Malcolm’s eyebrows rose slightly at that. He had assumed that all forty dragons would descend together and engulf the entire area in a single firestorm of dragon breath to inflict the greatest damage and take the smallest risk. Instead, Mraxdavar was sending forth his assault in small family groups, perhaps only three or four dragons at a time. He actually opened his mouth to ask the question and then realized how pointless and insulting it would be. One of the largest dragons in the formation folded his wings and dove down towards the Canopy of Oblivion, two of his smaller kin right with him.
As the three dragons passed from sight, Mraxdavar uttered a single word, “Albathor.”
Instantly, another group of four dragons broke away and plunged after the first group. Taking a trembling breath, Malcolm summoned his protections, pointed his staff downwards, and headed into the noxious green cloudbank right behind them.
*
Two thousand feet below, Regnar was in council with the chieftains of the Northing tribes, and all eyes were locked on the distant outer wall of Jalan’s Drift, the prize for which all their labors and struggles had been put forth.
“The Juggernaut shall pound a breach squarely in the middle of the wall,” Regnar said, every word savored. “The undead shall follow it like the sea and kill all in their path. The stone giants of Ug-Lan-Jo shall attack the portal to the right known as the Highlander’s Gate, while the Merchant’s Gate to the left shall be broken by the remaining stone giants and the mountain ogres…
We are assailed, the Ohric interrupted suddenly. The dragons are upon us.
Startled, Regnar began to look upwards, but three tornadoes of red-green fire were already flashing down from above and cut swathes of destruction through the ranks of the undead surrounding the black titan. Scores were utterly consumed in each train of fire, and hundreds more were staggering away, many of them burning as well, some actually spreading the flames to others.
“No!” he roared in answer, lifting the Ohric and summoning its power to him. Even as the dragons had emerged from the gloom, they were gone as swiftly, the momentum of their dive giving them power to disappear again into the clouds. But they had no sooner vanished than four more dragons burst out of the Canopy.
A human is flying there… the Ohric interjected and Regnar’s sharpened eyes focused on the tiny figure hovering right beneath the clouds, insignificant in size beside the monstrous beasts that had preceded it. Yet even as he spotted it, the human unleashed a dozen balls of fire to impact on the vanguard of the Undead goblins, killing scores of them, a tally as good as any of the dragons. I shall deal with him in due course, Regnar promised himself.
“Irna Albos Kana Selenz!” he thundered and sent a beam of green power slashing towards the largest dragon in the group. The beam struck true, the beast writhing in agony as its wings buckled to send it plunging towards the earth and certain death. Regnar’s fury rose again, however, when he saw a slender bolt of blue from the human figure striking the falling dragon and slow its deadly descent.
“Impertinent fool,” Regnar muttered as he again summoned power. “You have simply made it clear where my second blow will fall.”
*
Malcolm had barely seconds to decide his fate.
He had slowed the fatal fall of the stricken dragon with the power of his staff, but it would take real magic to actually stop the momentum of a creature that big and lift it back up into the safety of the clouds. Real magic, and that meant conjuring, conjuring right out here in the open, exposed to all the forces arrayed beneath him, conjuring when he knew his death was already forged. Worse, far worse, he could not separate the knowledge that the dragon he was trying to save was Albathor, Mraxdavar’s second son and Malcolm’s sworn nemesis.
“Esse Alal Na Ebrus Ful,” he began, even as arrows from the barbarians below began plinking off the invisible shields he had placed around himself. “Thela Ma, Thela Ma, Ebrus Zen!”
Albathor stopped falling as if an invisible giant’s hand had reached out and caught him, and with maddening slowness, the massive body began to rise again, reaching for the sanctuary of the clouds. Malcolm had to maintain full concentration to keep the spell functioning and block out any and all distractions around him. That was suddenly very difficult as a dozen dragons suddenly plunged down out of the green clouds around him, and somewhere to the right, the largest body of them all appeared and streaked through the sky directly at the source of the crippling green beam.
