The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  Karl couldn't quite reach his hand down to his face; the gob of spittle dripped slowly down his cheek.

  Ohlmin sighed. "But enough of this. I had better get back to the women. The dark-haired one was quite good; I think I'll try the other. And besides, I'd better make certain that Hyrus doesn't damage them. Must keep them in shape for the block." He frowned. "No, one more thing." Ohlmin walked to the far corner of the wagon and rummaged through a pile of swords, knives, and crossbows.

  Our weapons. And just about three yards farther than I can possibly reach. They might as well have been light-years away; it would take more than a sword to cut through the chains. He felt at the cuffs around his wrists. Damn. Even if Walter still had a lockpick on him, it wouldn't matter; the cuffs were riveted on.

  Ohlmin extracted a long black scabbard from the pile. "I believe that this is your sword?" He slipped it out of the scabbard, examining the blade in the dim glow of the overhead lamp. "Very nice work. I don't think I've ever seen a sharper edge. No doubt you value it highly?"

  Karl straightened his back. I'm not going to beg for my life. It wouldn't help, anyway.

  "Oh, no," Ohlmin said, smiling. "No need to pretend to be brave." He set one foot on top of a box, grasped the flat of the blade carefully, and brought it down on his knee.

  The sword snapped.

  "You don't die that easily." The two pieces clattered on the floor. "Public executions in Pandathaway take a good long time." Ohlmin opened the door. "Think about that, for a while."

  The door whisked shut behind him.

  "Dammit, wake up," Karl hissed. He couldn't reach Walter, and the dwarf was chained beyond the thief. Raising his voice was certain to draw attention; whispering was all he had left.

  With a rattle and a shaking, the wagon started moving:

  Walter opened a lazy eye. "Will you please shut up?" His voice was calm and flat. As always. "We both woke up before you did," he said, his voice barely carrying over the wagon's clatter.

  "Then why?"

  Ahira shook his head. "Because I thought that there might be some advantage in playing possum." He shrugged. "It didn't work out that way—but conceivably it might, so keep your voice low."

  "But we did hear something useful, at least," the thief said. "We're not going directly back to Pandathaway. One of his men said that Ohlmin figures to make a better profit on . . ." He swallowed, he face still impassive. " . . . on the women in Metreyll than he could in Pandathaway. So we'll be skirting the edge of the Waste."

  Ahira nodded. "Metreyll has a road to the Hand tabernacle, the one in the Waste. The Society might ransom Doria for a decent price."

  "If she's still alive when they get there." And the same for Andy-Andy.

  "Don't be silly." The dwarf scowled. "These folks are professionals, remember? They'll keep the women alive. And that's academic; apparently the Matriarch of the Healing Hand can even raise the dead. All of which doesn't do us any good here."

  Karl spat. "And what else do you know that's not going to do us any good?"

  Ahira shook his head. "Not a lot. There's ten to fifteen of them, including Ohlmin and his hired wizard. I also know that these chains are too damn thick, that Hakim and I are eventually headed for the block in Pandathaway. I also . . ." He trailed off, and shook his head. "I also know that either Doria's or Andrea's gag was a bit loose, for a while."

  "Huh?"

  "I don't know which one," Ahira said, white-lipped, "because I can't tell Doria's screams from Andrea's." He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to draw you a picture? Fine. From the sounds out there, they've been taking turns before finally deciding to—"

  "Shut up." Karl clenched his hands around his chains, and pulled.

  Nothing.

  He tried again, holding his breath and pulling on the chains. Sweat beaded on his forehead, lights danced in front of his eyes. The skin of his right palm split open, wetting the chains with his blood.

  Karl ignored the pain, ignored the way his head was threatening to break.

  He pulled.

  Nothing. The chains didn't shatter, didn't stretch, didn't give. Nothing.

  "Stop it." Ahira rattled his own chains. "These weren't built by amateurs."

  "Amateurs?"

