The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

The trouble with women is that they're too damn intelligent.

  Walter moved easily through the narrow passage, balancing himself like a dancer. "Want to switch for a while?"

  Gratefully, Karl handed him the sword, accepting the thief's scimitar in return. He slipped it under his belt, then folded his arm across his chest and rubbed viciously at his shoulders. Forcing someone to keep an arm overhead would make a fine torture. And probably had been used as such.

  Perhaps in the Coliseum of Pandathaway? No, probably not. Too gentle; people who would chain Ellegon in the middle of a cesspool would have much worse than that in store for someone they were angry at.

  But we're going home. All we have to do is tiptoe by a dragon—The Dragon.

  "Karl?" Andy-Andy's form was just a silhouette in the light of the sword beyond her. "Are you going to fall asleep standing up? Or would you be so kind as to come along with the rest of us?"

  He didn't bother with a sarcastic smile. She probably couldn't see it anyway. Still massaging his shoulders, he set off after the others.

  Once we get to the other side, Andrea Andropolous, you and I are going to talk this out, without interruptions. And then yours truly is going to see if he can drink Walter Slovotsky under the table.

  * * *

  Ahira was the first to see the skeleton, of course, because of both his position at the front of the group and his darksight.

  But he came close to stumbling over it; a distant, obscene reek had him distracted. It was a strange odor, far different from the cool, moist smell of the unending tunnel.

  Probably just imagining it. He shook his head and sniffed twice. Nothing. He shrugged, and started to move on.

  And caught himself in midstep, the blackened skull barely an inch beneath the sole of his sandal. Ahira teetered on one leg for a moment, like an aerialist on a high wire.

  "Hold it." He regained his balance and motioned Hakim forward, stepping aside to bring the skull out of his shadow.

  It lay on its side in the middle of the tunnel, hollow eyesockets staring blindly, open jaw leering, loose bones arrayed behind it in a charred trail.

  "What the—"

  "Shh," Ahira whispered. "Nobody say anything. Just stay where you are." He knelt on the rough stone beside the skull, Hakim moving the glowing sword closer without any need to be asked.

  The skull had lain there a long time; dust on the upper surface was so thick that Ahira's probing finger sank into the feathery surface past his fingernail, almost to the first joint. Years, certainly. Possibly centuries.

  He rubbed his finger against his chest.

  Beyond the skull, a charred ribcage lay, armbones to the side, the pelvis and the long bones of the legs arrayed as though the victim had sprawled out before its flesh had vanished.

  To the left of the ribcage, a round shield lay, its concavity cupping the floor of the tunnel. No design on its face, just blackness.

  Blackness, and charred bones—that didn't make any sense. Unless . . . Ahira wiped his hand across the surface of the shield.

  It came away black, leaving behind a dirtied outline of the design that had once decorated the shield's face: three golden circles.

  Ahira wiped his other hand against the wall. It, too, came away sooty.

  Hakim smiled, and leaned close. "My friend," he whispered, his lips a scant inch from Ahira's ear, "it seems to me that we're almost there."

  Ahira nodded. Take it slow, now. "Pass the word down. Everyone is to take his pack off, and leave it. Sandals, too—we go barefoot from here on in."

  And quietly, quietly. But as he turned to look into the others' fear-whitened faces, he knew that there was no need to say that.

  Ahira's heart pounded. I can send them home. And if I don't make it out of here in half the time it took to get in, I deserve to die of thirst.

  Hakim turned back from his whispering to Andrea. "I think we can quit the pretense, James. This is the end of the line for you, no? You aren't coming with us."

  Ahira smiled. "I'll see you to the Gate—I'll see you through the Gate. But . . ." He trailed off, shrugging.

  Hakim nodded. "I understand. Do you explain it to the others, or . . . ?"

  "I'll leave the explanations to you. For the other side." It's almost done, over. And how can I say goodbye to all of them? His eyes started to mist over. He caught himself. This wasn't a time to get sentimental. "Oh," he whispered, as gruffly as he could, "we won't want that sword anymore. Drop it right here."

  Hakim smiled, shrugged, and dropped the glowing blade, snatching it out of the air scant inches before it would have clanged on the stone. His smile, and his wide-armed shrug, said, Sorry, I couldn't resist it.

