The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  "I always listen closely. To humans, at least. Not to a filthy little dwarf."

  "Barak? Do you think I should have to take this?"

  "No. You want me to persuade him, Ahira?"

  James Michael glanced over at Deighton, who was again standing in front of his open briefcase, his hands hidden inside. One of the things James Michael liked—a lot—about Doc Deighton's gamemastering was that Doc almost always chose to do the dice-rolling himself, freeing the players from as much of the mechanics of the game as was possible. It helped to maintain the illusion, the atmosphere. "Will that be necessary, Einar Lightfingers? Barak would lop off your remaining hand if I asked him to." And Karl Cullinane would probably enjoy kicking Jason Parker out of the game by killing off Parker's character

  Lightfingers/Parker sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Good. And it's not what I want you to do, it's what I want you not to do. Understood?" He rapped on the table. "I know your habits; we won't have any of that nonsense in this company."

  Pause. "Understood."

  And we're off. He gave a slight nod at Deighton.

  "You have just awoken on a hillside," Deighton intoned, "a company of . . . six adventurers, seeking treasure and fame."

  "Wait a minute," Aristobulus grated. "How did we get here? And I thought that there was—"

  "Patience, please. Last night, you all slept in an inn, which was located in a village just south of the great walled city, D'tareth. You don't know how you got here." He stopped.

  Doria picked up the hint. "Where the hell are we?"

  "Yeah."

  "What're we doing on this hilltop?"

  "Last thing I knew, I was kicking the serving girl out of bed so I could get some sleep." That was from Slovotsky/Hakim; Ahira leaned back, closed his eyes, and smiled.

  "From the top of this hill, you can see the dawn sun, rising over another walled city. It is not D'tareth; the walls of this city are of some wet-looking gray stone."

  "Forget the distance—what's close up?" Ahira understood Parker's impatience, but wished that he'd contain himself. They would learn, soon enough.

  "Beside you on the hillside are half a dozen large wooden boxes. They are plain, almost cubical, each side roughly the height of a dwarf."

  Eyes still closed, Ahira spoke up. "Nobody touch the boxes. We don't know what's in them."

  "I'll dispel any spells."

  "You're not thinking, Aristobulus," Ahira shot back. "First, if it's harmless, you're wasting a spell. Second, there could be, say, a magic carpet inside. You want to turn it into a throw rug?"

  "But what can we do?"

  "Hakim." He voiced it as a command.

  "Here, sahib."

  "You want to give the boxes a try? Careful, now."

  A deep chuckle. "So you want me to be the sacrificial meat? Very well. I walk over to the nearest of the boxes and run my fingertips lightly over its top surface."

  Deighton: "You feel nothing unusual, although your . . ." As he paused, dice clattered. "Your suspicion is that there is a hidden catch."

  "For some reason or other, I suspect that there is a hidden catch, Ahira. You want me to find it?"

  Deighton: "From behind you, you hear a voice."

  "Quick!" Ahira said. "Everybody, turn around. Barak, loose your sword—but don't draw it. Aristobulus, get ready to throw a spell—if anything funny happens, throw it."

  "Which one?"

  "Lightning." James Michael knew that the new voice would be Andrea's character, joining the group, but Ahira was a suspicious sort, who wouldn't know that, anyway. Best to be prepared.

  "As you turn around, you see a young human woman, dressed in the gray robes of a user of magicks. Go ahead."

  "I . . . I'm supposed to say . . ." Andrea was uncomfortable; James Michael resigned himself to having a hard time getting her into the spirit of things.

  Hakim/Slovotsky's basso boomed, "Speak for yourself—are you possessed by a demon, wench?"

  "Wench? Oh. No, I'm not possessed by a demon. I'm, uh, Lotana," she said, the accent firmly on the second syllable, "and," she added in a low monotone, "I'm going to get even with you for this, Karl Cullinane."

  Never mind; get back into it.

  "Greetings, little girl, would you like a piece of candy?"

  "Barak," Ahira snapped out, "if Einar Lightfingers opens his mouth again, stick a sword through his lips."

  "Delighted."

