Secret of Pax Tharkas

by Doug Niles

  Nailer grinned at the troll’s head and nodded. “Never better,” he said cheerfully.

  “What are you so happy about?” Brandon sputtered. “We could have died! Did that thing conk your brains around in your skull?”

  The younger Bluestone followed his brother’s gaze and let out a whoop of joy. “I see what you mean!” he said, stepping forward and moving around the decapitated head. He was staring down at a thick vein of bright yellow metal, a line of gold running like a seam through the bedrock of the deep cave. He said the words he knew his brother was thinking.

  “Maybe the Bluestone luck is about to improve.”

  FIVE

  DOWN THE DRAIN

  Gus’s hard labor paid off. The rocks he had loosened fell away from the barrier, and the releasing flow immediately widened the gap, allowing the contents of the pond to plunge downward in a single, frothing wave. The whole dam sagged away, and everything—Gus, Slooshy, and the three Theiwar killers included—went down.

  “Me did it!” Gus crowed, though his voice was swallowed in the churning froth.

  A great gout of syrupy goo enveloped the gully dwarf as the contents of the pond poured through the hole where the dam had been. Gus flailed his feet and hands, but for two seconds there was only that ooze and a sensation in his belly that was very similar to falling. Rocks crashed and tumbled around him—there seemed to be as much sliding stone as there was liquid in the spilling slide—and his flesh was bruised and battered by the crushing pressure.

  “Gus!” he heard Slooshy call, and he reached out toward the sound.

  Before he found her, he smacked into a rock and bounced out of the spilling debris, tumbling lazily through a somersault. Wiping his eyes, he saw a steady plume of liquid sludge bursting through the gap, carrying two rocks with it. Slooshy tumbled past, trying pathetically to swim. Then Gus bounced off the rocky ground again, and since he had landed on his head, he was a little groggy as he spiraled, tumbled, slid, and careened down the steep face of the rockslide.

  As he slid on his back toward the bottom, he found himself looking up at the ceiling of Thorbardin. Something was wrong with his lungs, and he found it impossible to draw a breath. However, his limbs seemed to function. Gus lifted up his arms and kicked his legs just in time to see one of the Theiwar tumble past. The dwarf’s face was a mask of terror as he bounced out from the steep trough and hit the waters of the Urkhan Sea, where he promptly disappeared.

  More rocks and debris spilled into the lake, pummeling the large boat that had drawn close to shore. Gus whooped in delight as one end of the boat, battered by rocks, slipped under water. Several terrified Theiwar leaped toward shore, but lacking the Aghar’s instinctive swimming skills, most of them vanished beneath the surface.

  “Help!” Slooshy was clinging to a nearby rock as the slide, more liquid than rock, spilled around her. Gus slid down and held out his hand, which she took gratefully. Since he had neglected to hold on to anything with the other hand, however, his firm grip simply pulled him into the slide with her. Another wave of sludge washed into them, carrying them both down the slope.

  His gaze shifted and he saw they were tumbling toward a big hole in the ground. It was a drain at the side of the lake, where the sludge from the Daergar sewers vanished into the bedrock—a drain installed hundreds of years ago so the effluent of the sewage pond did not pollute the pristine waters of the Urkhan Sea. At one time the drain hole had been protected by an iron grate, but the vagaries of time and the disruption of the Chaos War had done away with that barrier.

  The gurgling and splashing and roaring got louder and louder all the time. Gus kept his hand tightly wrapped around Slooshy’s as he tumbled and whirled, trying to look up toward the ceiling, but all he could see was a churning froth of brown murk. It was all around them. Abruptly, Gus’s lungs started to work, and he drew a deep breath. Some instinct for survival (such instincts are second nature to the Aghar) caused him to close his eyes and hold that deep breath. Beside him, he sensed Slooshy doing the same thing.

