by Andre Nolton
What in the name of—
As soon as he turned his eyes away his symptoms subsided, and he looked up, glaring at Lashana, angry accusations on his lips.
Which died, as he continued to look up—and up—and up— into the jewel-like and surprisingly mild eyes of a very large, sapphire-blue dragon.
At least, he thought it was a dragon. He couldn't think of anything else it could be. It was huge, scaled, winged, fanged and taloned. There weren't many other creatures that fit that description.
As he stared, he heard the men behind him reacting to the presence of the creature. One was praying in the ancient language of the humans, one was cursing with remarkable fluency, and he distinctly heard the thud of a third dropping to the ground, presumably having fainted dead away.
Not that Kyrtian blamed him in the least.
"You can cast all the illusion-breaking spells you like, but dragons can look like anything they care to and you won't know it. The dragons are shape-changers, you see," he heard the Elvenbane say, quite cheerfully, but it was as if he heard her in the far distance. His mind was still too involved with the impossibility of what he had just witnessed, and the sheer presence of the dragon itself. "That's our biggest secret, and that gives us undetectable spies among you Elvenlords. The dragons can go anywhere and be anything or anybody, and you can never tell that they're there, because they're not taking on illusions, they're taking on the real form of whatever they imitate. They've been spying on your people—oh, forever. From the moment the Elvenlords arrived here, the Eldest say."
"Oh," Kyrtian said, faintly. "I suppose—dragons must have been in my camp, then?"
Lashana let out a peal of laughter. "My good Lord Kyrtian, dragons were guarding your tent. And neither you nor your good Sargeant Gel had any notion!"
"Actually," the dragon said, with a note of apology in his deep voice, "I was one of them. Sorry. Hate to eavesdrop and all that, but we really didn't have much choice. We had to know what you were, you understand. Suddenly you were doing all sorts of efficient things against the Young Lords, and we calculated that you'd be coming after us, next."
Kyrtian wasn't entirely certain how the dragon was speaking; the voice seemed to rumble up out of the depths of that massive torso, and the mouth opened and closed, but the dragon didn't have anything like lips, and he couldn't figure out how it could shape words with that mouth....
"At any rate, this is our biggest secret, and now you know it," Lashana continued. "So—well, you can see that we trust you."
"Ah ... yes." Carefully, very carefully, Kyrtian felt blindly for the piece of log he'd been sitting on and lowered himself down onto it. "I... can see that."
The dragon lowered his head until his eyes were level with Kyrtian's face. "You can do us as much harm, knowing this, as we could ever do to you, you know," the creature said, quietly.
"Forgive me," Kyrtian managed, finally gathering some of his wits about him, "If at this moment—with a mouth big enough to swallow me whole not an arm's-length away from me—I find that a little difficult to believe."
The dragon suddenly reared up, and for a moment, Kyrtian was certain that they were all going to be swallowed up—
But then an enormous, rumbling laugh started somewhere deep inside the dragon, bubbled up through the long, long throat, and emerged from the upturned snout as a trumpeting hoot.
It should have terrified him—and his men—further still. It was a completely alien sound, something that could have meant the thing was about to attack them. But somehow, it wasn't frightening at all, somehow, in the depths of Kyrtian's mind where the basest of instincts gibbered in terror and tried to crouch as small as possible so as not to be noticed by this monster, it translated as exactly what it was—the laughter of a fellow creature who meant no harm at all. And that primitive part of him stopped gibbering, and relaxed....
"Look aside, Lord Kyrtian," the dragon said, when he'd finally done laughing. "I think I'd best come—back down to your level."
He didn't need urging, not after his previous experience.