  Bringing a new player—a new person into the company was always a touchy situation. Ahira didn't need Lightfingers complicating matters, not with a nov—a not terribly experienced magic user. "Lotana, we are a band of adventurers, seeking . . . something, although we don't quite know what, yet."

  Deighton: "You have a vague, unexplainable feeling that what you are looking for is something called the Gate Between Worlds."

  "Although we all share a vague suspicion that we're looking for the Gate Between Worlds, whatever that is. Would you like to join us?"

  "Sure. Uh, what were you going to do about those boxes on the hillside?"

  Doria's voice was almost a whine. "Open them, silly."

  "Okay, fine, I'll open them."

  "No, don't—"

  "As the first box is opened, you are overwhelmed by a rush of . . ."

  James Michael couldn't hear the rest; a rush of sound like the roar of an impossibly loud, impossibly near jet buffeted his ears, acrid smoke invading his nostrils until he found himself on his knees in a coughing spasm, his tearing eyes jammed shut.

  He bounced to his feet on the damp grass, reflexively reaching for the axe strapped to his chest, loosening the straps with two quick jerks and taking the axe in his gnarled, well-muscled hands.

  Well-muscled hands?

  He opened his eyes.

  He was standing on the side of a grassy hill, a dwarf with an axe in his hands.

  "Ohmygod."

  Part Two:

  Lundeyll

  Chapter Three

  "It Isn't a Game Anymore"

  I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man.

  —Chang-tzu

  "Jason, wake up," James Michael's voice rasped.

  Jason Parker shrugged the hand from his shoulders, reaching for the covers, to pull them over his head. But the covers weren't there.

  "Want me to try?" The voice was Karl Cullinane's, but changed: a deep, rich baritone.

  "No, we'll do it. You go back to your little friend," Doria said. "Maybe she's over her crying jag by now."

  Jason pried an eye open, squinting painfully in the bright sunlight. Doria knelt on the grass next to him. But it wasn't Doria, not exactly. She was older, gaunt, the rounded features of her face having changed into the well-defined ones of a thirtyish woman. And her eyes were strange; nobody had yellow irises.

  But Doria did. And that seemed . . . right, familiar.

  "What the hell?" Jason jerked upright, now totally awake.

  Maybe.

  He was sitting on damp morning grass, wearing a musky-smelling leather jerkin and dew-damp gray woolen leggings, an ivory-hilted shortsword in its scabbard at the right side of his waist, a sheathed dagger strapped to his chest beneath his jerkin.

  He reached his right hand up to his face, to slap himself awake. This had all the makings of a bad bad dream.

  He missed; air brushed his cheek. Missed? He looked down at his arm. Instead of a hand on the end of his withered, age-spotted right arm, there was nothing but a naked stump, covered with brown keloid scars.

  My hand . . . The world went gray.

  James Michael's voice came from behind. "Take it easy, Jason. Deep breaths. But you've got to get yourself together. You're next to the last—we still can't get Arist—Ricky to wake up."

  He kept his eyes closed. A massive hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him forward. Reflexively, he retrieved his dagger with his left hand, thrust it over his shoulder—

>   And found his wrist caught in a bone-crushing grip. The dagger was wrenched out of his fingers, thudding on the ground beside him.

  "Don't try that again."

  "You just go easy on him, Ahira." There was a strength, a confidence in Doria's voice that Jason had never heard before. "It's going to be harder on him than it was on you." Gentle fingers stroked his face. "We'll just have to take this one step at a time."

  "Maybe you're right, but I don't like it. Aristobulus is still—"

  "Shh. One step at a time."

  Jason opened his eyes. Somehow it was fitting that James Michael was a dwarf, a broad-shouldered creature with a huge, broken nose and a jutting jaw. But it was still James Michael's eyes that peered at him from beneath the heavy brows.

  "You're Ahira."

  "That's right." The dwarf smiled, running a hand down the front of his gapped chainmail vest. "We're here, on the other side."

  "Other side?"

  Ahira shrugged. "Somehow or other . . . never mind, for now. But if I'm Ahira, who are you?"

  Doria glared at the dwarf, then clasped Jason's good hand in her two. She was wearing a long, high-necked robe, belted tightly around her waist. "Easy, now. Don't let him rush you."