  In two seconds the flood reached the bottom of the ravine, the rush from the ruptured dam sweeping the two Aghars’ stubby little bodies right down the drain. Once again there came the sensation of falling, and it lasted for a very long time—two seconds, at least. Gus was surrounded by noise and propelled along by a gout of foul sludge. Occasionally he skidded against the side of the drainpipe, which only confirmed that he was indeed going down very fast. Still the Aghar pair clung to each other, somehow drawing close enough to clasp each other in their arms, holding their breath, a single bundle of terror as they plunged ever more swiftly downward.

  Abruptly the sludge started to churn, and Gus plunged through it, his own momentum carrying him still deeper even as the sudden flood down the drainpipe started to back up. He panicked as the wrenching movement tore Slooshy from his arms. Then he rolled and felt the wave push him this way and that.

  Suddenly he popped up to the surface, banging his head against a very low ceiling of smooth rock but discovering a narrow air space, a gap barely high enough to allow him to draw a breath. Slooshy was there too, her mouth open and eyes squeezed shut as she gulped precious breaths. For two minutes the liquid swept them along. It was more like dirty water than sludge, and Gus and Slooshy kicked and splashed and paddled with all the swimming strength a frenzied gully dwarf could employ.

  The force of the flow pummeled and punished them. Gus’s head banged against low rocks on the ceiling. His shins and knees collided with jutting obstacles on the sides and bottom of what seemed to be some kind of pipe hewn from the bedrock of the mountains. He found Slooshy nearby during any chance he had to open his eyes, but the current was too violent for them to hold on to each other.

  Occasionally the pipe narrowed and the water filled the entire circumference of the shaft, but each time, Gus managed to gulp air before he was submerged again, and fortunately none of the bottlenecks was more than about two feet long, so he was able to get his head out of the water now and then. And always he saw Slooshy there as well, swimming frantically along near him. His heart soared when he heard her curse the bluphsplunging water; he knew she was doing all right.

  Abruptly the shaft turned downward again, and the two gully dwarves rode the gushing water through another drain hole. Once more they were dumped into a subterranean pipe, but it was much larger. Blinking, Gus spied an arched ceiling far over his head, and he was aware that the water flowed more quietly, more slowly there than it had in the narrow pipe. Even so, it was still moving along at a fair rush and carrying the soaked Aghar deeper and deeper under Thorbardin.

  “Where we go in this goofar place?” demanded Slooshy, splashing at the water.

  “Down!” he replied, before another surge of water splashed into his face.

  Everything goes down.

  Gus remembered the drain where they first plummeted under the ground and realized with some shock that the tunnels were actually beneath the Urkhan Sea. Yet they still plunged deeper and deeper, farther away from his home than he could ever have imagined. When he looked around for his companion, he could see no sign of her.

  “Slooshy!” he cried. There might have been an answering cry from somewhere upstream, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Where was she? He struggled through water and surged and rolled with a powerful current, but the surface was relatively smooth, without the white churning froth that had choked him before. Keeping his head out of the water was easy, and he peered anxiously upstream and down, looking for a strand of scraggly hair, a flailing hand, any sign of Slooshy.

  For two minutes he floated along, peering despairingly across the smoothing waters. The current was fast but no longer as crushing, and he started looking around for some way to pull himself out of the flow. A narrow ledge appeared along one side and quickly vanished behind him, and he realized that he was looking the wrong way. Turning around, he faced the direction in which he was being borne by the current.

  Two sec
onds later another ledge came into view on the left side, and Gus kicked his way toward it—but the current shoved him past before he could grab the lip. Still, he was close to the side of the huge shaft, and when the next dry perch hove into view, he was ready. His strong fingers grabbed the edge, slipping along but finally grasping tight.

  With a strong kick, Gus pulled himself up and out of the water, collapsing on the surprisingly wide shelf of flat stone, just about two inches above the level of the still-surging water. For two long minutes, he lay there, quaking first in fear then from the cold, keeping his eyes open as he studied the water for some sign of Slooshy floating past.

  But there was only that cold, flowing water.

  Shivering, he sat up and took a look around. Almost immediately he spotted an opening in the side of the water cavern. It was a corridor leading away from there! The ceiling was just high enough for Gus to step along without stooping, and the passageway was wide enough for him to stretch out his arms and just barely touch the—thankfully dry!—walls to either side.

