Read Online Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun by Margaret Weis - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
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shiver. She placed her lips upon his
forehead. Her kiss burned like ice, the chill struck through to his
heart. He would always feel that kiss, from that moment after. He
wondered if her pallid lips had left an indelible mark.
Samar's crisp professionalism came as a relief.
"You know the route, Prince Silvan," Samar said. "You rode it
only two days before. The road lies about a mile and a half due
south of here. You will have no stars to guide you, but the wind
blows from the north. Keep the wind at your back and you will
be heading in the right direction. The road runs east and west,
straight and true. You must eventually cross it. Once you are on
the road, travel westward. The storm wind will be on your right
cheek. You should make good time. There is no need for stealth.
The sound of battle will mask your movements. Good luck,
Prince Silvanoshei."
"Thank you, Samar," said Silvan, touched and pleased. For
the first time in his life, the elf had spoken to him as an equal,
with even a modicum of respect. "I will not fail you or my
mother."
"Do not fail your people, Prince," said Samar.
With a final glance and a smile for his mother, a smile she did
not return, Silvan turned and left the burial mound, striking out
in the direction of the forest. He had not gone far, when he heard
Samar's voice raised in a bellowing cry.
"General Aranoshah! Take two orders of swordsmen off to the
left flank and send two more to the right. We'll need to keep four
units here with Her Majesty in reserve in case they breach the line
and break through."
Break through! That was impossible. The line would hold.
The line must hold. Silvan halted and looked back. The elves had
raised their battle song, its music sweet and uplifting, soaring
above the brutish chant of the ogres. He was cheered by the sight
and started on, when a ball of fire, blue-white and blinding, ex-
ploded on the left side of the hill. The fireball hurtled down the
hillside, heading for the burial mounds.
"Shift fire to your left!" Samar called down the slope.
The archers were momentarily confused, not understanding
their targets, but their officers managed to turn them in the right
direction. The ball of flame struck another portion of the barrie4
ignited the thicket, and continued to blaze onward. At first
Silvan thought the balls of flame were magical, and he wondered
what good archers would do against sorcery, but then he saw
that the fireballs were actually huge bundles of hay being
pushed and shoved down the hillside by the ogres. He could see
their hulking bodies silhouetted black against the leaping flames.
The ogres carried long sticks that they used to shove the burning
hay stacks.
"Wait for my order!" Samar cried, but the elves were nervous
and several arrows were loosed in the direction of the blazing
hay.
"No, damn it!" Samar yelled with rage down the slope.
"They're not in range yet! Wait for the order!"
A crash of thunder drowned out his voice. Seeing their com-
rades fire, the remainder of the archer line loosed their first volley.
The arrows arched through the smoke-filled night. Three of the
ogres pushing the flaming haystacks fell under the withering fire,
but the rest of the arrows landed far short of their marks.
"Still," Silvan told himself, "they will soon stop them."
A baying howl as of a thousand wolves converging on their
prey cried from the woods close to the elven archers. Silvan
stared, startled, thinking that the trees themselves had come
alive.
"Shift fire forward!" Samar cried desperately.
The archers could not hear him over the roar of the ap-
proaching flames. Too late, their officers noticed the sudden
rushing movement in the trees at the foot of the hill. A line of
ogres surged into the open, charging the thicket wall that pro-
tected the archers. The flames had weakened the barrier. The
huge ogres charged into the smoldering mass of burned sticks
and logs, shouldering their way
forehead. Her kiss burned like ice, the chill struck through to his
heart. He would always feel that kiss, from that moment after. He
wondered if her pallid lips had left an indelible mark.
Samar's crisp professionalism came as a relief.
"You know the route, Prince Silvan," Samar said. "You rode it
only two days before. The road lies about a mile and a half due
south of here. You will have no stars to guide you, but the wind
blows from the north. Keep the wind at your back and you will
be heading in the right direction. The road runs east and west,
straight and true. You must eventually cross it. Once you are on
the road, travel westward. The storm wind will be on your right
cheek. You should make good time. There is no need for stealth.
The sound of battle will mask your movements. Good luck,
Prince Silvanoshei."
"Thank you, Samar," said Silvan, touched and pleased. For
the first time in his life, the elf had spoken to him as an equal,
with even a modicum of respect. "I will not fail you or my
mother."
"Do not fail your people, Prince," said Samar.
With a final glance and a smile for his mother, a smile she did
not return, Silvan turned and left the burial mound, striking out
in the direction of the forest. He had not gone far, when he heard
Samar's voice raised in a bellowing cry.
"General Aranoshah! Take two orders of swordsmen off to the
left flank and send two more to the right. We'll need to keep four
units here with Her Majesty in reserve in case they breach the line
and break through."
Break through! That was impossible. The line would hold.
The line must hold. Silvan halted and looked back. The elves had
raised their battle song, its music sweet and uplifting, soaring
above the brutish chant of the ogres. He was cheered by the sight
and started on, when a ball of fire, blue-white and blinding, ex-
ploded on the left side of the hill. The fireball hurtled down the
hillside, heading for the burial mounds.
"Shift fire to your left!" Samar called down the slope.
The archers were momentarily confused, not understanding
their targets, but their officers managed to turn them in the right
direction. The ball of flame struck another portion of the barrie4
ignited the thicket, and continued to blaze onward. At first
Silvan thought the balls of flame were magical, and he wondered
what good archers would do against sorcery, but then he saw
that the fireballs were actually huge bundles of hay being
pushed and shoved down the hillside by the ogres. He could see
their hulking bodies silhouetted black against the leaping flames.
The ogres carried long sticks that they used to shove the burning
hay stacks.
"Wait for my order!" Samar cried, but the elves were nervous
and several arrows were loosed in the direction of the blazing
hay.
"No, damn it!" Samar yelled with rage down the slope.
"They're not in range yet! Wait for the order!"
A crash of thunder drowned out his voice. Seeing their com-
rades fire, the remainder of the archer line loosed their first volley.
The arrows arched through the smoke-filled night. Three of the
ogres pushing the flaming haystacks fell under the withering fire,
but the rest of the arrows landed far short of their marks.
"Still," Silvan told himself, "they will soon stop them."
A baying howl as of a thousand wolves converging on their
prey cried from the woods close to the elven archers. Silvan
stared, startled, thinking that the trees themselves had come
alive.
"Shift fire forward!" Samar cried desperately.
The archers could not hear him over the roar of the ap-
proaching flames. Too late, their officers noticed the sudden
rushing movement in the trees at the foot of the hill. A line of
ogres surged into the open, charging the thicket wall that pro-
tected the archers. The flames had weakened the barrier. The
huge ogres charged into the smoldering mass of burned sticks
and logs, shouldering their way
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