*
Regnar’s second cast did not strike Malcolm.
Ware! Mraxdavar himself comes forth! was the only warning Regnar received, and even the cold voice of the Ohric showed a specter of fear at the assault by the Father of Dragons.
The titanic body appeared as if by magic directly before them, the stupendous maul open, the power of the breath already sparkling in the gullet, an instant away from the inferno. Desperately, Regnar changed the crushing beam he had intended for the human into a huge cushion to absorb the coming damage, even though he longed to trade blow for blow with the wyrm lord. But the scrambling bodies behind reminded him that all his chieftains were gathered in this one place, and he could not afford to lose a single one with the main battle looming.
He unleashed all the power of which the Ohric was capable, thrusting it forth in a massive wave against the coming devastation.
Mraxdavar’s breath detonated like an exploding volcano all around them, the searing flames roaring by on every side, and even the constraining power of the Demon Scepter was stopped and devoured by that hellish blaze. They were captured in a small shrinking sphere of protection, the cries of the chieftains turning to screams of pain as the temperature surged around them, baking them alive even within the protections of the scepter. First one, then a second, and then a third of the men burst into flames even within the shelter of the shield, their mad writhings spreading the fire further. For an eternity the flames continued, the air itself threatening to ignite, and Regnar gritted his teeth and blindly threw still more power into the confrontation, matching energy to energy and fighting off the growing certainty that he was losing.
Then the flames were abruptly gone, the Dragon-King soaring back up into the clouds, and Regnar was left blinded by the brilliance and gasping for breath, his chieftains lying scattered around him, half a dozen dead and the rest barely moving. It had been no more than a single pass by Mraxdavar, only a portion of the power of which he was ultimately capable, and yet it had nearly overthrown Regnar and the Ohric.
Something else was happening, something that had drawn off the assault of the eldest wyrm, and the Tyrant blinked and passed a hand before his eyes with a simple clearing spell as he tried to make out what he was seeing, not trusting his vision.
For it appeared that for a second time, the Juggernaut had turned from its course.
*
Malcolm, too, could not at first credit the evidence of his eyes.
He had lifted the limp body of Albathor only half the distance to the safety of the clouds when his peripheral vision warned him that the Juggernaut had stopped. The dozen dragons who had plunged through the Canopy of Oblivion had centered their breath weapons on the black titan, utterly encapsulating it in fire, and the thing was now turning its baleful countenance on these swarming mosquitoes. Unlike the first two waves, these dragons had remained below the clouds, streaking across the sky in bewildering patterns to help distract the enemy from the helpless Albathor, and for a moment, Malcolm’s hopes had leaped at the assistance. Now, fear returned with triple force.
The Juggernaut raised one hand and a mass of blackness shot forth directly towards the crippled dragon. Another of the wyrms, a powerful adult male named Shelemaz, swooped in front of Albathor and unleashed his breath weapon on the dark cloud, only to have it totally engulf him.
The blackness coated the dragon like a huge bucket of tar, and he fell as a stone, his outline still feebly struggling against the suffocating material that was killing him. Shelemaz struck the
ground hard, and all that was left behind was a pool of black liquid.
More dragons charged in and tried to distract the titan, and two more met the same horrible fate as Shelemaz, plunging into the ground to form two more pools of blackness. But their sacrifices were not in vain. With a grunt of exhaustion, Malcolm lifted the prostrate body up into the clouds, and a moment later, he passed through the barrier himself.
Safely in the sunshine above the canopy, Albathor began thrashing back to life, his wings opening and closing, trying to shake off the shock of Regnar’s stunning beam. When he had cleared his mind, he glared down at his savior.
“You are a fool, human, to thus save the source of your death,” the huge dragon rumbled. “This means only that I shall be mercifully swift when I kill you.”