  He strolled along jauntily, rather pleased to have survived such an adventure. He recalled Slooshy with a pang but knew she must be dead by then. And he was still alive! Though sodden and chilly, he could walk, and he even allowed himself a glimmer of enthusiasm as he wondered if he might not discover some food somewhere along the dark pathway. Things were indeed looking up! In fact, although it might have been his imagination, he grew cheerful at the vague sense that the air around him was getting warmer.

  Gus wandered along the dark corridor, not sure if he was climbing or descending, for at least two minutes. He realized he had been right about one thing: it was definitely getting warmer! His sodden garments gradually dried, and he no longer squished and splashed with every step. The narrow escape from a watery tomb and the loss of his companion left no lingering trauma, forgetfulness being one of the finely tuned coping mechanisms of the Aghar race. Indeed, he pursed his lips and whistled a merry tune as he trekked along, feeling as though suddenly he didn’t have a care in all Krynn.

  Then he remembered Slooshy again with a sudden hollow feeling in his middle. The sound of her voice calling “Help!” left a weird echo in his head, and though he tried to knock it out, all of his beating against his temples only seemed to make his head hurt more. And there was that continuing strange pain in his belly every time he recalled her, remembering the feeling of her arms around him, her hand clutched in his.

  Thinking of the pain in his belly, he realized he was pretty hungry. He didn’t know if he was walking in the right direction toward food or any place safe, but he wasn’t about to go back and jump in the river, so he was doing the only thing he could think to do which was to keep walking along the underground passage.

  If he had taken a little more time to inspect his surroundings, he might have noticed that the corridor was straight and level with stone arches at regular intervals. That was clear proof that he wasn’t in a natural cave, but rather was following a route carved by dwarves at some point in the unknown past. Gus’s nose was paying more attention than his brain, sniffing at the air, seeking low and high, right and left, for any morsel of food.

  A cave grub, exuding the characteristic musty stink of its species, could not elude his notice. He dug the plump creature out of a narrow crevice in the cavern wall and popped it into his mouth, smacking his lips delightedly as he savored the gooey juice and chewy membrane. Recalling his thrilling ride down the subterranean flume and finding that surprising delicacy, Gus beamed. It was looking like his lucky day!

  As a result, the pudgy Aghar had a certain spring in his step as he continued along his way. He almost swaggered as he savored the last creamy swallow of slug. His big eyes, attuned to perfect darkness, took in the smooth walls, the perfectly level floor, the arrow-straight course of the passage before him, and he felt as though he could walk that nice path across the whole of Thorbardin. There was nothing to stop him.

  As was his wont, his mind wandered. What would it be like to be highbulp of all the Aghar, master of the under-dwellers, a gully dwarf so important that he held a great seat at the council of thanes? But why stop there, at mere highbulp? What if he, Gus, were to become high king of all the dwarves? Now that was a dream worth imagining!

  What would his house be like? Splendid, of course. What would he wear? Why, anything he wanted. He’d have a full closet of at least two nice outfits. What would he—he gasped at the possibilities—what would he eat? The question was full of such boundless appeal, such unlimited possibility, that it took his breath away. What, indeed, would he eat, if he had all the power of the high kingship? Well, he would probably start with fish eggs, the roe of the cave salmon that he had sampled once or twice, when he had dared to root through the garbage outside of an upscale Theiwar inn. After that, he would have … well, why not have two more salmon eggs? Why, as high king, he could live on salmon eggs, and nobody could tell him otherwise!

  But a king needed a queen, didn’t he? He sniffled suddenly, remembering Slooshy again. Too bad she wasn’t alive. He would have kind of liked the chance to offer her a seat on the throne of the dwarves … and also a dish of salmon eggs, all her own to eat.

  His thoughts meandered through a menu of other treats as he swung along the corridor. His imagination was so active, he could practically smell the delicate salmon eggs, feel them bursting on his tongue, taste the salty nectar within. Thus it was he didn’t notice the dark figures lurking in the corridor until he almost walked right into then.

