Gerard pivoted, stooped down to the floor and snatched up the scroll case. Rising, he drove his shoulder and elbow, with the full weight of his armor, into the midriff of the draconian. Groul went down with a clatter of sword and sheath, his wings flapping wildly, his hands waving as he lost the struggle to retain his balance. He crashed into a bench, smashing it.
The sudden movement and attack on the draconian tore open several of Gerard’s wounds. Sucking in his breath against the pain, he glared a moment at the creature floundering on the floor, then turned and, resisting the impulse to see how badly he’d injured himself, started to leave.
Hearing clawed feet scrabbling and a vicious cursing, Gerard wheeled, sword in hand, intending to finish the fight if the creature pursued it. To Gerard’s astonishment, three of the Knights of Neraka had drawn their swords and now blocked the draconian’s path.
“The marshal’s aide is right,” said one, an older man, who had served in Qualinesti many years and had even taken an elven wife. “We’ve heard stories of you, Groul. Perhaps you carry a dispatch from Beryl as you say. Or perhaps the dragon has given orders that you are to ‘dispatch’ our marshal. I advise you to sit down on what you’ve left of our bench and wait. If the marshal wants to see you, he’ll come himself.”
Groul hesitated, eyeing the Knights balefully. Two of the guards drew their swords and joined their officers. The draconian cursed, and, with a snarl, sheathed his sword. Muttering something about needing fresh air, he stalked over to the window and stood staring out of it.
“Go along,” said the Knight to Gerard. “We’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The Knight grunted and returned to his duties.
Gerard left the headquarters with haste. The street on which the building stood was empty. The elves never came anywhere near it voluntarily. Most of the soldiers were either on duty or had just come off duty and were now asleep.
Leaving the street on which the headquarters building was located, Gerard entered the city proper, or rather the city’s outskirts. He walked among the city’s inhabitants now, and he faced another danger. Medan had advised him to wear his breastplate and helm, make his trip to headquarters before darkness fell. He was conscious of beautiful faces, of almond eyes either staring at him with open, avowed hatred, or purposefully averting their gaze, so as not to disturb the loveliness of the midsummer’s twilight by adding his ugly human visage to it.
Gerard was likewise conscious of his strangeness. His body seemed thick and clumsy in comparison to the slender, delicate elven frames; his straw-colored hair, a color not usually seen among elves, was probably regarded as freakish. His scarred and lumpish features, considered ugly by human standards, must be looked upon as hideous by the elves.
Gerard could understand why some humans had come to hate the elves. He felt himself inferior to them in every way—in appearance, in culture, in wisdom, in manner. The only way in which some humans could feel superior to elves was to conquer them, subjugate them, torture and kill them.
Gerard turned onto the road leading to Medan’s house. Part of him sighed when he left the streets where the elves lived and worked behind, as if he had awakened from a lovely dream to dreary reality. Part of him was relieved. He did not keep looking constantly over his shoulder to see if someone was sneaking up on him with a knife.
He had a walk of about a mile to reach the marshal’s secluded house. The path wound among shimmering aspens, poplars, and rustling willows, whose arms overstretched a bubbling brook.
The day was fine, the temperature unusually cool for this time of year, bringing with it the hint of an early fall. Reaching the halfway point, Gerard looked carefully up the path and down the path. He listened intently for the sound of other footfalls. Hearing nothing, seeing nobody, he stepped off the trail and walked to the brook. He squatted down on his haunches as if to drink and examined the scroll case.
It was sealed with wax, but that was easily managed. Removing his knife, he laid the blade upon a flat rock still hot from the afternoon sun. When the metal had heated, Gerard edged the knife blade carefully beneath the wax seal. He removed the seal intact, placed it on a bit of bark to keep it safe. Gerard eyed the scroll case, started to open it, hesitated.
He was about to read a dispatch intended for his commander. True, Medan was the enemy, he was not really Gerard’s commander, but the dispatch was private, meant for Medan only. No honorable man would read another’s correspondence.
Certainly no Solamnic Knight would stoop so low. The Measure did not countenance the use of spies upon the enemy, deeming them “dishonorable, treacherous.” He recalled one paragraph in particular.
Some say that spies are useful, that the information they gather by low and sneaking means might lead us to victory. We knights answer that victory obtained by such means is no victory at all but the ultimate defeat, for if we abandon the principles of honor for which we fight, what makes us better than our enemy?
“What indeed?” Gerard asked himself, the scroll case unopened in his hand. “Nothing, I guess.” With a quick twist, he opened the lid and, glancing about the forest one final time, he drew out the parchment, unrolled it, and began to read.
A weakness came over him. His body chilled. He sank down upon the bank, continued reading in disbelief. Completing his perusal, he considered what to do. His first thought was to bum the terrible missive so that it would never reach its destination. He dared not do that, however. Too many people had seen him take it. He thought of burning it and substituting another in its place, but he abandoned that wild idea immediately. He had no parchment, no pen, no ink. And perhaps Medan was familiar with the handwriting of the scribe who penned this message at the dragon’s injunction.
No, Gerard reasoned, sick at heart, there was nothing he could do now but deliver the dispatch. To do otherwise would be to put himself in danger, and he might be the only means of thwarting the dragon’s evil design.
Medan would be wondering what had become of him. Gerard had already been longer on his daily errand than usual. He hurriedly rolled up the dispatch, thrust it into the tube, carefully replaced the wax seal, and made sure that it was firmly stuck.
Thrusting the foul thing in his belt, unwilling to touch it more than necessary, he continued on his way back to the marshal’s at a run.
Gerard found the marshal strolling in his garden, taking his exercise after his evening meal. Hearing footsteps along the walkway, the marshal glanced around.
“Ah, Gerard. You are behind your time. I was starting to fear something might have happened to you.” The marshal looked intently at Gerard’s arm. “Something has happened to you. You are injured.”
Gerard glanced down at his shirtsleeve, saw it wet with blood. In his distraction over the dispatch, he’d forgotten his wounds, forgotten the fight with the draconian.
“There was an altercation at headquarters,” he said, knowing that Medan would come to hear what had happened. “Here are the daily reports.” He placed those upon a table that stood beneath a trellis over which Medan had patiently trained grapevines to grow, forming a green and leafy bower. “And there is this dispatch, which comes from the dragon Beryl.” , Medan took the dispatch with a grimace. He did not immediately open it. He was much more interested in hearing about the fight. “What was the altercation, Sir Gerard?”
“The draconian messenger insisted on bringing the dispatch to you himself. Your Knights did not think that this was necessary. They insisted he remain there to await your response.”
“Your doing, I think, sir,” said Medan with a smile. “You acted rightly. I am wary of Groul. Who knows what he is thinking in that lizard brain of his? He is not to be trusted.”