Dragonlance Tales, Vol. 3 – Love and War

again with his own pride as they dropped to the right and

left. His arms felt, not the endless weariness of the accursed

dead, but the growing soreness and strain of a living

warrior. His eyes flicked back and forth alertly, noting even

how a sweet night wind ruffled the grass into which allies

and enemies were falling.

Ahead of him a draconian crouched over the prone stag,

bringing a sword down with all the force he could above the

near-motionless neck. The stag had not even looked up, dust

and chaff barely moving in its nostrils.

The king dove forward, sword aimed at the draconian’s

heart. He made no attempt to parry the descending sword as

it passed through his ornamental armor and into him.

His own blow took effect a moment later; the

draconian doubled over, gasping, and froze that way, a

corpse carved from a boulder. The king, carried by his own

momentum, rolled against the stone body and winced with

the pain. “I’ll have a bruise tomorrow,” he thought vaguely,

unsure after all these years what a bruise felt or looked like.

He lay still and listened, hearing nothing but the stag’s

labored breathing. He struggled to his feet, barely able to

hold his sword but aware of triumph and of great pain.

The stag opened his eyes. “Peris. The draconians?”

“Dead.” Never, in Darken Wood, had the word been said

with such satisfaction.

“An unusual way to end a hunt, with dead hunters.” “You

have said so before.” The king knelt, taking the stag’s head

on his lap. The stag’s chest wound, pulled free of the

ground, re-opened, but the king paid no attention. “You

have often said that at a hunt’s end the hunter should be

alive, the quarry dead.”

“I have often been insulting.” His eyes blurred; with

great effort he shook his head and cleared them angrily.

“What will happen now?”

“If I know soldiers, the commanders who ordered the

search of Darken Wood will decide to delay another search

until they feel they can risk further loss. They will also hope

that their quarry, the questing party of the other night,

appears elsewhere, as someone else’s responsibility.” He

shuddered. “At any rate, we will have saved this part of the

world for a while – if, as they say, I know soldiers.”

“You know soldiers well. You lead them still better.”

“Thank you.” The king sat down heavily by the

bleeding stag. “A satisfying night, but not an easy one. I

have been wounded.”

“Recently?” The stag grunted as its forehead horn,

cracked by the sword-blow, split all the way to the skull.

“Tonight, in fact.”

“At any other time, I enjoy a joke – ”

“Seriously.” Red leaked through the holes in the king’s

armor, as though the rubies were melting. “I had forgotten

how painful this was.”

“You could have asked me.” The stag raised its pain-

wracked head. Now the split horn sagged apart, its cleft

gaping, and exposed bone at its root.

“I could have,” the king agreed. “It seemed rude.” He

spoke with difficulty. “It seems I have fulfilled a pledge and

will die in service.”

The stag said, “I also.” He added, “Could you help me

over to the last standing draconian? I would not mind dying

with such memorial.”

The king, gasping, carried the shuddering body of the

stag to the foot of the standing draconian. “He has – ” He

coughed.

“Can you speak no more clearly than that? I seem not

to hear well just now.” The rumble of the moving horns

covered all sound.

The king braced himself and said distinctly, “This one

has a hoof-print on his chest. Yours?”

“I would nod, but I have a headache.” Blood ran from

his split forehead. As though watered, the twin horn-shards

sprouted buds of antlers.

“Then he will wear my marks as well.” Holding the

stag with one arm, the king removed his own crown and

placed it on the stone figure before sliding wetly down its

side to the grass.

The stag rasped, “Either I am overly sensitive by

nature, or this seems harder than usual.” Blood was flowing

darkly around the dust in his chest wound. “Could you not

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