The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  Khoralt smiled at Karl. "Ohlmin is disqualified, for leaving the playing area. The winner of the swords competition is—what is your name?"

  Karl stood up straight. "My name is Cullinane. Karl Cullinane."

  "The winner of the swords competition is Karl Cullinane." The elf leaned over. "And if you want some advice, Karl Cullinane, I would suggest you get yourself and your winnings out of Pandathaway."

  Karl smiled. "Just what I had in mind."

  * * *

  Whistling to himself, Ahira bounded up the stairs to their suite in the Inn of Quiet Repose, his battleaxe strapped to his chest, and a leather sack well weighted down with gold slung over his shoulder. Between his winnings, Karl's winnings, and what Doria and Hakim would have from having bet on them, it wouldn't be a problem to equip themselves right. And with a bit of luck, the others would soon be through the Gate, and home.

  As he pushed through the curtains and into the common room of the suite, he saw Hakim, Aristobulus, and Doria sitting on the rug, coins, jewels, and finger-size bars of gold bullion scattered in front of them.

  "Where are the other two?"

  Hakim shrugged, a strangely sheepish smile creasing his face. "Karl hasn't gotten back yet, and Andrea's still in the Library, working on her spell." He looked from the wizard to the cleric, then shook his head.

  Aristobulus nodded; Doria frowned, then snorted.

  What was this? From the looks passing between the three, it seemed as though they were sharing some private joke. "Want to let me in on it?"

  Aristobulus considered it for a moment. "I might as well. I didn't go into this last night; I wanted to recheck my calculations first." He pursed his lips, rubbing withered fingers against his temples. "Unless I'm sadly mistaken, the Gate Between Worlds won't work quite the way Deighton thought—thinks it does."

  "It's not going to get us home?" Ahira almost staggered. You mean that all this has been for nothing?

  "No, no—not that. It's just that magic doesn't work the same way in . . . our native universe. A Gate on this side won't create a . . . doorway between worlds, but more of a trapdoor. We can go through—belongingness will bring us back there—but we can't get back here through it."

  For Ahira, that was no problem. He flexed his shoulders and tensed his thigh muscles—going back to being James Michael Finnegan was something that had no appeal, be it permanent or temporary.

  But for the wizard, it was different. And if Aristobulus couldn't get back, he wouldn't go to the Gate—no, better: If Aristobulus didn't think that he could get back to this side, with spell books, he wouldn't go.

  "I wouldn't worry about it," Ahira said, unfastening his axe, then seating himself with the other three. He cupped a pile of gemstones in his hands, then let the rubies, opals, and round-cut diamonds trickle through his fingers and bounce on the rug.

  Responsibilities, responsibilities—we never would have translated across, if it weren't for me. None of the others wanted it as badly. Not even Aristobulus. I've got to get Hakim, Karl, Doria, and Andrea home. "Deighton sent us all across once; I'm sure we can persuade him to do the same for you. With spell books."

  "Persuade? Even though it won't help him any? I don't remember you having so persuasive a manner about you, back on the other side." The wizard snorted. "And you hardly had the physique—"

  "I have," Hakim said. "Maybe I'm not quite as strong back home as Karl is here, but . . ."

  "You'll help?" The wizard looked hopefully at Hakim.

  "I promise." The thief smiled. "If he doesn't send you back—fully equipped—then I'll break a finger at a time until he does. And in the meantime, you'll keep your mouth shut in front of K—"

  "What is going on?" Ahira spread his hands. "I thought you two had settled that, back on the Pride."

  "Not that." Hakim picked up a diamond that was almost the size of his eye, and held it up to the light. "This one has a small flaw, dammit." He dropped it, and smiled. "But we still have enough, what with yours and Karl's winnings, and—"

  "And your winnings, betting on us—we should be able to outfit ourselves more than well enough. Matter of fact, I want the two of you to take some of this gold, go out, and pick up all the healing draughts you can. We just may—"

  "Not quite winnings," Doria interrupted, holding up three gold bars and a small leather sack. "This is what we won by betting on you. We got good odds—it averaged out to be about eighty to one."

