The History of Krynn: Vol IV

by Dragon Lance

  Someone shoved them from behind. Vixa whirled, fists at the ready. Armantaro squared off as well.

  “Move on!” barked one of the Dargonesti guards who had dropped back from the rest to ensure the Qualinesti kept up. “The Lord Protector awaits!”

  Vixa frowned. “I am weary of being dragged around by these people,” she stated. “I say we go at our own pace.”

  “An excellent suggestion, Niece.”

  The Dargonesti advanced, both aiming for Armantaro. They obviously regarded Vixa as no threat. Vixa lashed out with her foot at the soldier nearest her. Hooking her adversary’s knee, she brought him down hard on his back. This distracted the other guard. Armantaro grasped his right fist with his left hand and drove his elbow into the Dargonesti’s side. The blow propelled the sea elf into his fallen comrade, and both ended in a tangle on the floor. With a grim chuckle, Vixa shoved the flailing warriors. They rolled, like a pair of blue logs, down the steep ramp. The soldiers disappeared around the bend, and the sound of a loud crash reached Vixa’s ears.

  Dusting her hands, the Qualinesti princess asked, “Shall we continue?”

  “After you, noble niece.” The colonel was smiling.

  They went up the ramp at a more leisurely pace. Around the curve, they came upon the rest of Coryphene’s guards, waiting with swords drawn. Coryphene had left his sedan chair and stood tapping one foot impatiently.

  “You must not leave my protection,” he told them. “The people of Urione are not accustomed to strangers. You endanger your own lives.”

  “I don’t feel all that safe with you,” Vixa muttered.

  Coryphene stood aside, gesturing for the Qualinesti to precede him. The bearers walked two paces behind.

  The roof of the city was nearer now, the ramp narrowing to meet it. With no word of warning, the Dargonesti warriors suddenly halted in close ranks. When Vixa and Armantaro stopped as well, Coryphene ordered them to continue. It was then that the Qualinesti found themselves engulfed in a blazing white light.

  Vixa threw up an arm to protect her eyes. Heat washed over her. In seconds she was dry and warm for the first time in what seemed like days. The sensation lasted perhaps five seconds; then the light disappeared. Vixa stood blinking in the dimness. When she could see once more, she realized that Coryphene was gone. She and Armantaro were alone.

  “Colonel?” she said softly. “What happened?”

  “I have no idea. At least I’m not so cold now.” Armantaro rubbed his eyes and looked around, adding, “But where are we?”

  Above their heads, the thick stone arches that made up the framework of the city beneath the sea had ended, revealing a transparent dome composed of millions of quartz crystals, fitted together with supreme skill. Beyond this clear barrier could be seen the deep blue of the ocean depths. Schools of fish swam overhead, the reflected light from the city flashing off their silver bodies.

  Vixa and Armantaro stood in the center of a large disk of white marble situated in the center of a great round plaza. At the plaza’s perimeter rose a colonnade, supporting a palatial building made of green stone. Though the building’s facade was pierced by hundreds of unglazed windows, none of these openings showed any light. The only illumination was a subdued, shifting, greenish glow.

  “Magnificent,” Vixa sighed, turning round and round. “Really quite beautiful.”

  Armantaro was frowning. “Where is everyone? And where in the name of the Abyss is the entrance?” Try as he might, he could find no trace of the spiral ramp, only the smooth disk of white in the middle of the green-paved plaza. The old colonel slipped a hand under his battered shirt. Vixa saw the hard gleam of a dagger hilt.

  “Put that away,” she hissed. He made no reply but tucked the slim knife back inside his clothing.

  The faint sound of footsteps reached their ears. Out of the shadows of the colonnade to their right came a tall figure carrying a glowing yellow globe. It was Coryphene. The light beneath his chin cast weird shadows across his sharp features.

  “I know that landed folk require a great deal more light than we Dargonesti,” said Coryphene, his voice echoing in the stillness. He stopped several paces away. Armantaro’s fingers touched the dagger hilt through his shirt. There were no guards in sight. If he could take Coryphene hostage, they might be able to force the Dargonesti to release them.

  Coryphene threw the glowing globe into the air. It rose to twice his height and vanished in a silent yellow burst. Instantly the plaza was filled with the tawny golden illumination of a summer evening in Qualinost.