When Keman looked again like an ordinary wizard, poor Resso had been revived, and they were all seated around the fire, Kyrtian contemplated the wizard-dragon from across the flames as Lashana and the foresters discussed which of several possible caves they ought to penetrate first. He couldn't help himself; he couldn't reconcile the apparent size of the wizard with the obvious size of the dragon he'd become. The puzzle ate at him; he couldn't explain it, couldn't rationalize it, and when he couldn't find an explanation for something, he had the bad habit (and he knew it was a bad habit) of worrying at it to the exclusion of everything else.
Finally the dragon himself leveled a stare across the flames and said, "What, exactly, is bothering you, Lord Kyrtian?" in a tone of irritation mixed with amusement.
"Where did it come from?" Kyrtian blurted, as conversation ceased among the others. "I mean, you're no larger than Resso right now, and you're not exactly having that log splitting under you from your weight—but when you were—" he waved his hands wildly "—that wasn't air, that was mass—well, look at the imprints you left! So where did it come from? And where did it go?"
Keman shrugged. "Elsewhere, Kyrtian," he said. "That's all I can tell you. We call it, 'shifting into the Out.' We move the real bulk of ourselves to and from the Out, but—well, we don't know what the Out is. It's here, but it's somewhere else—"
"But when you know what to look for, a dragon casts a sort of—shadow—when he's in another form," Lashana put in. "It's not the kind of shadow you get from light falling on you, but it's there, and when you've learned how to see it and look for it, you can always tell whether something is a dragon or not."
Kyrtian could only shake his head, more puzzled by the explanation than by not having one. But at least that obsessive part of his mind had it to turn inside out and examine while he set most of his attention to work on more important things. "Never mind," he said, after a moment. "What in the name of the Ancestors are those—invisible horrors that lie in wait for you on deer trails? And what can we do about them?"
Lashana and Keman exchanged a look and a nod, and the planning moved into more practical spheres.
Caellach Gwain was beside himself with rage.
He'd followed Lashana to this benighted forest once he'd scryed out her location and once she'd abandoned it, trusting to distance and preoccupation to keep her from noticing the "noise" of his arrival. Of course, just as he apported into the spot, the wretched trees delivered a load of water from their disturbed branches, creating the effect of a localized downpour for a moment or two, which was certainly enough to drench him from head to toe. Since he hadn't taken the precaution of wearing a waterproof cape, never thinking that Lashana would drop herself into the middle of a rainstorm, he was hardly prepared for such a reception.
His temper wasn't improved when he followed the clear trail that she and whoever she'd brought with her had left. It led through underbrush just thick enough to be a nuisance, catching in his soggy robes and snarling his hair. And it was dark, plague take it all! If he hadn't kindled a mage-light, he wouldn't be able to see where he was going!
Fortunately, he'd been on the alert for the thoughts of others, because he managed to detect the sentries before they got a glimpse of his light, and douse it. And he was able to avoid them the same way, though his command of thought-sensing wasn't the equal of someone who'd wasted his time honing it to a fine pitch. Still—he knew human thoughts when he sensed them. So what was Lashana up to? Had she found yet another group of wild humans to bring to the new Citadel, using up more precious resources that should have gone to support Wizards and not useless mouths?
He spotted a fire, then, and belatedly caution took over. He would far rather have scryed out what was going on, but that would have required light—so instead, he crept on hands and knees, with every bone creaking in protest, until he was close enough to see most of the figures there, if not hear what they we
re saying.
Sure enough, it looked like another plaguey lot of mere humans!
But then, the one that had his back to Caellach turned his head, and Caellach froze.
An Elvenlord!
And there, chatting away with him, just as bold as could be—Lashana and Keman.
He very nearly rushed out from beneath his covering bush and accosted them then and there. As it was, sheer rage held him frozen in place.
How dare she! Traitor! Unnatural, ungrateful wretched girl!
He wanted to throttle her, there and then. He wanted to blast her into a hundred thousand bits. After everything she had done to the Wizards, who had taken her in, taught her, sheltered her—
He just sat and shook for a long time, while she, oblivious, chattered on as if she was old friends with them all.