  "And the rest from betting on Karl? What were they, a hundred to one?"

  "Two hundred." Hakim shook his head. "Everybody thought that Ohlmin was such a sure winner that you couldn't even bet on him—the little bugger's won every single time he's entered. So . . ."

  "So?"

  "So I didn't bet on Karl. I thought it'd be just throwing money away, dammit." Hakim threw up his hands. "And you saw what he had to go through to win that competition—he was sweating, and limping, and—"

  "So how did you?—you didn't."

  Hakim smiled sheepishly. "Actually, I did. I spent most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon picking pockets. Lots of money in Pandathaway."

  Ahira sighed. If Karl found out that he'd worked that hard to win, but the others hadn't had enough faith in him to bet on him at those odds . . . "He'll break your neck."

  "Only if one of you tells."

  "We won't. But if it happens to slip out . . ."

  Hakim nodded. "I'd better work on my sprinting."

  Ahira shook his head. "No, make that long-distance running." He stood. "Well, let's get to it—I want us to outfit ourselves and be out of Pandathaway by sundown. Doria—you, Hakim, and I are going shopping; Ari, you wait here for the other two."

  Out of Pandathaway by sundown—that had a nice ring to it. Then up the road through the Aershtyl Mountains, pass through Aeryk, skirt the edge of the Waste to Bremon.

  And the Gate. And no more responsibilities for the rest. No more worries about the others getting themselves killed.

  He sighed.

  Hakim nodded knowingly. "It's hard on you, isn't it, m'friend?"

  "At best."

  Part Four:

  Bremon

  Chapter Twelve

  The Waste of Elrood

  A heap of broken images, where the sun beats. And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

  —T. S. Eliot

  Ahira called a halt at midmorning, easing himself painfully out of his fore-and-aft peaked saddle, then turning the horses and his pony loose under a spreading elm. He squatted on the ground, rubbing at his aching thighs. Someday, I'd like to get my hands on whoever invented the horse. For five minutes, that's all. Just five minutes.

  "Ahira?" Hakim called out, from his perch on the bench of the flatbed wagon. "You want me to turn these critters loose, too?" He jerked his thumb at the two scraggly mules hitched to the wagon.

  Ahira shook his head. "No. I'm tired enough of fighting them back into harness every morning. Set the brake, twist on the hobbles, and slip their bits—you can feed and water them where they are."

  Climbing down from his gray mare's saddle, Aristobulus shook his head. "You wouldn't have so much trouble with them," he said, "if we had decent harnesses. Those stupid straps half-choke—"

  "Enough." Ahira waved the wizard to silence. Granted, the strap harnesses they had bought in Pandathaway weren't nearly as good as even medieval horsecollars. Given, under Ari's direction—or, more accurately, Lou Riccetti's direction—putting together an efficient horsecollar was a trivial feat of design and engineering, but—

  —But do I have to put up with his constant whining about it? "No," he said, "we're not going to turn the mules loose. They might run off again, and we don't want to
waste the time chasing after them." Maybe Hakim got along well with the two snorting creatures—Ahira chuckled; even mules got along with him—but there was no sense in taking chances.

  Not when you didn't have to. Take the caravan behind them, for example. In the twenty days it had taken them to get from Pandathaway to Aeryk, and the week since they had stopped overnight in Aeryk to finish outfitting themselves and stock up on food and water, the caravan hadn't been more than a couple of days behind; Ahira could see them moving, even at night.

  They could be reasonable people; quite possibly it would be in both parties' interests to travel together as long as they were headed in the same direction. But—

  Ahira sighed, seating himself on a gnarled root. He propped his back against the tree's rough bark. —But that was only probably, only possibly. Best not to take chances. Best to keep a distance.

  Andrea walked over and stretched out on her side on the ankle-high grass. "Nice." She unslung a small waterbag, took a sip, then offered it to Ahira. "I don't guess that it'll be this easy from here on in."