  “You’re a sorcerer,” Vixa stated.

  “I have some skill in the art of magic. Another example.” He pointed a webbed blue finger at Armantaro. To the colonel’s surprise, he felt the blade of his hidden dagger growing warm. He tried to ignore it, keeping his face impassive, but the blade grew hotter and hotter, until it burned like a branding iron. With a yelp, Armantaro snatched the dagger out and flung it away. He put his scorched fingers into his mouth.

  Coryphene picked up the dagger. He tested its edge with his thumb and slapped the flat of the blade against his palm. With a nod, he slipped the knife into his own belt.

  Vixa spoke up quickly. “Are you the ruler of this place? Are you Speaker of the sea elves?” she inquired.

  Coryphene’s violet eyes narrowed. “I am Protector of my people and First Servant of our divine queen.” He clapped his hands twice, and a troop of servants appeared from the shadows of the colonnade. For Coryphene, they brought a chair carved from a single concretion of blood coral. Two large, flat-topped sponges were set in place to serve as stools for the Qualinesti. Two lackeys carried a hamper of woven seaweed. It was evidently quite heavy.

  “Sit,” Coryphene said, the word more a command than an invitation. “Refresh yourselves.”

  Supporting his chin with folded hands, he rested his elbows on the arms of his scarlet chair. Armantaro and Vixa sank gratefully to the stools, glad to rest their tired feet. Eagerly, the princess opened the hamper.

  “Our food may seem strange to you, but I am certain you will find it superior to any you have ever eaten.”

  Vixa hesitated. Was it possible this odd elf wished to poison them? She glanced at Armantaro, who was likewise uncertain, then she looked at Coryphene.

  A frown was gathering on the Protector’s face. He was clearly ready to take offense if they refused his hospitality. Shrugging fatalistically, the Qualinesti helped themselves.

  The food was indeed strange. There were planks of dried, spiced fish; greenish cakes made of seaweed; a smoky, strongly flavored meat paste; and cups of sweet relish that might have been animal or vegetable. Servants handed them goblets made of bell mussel shells and filled with a light, fermented beverage rather like the nectar of Qualinost.

  Coryphene waited until the edge was off their hunger before asking, “What ship were you sailing on?”

  “Evenstar, out of Qualinesti,” Vixa answered, seeing no reason to lie.

  “I have heard of that place. What was your destination?”

  “The Gulf of Ergoth, specifically the Greenthorn River,” replied Armantaro. “If it please you, my lord, may I ask how it is you know of our country, when we know nothing of yours?”

  “Do none of the ancient race remember the Dargonesti?”

  Vixa swallowed a mouthful of nectar. “I’ve heard legends that tell of sea-dwelling elves, but I always thought they were stories for children – tall tales passed around the fireside. I never honestly believed such a race existed.”

  For some reason, this answer pleased Coryphene. He smiled and ordered the servants to bring him a cup of nectar.

  “For thirteen hundred years my kind has dwelt in the depths,” he told them. “The Graystone transformed us, and we were able to escape the unfair rule of Silvanos by taking to the sea. Untouched by landed folk and their bloody wars, we perfected all the arts and sciences. The Quoowahb, or Dargonesti, are the most perfect of all the races created by the gods.”
>
  Vixa, trying to maintain an attitude of polite interest, nearly choked at this calm statement of superiority. Armantaro thumped her on the back. Unconcerned, the Protector of Urione went on.

  “From time to time, the ships of the landed folk fall into our domain. I have seen many of the land races: humans, dwarves, kender. Thus have I learned of your cities and nations.” He handed his empty cup to a hovering servant. “What rank are you and your niece?”

  The swift change of subject caught Armantaro by surprise. “I am freeborn, Excellence, a subject of the Speaker of the Sun in Qualinost. My niece is an orphan, so I have adopted her as my own child.”

  “Qualinost is ruled by Silveran, son of the mighty Kith-Kanan, yes?”

  “Why, yes. You know of Kith-Kanan?”

  Coryphene stared off into space. “The birds of the air and the wind above the waves have spoken the name of Kith-Kanan,” he murmured. His gaze returned to them, and he next inquired, “Are the nobles of your country required to bear arms?”