  Jason snatched his hand away and slapped at Doria's sleeve. It didn't even dent; it was like slapping a brick wall. "It works." In the game, Doria of the Healing Hand had a robe like that, a magical one.

  She smiled reassuringly and waved her arm, the tightly woven cloth flapping. "It's just like in the game. Feels like a cotton robe from the inside, but from the outside it's like armor. Just like in the game." Her face sobered. "And all of us, we're our characters. Sort of."

  "Which means that I'm Lightfingers." A small leather pouch dangled by a thong from her sash. He let his head loll forward as though he were fainting again, slipped his hand across her body while his head movement distracted her, and fingered open the pouch without disturbing the strap that attached it to her belt. He clipped two gnarled fingers in, lifted and palmed a coin, closed the pouch with a gentle tug, and tucked the coin into a pocket inside his sleeve with a practiced flip.

  Elapsed time less than three seconds. It felt natural, as though he'd done it thousands of times before. But I've never stolen anything. It's—

  "A nice try, Jason." Ahira shook his head. "But I was watching for it. Give it back."

  "Watching for what?" Doria's brow furrowed in exasperation. Now that was strange; she always deferred to the little cripple.

  Oh. He isn't little anymore. Or crippled. Just short. The snotty bastard must be having the time of his life.

  "He just picked your purse." The dwarf chuckled. "Give it back. Now."

  "I don't know what you're talking about—and who are you to be giving orders, anyway?" He braced himself on his stump and slid his feet under him. It was the practiced routine of a thief when caught: First deny, then challenge, then run.

  Ahira grabbed his sleeve and shook the coin out. Picking it up, he handed it to Doria. "Don't worry; I'm not going to give him a hard time. This once." He turned back to Jason. "But we're in enough trouble as it is; I don't want you adding to it. Understood, Lightfingers?"

  "My name is Jason." But the name felt strange in his mouth. "And I want to go home."

  The dwarf helped him to his feet. Standing, Ahira's head barely came up to his chest. Ahira picked up his battleaxe from the damp grass and tapped a well-chewed thumbnail against the blade. "Two things. In answer to your question, this says that I'm in charge here. Back home, the group chose me as team leader. That's the way it is; that's the way it's going to be.

  "And second, we are going home." Ahira opened his mouth; shut it. He shook his head. "Just take it easy for a while, get your bearings. Doria, let's go see to the wizard."

  * * *

  Karl Cullinane had often thought of holding Andy-Andy in his arms, but nowhere in his imaginings had she been crying. "Everything will be fine." He patted her clumsily on the back.

  But these weren't his arms, this wasn't his body. Not quite. Karl was of average height, and skinny. Was. Now, he towered over her as he held her, careful not to squeeze her tightly; somehow, he knew that his grip could break a strong man's back.

  After a while, her weeping died down. He let her go, then took a loose sleeve of her gray robe and wiped at her eyes. "Feeling better?"

  "N-no. I'm scared. What happened?" She rubbed at her temples. "I . . . feel so strange—how do I know that I could turn invisible, or make you fall asleep, or charm—it's like there's something in my head, trying to get out."

  Her mouth started to move; he clapped a hand over it. "Don't. Just listen to me, but don't say anything." Her eyes grew wide; she brought up her hands, vaguely pulling at his arm. "No. Nod if you understand me, and I'll take my hand away."

  Her head moved; he let his hand drop. "Don't do that again," she said, planting a palm against his chest, shoving.

  He could have laughed, almost. But he took a step back. "Okay, but be careful what you say. You've got three spells in your head, and they're trying to get out."

  "How do you know?"

  He shrugged. I don't know. But I do. "It's . . . like I've got two minds. One is Barak; the other is me." That a wizard had to constantly rein in spells was something Barak would know. It had to be: Karl hadn't known it; it wasn't part of the game. He stooped slowly, and lifted his scabbarded sword from the grass. "Barak knows how to use this, not me." The sword was long, almost three-fifths his height. Without drawing it from its scabbard, he knew that it was single-edged like a Japanese katana, but straight, not curved; primarily a slashing weapon, it still could be used to thrust. "And why not to strap it to anything; it'd take too long to draw it." He gripped the cord-wound handle with his left hand almost at the pommel. To draw the sword, he would slip the scabbard away, add his right hand in its place on the grip, and strike. That was one of the rules: Get your sword into play, and worry about picking up the scabbard later.