  He took a sip and recorked the bag. "Thanks." He gestured at the long slope below them. Perhaps ten miles away, the lush grassland gave way to the Waste, the line of demarcation between dark, water-rich greenery and brown, sun-baked earth as sharp as a knife. Why hadn't the Waste claimed part of the grassland, or vice versa? Or had it—no, that couldn't be: The boundary between Waste and grass curved smoothly away in the distance; a curve as even as that had to be artificial, not natural. It could be involved with the aftereffects of the wizards' battle that had created the Waste of Elrood, but—

  —but there's no way of knowing. And it really doesn't matter.

  "No, it probably won't be this easy." He handed her the water-bag. "And we'd better start going easy on this; I'm a bit nervous about the water supply."

  Her brow wrinkled. "But we bought the two extra barrels in Aeryk. That should be enough, even at the rate Karl and the horses swill it, no?"

  He gave her a nod. "It should be. But should isn't always enough." Ahira chuckled, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. "Don't pay any attention; I'm just getting cynical." For the thousandth time, he took a mental inventory of their supplies. Twelve healing draughts, sealed in gray metal bottles. Karl had wanted to use one, back in Pandathaway, to fix his sprained knee. But Ahira had overruled him; best to save the potions for emergencies, and rely on natural healing whenever possible. A sprain wasn't like a cut; it couldn't be a path for infection.

  There was a score of white woolen blankets, along with the makings of an iron framework, so that they could rig a canopy over the bed of the wagon for travel in the heat of the Waste. The blankets would keep them cool during the day, and warm at night.

  And then the food: dried meat and fruit, sweets for variety and quick energy, oats for the animals, a head-sized cube of gritty salt—plenty, surely, for both people and animals. No problems there.

  Miscellany: a sewing kit, seven oil lanterns with twenty forearm-sized flasks of evil-smelling green oil, a flint-and-steel kit for every member of the party. A spare crossbow, with a lighter pull than Ahira's; fourscore extra quarrels for that—if Ahira didn't need it, Hakim could handle it without much difficulty. And without much accuracy, for that matter.

  And then there was the one magical ingredient he'd bought: a clump of dragonbane, packed carefully in a soft leather pouch. If they couldn't sneak by The Dragon, perhaps the creature's allergy to the mossy stuff would give them time enough to use the Gate.

  What else? Spare knives for everyone; several hundred yards of deceptively light rope—a knife could barely cut it; a few pounds of charcoal cubes, just in case they needed a fire when there was no wood available; hammers and spikes to use as pitons, if necessary. And thinking of wood . . . he raised his head. "Karl, Hakim—we're a bit short of firewood, and we're not going to find any in the Waste. Go cut some."

  Hakim nodded, getting slowly to his feet; Karl stood quickly and spun around to face Ahira.

  "What do we need more wood for?" There was only a trace of challenge in his tone.

  Ahira cursed himself silently. Karl wouldn't have raised any objection if Andrea hadn't been nearby. Something had to be done about the relationship—whatever it was—between those two.

  But now wasn't the time. Ahira forced a smile and started to raise himself painfully to his feet. "Fine—if you don't think we need it, I'll cut it myself." He unstrapped his axe and propped it carefully against the root he'd just vacated. The battleaxe was a weapon, not a tool. "Who saw where the woodaxe is?"

  Doria trotted over, her robes flapping. "Some problem?"

  Ahira shrugged. "It's nothing—don't worry about it."

  Karl looked sheepish as he raised his palms, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. My fault—I forgot that you and your pony don't get along. I'll cut the wood." He retrieved the woodaxe from the bed of the wagon and followed Hakim out into the woods, away from the road.

  Ahira rubbed gently at his thighs. Nice of Karl to remind him. Dammit, dwarves weren't built for riding horses, and that alleged pony was a dappled demon, camouflaged. Just barely camouflaged.

  On the other hand, Cullinane had been getting more considerate, ever since that first day in Pandathaway. Which reminds me— "Doria, why don't you and Aristobulus take a waterbag and go see if there's a spring around here. You do the walking through the brush, and let him—"

  Doria's brow furrowed. "I doubt that there's a spring. And why me?"