  "Yes, amateurs—like an idiot who didn't wonder why there was a caravan following us. Like a stupid amateur who let his group take a break when he knew that there was a price on one of the members' heads." The dwarf cursed himself bitterly. "But I had to leave you on watch. Let Karl and Andrea try to straighten out their relationship, I said. And while you were doing that, they snuck up on you." He snapped a glare at Walter. "You were about to say something?"

  "I wasn't," Karl said. "If I hadn't freed Ellegon, if I hadn't beaten Ohlmin, none of this would have happened. It's my fault."

  Off in the distance, a scream trilled, fading quickly into a muffled whimper.

  Walter spoke quietly, with a calm that horrified Karl more than the scream. "I think we can save the who's-at-fault session for some other time. You didn't know, Karl didn't know, and Andrea isn't as sensitive to magic as Ari is—even if they were both paying attention to keeping watch, she might not have felt that invisibility spell being used. So the two of you just shut up and figure out what we do next. Understood?"

  Karl and Ahira drew twin breaths. They nodded.

  The dwarf pointed his chin at the door. "How long do you think it's going to take them to settle in for the ride?"

  "What do you mean?" Karl found his voice becoming shrill.

  "I mean," the dwarf said, from between clenched teeth, "that they're all . . . enjoying themselves right now. They're all charged up. We need them to be relaxed, and a bit tired."

  What you're asking is how long it will take for fifteen men to rape Andy-Andy and Doria. "A couple of hours, probably. Why all the interest?"

  Visibly, Ahira forced himself to relax. "Then we wait for a couple of hours." Another muffled scream broke through the wagon's clatter. "We wait. Not a chance otherwise."

  "And then?"

  The dwarf nodded. "And then, I go berserk."

  * * *

  Ahira sat back in the flickering light of the overhead oil lamp, ignoring the fire in his shoulders. The chains' mounting had been designed for security, not the comfort of its victims; hours of keeping his arms over his head had left his shoulder joints painfully inflamed.

  We wait.

  It couldn't be helped. Even if they could break out of their chains earlier, retrieve the weapons, and charge outside, the odds were just too heavily against them. Ohlmin was probably their best warrior, and almost certainly the rest weren't anything near as good as Karl or Ahira, but it was still fifteen to two—Hakim wasn't very good in a fight; he'd be needed to find and try to free Aristobulus.

  And if he can do that, maybe we have a chance.

  But there had to be some time for the slavers to drop their guard. Just a bit. And the screams from the wagon ahead of them? Ignore them, or try to, at least. This wasn't the time for a gesture; it had to work.

  So we wait.

  But not until dawn; Hakim's skills weren't nearly as useful in daylight. In the day, bowmen could spot them easily, fill them all full of arrows before they were halfway out the door.

  In the day, a dwarf's darksight was superfluous.

  So we wait. But not long, now.

  In the game, going berserk would have been a simple procedure. "I'm going to try to go berserk," you'd announce, rolling a four-sided die. If it came up with a zero, one, or two, the attempt would fail. You'd try again, next turn, if you wanted to.

  And if it came up with a three, it would still be simple: Your Strength would double, going well past the maximum possible for a mortal, under normal circumstances. Intelligence and Wisdom would drop drastically, as would Manual Dexterity and Weapon Proficiency. Speed would be unaffected, as would Charisma—but your Endurance level would rise to the point where only a deathblow could slow you down.

  There'd
be a penalty to pay later, of course. For many turns after you had slipped out of your berserk state, you would be weak as a kitten.

  But until you slipped out of it, you'd destroy, and break, and smash.

  Or die trying.

  Ahira fondled the thick chains. Possibly he couldn't break them, even berserk.

  Never mind. It's h—it's our only chance.

  He raised his head. "Karl. It's time."

  "Right." Cullinane nodded slowly. "Try to remember to break us loose, too."

  "I will. But one thing: While I'm out of it, you're in charge. Make sure you get everyone away you can. But don't worry about me; I'll—"

  "No."

  "Don't argue with me." This wasn't a game anymore. Amateur heroics were fine for around a mahogany table at the Student Union. But not here. "Once I set myself off, you won't be able to reason with me. I won't run. I won't be able to run."