He didn't know how long it was that he sat, encompassed by anger so hot it burned away every vestige of thought. But finally, it ebbed, and when it did—
Unholy glee flooded in, replacing the anger with savage joy.
He had her now. Finally, finally, he had her! Let her try to deny this! When the others heard about it, they'd throw her into a prison she could never escape from!
He had to get back, though, before he could lay any charges. And to do that, he had to get far enough away from here that the noise of the transportation spell wouldn't be noticed.
And he mustn't get caught. Not now, not when victory was so close he could taste it.
He opened his mind as he never had before, paying obsessive attention to the whereabouts of all of the sentry-slaves. When he moved, he did so only when he knew that they were nowhere near, and the sounds of his movement would not reach them. He literally felt his way along the path that had brought him here, moving loose twigs out of the way so that he wouldn't step on them and betray himself. At least now the sodden nature of this forest worked for him rather than against him; thick moss apparently covered every surface, and the fallen leaves he encountered were too wet to crackle.
When he was finally far enough away that he felt safe in doing so, he kindled a mage-light once again, got to his feet, and shoved his way along the first clear path he spotted. He didn't particularly care where he was going—and it really didn't matter. He could get back to the Citadel from practically anywhere; what really mattered now was that he get away from here.
The further he got, the brighter he made his light; at first, as the light itself frightened nocturnal animals out of his path, he was afraid that the disturbances they made would betray him, or draw in something like an alicorn that could be a real danger to him. But the further away he got, the less wildlife he saw, until at last there didn't seem to be anything at all along the path but himself.
They must have hunted it all out on the way here, he thought vaguely, most of his attention on what he was going to say when he got back to the Citadel. He recalled some vague admonitions by the stupid dragons that one shouldn't hunt an area out, but apparently that Elvenlord paid as little heed to such things as he would have. And now that the trail was wide and beautifully clear, he was going to get to a point where he could transport himself back in a matter of moments, now—just as soon as he got past that cluster of bushes—
The violent shaking of the bushes was the only warning he got. Then he was engulfed in something horrid, and slimy, and his mage-light went out. There was a moment of absolute surprise, followed by an eternity of hellish pain, and in the end, only ... nothingness.
And then there was no sound at all on the trail, except the noises of something feeding in the dark.
30
Keman and Shana elected to remain with Kyrtian and his men, but only after modifying their appearance to that of ordinary humans. That was a precautionary measure, easy to maintain, but vital just in case someone came looking for Kyrtian—or decided to scry for him.
Besides, as Keman pointed out, they'd been in these woods before. They'd helped rescue a pen full of slaves from Lord Cheynar by taking them into this forest, and even if they didn't exactly know every trail and rock, at least they knew enough about the dangers to keep Kyrtian's people from walking into trouble. Or rather, more trouble. Kyrtian had already had one narrow escape from the ambush beasts.
And they were both rather good at finding things, Keman in particular. When Kyrtian explained in detail what he thought he was looking for—the place where his father had gone hunting ancient artifacts, probably within a cave-complex—and the details he'd gleaned from the ancient journals, they both volunteered their services. Shana went with Kyrtian and his people, to act as a lookout for alicorns, ambush beasts, and other un-pleasantries, while Keman went off on his own.
It didn't take Keman very long at all to come haring back to the main party with a find in his hands and a grin on his face.
"Where did you find that?" Kyrtian exclaimed, seizing the oddly-shaped chunk of metal that Keman had found as if it were made of begemmed gold. It had probably been flat, once, with rolled edges on two sides. Now it was twisted and crumpled, like a piece of paper that had been wadded up, then smoothed out again.
"Up that way—" Keman pointed. "You know dragons can tell where caves are—"
He could tell immediately by Kyrtian's expression that, no, he didn 't know that, but he continued with the explanation anyway.
