The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  "I'll be back." Walter and Ari first, then, if he could—

  He dived out of the wagon, and hit the ground rolling.

  * * *

  Crushing a human's face with the outspread fingers of one hand, Ahira stumbled in front of an open wagon. The two mules reared up, hooves striking out.

  He batted the hooves away with the limp form of the dead human, using the body like a flail. Ahira moved in on the driver, letting the other fall in a crumpled heap. The slim blond man raised a crossbow, pulled back the string with shaking fingers, and dropped a quarrel into the bow's groove.

  Ahira laughed. And bounded to the seat of the wagon, his hands reaching for the driver's throat.

  The bowstring sang.

  * * *

  Time, Karl thought, time was the problem. Surprise was on their side. It hadn't been more than a couple of minutes since Ahira had freed them. The enemy would be disorganized, startled. But that wouldn't last long. The drill was obvious: Find Walter and Ari, load them into the wagon with the two women, and vanish into the night.

  But where the hell were they?

  He ran toward the forward wagon, but stopped short. Six—no, seven men were hurriedly dismounting from the wagon's back door, swords in hand. No time to waste—Walter and the wizard weren't there.

  He turned and ran, past the wagon carrying Doria and Andy-Andy, its sleeping driver lolling on the seat. The next wagon was just creaking along; no sign of any activity. He kept running.

  "Greetings, Karl Cullinane," Ohlmin's voice rasped from behind him.

  Karl spun around. Standing next to Ohlmin was a short, fat man in wizard's robes. The wizard raised his hands, and smiled with a wine-stained mouth.

  "Leave him be, Blenryth," Ohlmin said, his eyes never leaving Karl's. "This one is mine."

  Ohlmin drew his sword and lunged, in full extension. Right into Karl's left arm, the one protected by Doria's robes.

  The blade tinged, and bounced off, as though it had hit a wall.

  Before Karl could strike, Ohlmin backed away. The slim man pursed his lips. "In that case, you do it, wizard."

  Blenryth raised his arms higher, a rush of harsh syllables issuing from his wine-stained mouth—

  The darkness shattered as a bolt of lightning crackled past Karl from behind, streaking through the air, striking the wizard square in the center of his chest.

  Blenryth exploded, spraying Karl with gobs of flesh and shards of bone, knocking him to the ground, out of breath.

  Move. You don't know where Ohlmin is—

  Hands grasped his shoulders; Karl reached back and up.

  "Easy," Walter's voice whispered. "It's just the, umm, cavalry."

  Karl bounced to his feet. Standing next to the thief, Aristobulus, looking much the worse for wear, rubbed his smoldering hands together.

  And grinned.

  "No time for congratulations," Karl snapped, jerking a thumb in the direction of the wagon carrying the others. "They're in that one. Get in, and get moving. I'll catch up with you." He quickly scanned the vicinity. No sign of Ohlmin. The bastard was smart enough to know when to run.

  For a moment, the other two stood still. "Now," Karl said. A shove sent Walter stumbling in the right direction. "I've got to find Ahira." And Ohlmin. He clutched the scimitar tightly. Definitely and Ohlmin.

  * * *

  The world was an incredibly deep, impossibly dark pit. Or well, Ahira?

  No, I'm not well. I'm dead, aren't I?

  "Pass me that last bottle." Hakim's voice was calm. As always, or almost always. "I'm going to pour a little more in the wound before it closes altogether."

  "His mouth's moving," Aristobulus said. "Pour it down his throat, instead."

  "But if he doesn't swallow—if it goes down the wrong tube . . ."

  "Don't be silly. Those are healing draughts—the only way you could hurt him with that is if you hit him with the bottle."

  A gentle hand behind his neck forced his head forward; a sickly-sweet, syrupy-thick liquid washed the taste of blood from his mouth. Ahira raised a distant palm, forcing the neck of the bottle away. "Save. For later." He opened his eyes. In the dim light of an overhead lamp, Aristobulus and Hakim knelt over him. "We." He swallowed, and started again. "We are not moving."

  Hakim raised a palm. "No problem. We're far enough away now." He raised his head. "Karl—he's awake."

