Song of the Dragon (42 page)

“So you were planning on storming the defenses?” Ethis asked.

Drakis chuckled. “No . . . but we haven't seen any signs of movement out of the . . . wait! Did you hear that?”

“You
were
talking at the time and . . .”

“Quiet!” Drakis said, holding up his hand as he cocked his head to one side.

It was a strange, hollow sound, but in the silence around the mound it was unmistakable.

“Drakis . . . Come!”

Drakis turned to Ethis, but the chimerian was already craning his neck higher, straining toward the sound.

“Drakis . . . Ethis . . . come!”

“Where is it coming from?” Drakis whispered hoarsely.

“I don't see where . . . wait!” Ethis pointed with his upper right hand. “There . . . just to the right of center. I would swear that was closed just a moment ago!”

Drakis gazed closer in among the deepening shadows being cast by the overhang around the mound. One of the blocked openings was suddenly and inexplicably open. A tunnel ran backward and up into the mound. Two torches burned in sconces mounted on either wall.

“That's a little too accommodating,” Ethis said.

The voice from within called once more. “Drakis . . . Ethis . . . night is falling. Come . . . RuuKag . . . Mala . . . Jugar . . . Lyric . . . come!”

“It's Belag,” Drakis said as much for his own assurance as Ethis' benefit.

“No, it can't be,” Ethis countered. “This makes no sense, Drakis!”

“Perhaps not, but I'm going to get a closer look,” Drakis said, dropping his pack. He unstrapped the small shield and adjusted the sword at his hip. “You wait here and watch. If I don't come back, get everyone out of here and back to some more civilized place.”

“North, I suppose?” Ethis quipped.

Drakis chuckled. “If I don't come back, I wouldn't advise following such an obviously flawed prophecy.”

Drakis bounded from the cover of the grass straight onto the flat, open ground. He ran quickly across its surface, puzzled at the springy quality of the ground under his feet as he ran but too intent on the opening looming before him to stop. He flattened himself against the wall next to the opening and then slowly turned to look inside.

The tunnel floor rose upward. Pairs of torches fluttered in a breeze coming from inside the tunnel, emitting greasy smoke as they flagged, each pair lighting the way farther inside. The upward curve of the tunnel itself prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet or so down its length. The closing mechanism was obvious to him now as a round, carved stone rolled out of its channel and into a space in the wall. Something had built this place.

“Drakis . . . I've got to explain something.” The voice was unmistakably that of Belag, but there was an odd quality to it that Drakis could not identify.

Drakis ducked into the tunnel and, grabbing a torch, ran up the curving incline. He passed several pairs of torches along the way as the rough-walled tunnel first curved upward into an incline and then began to curve down away from him. There were no side passages nor openings that he could see. Each step carried him farther and deeper into the great mound.

The tunnel ended abruptly in a black void so large that the torch in his hand did not penetrate it.

Just over a hundred feet in front of him, illuminated by a single torch, sat a manticore on a woven throne.

“Belag?” Drakis called in a loud whisper.

The manticore stood. “Drakis! Thank the gods! I must beg your forgiveness . . . I would have come, but the Hak'kaarin would not permit me to leave.”

Drakis did not wait but walked quickly toward his friend. “You are being held a prisoner, then?”

“No . . . not exactly . . . please, Drakis, I need to explain . . .”

“Explanations later,” Drakis said. “First, let's get you out of here.”

“No, you don't understand,” Belag said, holding his huge hands out in front of him. “I need to warn you. The Hak'kaarin . . .”

“Warn me?” Drakis stopped at once, crouching down and turning slowly, his senses heightened. “What is it?”

“The Hak'kaarin,” Belag started again. “They love to . . .”

In that instant, ten thousand torches flared into life; their light banished the blackness from the enormous chamber.

Drakis screamed in shock, his body reacting at once in fear. When he came to his senses once more, he was crouching, his sword drawn and shield held high as he stared in wonder.

“The Hak'kaarin,” Belag sighed, “love to surprise guests.”