“I didn’t save the wyrm that seeks to kill me, Albathor,” Malcolm answered calmly. “I saved the second of Mraxdavar’s children. Besides, I have potions I plan to make from your tail scales. I couldn’t yield them to Regnar.”
The dragon bristled in answer, and for an instant, Malcolm thought he had gone too far and Albathor was about to strike out in fury at both the words and the stain of rescue. But a soft voice from behind stopped them both.
“Whatever your reason for intervening, you have a father’s thanks.”
Malcolm swung partly around to see Mraxdavar floating just behind and above him, again resting on the thermals. The Wizard offered a small bow in acknowledgment.
“We shall leave off the attack,” the dragon announced to the entire pride. “Four of my children are enough sacrifice for the Drift.” Malcolm’s eyebrows rose in question and the dragon answered by saying, “One other of those covering your retreat fell before they could find the sanctuary of the clouds again.”
Malcolm closed his eyes, and there was true honesty in his voice when he said, “I am sorry. They were noble beings who fell in defense of their kin.”
Mraxdavar said nothing, but Malcolm could almost feel his pain at the loss, and at the manner in which they had died. The sight forced out the question he had been fighting to hold back since the start of the attack. “Why did we not all attack at once? Bramaclese did not have to endure a single arrow in his attack, while all the others suffered from their lack of surprise.”
Mraxdavar showed no outrage at such insolence from a mere human. Instead, he held out one of his enormous claws and opened it to show some kind of vial. Inside the vial was a black liquid. Malcolm’s eyes shot upward in question, and the dragon nodded once in confirmation.
“Yes, this is indeed a sample of the plasma sent forth by the titan,” he said. “It represents some of the Juggernaut’s essence. We did not come only to attack the enemy but to learn of his nature. We know now that it is not to be destroyed by sheer power, and we must seek another answer to its riddle. Come. We must go.”
“Where?” asked Malcolm, his mind still dwelling on that black liquid and trying to grasp all its implications.
“To the Castle of the Winds which you call Llan Praetor,” the dragon answered. “The obligation has now passed back to you. A second visit and three more questions. Or one service. Those were the promised terms.”
Malcolm nodded in acknowledgement, but he could not help but swallow nervously. What service would Mraxdavar demanded as payment for four of his children?
* * * * *
The passages beneath the fortress of Ringimore were dark, dank, narrow, and filled with every nasty smell Joshua had ever encountered, and a few he could only imagine. His robes were covered with slime or worse, he feared to wipe his face for what might be on his hands, and his feet were slipping with almost every other step on the slick stonework. He stumbled for what seemed the hundredth time, making the tiniest of noises when his knee hit the ground, and he got an instant hiss back from the invisible figure he was following with the aid of a cord tied to his belt.
“For Mirna’s sake, Father, try to stay quiet!” said Tallarand, his words barely a whisper. “You’re stumbling about like a drunken troll!”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “These slippers you gave me are…”
He was referring to the felt footwear which Tallarand has insisted on him putting over his boots, but he never got a chance to finish. A hand came out of the darkness and perfectly tapped his chin upwards, effectively shutting off his words. How in the world was he able to find my face let alone my chin in this darkness? Joshua wondered.
“There are listening posts down here,” Tallarand said, his whisper admittedly softer than Joshua’s. “Small tunnels to the surface manned by guards with ears trained to tell even your religion from the way you walk. We’ve only a few dozen yards before we reach the air shaft. Just try to stay upright until then.”
Joshua nodded in answer, knowing it was useless in the blackness, yet Tallarand had moved with such incredible skill that Joshua was beginning to honestly think the man was indeed able to see in the dark, opening the shielded lantern he carried only a half-crack at two points so far. The cord tugged once more in his hand, telling Joshua the man was moving forward again, and he obediently followed, taking extra care of his footing.