  “Ah, no. No one is compelled to serve,” Vixa replied warily.

  “What is the size of Speaker Silveran’s army?”

  Armantaro placed a hand upon Vixa’s wrist, but the warning wasn’t necessary. The princess had no intention of giving this arrogant fellow such important information. She opened her mouth to deliver an evasive answer, and suddenly the air was split by a loud chorus of bleating notes. Coryphene leapt to his feet, knocking aside his cup of nectar. Vixa and Armantaro exchanged a baffled look as the plaza erupted into furious activity.

  Servants came running and cleared away the food and chairs, practically dumping the Qualinesti from their seats. Four Dargonesti sped from the colonnade bearing a suit of exotic armor and arms. As Coryphene stood with feet apart and arms held out, the servants girded their master as though for battle.

  “What is it?” Vixa demanded. “What’s happening?”

  “An attack,” Coryphene said tersely.

  The bleating grew louder, and Vixa spotted the source of the terrible racket. A trio of white-robed Dargonesti had appeared as if by magic on the disk of marble in the center of the plaza. The three sea elves stood blowing on large conch shells, their sonorous notes reverberating through the area.

  Coryphene was now fully armed and armored. He turned a grim look on his captives and said, “Come. You may understand things better if you see the peril we face.”

  Vixa and Armantaro had little choice in the matter. A phalanx of at least one hundred soldiers formed around them and the lord of Urione. With the sound of conch shells bellowing all around them, they marched to the disk of white marble. A flash of light blazed. Vixa felt the heat once more through her borrowed cloak. When the light faded, they were heading down the great spiral ramp. Urionans lined the way ahead, shouting, waving, and blowing conch shells.

  The din was bewildering to the Qualinesti. It appeared they were to be sent into battle – completely unarmed – to fight the-gods-knew-what type of enemy.

  The sea elves were chanting. The cacophony of voices coalesced into a single word, repeated over and over.

  “Chilkit!” cried the sea elves. “Chilkit! Chilkit!”

  Chapter 6

  NISSIA GROTTO

  Harmanutis and Vanthanoris were taken by Dargonesti soldiers outside the city, given two whelk shells filled with air, and fitted with belts of sharkskin to which flat stone disks were attached. The weight of these belts helped them move better underwater, anchoring their feet more firmly.

  The eight guards walked ahead, apparently unconcerned whether their charges kept up. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why. The air in the shells was not infinite, and once it was gone the two Qualinesti would drown. They were imprisoned as surely as if bound with manacles and chains.

  Underwater, the sea elves conversed in clicks and whistles, much like the noises the dolphins made. Gills bloomed from behind their ears as they moved through the dark water. Vanthanoris and Harmanutis trudged after them, watching everything, trying to figure out some way to escape this underwater city.

  Once outside the city shell, they found themselves in an area of coral formations. The coral grew in branching, treelike shapes in a variety of sizes – some only knee-high and others towering twenty or thirty feet. There was the more common red coral, but also white and a faintly luminous yellow. The two Qualinesti could see several Dargonesti swimming in and around the coral, tending it as if it were a garden.

  Twenty paces from the city, the coral gardens ended. A paved road, as wide as four soldiers marching abreast, led away into the shadowy depths. In several places, sand had drifted over the paving stones. Brightly striped fish followed the Qualinesti, darting through the streams of bubbles emitted by the whelk shells. Vanthanoris swatted at them, and the curious little fish swam away.

  In the distance, a dark shape loomed. It took a while before Harmanutis realized that this was a gigantic underwater mountain, hundreds – if not thousands – of feet high. The road ran straight as an arrow to it.

  Pillars appeared on each side of the road. These bore inscriptions in an angular script. As the Qualinesti drew nearer the mountain, they discovered that some of the pillars evinced a sinister purpose. Corpses in every state of deterioration were chained to them. Some of the bodies plainly showed signs of the predations of sharks; others were little more than skeletons. Harmanutis recognized most as human remains – the heavy bones and wide skulls made this plain. Now and then a smaller body could be seen, perhaps a dwarf or kender. In all, they counted forty-seven corpses lashed to pillars along the road. None elven.

