by C. Greenwood
At the end of the guard’s explanation, a silence descended. Geveral decided it was time to speak up. He had no idea whether he would be understood, but he had to do his best to deliver the oracle’s message.
“Your Magnificence,” he addressed the Drejian ruler. “My name is Geveral of Treeveil, and my companion is Keir of Runehaven. We have traveled from the rangelands of Lythnia to bring you a message from our great oracle. She sends a gift of gold to demonstrate her goodwill toward the Drejian people.”
The Drejian’s stony expression gave him no encouragement, but Geveral plowed on anyway. “This gold is only a small sample of the riches the oracle of Silverwood Grove possesses. She is prepared to present you with much more in exchange for the use of your warriors and their dragons.”
“Your oracle wishes to hire an army to fight a battle for her?”
Geveral was relieved at the lightly accented words from the leader. He had hoped for an interpreter but hadn’t expected the ruler himself to speak the Lythnian language.
But before his hopes could rise too high, the next words from the Drejian crushed them. “I am Radistha, King of the Drejian, and I do not send my dragons and dragonkin warriors to fight the battles of others.”
“Not even for a generous payment?” asked Geveral incredulously. “I thought the Drejian had a reputation as mercenary fighters?”
At the sharp look the king shot his way, he immediately regretted the question. One of the few things known of the Drejian people was that they were fierce when angered.
Luckily, the king apparently decided not to take offense.
“What you say of us was once true,” he told Geveral. “But you come at an unsettled time. My stepsister Queen Viranathi and our greatest dragon Micanthria are newly dead, destroyed by a stranger from the provinces on the other side of the mountain. We will not be troubled again by that Ilan of Dimmingwood and her fiery bow. But my people have suffered at the loss of their ruler, and it is left to me to guide them cautiously through these days of turmoil.”
Despite his mournful words, there was nothing of true sorrow in the expression of King Radistha. Looking into those shifty eyes, Geveral could easily imagine this king having had a hand in the downfall of his predecessor. Certainly, Radistha’s words had caused a stir of whispers among the advisors seated around him.
But Geveral hadn’t come here to speculate over the secrets and politics of ambitious Drejian nobles. He had to keep the focus on his mission. The oracle was counting on him.
“Maybe you don’t understand how great a reward the oracle is prepared to offer,” he suggested.
But he got no further, for King Radistha interrupted. Gesturing to the small pouch of gold still held by the guard, he said, “I accept your oracle’s modest gift, but I do not accept her deal. Return to the one who sent you, and tell her the Drejian will not fight her enemies for her.”
Geveral tried to protest, but the king made an impatient motion, signaling the interview was over. Before another word could be spoken, the guards roughly seized Geveral and began dragging him away.
“You will not be spared the coming darkness.”
Geveral was surprised to hear Keir speak up for the first time. The Drejian king and his noble advisors seemed startled as well, for all heads now turned toward the dragonkin youth. The warriors who had been about to haul Geveral from the room paused and loosened their holds, as if awaiting further developments.
Keir continued. “If greed is not enough to compel you to act, join our fight in the name of self-preservation. Our enemy will soon make himself the enemy of all of Earth Realm, and when that time of destruction arrives, you will regret not standing with those who resist him. Fight beside us now while there is still a chance of victory.”
Geveral expected a dismissive response from Radistha. But the Drejian king leaned forward. “Does this common enemy have a name?” he asked.
The advisors grew silent. The guards were still. It seemed to Geveral that the whole room hung upon Keir’s response.
“Rathnakar the Raven King.”
The name fell like a blow over the gathering. Fear touched every face. Immediately the king’s advisors fell to muttering to one another in their strange tongue. Only the king sat silent, his attention fixed on Keir.
“There are other names for the ancient sorcerer,” Keir continued. “But I think you already know of whom I speak.”
“His is a name from legend,” answered the king. “My people know the old evils the Raven King visited on our world in another age. We are familiar also with your kind, Guardian.”
