by Dragon Lance
“Stop it!” she shouted at them. “I am Princess Vixa Ambrodel, daughter of the house of Kith-Kanan! Begone, I say!”
They showed no sign of hearing her, but continued to stare with blank faces. Their eyes glowed. Furious, Vixa struck the walls of her crystal prison with her fists. The blow stung her knuckles. It also caused cracks to appear in the glass. The fractures radiated outward from the point of impact, and water began to seep into the globe. Anger turned to horror as Vixa realized what she’d done. If the water got in, she would drown!
The cracks raced around the glass, spreading faster and faster. The water rose up to her ankles. A blink of her eyes, and the water had touched her knees. In seconds, she was neck-deep and had to tread water to keep her face above the icy flow. What was she to do?
Vixa flung out a hand and felt the roof over her head. Silver fissures met and crossed above her. Water closed over her head. She pounded at the domed ceiling.
“I – will – not – die!”
With a gasp, Vixa sat up. She was on a flat couch in a dimly lit room. From the green color of the walls and floor, she surmised that she was somewhere in the palace.
Her legs were tangled in her Dargonesti robe. She freed them and swung her feet to the floor. The room tilted slightly; she put a hand to her head. In a few seconds the dizziness passed. A small sound behind her brought her to her feet, whirling to face whatever threat might come. The room was divided by translucent curtains, and behind these she could see a seated figure.
“Who’s there?” she demanded. “Show yourself!”
The figure rose and stepped forward, parting the curtains. It was Naxos, the shapeshifter, Coryphene’s dolphin-herald.
“Forgive me,” he said, though his tone was far from contrite. “I came to see if you were all right. Don’t give me away, will you?”
“Give you away?”
“To Coryphene. I’m not supposed to be here.”
He was dressed in a simple shark-leather kilt. His aquamarine hair was held away from his face by a headband carved from blood coral. His powerful physique, insolent manner, and daunting height made him an unsettling presence. Vixa, accustomed to looming over most people, found herself taking a step back, so as not to have to tilt her head to see him.
“What happened to me?” she asked.
“You’ve been unconscious a full day. I wanted to see if you survived your audience with Uriona.”
“I guess I did – barely.”
Naxos grinned. His smile was infectious, and Vixa found herself smiling back.
“You don’t speak of your queen the way Coryphene does. Don’t you consider her divine?”
“I’ve known Uriona since she was this high.” He held a hand level with Vixa’s forehead and grinned again, adding, “She’s hardly ever divine.”
“She seems … distracted,” Vixa said carefully.
“She’s mad,” was his blunt rejoinder. Naxos sat on the couch, leaning back on one hand. “Since no one else will tell you the tale, I suppose I’ll have to.
“Uriona is the fourth daughter of Kedurach Takalurion, Speaker of the Moon and ruler of Watermere. As such, she had few prospects in life other than marriage to some noble whose support the Speaker desired. She was not content with this fate and turned to the study of sorcery and high thaumaturgy. Whatever else it did for her, her magic frightened off half-hearted suitors. By the end of her first century, Uriona was one of the most powerful magic-users in Watermere.”
Vixa, remembering the effect of the queen’s glance, had no trouble believing him.
“The increase of her power affected her reason,” Naxos continued. “She decided she was chosen by the god Abbaku to reunite all those of elven blood into one nation. This message had an appeal to other ambitious Quoowahb, who were tired of the boredom and constraint of life in Watermere.”
“Others such as Coryphene?”
“Yes, and my humble self as well. When I was younger I craved adventure. I wanted to visit distant seas and walk upon dry land, where the sun scorches the air.” His face twisted in self-mockery. “I pledged myself to Uriona’s cause. Many hundreds of Quoowahb believed in her, and two centuries past, she led us out of Watermere to found a new kingdom.”
Naxos gave Vixa a sidelong glance, as if to gauge her reaction to his next words. “She has visions, you know. One of them was of a great city protected by walls of fire. My sea brothers and I scouted for such a place, finding it in this valley between two volcanoes. And here we are, in the city of Urione.”
Vixa sat down beside him. “You no longer believe in her,” she said.
