“You are not the only one who can gather information, Lady Knight. We have had spies in this city for several years. Unfortunately, they are unavailable at this moment, and you conveniently placed yourself in my hands.” He raised his other hand and placed his fingers across her face so his fingertips gripped the sides of her head. His touch felt like steel.

“How did you kill Iyesta?” she snapped.

The general’s mask stared down at her, but she heard the slightest intake of breath as if her question had taken him by surprise. “You are stubborn-and as passionate as any dragon. I helped Thunder kill Iyesta and the three young ones with a gift my father received from the Highlord Ariakas himself-an Abyssal Lance.” He nodded toward the black-shafted lance. “Now, I have lost patience. It is time to give me answers.”

His fingers closed on her skull and a brilliant light flashed through her head, as hot and excruciating as a heated poker. Her jaws were forced open, and he poured the contents of the cup between her lips. The liquid tasted vaguely of wine and herbs, but it burned her mouth and the back of her throat. Terrified, she gagged and tried to spit it out, but she succeeded only in choking on the fiery liquid. What was it? Had he poisoned her?

“Where is the bronze dragon?” he repeated.

Linsha’s body went numb and sagged in the straps holding her to the pole. Only her head remained sensitive to the pain that bore into her skull. She stifled a groan as her vision blurred and her thoughts began to run together. Inside her head, memories of dark rain and pounding thunder mingled with blurry images of the tent. She tried to force an image-any image-into focus, only to see it fade and blend and slip out of her reach.

Then the world turned black and wet. She heard the strange voices again, and this time she recognized the language they spoke. Black silhouettes swam into her vision. She saw the figure with the sword come toward her, and she saw her dagger. Clear and brilliant as a flash of lightning, a piece of her memory floated into place. Her dagger. She had stabbed the black figure in the chest. Sir Morrec had died of a knife wound to the back. As the black figure faded out of focus, the second black silhouette swam into her vision. A blow exploded behind her ear. The rainy night abruptly vanished and the tent slipped back into sight. But the steely touch of the hand on her temples was the same. The colored explosion of pain and the acrid aftertaste of magic was the same.

“The dragon,” demanded the voice.

“You… attacked us. You killed Sir Morrec,” she managed to say. She let her chin drop to her chest. Her hair was wet and her face bathed in sweat. She shook as if from a fever.

The general pressed his fingers harder. The pain grew worse. “Answer me, woman. Where do we find the bronze?”

Linsha screamed but she would not answer. Her father Palin had held out for months against the horrible tortures of the Dark Knight mystics. His daughter was made of the same stern stubbornness. She could not betray Crucible.

After a while, the Tarmak general pulled back from the Lady Knight and eyed her unconscious form. A second Tarmak officer stepped into the tent.

“Is she dead?” the man inquired in their rough, guttural language.

The general tossed the cup to the ground. “Of course not. It would take more than I gave her to kill her. She is strong.”

“Will she take the bait?”

“If she is as clever as I have been told, she will take it.”

“And if not?”

“Then I will give her to your men. They can kill her as they wish.” He turned away from his prisoner. “Has Thunder returned from his lair?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Good. Then let us go make our preparations.”

Together the two men walked out of the tent, leaving Linsha hanging on the pole.

The Lance

23

In the half light of dawn when colors had not yet become visible and the landscape was still half-hidden in grays and shadowed blacks, an owl soared out of a pine tree and circled over the tents of the Brute encampment. The few guards left in the camp paid no attention to her, and no one noticed when she swooped down to the ground near the largest tent. On the ground she was almost invisible. She hopped to a place in the back where sections of the tough fabric were stitched together. Several quick snips of her beak opened a hole large enough for her squeeze through.

Step-hopping, she made her way across the rugs on the floor to the woman’s body tied to the tent pole. Varia satisfied herself that Linsha was still alive and began to climb up the Lady Knight’s leg to the padded mercenary’s tunic and the leather thongs that held her to the pole. The leather was tougher than the tent fabric and took some time to snip through. Finally, she nipped through the last strand, and Linsha toppled to the floor.

“Ouch,” came a muffled protest from the prostrate woman.

“Ah, you are awake,” said the owl in her whispery voice. “I am pleased they left you alive.”

“Barely.” Linsha groaned and tried to roll over, only to discover her feet were still tied to the pole. “Would you mind?”

Varia snapped through the last leather bindings, and Linsha pulled free. She pushed herself onto her back and lay staring at the roof of the tent as if she were trying to remember how she got there.

“Are you well?” asked the owl.

“No. That bastard knows sorcery. He used some sort of drug on me and a spell that I thought was going to shatter my skull. Gods,” she groaned, “what did I tell him?”

“We need to get you out of here. The general and his officers are gone, but there are a few guards left.”

Linsha did not take the hint. She lay very still, her forehead creased in thought. “It’s odd. I remember he asked me questions. I don’t think I answered. He knew too much about me, that’s for sure. But he answered some of my questions. Why would he do that?”

The owl fussed around, pulling off the leather thongs and checking her bloody wrists. If she had been a little bigger, she would have hauled Linsha to her feet and dragged her out, but she had to be patient and wait for the Lady Knight to find her own strength.

“Varia, what is an Abyssal Lance?” Linsha asked.

The owl chirped in surprise and hooted softly. “Why?”

“The general said something about one.”

“There were only a few made, as I remember. Some smiths serving the Highlord Ariakas made them as an evil variation of the dragonlance. They were dreadful weapons.”

“Is that one?” Linsha raised a sluggish hand and pointed at the ceiling.

Varia cut her eyes to the roof of the tent where a long, black shaft hung on golden cords from the tent roof supports. Her dark eyes widened to pools. “So that’s how they did it.”

“It will kill a dragon, won’t it?”

“They were not as effective as a dragonlance, but yes, they could kill a dragon.”

Linsha pulled herself upright and, using the pole for support, hauled herself to her feet. “Come on, we’re taking that thing with us.”

She took a step toward the general’s couch and fell to her knees. The tent swayed around her with a sickening spin. She took several deep breaths and put her head between her knees.

“Where are the centaurs when you need them?” she moaned.

Varia said nothing. She fluttered to her hole in the back of the tent, slipped out, and flew into the trees. Linsha did not notice. She concentrated on her breathing and her dizziness until she could bring both under control, then she sat up and climbed to her feet.

At that moment there was a shout outside, a clashing sound, and hoofbeats. Suddenly, a centaur yanked open the tent entrance.