  Far enough away? There wasn't such a thing as far enough away. "Who," he said, his voice a harsh croak, "who says so?"

  Karl Cullinane leaned in through the open door, his face splotched with dried blood and streaked with soot. "I say so. They're going to be having other problems than chasing us in the dark."

  "How about . . ." He gasped for breath. "How . . ."

  "Shh." Karl leaned out for a moment, then returned. "They're both . . . here, anyway. Andy's not doing too badly." He shrugged. "All things considered. Doria's still kind of . . . rocky. Not physically," he said, with a wan smile. "They've both had enough of that stuff. But they've been through a hell of a lot."

  "What . . . happened?"

  "Later." Karl nodded reassuringly. "The main thing is that we got away. You took a bolt in the lung; if Ari hadn't found that cache of healing draughts in a box strapped under the wagon, you'd be dead. But he did, and you aren't. How's that for now?"

  Ahira tried to shake his head vigorously. It just came out as a twitch. "How did I . . . get here?"

  Walter patted his shoulder, then moved away, seating himself on a bench on the far side of the wagon. Idly, he picked up a crossbow, then took a quick fingercount of the quarrels in its strapped-on quiver. "Karl found you on the ground, if that's what you mean. Carried you—on a dead run, you should pardon the expression—until he caught up with the rest of us." He looked over at the big man, who was still braced in the doorway. "Eleven bolts—that's not going to be enough, not with my aim."

  "Strap another quiver to your leg. And don't forget the cloth, and the lamp oil," Karl said.

  "And the flint-and-steel."

  "Right." He looked over at Ahira. "The other two are outside, in case you're wondering. They . . . want to be left alone for a while. And I can't say that I blame them." Karl patted Aristobulus on the shoulder. "Are you sure that you're up to keeping guard while we're gone?"

  "Count on it." The wizard clenched his fists. "I've still got my Flame spell—anybody except you two who gets close, gets burned. And speaking of burned, do you think that Blenryth's spell books are still back there?"

  Karl shook his head. "I doubt it. The wagon we torched was probably his. But if we get the chance, I'll check."

  "Fine. And if you don't get the chance, don't worry about it."

  Hakim laughed. "Ari, m'friend, I'm beginning to like you."

  The wizard scowled. "Just be careful."

  Ahira struggled to rise, to get his arms to push him upward. But he couldn't. Easy. He forced himself to relax. It's just temporary. It's just the aftereffects. "You two aren't going anywhere. Not back there."

  Karl stepped all the way into the wagon, bending his neck to avoid bumping against the ceiling. "Out." He jerked his thumb at Hakim and Aristobulus. They stepped silently through the door; Karl sat next to Ahira. "We are going back. Just Walter and me."

  "No—" Ahira tried to shout it.

  "Shh. I'm going to give you the rational reasons first. One." He held up a finger. "There are two-count-them-two water barrels on the side of this wagon. That's about five too few. Two." Another finger. "We don't have our supplies here—no food, no rope, this one lamp and one oil flask—and that bottle there is the last of the healing draughts." He patted at Hakim's scimitar, which was stuck through a sash at his waist. "Three. This sword isn't worth much; I may need a decent one later on. I kind of like Ohlmin's—and once I'm done with him, he won't have any use for it.

  "And lastly," Karl continued, "there's five, maybe six of them left. If they have any sense, they're not going to try to chase us, but I don't want to wo
rry about their having any sense. Understood? We're the fox; the only good hounds are dead hounds."

  "Give me the real reason. You want to play hero?"

  Karl held his breath for a long moment before answering. "This isn't for show." He toyed with the iron cuffs and dangling bits of chain that were still around his wrists. "Those bastards raped two ladies I care about. Two of my friends, dammit. And right now, both Andy and Doria are . . . in kind of . . ." He trailed off. Cullinane closed his eyes and tightened his fists. "They're hurt, and they're scared. And if I—damn. The next time I talk to them, I'm going to be able to say that the animals that hurt them are dead." He opened his fists and rested his face in his hands. "I want to tell them that they're safe, but that'd be a lie in this goddam world. God, how I wish I were home." He took a woolen blanket from the floor and, with the scimitar, began to cut it into strips. "And if the truth be known, my little dwarf friend, Ohlmin scares the hell out of me. I want him dead."