  Because I think I'd better have a private talk with Andrea, and this is a convenient excuse to get you out of the way for a minute, and do I have to be argued with about every damn thing? No, he sighed, that wouldn't do. "Because of your robes." He picked up a pebble and fingerflicked it at her sleeve; it bounced off as though it had struck a solid wall. "We don't have to worry about you getting scratched by brush."

  She gave him a nod and a half-shrug, then walked away.

  Ahira turned back to Andrea.

  She smiled knowingly, brushing hair away from her face. "Alone at last, eh? Although"—she reached out and patted him on the shoulder—"I think you're a touch too short for me. No offense."

  The way she put it, it was impossible to be offended. "None taken. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about." He hesitated. The personal relations among the group really weren't any of his concern, not unless they affected their chances of surviving, of reaching the Gate.

  Then again, anything could affect their chances. "What's the problem between you and Karl? He isn't too short for you, is he?"

  She gave him a clearly pro forma grin. "No."

  "Well, you don't blame him for our being here, do you? If wanting this has anything to do with that transfer's working, it's my fault, not Karl's." To Cullinane, it had always been a game, no more. And from the way Karl's demeanor kept improving, as they got closer to Bremon, it was likely he'd be happier when it was just a game once again.

  "No." She looked away. "I'm not that stupid."

  Ahira snorted. "You're not stupid at all. You've been treating him like a leper. I'm sure you've got your reasons; I'd like to know what they are." Andrea, I don't care who you sleep with, or who you don't sleep with. But Cullinane's all bent out of shape over you, and that could blunt him as a warrior. I want him thinking about our survival, not about you. "Maybe there's something I could do?"

  "No." She shook her head slowly. "There's not a whole lot that can be done about it." Her fingers grasped the air clumsily. "He's kind of . . . I don't know—how well did you know him, back on the other side?"

  "Not all that well. I don't think I saw him more than three, four times outside of the games." Ahira smiled. "And we didn't take any of the same classes—I don't think Karl's gotten around to majoring in computer sciences, yet."

  "Not yet." She sighed. "But give him time. He keeps getting involved in different things."

  "A dilettante. Can't stick to one interest."

  "No. Well, y
es, but it's more than that. He's . . . sort of a monomaniac, gets completely, intensely into whatever he's interested in . . ." She rubbed at her temples with stiffened fingers. "And he kind of extracts whatever he got into it for, then drops it and goes on to something else." She let her hands drop into her lap, then raised her eyes to meet his. "I know I'm not expressing myself well, but do you understand?"

  "It sounds like you're scared of being, err, seduced and abandoned. No?"

  "I knew I wasn't explaining it well—it's not like that at all." Her pursed lips spread into a broad, self-assured smile. "Do you think I'm the sort of woman who gets seduced and abandoned, Ahira?" Extending a finger, she waved it under his nose. "Do you?"

  Her tone was light and playful, but he sensed a serious undercurrent. "No, I don't. I think you can handle any sort of relationship, whether it's whatever you've got going with Hakim or"—he chuckled—"something a bit more distant with a neurotic dwarf."

  She laughed. "Thank you. But you and Walter aren't the problem. It's Karl and his goddam—"

  "Ahira!" Doria ran toward them, her robes flapping, breathlessly waving a dripping scrap of cloth, and—

  Dripping? He jumped to his feet. "What is tha—"

  "We found it!" She stopped in front of him, taking a few moments to catch her breath. "Aristobulus and I—we found the spring, back in the brush." She shook her head. "It's amazing—it just burbles out of a crack in the rock, and then drains back into another one. We couldn't even see it until we were practically on top of it. How in the world did you know that there'd be one?"

  Andrea hid a chuckle behind her hand. Sending Doria and Aristobulus off to find a spring had been a distraction.

  Ahira looked at her and shrugged. "Serendipity, Doria." Well, there'd be a chance to try to straighten out Andrea later. "Simple serendipity."

  "What?"

  "It's when you dig for worms, and strike gold." He raised his voice. "Hakim, Karl—they found a spring. It's water this morning, soup for lunch, and baths for dessert." No need to worry about the water supply, not anymore. With seven full barrels, all people and animals well watered, the week-long trek across the Waste should be easy.