There was new recognition in his last words, as if Radistha was confirming some suspicion. Keir seemed to know what he meant, but Geveral was left in confusion.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered to Keir at his side. “Why does he call you ‘Guardian’?”
Radistha answered for Keir. “An old Drejian prophecy speaks of an ancient darkness that rises anew in every age and must be defeated again. My people believe there are also powerful guardians born anew to combat the evil, guided by voices of eternals and memories of former lives. It has been said that the greatest guardian will be of Drejian blood but not of our raising. That he will die and return as a broken wraith to lead his people through a time of chaos.”
At last Geveral understood why their Drejian captors had seemed uneasy with Keir and had been wary of laying hands on him. To their eyes, he resembled a creature of prophecy. And since the name of Rathnakar was spoken, even the king now regarded the dragonkin youth with apparent fascination.
“Keir, is this true?” Geveral asked. “Are you the reborn guardian they take you for?”
Keir’s sad smile might have been invisible, but it could be heard in his voice. “You cannot be surprised, Geveral. You always knew I was different from ordinary mortals.”
It was true. Right from the beginning both Geveral and Eydis had recognized Keir was no typical youth.
Keir returned his attention to Radistha. “Now that you understand why I have come and who the enemy is, will you join our cause? The oracle musters what forces she can, planning to meet Rathnakar’s army of undead at the fortress of Endguard. But our numbers are small, and without your warriors, the battle cannot be won. If we lose, it is only a matter of time until Rathnakar turns his attention from conquering Lythnia to Kroad. And after Kroad, what is to stop him from striking into these mountains to enslave the Drejian? Better to fight now while you have allies still standing.”
Radistha’s brows lowered, but it was a thoughtful frown, not a look of anger. He and his advisors conferred briefly in their own language.
At length, the Drejian king turned back to Geveral and Keir. “You will have our spears and our dragons,” he said. “The dragonkin are ready to fight.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Orrick
Orrick’s frustration deepened as he left yet another empty cave behind him and stepped back out into the gray light of dusk. This recess between towering rocks had seemed promising but had ended abruptly with a solid wall at the back and no means of burrowing deeper. The only signs of recent habitation were a pile of small animal bones left behind by some bear or other predator. It was another fruitless search.
Peering through the fading light, he could only just make out Ilarion patiently waiting for him at the base of the mound of boulders. Swift though the horse was on even terrain, it couldn’t handle this steep and rocky ground or pass the obstacles Orrick was now forced to scramble over. He had already accepted he would have to leave the animal behind. He only hoped it would still be waiting for him when he returned.
If it bothered him to abandon his mount, he was still more concerned by the waning daylight. Although the gathering premature gloom was going to make it difficult to continue his search, he couldn’t afford to risk stumbling around in the darkness. There were too many unexpected drop-offs among these rocks, where he could fall to his death.
He scowled at the volcano th
at stood on the distant horizon, showering ash into the air and covering everything in sight with sooty grime. It was those flurries of drifting ash that shadowed the lowering sun and made the very air Orrick breathed nearly as gray as the stones beneath his boots. He couldn’t continue the search much longer under these conditions. It was time to think about finding a place to pass the evening and night and await the slightly brighter light that would come in the morning.
He took a deep drink of clean water from his water skin and silently thanked the old mage who had provided it. He still didn’t understand the risks the stranger back in Jarceaux had taken to help him. He was just grateful the crazy old man had thought to pack his horse with the supplies he would need for his brief journey.
Traveling with unnatural speed on the back of the ghost horse, it had taken Orrick only two days to cross the Lythnian kingdom and pass over the border into the wilderness of the Lostlands. But there he had become turned around in the thick vegetation of the dark jungle. Only today did he finally emerge from that nightmarish world of oppressive heat and mysterious animal screams in the night, only to find a worse landscape before him. The scenery of jagged, rocky hills swathed in clouds of ash with the threatening volcano looming on the distance should have made Orrick want to turn back. Instead, he had breathed a sigh of relief at making it to the last leg of his journey.