“Her dream has become evil,” he explained. “It’s Coryphene’s doing. He hungers for conquest, for power of his own. He sees himself as the guarantor of Uriona’s dream – and her dynasty.”
Her brown eyes widened. “Does he love her?”
This time his smile was savage. “Desperately! But she listens only to her visions, not to his attempts to woo her.” He leaned close, and Vixa felt herself tense. He had an aura that was palpable – an aura of what? Physical power? Magic? She couldn’t define it.
Naxos lowered his voice to a whisper. “She foresaw your coming, little dryfoot. ‘Elves from the ancient land will come to Urione,’ she prophesied. And then you did.”
“With the help of your kraken!” she exclaimed indignantly.
“Ma’el? Yes, Uriona’s pet. Only she can control it. Our enemy the chilkit are creatures of the sea, but are less adept at swimming than even we Quoowahb. When Coryphene demanded workers to build the wall across the Mortas Trench to stop their predations, the queen sent Ma’el to drag down the ships of the land-dwellers.”
“If you think she’s so evil, why do you follow her?”
“I have sworn it.”
Vixa folded her arms. “You don’t strike me as an elf who would betray his conscience for the sake of an oath to a mad monarch!”
He shrugged and spread his webbed hands. “My brothers and I remain for the most part outside the air-filled city. Soon, we will swim away, and Urione will know us no more.”
“Then help me!” she urged, taking hold of his arm. “You and your sea brothers can help us get away from here!”
He shook off her grip. “I can’t do that – at least not yet. We’re not strong enough to elude Coryphene’s soldiers and defy Uriona’s magic. The time will come when both are stretched to their limits. Then the sea brothers will depart. Only then.”
“But I can help you! In Qualinost I have powerful friends, friends who will shield you and your comrades.” Vixa glanced around cautiously, though the room was quite empty. In a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “I am a princess of the house of Kith-Kanan. My uncle is the Speaker of the Sun!”
“I know.”
She recoiled from his words and his aggravating grin. “What? How?”
“Uriona read it in your mind while you were unconscious. Coryphene is very angry, by the way, because you lied to him. He wanted to send you to the grotto, but the queen ordered you held here. She has some plan for you, I daresay.”
Fear gripped Vixa’s heart. Uriona had read her mind!
“Just how deeply did the queen intrude on my mind?” the princess asked, striving for a nonchalant tone.
His eyes still danced, but Naxos said quite seriously, “Don’t worry, Princess. She only used the lightest and quickest of probes. Anything else would require greater effort – and its intensity might leave you quite useless to her.”
Footsteps echoed beyond the thin curtains. Naxos was on his feet in a flash. “Be brave, Princess. Nothing is done until it is done.”
With these singularly unhelpful words, he ducked through the curtains. Vixa lay down on the couch and closed her eyes. Her heart hammered, but she wasn’t sure if it was because someone was coming, or because the infuriating Naxos had just left.
Coryphene swept the curtain aside. “Awaken, Princess Vixa!” He pronounced her title with venom. She feigned sleepiness
and dawdled at rising.
“I didn’t expect to wake again,” she told him, yawning widely.
“No other drylander has dared look upon Her Divine Majesty and been allowed to live. It is only because our divine queen saw through your feeble deception that you still breathe. She would not kill the blood kin of Kith-Kanan,” he declared.
“My feeble deception fooled you well enough.”
Coryphene’s fingers flexed around the pommel of the dagger in his belt. It was Armantaro’s weapon, Vixa realized. “Take her out!” Coryphene snapped to the soldiers accompanying him. The towering warriors ringed Vixa.
The Qualinesti princess itched to launch into them, but she didn’t feel like being beaten senseless. Coryphene would need very little provocation to thrash her. She was determined not to give him any. She rose coolly, straightened her robe. Coryphene stalked out, followed by Vixa and the guards.
Coryphene led her through a series of archways into the palace plaza. The whole of his private guard, some five hundred warriors, were drawn up in formation. Vixa entered the square of soldiers. At the center had been erected a table – a huge slice of mica supported by white coral legs. The hide of some large sea beast, tanned and whitened, was spread over the tabletop. Coryphene went to one side, while Vixa stood on the other.