  Ahira's glare answered, Try real hard, next time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Dragon at the Gate

  From generation to generation it shall lie waste, none shall pass through it for ever and ever. But the cormorant and the bittern shall possess it; the owl and the raven shall also dwell in it; and he shall stretch out upon it the line of confusion, and the stones of emptiness . . .

  . . . and it shall be an habitation for dragons.

  —Isaiah Ben-Amoz

  As the distant glow of the abandoned sword faded behind, a rainbow phosphorescence fingered the walls of the tunnel ahead.

  Karl furrowed his brow. Just a lucky coincidence, or had Ahira spotted it back at the skeleton?

  He clenched the hilt of the scimitar. It probably didn't matter. If it hadn't gotten brighter ahead, Ahira would have sent him back for the sword. Stumbling around in the dark was almost certainly more dangerous than a bit of light. The other choice, of course, would have been for all of them to link hands, but—

  —no, that wouldn't have been another choice. Not unless they left Doria behind.

  The tunnel curled like the coils of a snake, winding downward, ever steeper. He was glad that Ahira had forced them all to rid themselves of their sandals; any grip less sure than that of bare feet, and Aristobulus, at least, would have fallen.

  Just in front of him, Andy-Andy stumbled; he whipped his free arm around her waist, catching and lifting her before she could fall. As he set her on her feet, she gave his hand a quick squeeze and favored him with a slight nod.

  Now isn't the time to work that out, he thought. There'll be plenty of time when we're back, on the other side. Home.

  Ahead, Ahira motioned for a stop, then beckoned to Walter. A few whispered words passed between the two, and then the thief crept on hands and knees downward, around the next bend in the tunnel.

  Seconds passed. Karl was sure it was only seconds; he counted eighty-nine of his own heartbeats before Walter returned, and Ahira urged them all back away from the bend, and into a kneeling circle.

  Chance put Karl between Andy-Andy and Doria; he pressed away from the cleric, noting that Walter, on the other side of her, was similarly squeezing up against the smaller form of Aristobulus.

  "I saw it," Walter whispered, so quietly that Karl had to strain his ears to hear the thief, over the beating of his own heart. "It's about a hundred yards away from where the tunnel dumps out. At about ten o'clock, if your back's to the tunnel—understand?" Karl nodded in unison with the others.

  "And The Dragon is sleeping," Walter continued. "But we've got to pass in front of It, to get to the Gate. And I don't know if we'll need Ari to operate it for us." He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  The wizard shook his head. "Either we're in a very bad way, or it's as I think: It's automatic. Does it look like water? Good. Then we're safe."

  "One more problem," the thief whispered. "There's only enough room for us to go single-file—or just one at a time."

  Ahira rubbed at his temples with blunt fingers. "One at a time—Hakim first."

  "No," Karl shook his head, pointing to Andy-Andy. "She goes first, it's—"

  "We do it my way!" the dwarf hissed.

  Well, it made sense, in a way: The thief was best at moving silently. Karl nodded slowly.
"But she's next." I got her into this; I've got to see that she gets out of it.

  The dwarf hesitated for a moment. "Agreed. Then Doria."

  You're not thinking, Ahira. Doria could easily turn out to be a problem. "No, then Ari." You and I can take Doria out, if need be. And, each in our own way, you and I are responsible for her. But he couldn't say that, and didn't need to. A few seconds of thought would let the dwarf reach the same conclusion.

  Ahira sighed. "Perhaps you're right. Hakim, get going."

  "See you." Walter briefly clasped hands with Karl, then Aristobulus, then chucked Andy-Andy under the chin. She jerked her head away and grabbed his hand.

  "Just be careful," she whispered. "I'll be along."

  Walter took a slow, long look at Doria, then threw his arms around Ahira. Karl couldn't make out Walter's whispered words, except for the last two: "Be well."

  The thief crawled away, then rose silently to the balls of his feet and disappeared around the bend.

  Silence.

  Ahira tapped Andy-Andy's shoulder. "Go."

  Karl smiled. "See you in a little while."

  Her chin trembled; a stray lock of hair fell across her nose.

  Karl brushed it away. "Go."

  She nodded, and left.

  Ahira beckoned at Aristobulus. "Get ready."

  Aristobulus started to rise, then stopped. "No. All at once."