  It was important to keep the blade clean and dry; an image of his hands—his hands—cleaning the blade with a dead enemy's hair welled up, unbidden.

  "But what happened?" She gestured at her robes, at him, at the boxes on the hillside. "We're in the place that Dr. Deighton described. Look."

  He looked to the east. The early-morning sun sat over the far walls of the city below. Karl raised his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes. The walls were solid and wide; a few bowmen stood on the pathways girdling them. People, and horses drawing two-wheeled carts, swarmed in and out of the gate.

  To the north, a vast expanse of dark water spread across the horizon, waves rippling in toward a rocky shore. Off in the distance a broad-beamed schooner glided slowly in toward the docks.

  But there was more than Deighton had described; he hadn't mentioned the fishing village to the north, and Karl hadn't visualized it.

  How did he know that it was a fishing village?

  It was too complicated, too strange. He shook his head. "You're right. I don't know how, but somehow we're here." He stretched his arms, letting his shoulders strain against the seams of his leather jerkin, and drew in a deep breath. It was clean air, fresh and sweet with a tang of ozone; this world had never known the stink of the internal combustion engine. "But doesn't it feel fine?"

  "For you." She was nearing tears again. "But how do I get home?"

  "I don't know. And I didn't mean it that way—not that I wanted to stay here forever." It was one thing to play at being a warrior, but a fuzzy memory of his sword opening someone's belly like an overripe fruit . . . that didn't feel right, not to Karl Cullinane. But I'm not just Karl, not anymore. There's a lot of Barak in me, now. Then again, maybe that's not all bad. He and Andy-Andy used to be close to the same height, although when she wore heels she'd look down at him. Now he towered over her by a foot, or more. When he stood close to her, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She wasn't changed, though, at least on the outside, except for the loose robes
that had replaced her jeans and shirt.

  And the fear in her eyes. That was new. "Karl, how are we going to—"

  "I don't know." He shook his head. "But someh—"

  "This a private conversation, or can anyone join?" Walter Slovotsky's voice boomed from behind him.

  Karl spun around. He hadn't heard the big man—no, not big anymore; I'm half a head taller than he is. "Don't do that."

  "Don't do what?" Slovotsky smiled innocently. Except for Andy-Andy, he was the least changed of the group, at least physically. His skin had darkened a shade or two, his black hair was slightly straighter and a bit longer, and there were hints of epicanthic folds around his eyes, but that was all. Even his all-is-right-with-the-world smile was intact.

  "Don't sneak up on me. I don't like it."

  Slovotsky shrugged, muscles playing under the bare skin of his chest. He was dressed as Hakim would be: shirtless, a blousy pair of pants belted tightly to his waist, the cuffs tucked into the lacing of his sandals. From the left side of his waist, a wickedly curved scimitar hung in a leather scabbard; from the right, a tangle of knives and straps. Slovotsky rubbed at his temples. "I guess I should apologize, or something. It's just that moving silently seems to come naturally to me. It's sort of like a new toy, Karl. Or should I call you Barak?"

  "Karl." He forced a smile. "Barak would give you a clout on the head as a reminder."

  "Good point. You had better call me Walter. Hakim would slip a knife between your ribs, for—" He stopped, puzzled, raising a palm. "Sorry. That wasn't me."

  "I understand." Karl unclenched his hand from the hilt of his sword. "But the question is—"

  "What the hell are we going to do?" There was a new strength in Andy-Andy's voice. Just a little.

  Karl gave her a smile. "Right." She was adjusting. A few minutes before, she would have put the emphasis on do instead of hell.

  "In theory, it's simple," Slovotsky said.

  "Nonsense." She waved a hand at their surroundings. "Simple?"

  "Everything's simple, actually." He held up a well-manicured finger. "First, you figure out what you want."

  Karl didn't like the way Slovotsky's eyes roamed up and down her as he said that, but he let it pass.