Or so he had thought at the time. But now, after hours of wandering, he was beginning to fear he was no closer to finding Arik the One-Eyed than he had ever been.
He summoned up the memory of Eydis as he had last seen her, standing on the windswept summit overlooking the settlement of Arneroche. That was where their party had split up, she and Geveral continuing on toward Silverwood Grove while Orrick set off on his own mission. Before they parted ways, Eydis had finally kept her promise to tell him where to locate Arik. The one-eyed dwarf, together with a strange companion, could be found in a place of fire and ash, Eydis had said.
Her vision had shown Arik in a location where the ground trembled, rocks flew, and the air was filled with soot. Orrick had instantly recognized that such scenery could only be found in the Lostlands. If that were not enough, the description of Arik’s companion, a gray-skinned female with glowing eyes and the fangs of a beast, was easily recognizable as that of a vampire. Orrick knew those dangerous creatures were reported to live in the volcanic region of the Lostlands.
With Eydis and her vision pointing him in the right direction, Orrick’s own memory had filled in the missing gaps. Not only did he now know where to look for the dwarf whose testimony could clear him of treason charges, he knew what Arik was doing here. He was only angry at himself for not thinking of it before.
In the old days, back at Endguard, how many times had Arik bored him during late night watches together by going on about his ridiculous map? He had won it in a game of dice, this map that claimed to lead to vampire treasure. Orrick had always scoffed at the idea, but Arik had believed. He used to ramble on about his plans to seek out the treasure one day. Apparently, he had been serious.
The ground shivered slightly beneath Orrick’s feet.
Immediately Orrick’s attention returned to the present. An uneasy glance toward the volcano reassured him it wasn’t vomiting fire. After a moment, the shivers passed and all was still again. That was it. Orrick needed no more reminders that he had wasted enough time. There was perhaps a half hour of daylight left, and he must use it to make camp.
Hoping to find a solid bit of flat ground to sleep on, he clambered up a hill of loose rock and looked down on the other side. That was when his eye fell on a man-sized crevice in the face of a towering slab of rock opposite him. He only hesitated a moment. If nothing else, the nook might prove a useful place to shelter for the night.
He climbed down the gravel hill and approached the mouth of the cave. The interior was entirely dark, too dark to judge how far back the cave ran. He expected nothing more than a small alcove but entered through the narrow opening with caution, just the same. The last thing he needed was to stumble across some wild beast making its home here. The old mage, Janya, had left a weapon for him, along with his other provisions. But the rusty blade was a poor substitute for the excellent sword he had been robbed of by the thieftaker back in Towbridge. He wasn’t eager to defend himself with it.
His foot bumped against something. Whatever the thing was, it made a loud clanging noise. Orrick stooped to pick it up and took it back out into the daylight to examine. It was a tin plate, dented and scratched, with a few crumbs of food left in the bottom. Had it been here long it would have been licked clean by some animal. The fact that it wasn’t meant someone had sheltered in this cave recently. Arik?
Orrick ducked inside again and quickly found the remnants of a campfire. This was the first sign yet that he might be on the right track. He explored deeper into the cave, feeling his way along and expecting at any time to run into a wall in the pitch blackness. But the recess continued farther back than he had first thought. Could Arik and his companion still be in some offshooting tunnel or cavern?
He opened his mouth to call Arik’s name. But before a sound could escape his throat, the floor of the cave suddenly dropped out from under him. He plunged straight down, falling through darkness. He threw out his arms, but there was nothing to grab on to. An image flashed through his mind of a deep pit, a bottomless hole that went on and on into the blackness. Fear shot through him.