  Just then, Vanthanoris’s air began to give out. He tried harder to inhale, but still there was nothing. He threw a startled look to Harmanutis and saw that the corporal was having the same difficulty. The guards walked on, oblivious to their captives’ plight. The Qualinesti quickened their pace, catching up with the guards and making their distress plain. The guards merely prodded them to continue.

  The road led to a cave entrance dressed with a pediment and columns. Vanthanoris hurried inside. Above him, ripples betokened a surface. There were stone steps ahead, and he fairly flew up them. On the ninth step, his head broke into open air. He tore the empty shell from his blue lips and gulped down huge draughts of chill, damp air.

  Harmanutis surfaced beside him, likewise gasping. The Dargonesti soldiers rose with supreme indifference and herded the pair onto a rough stone landing. Vanthanoris staggered and fell. Harmanutis didn’t bother trying to rise, merely crawled where he was bidden. While he lay inhaling and exhaling gratefully, he studied his surroundings.

  Beyond the landing was a long, wide tunnel that ran straight back into the mountain. A few lighting globes were stuck high on the walls, but they were dim compared to those they’d seen in the city. Along both walls were piles of seaweed, scraps of leather, blankets, hanks of rope, and chests salvaged from sunken ships. An aisle passed down the center of the tunnel. Harmanutis realized he was looking at a prison for dryland captives.

  One of the sea elves collected the exhausted whelk shells, and without a word, the eight Dargonesti submerged and departed.

  Harmanutis helped Vanthanoris stand. “Is this our new home?” the latter asked hoarsely.

  “Not for long, my friend. Trust our good lady and the colonel to find a way out for all of us,” Harmanutis replied.

  “We must be a mile or more from the city. Too far to swim without air. No wonder they don’t need bars or locks to make this the perfect dungeon. Try to escape, and you would surely drown!”

  “We’ll escape, Van. I don’t plan on dying a prisoner of these blue-skinned barbarians!”

  Name boards of ships long sunk and forgotten were attached to the walls: Sinar’s Pride, Sea Dragon, Balifor Star. Craft from all over Ansalon had ended their days here.

  “I wonder if Evenstar survived,” Harm said quietly.

  “Poor Paladithel,” murmured Van. “How he hated fish.”

  The cave stre
tched on and on. If every squalid pile of bedding denoted one prisoner, then there were hundreds of captives in Dargonesti hands. Why? Why did the sea elves hold so many land-dwellers?

  A huge pile of debris blocked the end of the cave, leaving only a narrow space between it and one wall. It divided the inhabited section from the empty darkness beyond. In this moldering heap of debris were yards of rope, mounds of sailcloth, lengths of rusted and broken chain, clay pots, amphorae, and smashed wooden boxes – the detritus of centuries of shipwrecks, yet nothing that would help them get out of here.

  Harmanutis kicked the nearest object, an empty flour barrel lying on its side.

  “Oof!” said the barrel.

  Harmanutis froze, his foot still in the air. “Did you hear that?” he hissed.

  In reply, Vanthanoris kicked the barrel himself, saying sternly, “Come out. We know you’re in there.”

  A pale, craggy face, framed by matted hair and a black beard, popped out of the barrel.

  “A dwarf!” Vanthanoris exclaimed.

  “You’re not blueskins!” said the dwarf, crawling out of the barrel. Drawing himself up to his full height – just over four feet – he added, “You’re Qualinesti, aren’t you? Well, that’s new. My name’s Gundabyr.”

  Harmanutis introduced himself and Vanthanoris. “Are there any other elves down here?” he asked.

  “Nope. No elves at all except the blue-skinned variety. I guess the Quoowahb don’t care that you fellas are cousins, eh?”

  “Quoowahb?

  “The blueskins. That’s what they call themselves.” Gundabyr pulled up a battered sea chest and hauled himself up onto it. His feet dangled above the floor. A stick of some whitish stuff protruded from his vest pocket. He pulled it out and gnawed on it.

  “Dried cod,” he explained. “That’s about all we get to eat around here.” He looked them up and down, noted their abbreviated attire, and sighed. “It’s a pity you fellas aren’t carrying some ale on you.”