On the hide was drawn a crude map. The seafloor around Urione was rendered in fine detail, but the farther regions were vague. Along one edge, Vixa saw a thin line drawn. It took her a moment to realize that this represented the southern coastline of Ansalon.
“Indicate on this map where Qualinost is,” Coryphene said.
Vixa folded her arms across her chest and said nothing.
“We know Silvanost lies on the Thon-Thalas – how far inland is the city?” She only stared at him, lips pressed tightly together. “How deep is the Thon-Thalas?”
He might as well have asked a statue. The blue color of his face deepened to indigo. They stared at each other for a full minute, she with pale face set and impassive, he with ever darkening countenance.
“I can have you flayed alive!” he shouted at last.
“I will tell you nothing,” Vixa said evenly.
He whipped out Armantaro’s dagger and raised it high. For a heart-stopping moment, Vixa was certain he was going to plunge it into her. But the weapon’s downswing ended with the dagger embedded in the middle of the map. Coryphene drove it in with such force that it stuck in the mica tabletop. He released it, and it stood there, quivering.
The Protector’s color returned to normal. In a much calmer tone, he stated, “I know your kind, lady. Brute force only reminds you of your duty. Very well. Let us see how stiff your neck is after a few days in the Nissia Grotto.” He spat a command, and eight warriors ringed the Qualinesti princess.
“To the grotto with her. Let her work alongside her servants. If the cold and damp don’t soften her pride, perhaps the close proximity of the chilkit will.”
A hood was dropped over Vixa’s head, and her hands bound behind her back. Blinded, she stumbled along, guided by the shoves of her guards. Having been up and down the city’s central ramp several times, she tried to visualize her path. She recognized the incense of the temple level and the noise and odors of the nearby fish market. When at last the hood was dragged from her head, she saw she was at a quayside pool identical to the one by which she’d first entered the city. Dolphins coursed through the water, and for an instant she thought Naxos had come to rescue her.
But only for an instant. As the bonds were removed from her wrists, she shook herself mentally. She couldn’t depend upon outside help to rescue her and her friends. They would have to save themselves.
Coryphene’s guards tied a weighted belt around her waist, handed her an airshell, and shoved her down the ramp. With one last glance at the dolphins swimming around her, Vixa walked into the pool. The chilly water closed over her head.
*
Sleep time in the grotto was always punctuated by the coughing and moans of the prisoners. The cold and damp constantly sapped their strength. Many were already sick with ague and consumption. The others were only waiting to get sick. The Dargonesti didn’t know (or didn’t care) that their land-dwelling captives needed warmth to survive.
Armantaro had slept curled up on his pile of bedding, teeth chattering all night. His first day as a slave had been more difficult than he would admit. The backbreaking labor on the wall combined with his constant anxiety over the welfare of Vixa Ambrodel gave him a very difficult time. His dreams this night were filled with visions of his tower room in Qualinost: book-lined, with a high ceiling and tall, narrow windows he left open on summer nights. His family always complained that the room was too drafty. In memory, it seemed like paradise.
The vision of home was interrupted by a tantalizing smell. A wonderful, mouth-watering aroma invaded his sleep and finally woke him. He opened his eyes, expecting the smell to vanish with his dreams; instead it grew stronger. It was the unmistakable odor of frying fish!
Flickering light cast grotesque shadows on the cave walls. Armantaro sat up, looking for Harmanutis and Vanthanoris. Their pallets were empty. He walked to the great heap of rubbish that divided the inhabited section of the grotto from the dark depths. On the other side were his companions. They were gathered around a campfire!
Vanthanoris was holding a plank to the flame. Pegged to the plank was a white fillet of fish. Harmanutis noticed the old colonel and greeted him.
“Where did the fire come from?” Armantaro demanded, hurrying to the welcoming light.
“Gundabyr did it,” said Vanthanoris. “But it’s not like any fire I ever saw.”