It seemed like only a minute later that the man had stopped again, and suddenly the lantern was partially uncovered for a third time, the beam nearly blinding, but Joshua could just make out an iron grating covering a narrow hole in the side of the passage. He glanced back to see Tallarand beginning to fold a piece of parchment he had been consulting, and Joshua stared at it, hardly trusting his eyes. Rather than writing, it appeared to contain a series of bumps and raised areas across its entire surface. A map contoured to touch so it could be followed even in the darkness, Joshua realized in amazement.
“Hold the lantern, Father,” the man said softly, and Joshua took the light source, keeping the beam on the grating. Tallarand went up to the thick iron bars and seemed to touch a series of them lightly, almost as if getting the feel of their texture, but Joshua was surprised to see smoke coming from first one, then another, then all of them together. A moment later, the entire grating came away in Tallarand’s hands, leaving a clear if narrow opening.
“How…?” Joshua asked, doing little more than mouthing the word.
Tallarand threw a piece of cloth over the detached grate and laid it on the stone without making a sound before answering softly, “Dragon’s blood. Give me the lantern and follow close. If I stop, you freeze, and I mean don’t move a muscle. Both out lives will depend on that.”
The air shaft, in some ways, was actually more comfortable than the open sewer drain. True, he now had to travel on hands and knees or even squirming on his belly, and the smell of the dank stone was even stronger with his nose only inches from it. But there was something reassuring about being in close contact with something other than the darkness, touch helping to compensate for the loss of sight. He continued to hold the cord, but now, Tallarand kept a light constant tension on it which told him it was safe to continue.
Once, then twice, the cord went suddenly slack, and each time Joshua froze as directed, barely breathing, muscles rigid, having no idea if the man had paused to get his bearings, to disarm a trap, or to deal with the snakes or rats that made these tunnels their home. Each time, the tension on the cord resumed, telling him the issue, whatever it was, had been resolved and their progress could continue.
It was during a third pause that Joshua’s dark-accustomed eyes detected a faint light from somewhere ahead of the leader, an illumination with the slightest flicker that suggested a candle or a fire of some sort. A moment longer, and Tallarand moved forward again, only now he was emerging into some sort of opening, and a voice somewhere ahead was saying “What in the Name of Grace…?”
Joshua pulled himself through the narrow opening, noting that the bars had received the same treatment as those at the other end of the passage, and he emerged into a dungeon cell that seemed spacious and almost pleasant after passing through the bowels of the castle. There was the same ma
ttress in one corner, the rough table with its single chair in the middle of the room, and the illumination came from that single sputtering candle on the table. It was all the same as the last time he had left it, but then he had departed as a priest. Now, he was returning as an outlaw. That made him swallow hard, though his heart continued to beat at the same steady pace.
“Tallarand! Joshua! How in the world…how could you get here?” Darius was saying, his face showing both his confusion and his delight.
“We found the posted visiting hours to be unacceptable,” Tallarand was saying lightly. “So we decided to make our own.”
“How are you, My Lord?” Joshua said coming forward, and he found himself in a crushing embrace from the huge warrior, disregarding the condition of his robes.
“All the better for seeing you,” Darius said, releasing him and extending a hand of welcome to Tallarand as well. “But why are you here?”
Tallarand raised an eyebrow at a question with so obvious an answer, but Joshua realized they should have expected it. The man had been spending his time in quiet communion, fully expecting that this was to be his last day on Earth, and in such a state, he was quite likely to overlook the obvious.
“We have come to take you to freedom, My Lord,” he said simply. “You will not die this day.”
Darius blinked at him as if he had just said something that bordered on the absurd, but rather than a blinding smile of relief when comprehension came to him, the man’s face showed only a gentle sadness. Joshua suddenly had a terrible sense of foreboding.
“Your efforts have been wasted, I fear, my friends,” Darius said quietly. “My freedom is not yours to grant.”
“You’d rather stay here and await the executioner’s axe?” Tallarand said, his words sarcastic, but his eyes showing the first hint of doubt.
“It is not these stone walls that make my prison,” Darius replied. “I am held by the promise of my word.”
Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2) Page 26