"—I've just been cruising at treetop level, probing for caverns. I found a place where there had been a big entrance that led into a huge complex, but there'd been a rock-fall that blocked the entrance, and when I landed to look it over, I found that this was caught in the rocks." He tilted his head to the side with curiosity. "What is it, anyway?"
"I haven't the vaguest clue," Kyrtian replied, turning it over in his hands with every evidence of fascination. "But feel it! Feel how light it is? Is it any metal that you recognize?"
"Well, no," Keman admitted. The lightness, and the lack of corrosion, had been what attracted him in the first place. The dull grey bit of debris, twisted and distorted, had blended very well into the fallen rocks, and only a dragon would have been able to spot it at once, by the different "feel" associated with it.
"And look at this—" Kyrtian pointed to a tiny line of engraved figures, incised deeply enough that not even the mist collecting on the surface obscured them. "You see? That's ancient script—Elven script!"
Keman peered at it. "What does it say?" he asked, dubiously. He couldn't begin to guess what an Elvenlord would choose to engrave on a piece of—something that looked like nothing more than a bit of shelf, but probably wasn't. It could be anything. A bit of a poem ? "Touch this who dares ? "
Kyrtian chuckled. "It says, 'Keep this edge up.' Not what you expected, is it?" But his eyes were afire with excitement. "Ke-man, this is—must be—a piece of one of the artifacts from the Crossing! We've found the Great Portal!"
"We have?" Keman replied with surprise. He shook water off his hood with a gesture of impatience. "I didn't know we were looking for it. I thought we were looking for your father."
"My father was looking for the Great Portal, and I'm sure he found it—but something must have happened and he couldn't get back to us." The Elvenlord's expression suddenly darkened. Kyrtian didn't say what he thought the "something" was, and Keman decided that he wasn't going to ask. "How recent was that rock-fall?"
"There have been several, I think." Now Keman was on firmer ground; if there was one thing that a dragon knew, it was rocks and caves. "I managed to get this bit out from under the bottom layer, but it looks to me as if there was one large fall quite some time ago, and several since then. There's still an opening big enough for a person to squeeze inside, but the opening used to be—well—big enough for my mother, much less me! I didn't find anything like—well, bones," he added hastily, realizing only then that he might well be describing the place where Kyrtian's father had died. His addition didn't reassure Kyrtian in the least; Kyrtian's expression darkened further.
Kyrtian handed the artifact to Shana, who e
xamined it curiously, but paid more attention to the Elvenlord than to the piece of metal. It suddenly seemed very quiet, in their little camp under the trees. Quiet enough to hear water dripping everywhere, to hear the far off calls of bell-birds. His face shadowed now, all excitement gone, the Elvenlord stared off into the trees for a moment. "How far is this? Can we get there soon?"
"Two days, I think, over the trails," Keman told him, after a moment to try and gauge distances. "I could fly you there, one at a time—"
But both Shana and Kyrtian shook their heads. "I don't want to divide the party," Kyrtian said first. "And Lashana, I know that you can use magic to bring us there, but—"
"But I'll fall on my nose afterwards," Shana said bluntly. "And if you need me, I won't be able to do anything. No, overland it is." She sighed, then smiled, and tried to make light of the situation. "Ah well. I haven't gotten nearly enough hard exercise lately, and you do have horses to help. Keman and I will be the only ones who have to walk—"
Keman burst into laughter, as she hit her head with the heel of her palm.
"I don't think you'll be walking, Shana," Keman told her. "If you'll just give me a chance to 'change' into something more suitable—"
Kyrtian got the hint immediately. It was only a moment of work—as Kyrtian hastily averted his eyes—and an "extra" horse stared at Shana mockingly.
"What color would you like, foster-sister?" he asked shaping the mouth and larynx a bit off the horse-form, so he could talk properly. "Roan? Bay? Black?" With each suggestion, he changed his color to match. "How about a nice buckskin? Or spots? Stripes? Checks?" The changes flashed across his hide in bewildering succession.
