by Robert Day
In the silent darkness, locked within the solitude of his pain and anguish, Valdieron pledged revenge for Kaz, and all others he knew to have fallen while aiding him against the Ashar’an.
Chapter 28
To any other than Ka’Varel, the enchanting image before him might have appeared as if from a dream, but Cashandaar, the City of the Dragons, seemed more a prison to him now. From the railed balcony of his room high in one of the great spires of the city, he saw beyond the gold and silver wrought city, where surrounding it lay a wall of intense fog, for this was no normal city, but a place of great magic existing between planes. The magic was unknown to Ka’Varel and any of his kind, and the Dragons would not and could not speak of it. He had been to the fabled and majestic city before, and the enormity of it amazed even him, who had seen many great and powerful things in his long life.
The almost imperceptible opening of the chamber’s main door heralded an arrival, though he knew who it would be before he turned around to see the alien features of Saranthier, in the form all Dragons took when walking the miniature halls and chambers of the City. It made Ka’Varel wonder if the Dragons did in fact craft the city or not, for it was strange they should make it like this and not enjoy it in their natural form.
Saranthier was tall; taller than Ka’Varel by a head, and muscled in a way that many men would be envious. His features were hard yet handsome, maybe a reflection of the true form beneath, and there was no mistaking the wisdom and power of his stride, demeanor and especially his pale golden eyes. This was also a reflection of the Dragon’s true form, for all Dragons had eyes the shade of their scales when in their humanoid form. His hair was dark, like the night, and held back with a thin band of gold. His clothes were regal, a dark red robe inlaid with thread of silver, and he wore slippers of fine pelt, of some animal Ka’Varel also could not determine. He wore no jewelry nor any weapon, for like Ka’Varel, he had no need of them.
His curt nod was the only greeting he gave Ka’Varel as he joined him on the balcony, moving to the railing and pressing his hands to it, showing no sign of fear at the height, for he was a creature of the air.
“So, have the council decided?” He knew the answer to his question even as he asked it, for Saranthier would not be here if the council had not, it was just a matter of what they had decided. Though they had not needed to be told, he had retold the Dragon council what was happening on Kil’Tar, and had pleaded for their aid again, for he had found out once healed of his injuries, the Dragons had elected not to lend their support unless truly needed. Ka’Varel saw both the wisdom and the folly of such an act, for though the Dragons were of lesser number than they had been for many centuries, they were also the only true power left who could make a difference in the struggle against the Demon hosts. He knew Valdieron could not defeat them, even with all of the armies of the realms and the power of the Astral City.
“It has been decided we shall play no part in the coming conflict.” With a soft, calm voice, none who heard it would have guessed at Saranthier’s true nature: that of an ancient Dragon, but there was a power to it Ka’Varel knew well. “One of us has already aided the Chosen One in the City of Altaire, in Zarn. That is more than he should, for he risked his safety and that of our race to aid this boy. At last account, he was headed south, towards Sha’Kar.”
“So you do not believe in the Prophecies.” It was not a question, and there was a bitter edge to Ka’Varel’s voice as he spoke. Though he would not openly judge and criticize the Dragons for their decision, he was none the less disappointed at their decision.
“Prophecies do not concern us, Ka’Varel. From the dawn of time we have been, and always will be, whether it is here on Kil’Tar or on another world of our choosing. Like your people, we have such ability, and can go where we please. The fate of this planet is no longer a concern of ours, not more than the longevity of our race. I am sorry.”
Ka’Varel held back an angry retort and turned his gaze back to the now not so wondrous city around him. “Then I will be leaving, at first light tomorrow. If there is anything else you know that might be of assistance, I implore you to tell me. This world may not be worth saving to you, but bitter centuries of warfare from my people have made it my home, and one I would willingly fight and die for. Each to his own, Saranthier, and may the gods grant us both peace for our final resting.”