  Cullinane chuckled thinly. "I thought you said that once you're out of it. I'm in charge."

  Ahira sighed. "Hakim, reason with him."

  The thief shook his head. "I won't have to. Once he's got your responsibilities, he'll see it for himself. Which is why you picked him to take over, instead of me. Eh, m'friend?"

  "Sure." Ahira leaned back against the rough surface of the wall. "It's time; we've waited long enough. Take care."

  There was only one way to do it. Reach deep inside, find a core of hot anger, of raging fury . . . And let it burn.

  * * *

  Special classes—that's what they called them. As though being a feeb were some sort of prize. Special classes, exceptional children—didn't that sound just dandy?

  Mrs. Hennessy—that was her name. A short, pinch-faced redhead, always dressing just a little too well, oozing the slimy unction that the best special ed courses could teach. But the courses had never been able to purge from her noble head the reflexive notion that a bent body must hold a crippled mind.

  She raised her head from the desk next to him, where she'd been patiently explaining to little Jacqueline Minelli, probably for the thirtieth time, that the little purple block indeed went into the little purple hole. "What is it, Jimmy?"

  He always hated that nickname. Even his parents had started calling him James Michael when he began first grade. And that was six years ago.

  But you didn't call a retard by his proper name. A nickname, preferably one that ended in a vowel—that was the protocol. And if the retard happened to be a mentally normal boy with muscular dystrophy? Didn't that call for a different protocol?

  No, of course not. "I'm done with this nonsense." With the heels of his clumsy hands, he pushed at the math problem, sending the papers fluttering to the floor.

  She stalked over and wearily began collecting the scattered sheets. "Jim-my, that was a bad thing to do."

  "My name is James Michael. And I've been solving simple goddam algebra problems since I was ten years old."

  "That isn't a nice word to—"

  "And I'm goddam tired of being treated like I was half a person. Fuck you, bitch."

  She slapped him.

  And, of course, clapped her hand to her mouth in self-disgust, then spent the rest of the school day apologizing.

  On reflection, that slap was the nicest thing a teacher had ever done for him.

  * * *

  Ahira tugged lightly at the chains. Then harder, and harder. No, not yet.

  * * *

  There was a shout out in the dorm hallway. "Hey! Anybody want to go out for a beer?"

  His roommate-slash-keeper had already tucked him into bed, then headed out to the library. Granted, he could ask someone to help him out of bed again and dress him, but James Michael had invested many uncomfortable hours in the common room downstairs, putting up with corner-of-the-eye stares and hidden shudders until some of them had started to see past the crumpled body in the wheelchair.

  But his roommate was gone. And if he went out for a beer with the rest, he'd have two choices when they came back. Either ask someone to carry him to the toilet three, maybe four times until the beer worked its way through his system, or . . .

  Or spend the next few hours lying in his own urine.

  * * *

  Not yet. Try harder. Get through the wall of fire, and into the core.

  * * *

  Doria dropped into a chair, visibly considered the possibility that it would seem to him to be too far away, took a half-second to fight her own fear of James Michael Finnegan, and compromised by wiggling herself a scant inch closer.

  Damn it, Doria, can't you treat me like a person?

  * * *

  Nothing. He tugged at the chains. Not even a dwarf's normal strength could break them, and he couldn't go berserk, he couldn't do it.

  Here I am, just as helpless now as I've been all my life—

  Just

  his heart pounded, a beat like a bass drum

  as helpless

  a red film descended over his eyes, a fire in his head

  as I've been

  his skin tingled with a rush of blood, his tendons sang a hymn of power

  all my life.

  he went berserk.

  * * *

  There was an annoyance about his wrists. Ahira wanted to bring them down, to rip, to tear, to smash. But something restrained his hands.

  It was an annoyance he didn't have to bear. Not bothering to clench his fists, he brought his arms down.

  Metal squealed and shattered, and his arms were free. Free. He bent and ripped his ankle chains from the floor.