  "No," the dwarf said, shaking his head. "You next—Karl and I will take care of Doria."

  Aristobulus shrugged and seated himself carefully on the floor, a study in simulated nonchalance. "I'll wait."

  We've all grown, Karl thought. I think he's wrong to pull this, but it's not coming from that damn self-centeredness that I used to hate in him. "No time to argue." He reached for the wizard—

  —and found his wrists caught in Ahira's huge hands. The dwarf's mouth quirked; he dropped Karl's wrists and spread his arms, shrugging, as though to say, What can we do?

  "Fine," the dwarf said, unlimbering his axe from his chest. "Single-file—first Karl, then you, then Doria, then me."

  The wizard nodded, and stood.

  Karl rose silently to his feet, as did Aristobulus. Ahira urged Doria to stand. Sullenly, clumsily, she did.

  Karl took the lead, and tiptoed around the bend—

  * * *

  —and into a brightness that stung his eyes, and a silent, moldy reek that ached in his nostrils. It smelled of age, and cruelty, and hatred . . . and Dragon.

  The Dragon lay sleeping in the huge chamber, a cavern lit by glowing rainbowed crystals that lined the walls arching hundreds of yards above the rough floor. Its huge head, wickedly saurian, rested on crossed forelegs the size of centuries-old oak trunks.

  Ellegon had been right. He was just a baby, a miniature, smoother version of This. The smallest of The Dragon's mottled scales was easily Karl's height; Its mouth could have swallowed an elephant.

  And the teeth sent chills running down Karl's back. They stood tall and sharp, threatening yellowed edges through which The Dragon's fetid breath whistled, like a wind through a horrid forest.

  He wrestled his eyes from The Dragon and looked around the cavern. Beyond the creature's left shoulder, a mirror gleamed, a surface rippled.

  The Gate. Karl tiptoed slowly forward, his feet numb on the cold stone floor.

  The Gate hung unsupported in the air, just above a narrow ledge. Its surface rippled, shimmering in the cavern's light, as the Gate stood, silently waiting, like a pool of water tipped on its side.

  A stone ramp led up to the Gate, tapering from a wide base to where it became a stone ledge. There was no way that more than one person could stand on that ledge; it couldn't have been more than two feet square. They would have to go through one by one.

  He turned and waved for Ahira and Aristobulus to bring Doria forward.

  Both of them beckoned to her.

  Come on, Doria. Just a little farther.

  No response. She stood still, staring wide-eyed at The Dragon, her jaw clenched and quivering. A trickle of blood ran out of the corner of her mouth and dripped, one drop at a time, onto her white robes.

  Ahira shook his head as he turned to face Karl. No good, he mouthed. We need a diversion. Diversion. He pointed to Karl, then Aristobulus, and then the Gate. You two wait at the ramp. I'll bring her.

  Karl nodded, then walked slowly by The Dragon's head, Aristobulus at his side. The hundred-yard walk to the ramp took him past The Dragon's bulging midsection. If only he had a decent sword he could—

  —what? A mosquito could do more harm to me than I could do to That. He gripped the hilt of Walter's scimitar. Not unless I stuck It in the eye. And I couldn't reach that with a stepladder. And perhaps he wouldn't even be able to stick this sword through Its lids. Then again—

  Doria screamed, shattering the thick silence.

  *HUMANS.* A roar shook the cavern, sending light-bearing crystals tinkling to the floor, knocking Karl off his feet.

  Slowly, ponderously, the head lifted and turned, the man-high eyelids retracting.

  "Over here," Aristobulus shouted, his voice breaking. "The eyes, Karl, the eyes—"

  Karl bounced to his feet, the scimitar held in his right hand. "I know. I'll . . ." His voice caught in his throat as the head turned, two immense liquid eyes staring directly at him.

  Behind Karl, Aristobulus' voice murmured harsh syllables, spoken and then gone, while over at the entrance, Ahira threw Doria's struggling body over his shoulder and broke into a sprint.

  The Dragon's mouth opened. *BURN.* Its eyes gleamed—

  "And done!" Aristobulus clapped his hands together.

  —and shone, brighter and brighter until they flared with the light of a thousand suns.

  Ari's light spell—The Dragon was blinded!