  "No. You're not going. Can't let you." Couldn't Karl see that it was just too much of a risk? The thing to do was make a run for the Gate, not try to hunt down the surviving slavers.

  "You can't stop me." Karl tied the dangling chains from his left cuff to his arm, weaving the strips of cloth through the links. He shook the arm vigorously. No sound. "And don't bother calling Walter and trying to talk him out of it." He repeated the process with his right cuff's chains, then started work on his leg irons. "You left me in charge, remember?"

  "That was just while—"

  "Too bad." Karl shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still out of it." He grasped Ahira's shoulder with a strong hand. "We'll be back in a while. Take care." Two steps to the door, and Karl Cullinane was gone.

  * * *

  Aristobulus kept watch until dawn, sitting tailor-fashion on the flat roof of the wagon, a blanket underneath him, a waterbag at his side, his Flame spell at the surface of his mind.

  At daybreak, a speck appeared on the horizon. He stood, readying himself. If it was Karl and Hakim returning, that was fine. And if not, well then that was fine, too, in another way. Out of bow range, there was no way that a small group of humans could harm him before he blasted them.

  The speck grew larger, until it became their flatbed wagon, now drawn by a team of eight horses. Karl and Hakim sat on the wagon's seat, sooty but otherwise unharmed.

  "Karl, Hakim," he called out, "is everything . . ." Aristobulus let his voice trail off. He couldn't think of an appropriate word.

  Cullinane pulled firmly on the reins. "Easy, easy," he murmured to the animals. Taking a leather bag from the bed of the wagon, he dismounted, pausing only to pat the large mare that was his usual mount, not one of the lead horses. "No more being hitched in front of a wagon for you. It's back to the saddle, tomorrow."

  He stopped on the ground in front of the wizard and craned his neck to look up at Aristobulus. "We killed all of them," he said, his voice as matter-of-fact as if he were reporting the time of day.

  "You're certain?" Aristobulus asked. "Including Ohlmin?"

  Cullinane reached into the leather bag. "Including Ohlmin." He pulled his hand out.

  Dangling by the black hair that was gripped in a trembling hand, Ohlmin's bodiless head swayed, as though nodding in agreement.

  Chapter Thirteen

  To Bremon

  Melancholy and despair, though often, do not always concur; there is much difference: melancholy fears without a cause, this upon great occasion; melancholy is caused by fear and grief, but this torment procures them and all extremity of bitterness.

  —Robert Burton

  Karl didn't know when it had happened, but he'd developed a habit: rubbing his wrists as though to reassure himself that the cuffs were gone. It had been almost a week since Ahira had used the tools reclaimed from the slavers to chisel them all free of the remnants of their bonds . . .

  Well, the physical remnants, anyway. Karl dropped his right hand to the saddle, shaking his head at the way his wrist was reddened and sore.

  He shook himself, then gave a quick tug on the reins; the mare responded by prancing to a halt and letting the two wagons pass her by.

  Karl stroked her neck, smiling fondly. "I'd give you a name, but we're going to have to turn you all loose when we reach the mountain. I can't quite see trying to take you through the Gate—and it'll be easier on me if I don't name you. Understand?"

  She lifted her head and whinnied. Karl chuckled; it wasn't a response to his question. She was just irritated at being passed by the harnessed horses, twitchy at that insult to her, a member of the saddle-bearing gentry.

  "Well, at least I understand you." He let her break into a slow walk, while he raised himself in the saddle, drinking in the cool, sweet air of the grassland beyond the Waste. An east wind brought him a faint, minty smell, presented him with the tang of sunbaked grass, and a distant suggestion of musk.

  Walter, from his usual perch on the seat of the flatbed, cocked his head and lifted a waterbag. "Thirsty?"

  More out of sociability than thirst, Karl urged his mare over to the flatbed and leaned over to accept the bag, while his mare kept to the cart's pace, her head held high, a bit of extra bounce to her step, as though to deny any association with the dusty, plodding drayhorses.