The torches illuminated hundreds of caves that honeycombed the walls of the mud cavern. Branching caverns could be seen in several directions, now completely visible in the bright light. But it was the eyes staring back at him that astonished him the most; each of the hundreds of caverns was filled with short, reddish brown creatures with enormous eyes and hooked noses. They wore hides, pelts, and tanned leathers for clothing, and each held a torch in large hands with long fingers.

Drakis was standing next to a great blackened pit filled with dried grass bundles and even a few dead trees. As he watched, two of the small creatures scurried forward and tossed their torches onto the pile. The pit erupted into a towering fire, and the thousands of creatures in the caverns lining the walls broke into an enormous cheer.

“Where in the abyss have you been?” Drakis yelled at Belag, trying to be heard over the noise.

“Here,” Belag roared back. “They caught me last night trying to get a better look at them. They have a rather impressive defensive plan that . . .”

“Not now,” Drakis yelled back. “Why didn't you come back?”

“They wouldn't let me,” Belag replied. “We need their help, and I didn't want to hurt any of them.”

“So you just sat here?” Drakis barked.

“No,” Belag shook his great head. “The Hak'kaarin are mud gnomes . . . wanderers of the wasteland. About the only thing they love better than surprising other creatures is hearing their stories.”

Drakis was not sure he heard the manticore correctly over the noise. “Did you say ‘stories'?”

“Yes!” the manticore bellowed in reply.

Drakis looked up, suddenly aware that the cheering had become rhythmic.

“Oh, no!” Drakis' murmured words were completely obscured by the chanting.

“DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS! . . .”

The human warrior turned to the manticore and smiled grimly as he yelled. “I think I can guess which story you've been telling!”

“S
OEN TJEN-REI, Inquisitor of the Iblisi,” the brilliantly robed gnome shouted from the far end of the Great House Hall, throwing his chubby arms wide. “My dear old friend! The sight of you fills my eyes with joy!”

Soen bowed deeply at the hall entrance, dust billowing from his robes as he quickly returned upright and threw his own arms wide, his narrow face split into a sharp-toothed smile. “Argos Helm, Caliph of the Dje'kaarin and my most honored citizen of the north! The burdens of my journey are lightened at your sight!”

Argos Helm slapped both his fat hands down on the top of his trouser-covered thighs with a resounding clap. This caused both his short legs to jerk forward slightly in reflex, his ornate silk shoes swinging away from the tall throne where they hung two full handbreadths above the floor.

Soen determinedly held his fixed smile, fingering his Matei staff in his right hand and mentally reviewing the many ways in which he might use it to most satisfactorily obliterate the pompous, scheming, slippery, and utterly corrupt gnome who sat so cheerfully before him. Argos was the latest in an unfortunately long line of Caliphs who had ruled the Stone Gnome tribes of the northern coastal regions of Vestasia since the Grand Army of the Emperor had come to a disappointing end to its march at these miserable shores three centuries before. Mortis Helm was only one of several dozen self-proclaimed warlords, but it was he alone who had both the shrewd foresight and unbridled pragmatic opportunism to ally himself and his family with the weary invaders. Mortis was in awe of the might and splendor of the Rhonas Imperium from the distant south—especially their stand against the humans who had, in his mind, long ignored and dismissed his people as unworthy of their attentions. He envisioned a day when all his people would be a part of that Empire, forever giving up the wandering ways of the tribes, living in one place in sheltering walls of stone while enjoying at their ease the luxurious splendors of a more civilized world. Of course, being the only visionary he knew, Mortis would rule them on behalf of the greater good. The Dje'kaarin would no longer govern themselves, but then governance was such a burden for the unworthy and unenlightened. Better that he should do their thinking for them.

Not all of the other warlords agreed with this view of the world, but Mortis Helm was not bound by such mundane considerations as ethics, and he had the support of the Rhonas Legions of Conquest. A little treachery went a long way, especially when it was coupled to an incredibly huge lie: He convinced the stone gnomes that he and his tribe had actually affected the
surrender
of the elven Legions to
him
. At the same time, Mortis offered to hand over the effective rule of the stone gnomes to the elves so long as they were discreet about their arrangement and supported his deception. Soon the elven commanders with smiles on their faces—not unlike the one which Soen now wore—fulfilled their promise and installed Mortis Helm as the first Caliph of the Dje'kaarin—master of all the stone gnomes of the Vestasian Coast.