  Karl ducked to one side as a gout of flame scoured the stone where he had stood. Aristobulus hiked up his robes and wordlessly sprinted up the ramp, not slowing as he reached the top, dived through the Gate, and was gone.

  A heavy, limp mass knocked Karl off his feet. Doria!

  "Over here! Burn me, you son of a pig," Ahira shouted, his battleaxe drawn. He raced away from the Gate. The Dragon's head following him. "Get through—take her. Move."

  Karl snatched up Doria as though she were a piece of fluff and ran with her up the ramp, to the Gate. A quick one-handed throw, and she was gone.

  He turned. Ahira ducked a flamebreath, and dashed for the tunnel's opening. Like a felled tree, The Dragon's tail slammed down in front of the hole, the impact on the floor of the cavern knocking Ahira over.

  "Over here, now," Karl shouted. "We'll take turns with your attention, Dragon."

  The light in The Dragon's eyes was already beginning to dim; Aristobulus' light spell was wearing off. A few seconds more, and Karl and Ahira would be trapped in the cavern, The Dragon's sight restored.

  *YOU WILL BURN.*

  Ahira ran toward Karl, The Dragon's head following him.

  Karl hesitated in front of the Gate. Ahira couldn't run fast enough; it didn't seem to take The Dragon long between flamebreaths, and the gaping mouth was coming to bear on the dwarf.

  "Not him!" Karl shouted. "Try and burn me, Dragon."

  At the base of the ramp, the dwarf stumbled, and started scrabbling up it on all fours. "Karl, go."

  A rush of flame caught Ahira. The force of the gout of fire slid the dwarf up the ramp as he crackled and screamed in the flame, his arms waving aimlessly.

  Karl turned and dived for the Gate, his legs burning behind him. A searing mass struck him in the back . . .

  . . . and the world dissolved into a white-hot nightmare that faded only slowly into utter black.

  Part Five:

  And Beyond

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Way Back

  It is easy to go down into Hell; night and day, the gates of dark Death stand wide; but to climb back up again, to retrace one's steps to the upper air—there's the rub, the task.r />
  —Publius Vergilius Maro

  (Virgil)

  Walter Slovotsky's huge hand shook him, while the damp night grass pressed against his shirt and bare feet.

  "Karl, we're back." The big man wept almost silently. "We're back."

  Bare feet? That made sense; they had left their sandals behind. But why did his back hurt so? As if he'd been sunburned. Worse.

  "Easy, now." Her hand at the back of his neck, Andy-Andy propped him up to a sitting position.

  Karl opened his eyes, moonlight off the water in front of him hitting him like a slap. Moonlight? "We did it."

  Lou Riccetti knelt in front of him, barefoot in now-tattered workshirt and jeans. "Not quite." His voice was somber, his round cheeks were wet. "We don't even have Jason's body with us, and . . ."

  "And what, dammit?" Karl peeled back the right leg of his jeans. No wonder the leg ached so; it was covered with blisters.

  "Look over there." Riccetti pointed. Doria lay curled on the grass, her eyes wide and unblinking, her chest barely moving. "She's gone, Karl. Catatonic."

  Karl shook himself. And it was himself; smaller, skinnier. Barak?

  Help me?

  Nothing. No answer, not even the feeling of the presence of his other persona. Then I'll do without. "Where's Ahi—James?"

  "Later," Andy-Andy breathed. "Just take a moment. You need—"

  "Show him." Riccetti's voice was firm.

  She caught a breath, and held it for longer than Karl would have thought possible. "Look to your right."

  Walter Slovotsky knelt weeping over the dead body of James Michael Finnegan. The third-degree burns that had killed James Michael still smoldered, sending up light traces of mist and smoke.

  Ohgod. "He didn't change enough."

  Walter wept unashamedly, his huge hands reaching out as though to shake little James Michael Finnegan awake, then drawing back.

  Just think for a minute. Mirror Lake spread out in front of him in the moonlight, the Commons all around. "We're on campus." A chill wind blew across the lake, sending a rush of leaves tumbling around him. "How long?"

  Riccetti shook his head. "Deighton didn't lie about the different time rates. I snuck into a dorm; we've been gone just about eight hours—it's four in the morning. Jase is . . . gone, James Michael is dead, Doria is—"