Turning away, Ka’Varel strode across the room, his steps echoing across the marble floor. The door did not open for him as it did Saranthier, and with a withheld curse and barely contained rage, he waited for the Dragon councilor to open it for him.
“You are an enigma to us, Ka’Varel, and you will always carry our respects for your pride and your courage, as well as your wisdom. Know that three of the Portals were opened, and now one has been closed temporarily in Lloreander. It is a glade even you did not know of, and there the Elves made bloody battle with the Demons while their Druids closed the Portal. Solantholas, leader of the Sylvaen, is dead. But so is the Demon Lord Hammagor who led the Demons, so a respite you have been granted. I hope those of the mortal races use it well.”
Ka’Varel was both shocked and surprised at the news, for although the Portal was closed down temporarily, it had come at a great cost. Solantholas was arguably the greatest warrior and commander on Kil’Tar, and his loss would be keenly felt.
He spun to face Saranthier, who had not moved from the balcony railing. “What of his son, Kalandar?”
“The Dark Elf is also no longer of this realm, Ka’Varel.”
The news struck Ka’Varel like a blow. Kalandar, the Elf Prince of Lloreander was a focal figure in many of his prophecies, and with him dead, a feeling of dread and uncertainty struck Ka’Varel. He had been too late to save the Elf Prince. It was through his own delay such a catastrophic event had taken place, and he had let himself be waylaid. Visions of his daughter came to him as he screwed his eyes shut, and he knew there was only one thing for him to do.
He must find Valdieron and keep him safe from all harm.
The doors were opened when he turned, and he strode quickly between them, needing the peace only the Gardens could provide. He thought of Tyrun, camped now upon Kil’Tar waiting his return from the Dragon City. The Barbarian had been refused entrance to the Dragon city without justification, and Ka’Varel knew the big Barbarian would be concerned for his safety.
With a grimace, Ka’Varel ran a hand over his chest, feeling beneath his clothes the ridged scar from the near mortal wound he had received at the hands of the sword wielding brigand. A finger’s span to the right and he would be dead now, but luckily for him and maybe the world of Kil’Tar, he was a little tougher to kill than most. He cursed himself again, for though he had many prophecies about the people and places of Kil’Tar, he had only ever found or heard one that included himself. He was ‘The Fateless One’, whose future was unknown or unseen by any but the gods, which angered him. At least he was still alive, and he would see that while he was, this world he had called his home for many centuries would survive this new conflict.
Saranthier heard the echoing footfalls of Ka’Varel receding down the corridor and tried to tell himself that what they had done was for the best. Though they lived here between worlds, Kil’Tar was the real home for the Dragons, who were as much creatures of the Essence as Demons the Unlife. Here, they lived barely, free but limited in the availability of Essence, for this place was not like Kil’Tar, with its abundance of the life giving energy. There was barely enough to keep the magical city sustained, for as Ka’Varel had said, the Unlife was consuming all essence, slowly and inexorably. Soon, the city would collapse in upon itself, consumed by the magic that held it together, for there would not be enough essence to fuel it. What would happen to any Dragon left there was not known, for unlike the Kay'taari, the Dragons had only one real prophecy that spoke of their eventual demise, and none who were not of Dragonkind were allowed to know of it. But its words echoed through Saranthier’s mind as he stoo
d looking out over his city.
Tears were not common for him, but the Dragon cried then, briefly, for although he had led a long and fulfilling life, the inevitability of his fate made him sad, not only for himself, but for the others of the mortal races who would suffer for the cowardice of Dragons. By tempting fate, and hoping the future would be different, the Dragons were all but condemning hundreds of thousands of mortals to their deaths.
His keen eyes scanned the city below, and found the complex where five of his kind sat guarding another who was held prisoner: Taranthellaar, greatest of their kind, a young and rebellious Gold dragon who had visions of fighting for the cause of these mortals and riding into battle with the Chosen One. Saranthier had known of these visions and desires at an early age for the young dragon, and had implored the council take action. He had devised a powerful magic that soothed the great Dragon each time the visions came, but in doing so, it slowly drove him insane, and now, the once great beast rested in a coma like state from which it never stirred. Still the guards were a precaution rather than a necessity, for who knew what powers the great Dragon still held, but to all appearances, it was as if he might never move again.