  Idly, Karl wondered about the fate of the two mules. Perhaps they had run off, sometime while in the slavers' possession; possibly, the roast on the slavers' campfire had been a haunch of mule. He shrugged; the only people who knew were safely dead, and he hadn't had the time or inclination to quiz them about the matter.

  But there could be others on our heels. We'll have to watch out, until we're safely away from this filthy world. Uncorking the bag, he took a shallow swig of the warm, leather-tasting water, then recorked it and handed the bag down to Walter. "When we stop to rest, I want to get in some sword practice. If you're game." Ohlmin's sword was a fine piece of steel, a rust-free length of basket-hilted saber, faintly curved. But it was barely half the length of Karl's old sword; using it called for a totally different style of swordplay, with much more attention to parrying at close range. The sword was mainly a thrusting weapon rather than a slashing one on attack, although its edge was sharp enough to shave with. His Barak-self seemed comfortable with it; still, best to be sure, practice as much as possible.

  I'm sure Ohlmin would want me to use it well, he thought sarcastically. It hardly seemed fair that that bastard was beyond pain, though. Then again, life isn't fair. "So, are you up for it?"

  "Am I what?"

  "Never mind."

  From the high seat of the other wagon, Andy-Andy cursed in low tones at her team of horses. Six were probably more than the wagon required, but they had the harnesses to spare, and putting six on meant not having to stop twice a day to change teams.

  Karl turned to Walter. "She's coming back from it. At least a bit."

  Walter took a grimy rag from the seat beside him and mopped at his forehead. "Some do." His next sentence, unvoiced, was, And some don't. Doria was close to being an automaton, responding only to direct questions, and then only with monosyllables. She ate barely enough to keep a lizard alive, and left the wagon only under duress. Karl had tried to take her aside, to explain that everything was under control, that she didn't have to worry—

  He'd only tried that once. Any touch set her screaming, a high-pitched wail that wouldn't cease until she collapsed with exhaustion.

  Maybe, with the right kind of care, Doria would someday be well again. And maybe they should have taken a detour, to the tabernacle of the Healing Hand. But Ahira had overruled that; there was no way they could go directly there; they just didn't have enough water to make it to the far side of the Waste. And if there was another slaver team . . .

  Ahira was right. The best thing to do was to go ahead, get home as soon as possible. Back home, psychiatric therapy might not be easily effective, but Karl would find a therapist to treat what was wrong with Doria, even if he had to break a few arms. Fin
e, let the shrink write off their history of the past few months as some sort of group delusion—but Doria would get the help she needed. For everything.

  Walter looked up at him, his brow wrinkling. "You know, don't you?"

  "About what?"

  "Doria."

  Karl nodded. "Yes."

  Walter considered it for a moment, as he twirled the reins around his fingers. "It has to be . . . what's-its-name—that dragon—"

  "Ellegon."

  The thief shuddered. "With all she's gone through, do you think she'll ever be all right?"

  Karl shook his head. "No."

  "How sure . . . ?"

  He shrugged. "Not very." There was something strange about this whole conversation. Walter asking him? "I remember when you sounded a lot more sure of yourself."

  "So do I." Walter reached back for a wine bottle, uncorked it, and drank. "So do I." He offered Karl a swig, which Karl declined with a shake of the head. "Karl? What do we do about it?"

  Karl shrugged, and urged his mare into a trot. "We go home. And then we do what we can." And I'll carry a load of guilt with me to my grave. None of this would have happened if I hadn't freed Ellegon, beat Ohlmin. And if I'd known—would I have left Ellegon chained in a cesspool? Or would I have chosen to spend the rest of my life living with that?

  "And what will that be?" Walter asked, his voice drifting forward.

  Karl didn't respond. It wasn't really a day for answers.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Warrens

  Hence, loathed Melancholy Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

  —John Milton

  Bremon loomed ahead, a dark, jagged mass blocking half the noon sky.

  Driving the flatbed wagon, Ahira shook his head and swore softly under his breath. The damn mountain always loomed in front of them, even though his mental picture of Oreen's map suggested that they were finally near the known entrance. Perhaps the rough copy he had made would have differed, but that had been lost, along with much of their supplies, to the slavers.