Then he landed hard, facedown, on solid ground. The breath was knocked from his lungs. Pain lanced through his chest, which had absorbed most of the impact. It was a few seconds before he could move. Then he rolled over and lay on his back, recapturing his breath and mentally assessing his injuries. As the pain subsided, he decided nothing was broken.
With a groan, he crawled to his knees. In the pitch darkness, it was impossible to figure out his surroundings. He pulled his travelers pack from his back and rummaged blindly through it until he found what he was looking for, a single glow stone about the size of his fist. When he drew the stone from the pack, its light illuminated the chamber, casting a soft glow over damp stone walls and a high ceiling. Craning his head back, Orrick could see the opening high overhead, where he had fallen through a ventilation shaft from the cave above.
Exactly what he had fallen into was less obvious. He had landed in what resembled a large rounded bowl, wide enough to hold several people. Luckily, the sides were low. He easily scrambled over one edge to reach the floor. The room was filled with similar stone tubs of varying sizes. Some of the deeper ones held shallow pools of foul-smelling black water that must have been there a long time.
This was some sort of bathing chamber, he realized. From its dilapidated state, the place was long abandoned. But the floor tiles and decorative carvings on the walls suggested it had once been luxurious. What ancient civilization had built this chamber? And how many more rooms like it were buried under so many feet of earth and rock?
Orrick held his glow stone high and saw an arched doorway leading out of the room. Leaving behind the damp and moldy bathing chamber, he ventured into the outer corridor. The hall branched off in many directions, all seeming to lead deeper into the hillside. Reluctantly, he left behind his only link to the outside world, the airshaft he had entered through. He had no idea how else he might exit this underground labyrinth, but obviously he couldn’t climb back out the same way he got in.
He randomly chose one path and set off down the passageway. As he traveled, an eerie silence and sense of isolation fell over him like a cloak. The light of his glow stone cast shadows on the walls, revealing shallow recesses where small statues rested. Occasionally he passed frames hanging on the walls, holding old paintings. These pieces of art had been damaged by mildew and age and were so heavily wreathed in cobwebs it was nearly impossible to make out what they pictured.
Orrick paused before one and swept away the cobwebs. Holding his glow stone close, he found the painting to be a portrait of an importan
t-looking man in a fine high-colored coat with a bit of lace around the neck. Aside from his haughty expression, the only striking thing about the subject was his glowing eyes and beast-like fangs.
Orrick stepped back. This answered the question of who, or what, had built and inhabited this hole in the ground. He could only hope none of the former residents were still lingering around. He had encountered vampires before and could handle them one at a time. But the idea of stumbling into a swarm of them in their home territory wasn’t appealing. The need to return to the surface suddenly became more urgent.
He continued on down the corridor but hadn’t gone a dozen steps when a noise fell upon his ears. What was it? The distant echo of heavy objects being dropped or thrown about? The commotion was coming from up ahead. It might be wise to turn around and go back the other direction. But Orrick hefted his rusty sword and followed the sounds of violence. He couldn’t discount the possibility the noises would lead him to Arik.
The crashing sounds grew closer until the very floor shuddered beneath his feet.
The corridor ended abruptly and opened up into a massive feasting hall. There were long tables and chairs enough to hold hundreds of diners, all presided over by a cloth-covered table on a raised dais at the head of the room. High-backed chairs, scarlet wall hangings, silver candelabras, all of it was draped in cobwebs and thick layers of dust. Orrick took in the state of dilapidated splendor at a glance, but none of it held his attention. It was only the background for the scene playing out before him.
There were two figures back-to-back at the center of the room, an axe-wielding dwarf and a dark-haired woman gripping a staff that shot beams of light out either end. The pair were surrounded and defending themselves against a swarm of attacking cave gnomes no taller than the dwarf’s knees.
Although the dozens of little bearded gnomes darted around with lightning speed, shrieking angrily and shaking tiny fists, they had no real weapons. So they hurled chairs, candlesticks, and dinner knives at their enemies, who weren’t always quick enough to block and knock away the incoming objects.