The tears came harder for Saranthier then as he pictured the great figure of Taranthellaar locked away as he was, devoid of coherent thought and movement, unable to feel the exhilaration of the air as he flew. It made Saranthier lament what he had done, but only for a moment before he remembered he had to break all ties to the world of Kil’Tar.
“I am sorry, my son,” he whispered, before turning away from the balcony and the haunting visions, his eyes already dried and a look of calm resignation on his face. Whatever had to be done would be done.
“You are sure the Haruken won’t be here in numbers, Alric?”
Kyle’s whisper echoed loudly through the small chamber, causing the Dwarves to turn towards the young man, forcing him to apologize silently. He knew echoes travelled easily underground, and although the Haruken and the Hrolth were not subterranean dwellers, they still had keen hearing.
“Yes. Remember the Demon who tried to kill us?“ The memory made Kyle’s heavily bandaged arm begin to itch as he nodded. “Well, I think he was forcing the Haruken and Hrolth down here, where they do not prefer to be. But it is best not to take chances.” As if on cue, two dark figures slipped silently from the darkness into the chamber, and Kyle was once again amazed at the power of the pendant he now wore. A gift from Thorgast, the pendant had the ability to grant Kyle the power of Infravision, such as the Dwarves had. Although the origin of the pendant was not known, Alric had assumed it to be once used by miners employed by some great noble from the south. Kyle was glad for the gift, regardless, as it meant the group of Dwarves could travel faster and safer without the need for light.
Alric communicated briefly with the two sentries in their own tongue, something Kyle found not as harsh sounding as he would have expected from such a hard and tough race. After a moment, Alric turned and the two Dwarves, the brothers, Kalbak and Keldrik, slipped back into the darkness of the passageway.
“All is quiet. There are a few sentries, but Kalbak and Keldrik will see to them. Ready to go?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” sighed Kyle, who was fast becoming tired of travelling, and wished often he had stayed back in Thorhus with Natasha. “You know, I had expected to stay in Chul’Haka for a little longer than six days.”
Alric smiled at this. “Well, it is sometimes strange how life works out. At least you will soon be able to say you have visited the Astral City, something not a lot of others can lay claim to.”
“We won’t get to see it if you two don’t stop chattering,” chipped in Ishaar at their side, and the two shared a brief chuckle before the Dwarf clapped Kyle on the arm: the left, not his bandaged right arm.
“Let’s go get you healed, lad.”
With one final glance behind him where the entrance to the Vault lay, Kyle followed Alric from the chamber, trying to block out the numbing pain in his arm, and the feeling of dread in his heart.
Kalamar was glad for at least one thing as he slowly walked the narrow, dirty streets of Cartyl, and that was the cooler sea breeze, even if it carried with it some of the less savory smells a port city garners.
The road before him sloped away slowly, for he was descending to the docks. He was a little perturbed by the lack of identification by any of his men, who should have recognized him by now and made their presence known. Maybe they were busy with some other important matter, or maybe his disguise as a vagabond threw them more than he assumed. His fake grey beard itched, and his right leg was almost cramped from having to limp through the big city. He gave a wry smile as he realized the limp wasn’t wholly faked after a run in with some brigands outside the city the previous night, but the thigh wound was just a bruise from a heavy cudgel one brigands had carried. Still, there were seven less brigands to waylay people coming and going from the city.
Although this was not his first time in Cartyl, he still felt uncomfortable in the Port city because of one main reason: its unpredictability. Many of the people who visited it were sailors or people of less than reputable background, for just about anything and everything could be gotten in Cartyl for the right price. The Duke of the city, a man by the name of Austell, was a descendant of a Pirate himself, or so the legends tell, but the man was more suited to the finery of the palace than the hardships of a sailing ship. He was a shrewd man whom Kalamar had never really liked, and he was usually a pretty good judge of a person’s character.