Succeeding generations saw the dreadfully accurate fulfillment of Mortis Helm's original vision. With the establishment of an Occuran Trade Portal in Yurani Keep—the farthest portal of the northwest fold chain—trade goods from the heart of the Empire were soon flooding the village. The stone gnomes, once proud nomadic warriors, were enslaved at last not by chains or whips but by soft clothes, easily bartered meals, and their own complacency. The old stories were still told to their children, but with each generation it was harder to believe that gnomes had lived any other way than as a drone outpost of Rhonas civilization.

The one thing that never seemed to fade was the general hatred of the Dje'kaarin gnome citizens for their Helm Caliphate rulers. The Helm dynasty's treachery was by no means limited to the origins of the Caliphate and over time had become the stuff of legend among the Stone Gnomes. Down the centuries there had been repeated attempts by various factions—usually descendants of the ancient warlord families—to oust the contemporary Helm Caliph, install their own warlord, and foment a radical change in the Dje'kaarin government. Time and again, the Iblisi were called upon by the successive Caliphs to journey to this miserable outpost of the Empire and shore up the sagging fortunes of the Helm dynasty.

Soen's shining black eyes studied the Caliph even as he strained at his studied, pleasant grin. Argos was only the latest incarnation of the line of succession and, if anything, had proved himself as typical an example of his forbearers as possible. He was short even for a gnome, the top of his head—minus the ridiculous crown—barely coming to the midpoint of Soen's thigh. His gray beard was carefully groomed, coming to two separated points just below his waist. These he kept tucked inside a wide belt that he wore incongruously over an elven Imperial tunic. His skin was of a reddish brown color reminiscent of cherrywood. He had the large, hooked nose that was typical of his race and bright, narrow eyes with perpetual smile lines at the corners. The top of his head was bald—shaved, Soen suspected, so that he might look more like the elves with whom he did his most important business.

Indeed, the Great House Hall itself was a ridiculously bad imitation of the Emperor's audience hall in Rhonas. The great domed ceiling was reincarnated as a stick framework tied together with rawhide thongs. Even then it was not properly put together and sagged badly toward the eastern wall. Someone had shored it up with additional long poles inside the dome, which destroyed any marvelous architectural affect the dome might have presented in the first place, but at least it didn't look on the verge of collapse. The walls were entirely of native stone covered in a thick adobe mud, but the mud itself had been scratched at by gnome artists with sticks in an attempt to reproduce the delicate marble friezes of the Emperor's throne room. The mud had proved to be a poor medium for such reproductions, and Soen often had to remind himself not to look at them. The throne was bad enough—a vulgar and unintentionally sacrilegious copy of the Seat of the Empire that, were its existence generally known, might have been deemed sufficient to put an end to the Helm Caliph line once and for all. The throne was, like most things, entirely too big for Argos Helm.

The Caliph had to bounce twice on the cushion before he could gain enough momentum to hop down from his perch. “You honor me and all my people. For you the generous nature of my heart is laid open without reserve—but, how it is you have come to me in such a state? What long roads have brought my favorite son of the Empire to my humble self?”

“I regret that my mission requires urgency, oh great Caliph,” Soen said, letting a hint of deference into his voice. “I would have made myself more presentable to you, but I am on the Emperor's errand and time is against me.”

“The Emperor's errand!” Argos' rubbery face affected astonishment as he waved the Iblisi to approach him. “Perhaps from the Imperial City itself?”

“Yes, oh great Caliph,” Soen began.

“Ah, to visit the heart of the Empire!” Argos opined. “To see its towers and walk its streets! I have heard of your citadels that float among the clouds and the magic of your Aether that flows like water from your Wells. I should dearly love one day to make the journey and stand among my fellow citizens!”