so.
Most of the soldiers in the encampment were human,
with deep-set eyes and cruel mouths. There were a number
of draconians as well, dressed in leather armor similar to
that of the human soldiers. Short, stubby wings sprouted
from the draconians’ backs, as leathery as a bat’s, but they
seemed to flutter uselessly as the draconians stalked across
the ground on clawed, unbooted feet.
“This doesn’t look like one of the friendlier audiences
you’ve ever had to hawk potions to,” Grimm noted as the
wagon rolled into the center of the encampment.
Jastom had played to dangerous audiences before,
unruly crowds of ruffians who were more interested in
breaking bones than in buying magical potions. But he had
won even these over in the end.
A gleam touched Jastom’s blue eyes. “No, but they
ARE an audience all the same, aren’t they?” he said softly,
glad for the dwarf’s reminder. “Let’s not forget that,
Grimm. They think we’re healers. And as long as they
keep thinking that, we’ll keep our heads attached to our
necks.” There was only one rule to remember when
hawking to a nasty crowd:
never show fear.
Jastom shook the wrinkles out of his cape and cocked
his feathered cap at an outrageous angle. “You there,” he
called out to a man in the crowd, donning a charming
smile as easily as another man might don a hat. “Might I
ask you a question? How did – ”
The lieutenant whirled his jet black mount sharply and
rode beside the wagon. “If you have questions, healer,
address them to me.” Durm’s voice was a sword’s edge
draped with a silken cloth.
“You – You have so many soldiers in this camp,”
Jastom gulped, doing his best to sound as if he were
simply making casual conversation. “How did they come
to be here?”
A faint smile touched Durm’s lips, but it was not an
expression of mirth. Jastom fought the urge to shiver.
“What tales do the knights tell in Solamnia?” Durm asked.
“That they swept the dragonarmies from the face of
Krynn? Well, as you can see, they have not. I will grant
the Whitestone armies this – they have won an important
battle. But if the Knights of Solamnia believe this war is
truly over, then they are as foolish as the tales tell them to
be.” Durm gestured to the camp about them as he rode. A
line of soldiers, holding their swords at ready, marched by
in formation, saluting Durm as they passed.
“In truth, this is but a small outpost,” Durm went on.
“Far more of our forces lie to the east. All the lands
between this place and the Khalkist Mountains belong to
the Highlord of the Blue Dragonarmy. And the other
dragonarmies hold still more lands, to the north and east.
Already the Dark Lady – my Highlord and master – draws
her plans for a counterstrike against the knights. It will be
a glorious battle.” For the first time Jastom thought he saw
a flash of color in Durm’s pale eyes.
“So do not despair, Jastom Mosswine, that the Dragon
Highlord now owns you,” Durm went on in his polite,
chilling tone. “Soon she will own all of Ansalon.”
Jastom started to ask another question, but Durm held
up a hand, silencing him. They came to halt before a tent
so large it might more properly be called a pavilion. A
banner flew from its highest pole, a blue dragon rampant
across a field of black. Two soldiers stood at the tent’s
entrance, hands on the hilts of their swords.
An ancient-looking cottonwood tree spread its heavy,
gnarled limbs above the tent. A half-dozen queer-looking
objects dangled from several of the branches. Some
seemed to be no more than large, tattered backpacks, but a
few of them had a shape that seemed vaguely familiar to
Jastom. Suddenly a faint breeze ruffled through the tree’s
green leaves, and the dangling bundles began to spin on
their ropes. Several pale, bloated circles came into view.
Faces.
Jastom quickly averted his eyes, slapping a hand to
his mouth to keep from spilling his guts. Those weren’t
bundles hanging in the tree. They were people. Each