Armantaro knelt and held his hands out to the heat. The dwarf had piled loose stones into a rough hearth. In the midst of the stones sat a seething cauldron of yellow liquid. It gave off only a little smoke, but a great deal of warmth. Armantaro noticed there was no wood or flame beneath the pot. The yellow liquid boiled on its own.
“What is that?”
“Gnomefire,” replied Vanthanoris. “Gundabyr explained it to us, but all I got was the name.”
Beyond the circle of light the dwarf appeared, his arms laden with old clay pots. Harmanutis helped him unload his burden. Gundabyr’s clothes were dusted with ores of various colors. He looked as if he’d fallen in some lunatic flour mill.
Armantaro asked about the bubbling pot. Dusting off his hands, Gundabyr said, “Gnomefire is a compound often used by the folk of Sancrist Isle. There isn’t much wood on the slopes of Mt. Nevermind, so some gnome invented this mixture, which burns without need for wood. I learned to make it in my younger days, when I traveled often to gnome country. Garnath used to say nothing useful ever came from a gnome’s mind, but this stuff just might make the difference between living and dying down here.”
“Gnomefire,” Vanthanoris murmured. “Can you imagine the failures its inventor had before he hit on the right formula?” The gnomes of Sancrist Isle were known throughout Ansalon for their weird (and nearly always useless) experiments and inventions.
“It’s wonderful. What’s it made of?” Armantaro wanted to know.
“Sulfur and quicklime and bitumen and niter, plus a pinch of this and a scrap of that. I’d thought about making it before, but hadn’t found enough bitumen until last night. By Reorx, there’s tons of the stuff in the lower galleries!”
“How did you ignite it? None of us has a flint.”
The dwarf’s blue eyes gleamed. “That’s the special secret. All it takes —”
Vanthanoris jumped to his feet. “We have company,” he warned.
Scores of prisoners had awakened to the smell of cooking. Bearded, haggard faces stared with longing at the flickering bowl of light. The sight of the steaming fish caused mouths to drop open and tongues to move over cracked lips. So intent were they upon the fire and food, the prisoners overcame their habitual lethargy and crowded round the elves.
“Is there enough for all?” Armantaro asked Gun
dabyr.
“There’s enough for the whole Daewar clan.”
“Wait. Won’t a lot of fires exhaust our air?” Harmanutis cautioned.
The dwarf shook his head. “Nope, I don’t think so. There’s over three hundred people in this cave, but unless I’m wrong, the blueskins are supplying us with fresh air somehow.”
Even so, it was decided to limit the number of fires to five, just to be safe. Eager men clawed rocks from the floor and walls and built hasty firepits. Gundabyr went from one to the next, mixing powders into pots in just the right proportions, then stirring in thick bitumen to bind the ingredients together. Finally, he asked for water from the pool. As soon as the water was dribbled onto the black-and-yellow paste, a plume of smoke hissed upward. The mixture burst into flame with a soft whuff!
On first seeing this, one of the humans exclaimed, “You’re a wizard!”
“I’m a forgemaster of Thorbardin, which is better,” Gundabyr shot back.
Soon Nissia Grotto was warmer and lighter than it had ever been. Men crowded around the fires, warming stiff limbs and cooking their fish rations. They praised Gundabyr’s brilliance. For the first time, Armantaro heard laughter.
Vanthanoris voiced a worry. “What will the Dargonesti say?” he wondered.
“I doubt they’ll object too much,” Armantaro replied. “After all, warmth and cooked food can only keep their slaves alive longer, right?”
The elves sat back to watch their fellow prisoners enjoy Gundabyr’s gnomefire. They conversed softly about the battle of the day before.
“The chilkit bungled their attack yesterday,” stated Harmanutis. “Had they scaled the wall in more than one place, the Dargonesti could not have stopped them.”
“Let us be grateful you weren’t leading them,” Vanthanoris said dryly.
“Coryphene is no tactician, that’s certain,” put in Armantaro. “He simply met force with force. He didn’t maneuver his warriors at all. His greatest advantage lies in his store of captured metal weapons.” The old colonel frowned, etching deep lines in his thin face. “One of which is my own dagger.”
