returned to us. A woman Knight of Solamnia. She will probably be with the militia heading for Duntollik. She is a skilled warrior, so her capture will not be easy. I will pay one-hundred steel coins for her alive.”
“What about dead?”
“The person who brings me this woman dead will meet the same fate.”
“Ah.” The bozak flicked his pointed ears. “I will remember that.”
His business with the draconian finished, the Akkad-Ur gestured to his guards and dismissed the draconian. He watched as the bozak stamped out.
Something stirred in the deep shadows at the back of the tent, then a grubby and weary-looking man stepped out of the sleeping area and tread softly across the carpets.
“Mercenaries again?” he said behind the Akkad-Ur. “How long will these last?”
The Akkad-Ur did not turn around. “As long as they are useful. If they prove troublesome, we can put them in the front of battle and crush them in the middle.” He heard the splash of wine and held out a hand. A wine cup was pressed into his palm. “You really should stay downwind of me,” he remarked.
His visitor ignored the comment. “To the militia,” the man said, coming around to face the general. He raised his cup in a toast. “They are a courageous and tenacious foe.”
“They have been more of a challenge than we anticipated,” agreed the Akkad-Ur. “Yet the Rose Knight fled. That surprised me.”
“She did not run away. She is making a strategic withdrawal. As long as you have the dragon, she will not go far.”
“She cares a great deal for that dragon,” the Tarmak mused. “Does that bother you?”
“No. It is a dragon.”
But the denial paused just a heartbeat too late and came a little too emphatically. The Akkad-Ur knew this man well and realized the truth behind the words. “When the time comes, you may kill the dragon,” he offered.
“She would never forgive me,” the man said. “That’s hardly a way to win a woman.”
“Why win her? Just take her.”
But the man realized he’d said too much about a subject he preferred to keep personal. He drank deeply of his wine and deliberately spilled some down his filthy tunic. “I have to explain the smell of wine. You’re torturing me, remember?”
“Why continue this ruse?” The Akkad-Ur said, pouring more wine. “The Knights are ours and the woman is gone. Come and take your rightful place beside me.”
The man stared at the red liquid in his cup. “I have considered that. But I don’t believe the Rose Knight and the militia are quite through. I prefer to keep undercover until she is back in our hands and we have defeated the forces of Duntollik.”
The Tarmak shrugged. “As you wish.”
The man drained his cup, set it down, and stood in front of the Akkad-Ur. “Does the dragon know yet?”
“No. But he is growing restive. He has asked to see her several times.”
“It would, I believe, be a good idea to get her back.”
“I have already sent the bandits after her. Do you want more?”
“Let’s try the Solamnic Knights.”
“Tell me.”
The man did, and when he was finished, an appreciative and knowing smile lifted the Akkad-Ur’s mouth. “I will do as you suggest.”
“Good. Now you’d better hit me. Just once, please. Make it look believable.”
The Akkad-Ur clenched his fist and punched the man on the cheek bone, not hard enough to break bone but enough to leave a colorful bruise and a black eye.
The two bowed to each other, and when the guards were called back into the tent, the man extended his arms. He was bound and shoved forcefully out the entrance. Dirty, dripping with blood and wine, and seemingly hurting in every limb, he returned to his companions in the slave camp.
Early the next morning, the Akkad-Ur called back his trackers and left the badlands behind. The army was not far from the King’s Road, the old road that bisected the eastern Plains from west to east and ended eventually in the kingdom of Silvanesti. One of his scouts had told him earlier that the Qualinesti elves were on the road moving east toward the Forest. While he would not mind sending them to join the dead, he did not really worry about them. From more recent reports he knew the elves were exhausted, low on supplies, and disheartened. Slaughtering them would be no honor and hold no glory. They were going to Silvanesti and would soon, he knew, have their hands full of Dark Knights, refugee Silvanesti elves, and nowhere to go. He could deal with them later if need be. In the meanwhile, he sent scouts out to check on the elves’ progress and sent his army marching west toward the east fork of the Toranth River. They would follow the river north and west, cross the King’s Road, and enter Duntollik from the east.
He was still working on his maps at noon when his guards brought the Solamnic Knight commander before him.
The Akkad-Ur looked from his camp chair at the sweating Knight and gestured to a second chair set beside the small table under an awning. The Tarmaks had stopped for a noon break to rest the horses and allow the army to eat a quick meal.
Sir Remmik’s stare could have set the table on fire. He did not move. He did not look cowed or fearful, only suspicious.
“Please, Sir Knight,” said the Akkad-Ur. “Sit down. I merely wish to talk to you.”
The guards saluted and walked some distance away, leaving their Akkad-Ur alone with the Solamnic. A young Tarmak boy approached with a tray and quickly laid the table for a meal. He set out two cloths, two mugs, and a pitcher of something steaming. He laid food on the cloths, bowed to the Akkad-Ur, and hurried away. No one else came to join them.
“Sir Remmik, sit down. The food is not poisoned or drugged. I will not harm you. I only intend to talk to you.”
The Knight lifted one eyebrow. “I have not bowed to your tortures. I will not bow to your blandishments. By our Oath and Measure I cannot cooperate with you.”
“Really? Others have. I just assumed these oaths of yours were mere… guidelines.”
Sir Remmik recoiled as if insulted. “Who has cooperated with you? Tell me their names!”
The Akkad-Ur gave a cold chuckle. Carefully, reverently, he removed the golden mask of his office, laid it on a stand, and turned barefaced to look at the Knight.
Sir Remmik’s eyes narrowed. Without the gold mask, the Tarmak looked much like the others. His features were sharply aquiline, framed by long gray hair and thick gray eyebrows. His eyes stared back with a piercing intensity and intelligence that Sir Remmik found rather disconcerting in a barbarian. Yet without the mask, the Akkad-Ur seemed more… human… more approachable. Radiating caution, he walked around the table and sat down across from the Akkad-Ur. He kept his hands on his knees and touched nothing.
The Akkad-Ur poured the hot liquid into the cups, inhaling the powerful spicy scent of kefre. “I have taken a liking to this beverage. I don’t know why. You could polish armor with it. But it has a certain body. My cook heats some for me in the morning and keeps it hot through the day.” He pushed a cup toward Sir Remmik, who ignored it.
Leaning back in his seat, the Tarmak swallowed a long drink. “There are meat rolls, olives, cheese. It is a simple meal for the trail, but better than you’ve had for a while. Eat.”
The Knight sat stonily in his seat, his face set in grim lines. His eyes strayed to the bronze dragon crouching a hundred feet away, out of earshot. He could not see the barb that kept the dragon imprisoned with the Tarmaks, but he saw the effects every time the dragon tried to move his front quarters. It obviously pained him.
“I have a task I would like you to perform for me,” the Akkad-Ur said.
“No.” Sir Remmik’s tone was harder than steel.
The Akkad-Ur took a bite of his roll, chewed and swallowed before he replied. “You do not know what I want you to do.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
