*****
The words of the leader echoed in Borac’s thoughts as the men carried him back into their lines. The forces of good were not yet routed but their retreat was in full effect. Those lightly wounded were being tended by physickers so they could return to the field and protect those too hurt to move themselves. Borac saw cavalry riding out to form a vanguard.
Borac was amazed at the cooperation and trust among the soldiers. No whips cracked, no threats, no drunken rowdiness. There was respect, discipline, friendship …
“We’ll leave you here for now,” the leader said. “We’ve got to return to the field.”
With a wave, the man commanded his soldiers to lower Borac to the ground, placing him in front of a large white tent. The leader saluted once. “Perhaps we’ll have the honor to stand with you in the field,” he said. Then he and his men were gone, off to fulfill their duties.
An old man stepped out of the tent. His blue robes were well kept, but his long white hair and beard were ragged and uneven. He knelt down beside Borac and carefully lifted the bandage over the wounded eye.
“Are…” Borac began, careful to keep his dragon’s hate from spilling forth with his pain. “Are you the healer?”
The old man looked startled, either by the question or by something else. “Me? No! But he’ll be with you shortly. I’m here to help keep your mind off the pain. Dice?”
Reaching into a pouch, the old man pulled out a handful of dice. Borac closed his eyes. This compassion was too much for him to bear. He was a mature dragon and had seen a great many things, but this . . . these humans were almost not credible.
“Come, come. I see you have your own dice. Risk a throw.”
Borac reached into a black velvet bag and removed his own handful of dice. He motioned for the old man to throw. Borac watched carefully, very carefully, the spin of each die, the bounce …
“What are the stakes?” Borac asked.
“Life,” said the old man.
Borac looked up, startled and wary.
The old man laughed. He held up a handful of coins.
The old man lost the first throw. And the third. Borac won five times, and twice they tied. The pain in Borac’s head subsided, and he reached up, pulling the bandage away from his head. The bleeding had not quite stopped, and his vision was clouding.
“Did you see a black dragon on the field?” the old man asked, tossing a few coins to Borac.
Borac took the coins and added them to his stack. He shook his head.
“It is said that dragons are made from the essence of Krynn itself,” the old man muttered, almost to himself. “I wonder if they can change from good to evil, from evil to good?”
Dice clattering on the low table, Borac let out a short breath. “I do not doubt it could happen.”
Borac caught sight of a blue glow coming from a pendant that hung around the old man’s throat. The sight in Borac’s left eye was nearly gone.
“If you kill me now, dragon, you’ll lose that eye,” the old man said. “Join us! Give me your word you’ll not turn back to evil and I will heal you!”
Borac’s thoughts washed from one memory to the next, of the honor, courage, fairness he had seen in this army and the cowardice, mistrust, and cruelty he had witnessed in his own. With his fading sight, he peered closely at the medallion hanging from the old man’s neck. It was a Medallion of Faith, with the symbol of Mishakal.
Borac stared at the medallion a long, quiet moment; the sound of the army’s retreat was far in the background, but loud enough for him to hear.
His own army would have left him for dead, gladly. This one had saved him, but now they demanded something in return. That was the way of humans. Though their traits were different, they were still the same. And he, a dragon, was above them all.
Borac sighed, once tempted, now resigned. His dragon’s hate bubbled slowly from his lips. He spit at the Medallion of Mishakal, burning it away from the chain.