  Then he had to notice. He froze, one foot in the air in the middle of a step. There were three of them, big and burly dwarves, dressed in black cloaks that masked their facial features and concealed their limbs and torsos. They stood side by side, blocking the corridor completely, motionless and silent as they regarded the approaching gully dwarf.

  Immediately, a lifetime of survival instincts took over Gus’s mind and body. He gulped loudly even as he spun around on his planted foot. The mysterious figures had offered no ominous sound, no gestures indicating menace, but any Aghar who lasted to adulthood did so by not taking chances. Any nongully dwarf encountered anywhere in Thorbardin, at any time, under any circumstances, as likely as not possessed murderous intentions. At least, that’s what the survival-minded Aghar was forced to assume.

  Before Gus had even completed his gulp of alarm, he was sprinting in the opposite direction at full speed. His heart pounded against his ribs as loudly as his boots drummed along the stone floor. The walls to either side passed in a blur as the terrified gully dwarf heard swords unsheathe and the footsteps of pursuers echo in his mind, his thoughts a cacophony of fear. His eyes blurred, tearing from the frantic speed of his flight, and he vividly imagined cold, steel blades or mailed hands reaching for his vulnerable back.

  He ran headlong into a net that had somehow deployed across the corridor, blocking the path he had just traversed. The coils of webbing closed around him, cocooning him, hoisting him from the floor to dangle helplessly, swinging through a slow spiral.

  Eyes bugging, he stared helplessly as he swung around toward the direction of the shadowy pursuers. He saw with astonishment that the trio of dark figures remained exactly where he had first glimpsed them. Slowly they shimmered then faded from view.

  Magic! Gus gulped again, the maneuver complicated by the fact he was hanging upside down. Coughing and sputtering, he shivered in terror as he continued to pivot until he faced the direction in which he had been fleeing.

  Two dwarves were strolling lazily toward him. One of them was coiling a long rope that led through a hook in the ceiling down to the net where Gus was imprisoned. He noted their milky, pale eyes and their bristling beards and recognized the pair as Theiwar.

  “Well, we caught us a prize, eh?” said the one holding the rope. He released his grip, dropping Gus head-first onto the floor.

  “Aye. The master will be pleased,” said the other. He reached down and grabbed a corner of the net. When he pulled, th
e gully dwarf—still stunned from the head blow—tumbled free of the webbing to lie shivering on the floor.

  “Up, you,” said the first Theiwar. He prodded Gus none too gently in the thigh with a short sword. “You’re coming with us.”

  Still trembling, the Aghar climbed to his feet. He glanced once more at the empty corridor ahead, where the apparition of a threat had propelled him into their real trap.

  “A bit of the master’s magic, that,” chuckled the sword-bearing Theiwar. “We likes to catch youz without havin’ to break a sweat.”

  His head throbbing, Gus could only shuffle along, guarded by the watchful captors. He didn’t know who the “master” was, but he guessed he would soon find out.

  The powder of the amanita mushroom, as deadly a toxin as existed in the world, was fine-grained and completely dry. Willim carefully stoppered the vial containing the poisonous stuff; his spell of true-seeing allowed him to determine the cork had no imperfections and fit so tightly that no air could enter or leave the container. Carefully setting the glass onto a metal ring, he touched the stone underneath the ring and muttered a word of magic.

  Immediately, that stone surface began to glow, radiating a warmth the Theiwar mage could feel against the skin of his face. Satisfied, he turned to another process, using a black steel knife to stir a bowl containing a viscous mix of carrion-crawler ichor and a sludge of oily mud. He counted a hundred spirals of the blade, his mind relishing his focus on the precise tasks.

  Around him, the laboratory was still. Many of his attendants were gone, hunting subjects in the dark caverns beneath Thorbardin; the rest were currently resting or gambling in their garrison quarters. His captives, the elves and Klar dwarves and goblin, sat silent and sullen in their cages; none of them wished to make any sound or disturbance that might attract the attention of their sadistic captor, so they made themselves as invisible as possible behind the bare steel bars of their cells.