless himself.
Gerard might have done so, but for a firm hand that gripped his when the pain was very bad and kept him from sinking. He might have done so but for a voice which was calm and commanding and ordered him to stay afloat. Accustomed to obedience, Gerard obeyed the voice. He did not drown but floundered in the dark water, clinging to the hand that held him fast. Finally, he made his way to the shore, pulled himself out of the pain and, collapsing on the banks of consciousness, he slept deeply and peacefully.
He woke hungry and pleasantly drowsy to wonder where he was, how he came to be here, what had happened to him. The faces that had bobbed around in his delirium were real faces now, but they were not much more comforting than the drowned faces in his dreams. The faces were cold and inexpressive, passionless faces of men and women, humans, dressed in long, black robes trimmed in silver.
“How are you feeling, sir?” one of these faces asked, bending over him and placing a chill hand upon his neck to feel his pulse.
The woman’s arm was covered with black cloth that fell over his face, and Gerard understood the image of the dark water in which he’d believed himself to be drowning.
“Better,” said Gerard cautiously. “I’m hungry.”
“A good sign. Your pulse is still weak. I will have one of the acolytes bring you some beef broth. You have lost blood, and the beef will help restore it.”
Gerard looked at his surroundings. He lay in a bed in a large room filled with beds, most of which were empty. Other black-robed figures drifted about the room, moving silently on slippered feet. Pungent smells of herbs scented the air. I
“Where am I?” Gerard asked, puzzled. “What happened?”
“You are in a hospital of our order, Sir Knight,” the healer replied. “In Qualinesti. You were ambushed by elves, seemingly. I do not know much more than that.” Nor did she care, by her cold expression. “Marshal Medan found you. He brought you here the day before yesterday. He saved your life.”
Gerard was baffled. “Elves attacked me?”
“I know nothing more,” the healer told him. “You are not my only patient. You must ask the marshal. He will be here shortly. He has been here every morning since he brought you in, sitting by your side.”
Gerard remembered the firm hand, the strong, commanding voice and presence. He turned his body, slowly, painfully. His wounds were tightly bound, his muscles weak from lying in bed.
He looked to see his armor—black armor, cleaned and polished—placed carefully on a stand near his bed.
Gerard closed his eyes with a groan that must have made the healer think he had suffered a relapse. He remembered all, or at least most, of what had happened. He remembered fighting two Neraka Knights. He remembered the arrow, remembered a third Knight, remembered challenging the Knight to fight. . . .
He did not remember being attacked by elves.
A young man came carrying a tray on which was a bowl of broth, a bit of bread, and a mug.
“Shall I help you, sir?” the young man asked politely.
Gerard imagined being spoon-fed like a child. “No,” he said, and, though it cost him considerable pain, he struggled to a seated position.
The young man placed the tray on Gerard’s lap and sat down on a chair at his side to watch him eat.
Gerard dunked his bread in the broth. He drank the clear, cool water from the mug and wondered how to find out the truth.
“I take it I am a prisoner here,” he said to the young man.
“Why, no, sir!” The acolyte appeared astonished. “Why should you think that? You were ambushed by a band of elves, sir!” The acolyte was regarding Gerard with obvious admiration.
“Marshal Medan told everyone the story when he brought you to us. He carried you in his arms himself, sir. He was covered with your blood. He said you were a true hero and that you were to receive the very best care, to spare no effort. We have had seven dark mystics working on you. You! A prisoner!” The young man laughed and shook his head.
Gerard shoved the bowl of soup away, uneaten. He had lost his appetite. Mumbling something to the effect that he was weaker than he’d supposed, he lay back among his pillows. The acolyte fussed over him, adjusting his bandages and checking to see if any of his wounds had ripped open. He said that they were all almost healed, then left, telling Gerard he should sleep.
Gerard closed his eyes, pretended to be asleep, but sleep was far from coming. He had no idea what was going on. He could only guess that this Medan was playing some sort of sadistic game that would end in Gerard’s torture and death.
This decided, he was at peace, and he slept.
“No, don’t wake him,” said a voice, deep and familiar. “I just came to see how he was doing this morning.”
Gerard opened his eyes. A man wearing the armor of a Knight of Neraka, with a marshal’s sash, stood by the side of the bed. The man was in his fifties. His face was sun-darkened, heavily lined, stem, and grim, but it was not a cruel face. It was the face of a commander who could order men to their deaths but who took no pleasure in it.
Gerard knew him immediately. Marshal Medan.
Laurana had spoken of the marshal with a certain grudging respect, and Gerard could now understand why. Medan had governed a hostile race for thirty years, and there had been no death camps established, no gallows set up in the marketplace, no burning and looting and wanton destruction of elven households and business. Medan saw to it that the dragon’s tribute was collected and paid. He had learned to play elven politics and, according to Laurana, he played it well. He had his spies and his informers. He dealt harshly with rebels, but he did so to maintain order and stability. He kept tight hold on his troops. No small feat in these days when the Knights of Neraka were recruited from the dregs of society.
Gerard was forced to abandon the notion that this man would use him for sport, would make a mockery of him and of his death.
But if that were true, then what was Medan’s game? What was the tale of elves attacking?
Gerard pushed himself to a sitting position, made his salute as best he could with his chest and arm bound with bandages. The marshal might be the enemy, but he was a commander and Gerard was bound to give him the respect that was due his rank.
The marshal returned the salute and told Gerard to lie back, take care not to reopen his wounds. Gerard barely heard him. He was thinking of something else. He was thinking back to the attack.
Medan had ambushed them for a reason—to catch Palin and recover the artifact. That means Medan knew exactly where to find us, Gerard said to himself. Someone told him where we were going to be and when.
Someone had betrayed them, but who? Someone in Laurana’s own household? That was hard to credit, yet Gerard thought of the elf who had left to go “hunting” and had not returned. Perhaps he had been killed by the Knights. Perhaps not.
His thoughts were in bubbling turmoil. What had happened to Palin and the kender? Had they managed to escape safely? Or were they being held prisoner, too?