  Two humans were chained on the bench next to him. Why didn't they free themselves? Didn't they want to smash, to break, to destroy? Maybe they were just too stupid. He reached up, grabbed the arm chains of the nearest, and pulled. Metal squealed and snapped.

  Why were his hands so wet and sticky? It doesn't matter—pull, and again, and again.

  Sounds came from their mouths, but they didn't make any sense.

  "Walter—take some knives, and go find Ari. He's probably in the wizard's wagon, whichever one that is. I'll get the others."

  "You'll need help. I'd better—"

  "Move, dammit, move."

  One of the humans picked something from the corner and bolted out the door. As though in retaliation, three others lumbered in.

  "Ahira—take them. I've got to get Andy, Doria."

  Words, they were just words. Didn't mean anything.

  But the biggest of the three new humans was pulling a sword. That was something he could understand.

  Ahira clutched the dangling end of his wrist chains and whipped the loop of chain across the face of the swordsman. The unshaven face shattered; bits of tooth and bone rattled against the wall, blood bathed Ahira in salty fountain.

  He shoved the falling body out of the way. Two of the enemy to face. Just two humans, with swords thrusting for him.

  He batted the swords out of the way with his loop of chain, then released the end of the chain from his hands. That was the trouble with the chain: It wasn't satisfying enough. And there were two left.

  A few moments later, that wasn't true: There weren't any humans, just pieces of them, scattering the room. Ahira staggered out into the night, spitting out a warm gobbet of flesh.

  There must be more to smash. There had to be.

  * * *

  Easy, Karl—you've got one chance at this, and you had better make it good. The hilt of Walter's scimitar felt odd in his hand; the balance of the curved sword was all wrong.

  So don't try anything fancy. It was easy to tell which of the four boxlike wagons held Doria and Andy-Andy; the drunken laughter and muffled whimpers called him.

  He sprinted across the broken ground. Three long strides brought him to the back door of the slowly rolling wagon. From behind him came the clatter of steel, the screams of the injured, and a constant, deep growl.

  Never mind. Ahira can handle them. He jerked the door open and dived in.

  And was blinded by the brig
ht lanternlight. So go by touch. His questing fingers nested in a beard; he gripped it tightly and pulled it down while bringing his knee up, the man's jaw crumbling like a fleshy bagful of glass. Don't go for the kill. A quick disable, then on to the next. He threw the body behind him, out of the wagon.

  Karl's eyes cleared, faster than he would have thought possible. Three left; two men rising slowly from the bruised naked bodies of—

  Save it. There's one coming at you with a knife. Karl dodged to one side and chopped down with his sword, rewarded by the unmistakable feel of steel cleaving flesh, and a thump as the knife-wielder hit the ground outside.

  Two more, drunkenly fumbling for their swords. He dropped the scimitar and grabbed the two men by their hair. Karl brought his hands together swiftly; two skulls shattered, as if they had been eggshells.

  He seized Andy-Andy and flipped her onto her belly as though she was weightless.

  Not now, his Barak-self said. Take out the driver, first.

  No, not a second more. For either of them. His hands trembled too badly for him to deal with the knots. He searched the floor, found a sheathed knife, and slashed the leather straps that bound her hands behind her back. A moment later, Doria was free, too.

  No time for the gags, best to let them handle that themsel—wait!

  He slipped the knife between Andy-Andy's gag straps and her cheek, and twisted the knife's edge out. "Your sleep spell. Use it on the driver, then go invisible, and use this on him," he said, pressing the hilt into her hands.

  Wild eyes looked back at him, out of a bruised face. Her left cheek was so purply inflamed that he could barely see that eye.

  No answer.

  "Doria." No, Doria was worse; either unconscious, or pretending to be. He turned back to Andy-Andy. "I can't wait—just do it." He shook her. "Do it."

  She bit her lip so hard that blood began to flow. And then nodded.

  He couldn't wait. There just wasn't any time. He had to find Walter and Aristobulus, and then get them all in one wagon. That was it—they'd take this wagon. Easier than moving Doria.

  Doria's robes lay crumpled in a heap on the floor. He picked them up and wrapped them around his left arm before retrieving the scimitar.