The tavern he eventually found himself at was a large dwelling, which to all appearances was just like the dozen other along the dingy and dark street near the docks, but a closer look might have noted it was cleaner than any other building along the street. The reason for such might have been evident when you saw the Innkeeper, as Kalamar did when he pushed through the heavy swinging doors, which did nothing to keep the unwholesome smell from the interior.
The woman was tall and angular, and there was a beauty about her not of feature but of bearing. Her flowing hair was dark and lustrous, even tied back as it was now, and the stained apron around her slender waist did little to hide her feminine charms. But Kalamar was not fooled by her apparent litheness, for she was deadly with the several concealed daggers she carried beneath the tight dress. Her name was Faith, not her real name, but she was a former prostitute turned Innkeeper, and now she was working at a more reputable if no less laborious career, made more prosperous by her affiliation with Kalamar, who paid her to be a front for his spy network here in Cartyl.
It was early in the morning, but already several patrons sat scattered around the room, maybe patrons who were very keen, or sailors just in from a cruise and needing to sate their thirst. Kalamar gave them a more than cursory look from under the heavy cowl of his cloak, and realized they were all more or less what they appeared.
“What is your pleasure?” asked Faith without looking at him as he sat awkwardly on the stool, trying to conceal the Saber belted at his waist. He knew she had been alerted to his presence as soon as he entered, but had relied on her two burly bouncers to see if he was dangerous or not. At least his guise was good enough to fool the two who were probably very good at spotting trouble, and he wondered what Faith’s reaction would be when she realized their error.
“Well, the ale isn’t getting any colder.” With a start he realized he was staring at Faith’s curvy figure and mentally chastised himself as he cleared his throat noisily. He had always had a soft place in his heart for the former prostitute, and though he had never slept with her, he did have feelings for her he knew went beyond a mere fondness, but he could not allow himself those thoughts in his profession.
“A mug of your finest, and some hot food.” His cloak muffled his voice and he spoke in a thick slur, as if he was really a bum who had already been drinking, and it fooled her as she turned to pour his ale from a large cask behind the bar.
“Four silver for f
ood and ale,” she called as she finished the pour and turned to bring it over to him, and he again admired her legs and hips as she walked, but carefully hid his eyes as he lowered his eyes to grope about in a pocket for change.
“I’ll make it four gold if you can get rid of that smell.”
Her slight intake of breath was the only indication of her recognition of his voice, and with practiced ease she placed the tankard of ale on the bar. Kalamar raised his eyes and looked at her then from beneath his cowl, and saw she was showing no further signs of shock other than a slight blush of her pale cheeks. Always the professional, she would not give away any sign the conversation was in any way irregular, just in case any of the patrons were not who they pretended to be.
He brushed her hand with his fingers in greeting as he gave her the four gold coins, and was rewarded by a wafting of her strong perfume as she dropped the coins into a pocket sewn into the fold of her bosom, safer than any other place on her body. Kalamar was also afforded a brief glimpse of her womanly figure, and he had to once again quell the familiar urges of his body.
“Your food will be ready soon.” She flashed him a brief smile that made his stomach churn, before she turned to enter the kitchen through a door directly behind her, the accentuated sway of her hips a visual tease for him and he gave a shake of his head and a soft chuckle. He had shared the bedchamber with many women in his life, had never loved in return, but with Faith, he could not tell if his feelings were from love or lust.
He moved to a table in the corner of the room and sat, removing his small pack and setting it atop the table within constant reach and view. He sat so he could see the front and back doors, as well as all of the patrons, though he set to his ale with his head slightly bowed, pulling his hood back to reveal his features, but trusting in his disguise to fool anybody who might have ordinarily recognized him.
