by Jean Rabe
A growl of determination came from deep within Ragh, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His chest felt tight and he willed it to become even tighter and smaller, picturing in his mind the body of the young dwarf that lay bloody and lifeless behind him. The scales receded into his body as the mountain continued to shudder. His long arms and legs shrank while his silvery skin grew tanned, his fingers stubby, filthy, and callused. Hair flowed from his head and face, an unruly red mass that was becoming thick with the stone dust that continued to rain down.
His smaller dwarf form was able to fit under the broken beams and through an opening near the collapsed ceiling. He nearly left the satchel behind, as it would be easier going without it, but the magical baubles inside could help Dhamon—provided Dhamon made it out of the mine alive. Come to think of it, Ragh muttered to himself, nice of Dhamon to wait and worry about his old friend Ragh.
“Dhamon! Wait for me!” Ragh shouted. His Campfire voice sounded coarse and unfamiliarly dwarven. He couldn’t see well enough behind him to know if Dhamon’s inky form was behind or in front of him. Well, shadow, dragon, or man, Dhamon could take care of himself. “The whole mountain’s breaking down on us! You’d better be leaving with me! The mountain’s coming down!”
The rumbling grew to deafening proportions. The ground shook and buckled. A chunk of stone struck Ragh squarely on his dwarf shoulders, slamming him down against the floor. The entire tunnel ceiling seemed to give way—just as Dhamon resumed his dragon form and the lantern fell to the floor and died.
Utter blackness coincided with wholesale destruction.
Dhamon’s massive body was expanding. He pushed hard against the falling rocks and collapsing walls, praying that the sivak had the wits to hunker down behind him and avoid the deadly rockfall. As he pushed his massive head up to the top of the tunnel, pushing against what remained of the ceiling, he felt his barbels drag across Ragh.
“Ragh! Let’s get out of here!” Dhamon shouted, his booming voice adding to the rumbling as his neck bent at a distorted angle against the collapsing ceiling.
He felt the sivak shift beneath him, rising and scrambling forward into the darkness. Ragh felt the hot breath of Dhamon’s words against his back.
“Hurry, Ragh!”
Moving his legs required tremendous effort as the weight of the collapsing tunnel threatened to flatten him. Somehow he managed to plod forward a little, and then a little more. He couldn’t feel the sivak beneath him any longer.
The world was black. The noise was thunderous, louder than the din of the greatest battle he’d ever fought with the knights, more noxious than any storm he had flown through while mounted on the back of his blue dragon partner Gale. His every small breath was filled with rank, dust-filled air that burned his lungs. Dhamon fought for more air and gained little. He was suffocating.
Not enough air to breathe! his mind screamed. Not enough room to move! Not enough time to break free!
It would be so easy to let the mountain take him, to let his spirit drift with those of Jasper, Fiona, and Rig, but with Feril’s whereabouts unknown and the sivak’s fate uncertain, he couldn’t give up now. He forced himself to take another faltering step, then another, legs bracing against the rocky ceiling that was continuing to break apart, tail lashing behind him, batting away falling rocks.
Got to keep moving! If any part of him hesitated, the falling stones would bury him. The rumbling grew louder but the stony floor suddenly stilled. The center of the quake had moved elsewhere inside the mountain. Grateful, Dhamon moved faster, his claws burrowing through the rocks in front of him as he prayed Feril was all right and that the sivak had managed to escape. Faster!
He heard the scream of stone, the old castle walls laid into the hillside giving way, the thump of rock falling. Faintly, he heard something else. A voice?
It was the draconian calling to him. He threw all his might into straightening his legs, forcing his back up against the sagging ceiling, and moving forward into the blackness that was giving way to bands of gray.
Dhamon didn’t know how long he struggled. It felt like forever, and by the time the darkness receded his muscles felt on molten fire. He didn’t think he could take another step, until he saw a pale blue glow coming through an opening.
He thrust his snout forward, finding the larger tunnel leading to the mine entrance. In a daze he saw Ragh beckoning him, except that the sivak looked like the dwarf Campfire and was holding a blue globe of light in his hand.
“Dhamon, be quick!” Ragh said in a dwarf voice. “By the memory of the Dark Queen, hurry!”
Dhamon understood, and folding in upon himself until he was an inky pool, he stretched to become Ragh’s shadow. He flowed out of the mine attached to the sivak. Then they were safely coming down the hill, which continued to shake violently.
The stars were just emerging, with the sky a hazy dark blue from the dirt and stone dust that increasingly blanketed this section of the Kharolis Mountains.
“Campfire!” The dwarf woman was frantically waving her arms and motioning Ragh away from the mountain. “Campfire!” The other dwarf named Churt was with her, looking equally frightened but cursing the gods for ruining their mine.
Dhamon was surprised to see Feril lying on the ground at the two dwarves’ feet. She looked sorely battered and bruised, and her arm was in a sling, but he could tell at a glance she was breathing. Grannaluured waved a skillet above the Kagonesti menacingly.
“Campfire!” Grannaluured bellowed. “Get over here now!”
20
“Feldspar’s dead,” Grannaluured said. She dipped her head for a few moments, perhaps offering a silent prayer. When she raised it, her eyes were watery. “Dawnsprinter told us about it after she crawled down the mountain and we bandaged her arm. She said Feldspar fell into a crevice. Said she couldn’t get to him before the ground swallowed him up, as surely as any big beast.”
She shook her head, then dropped the skillet on the ground near a smoldering fire. “All for greed. Death’s the reward for greed, I tell you. Surprised you aren’t dead, too, Campfire, charging in there like that after that damn sivak. You ought to know better. You ought to know to stay out of the mountain when things are shaking like that. No riches are worth your life. Greed kills as surely as any sword, I say.”
The dwarf who looked like Campfire didn’t reply, just shifted back and forth on his booted heels and tried to look sad. Ragh knew that while he sounded something like the dwarf, he didn’t possess all the nuances of the dwarf’s speech or his mannerisms. Talking or moving around too much would give him away.
“You’re young, Campfire, but if you want to reach my age you’re going to have to be more careful. Understand?” Grannaluured sniffed unhappily. “I suppose you’d like some dinner now.”
Ragh nodded, his dwarf beard fluttering. The draconian actually was hungry, and whatever Grannaluured had been working on smelled delicious.
Behind Grannaluured’s back, Churt was also nodding hungrily, though she couldn’t see him. “I sure am hungry, fellows, and we might as well mourn Feldspar on a full stomach rather than an… wait a minute, Needle, something’s not right.” As Churt brushed past Ragh, his nose began to quiver.
Ragh’s scent was giving him away.
Churt squared his overly broad shoulders, sniffing the air again and glaring at Ragh. “This one doesn’t smell like Campfire, Needle. Doesn’t stink of sweat either. Smells a little like sulfur, though.” Churt’s eyes narrowed. “Got to be the sivak. It killed Campfire and took his body. They do that. Got to be.”
“Yeah, I smell it, too.” Grannaluured grabbed up her skillet again as Ragh edged back. “I suspect most folks wouldn’t notice the sulfur, would think you’re Campfire. Tell me you’re Campfire! Prove it to me!” Grannaluured shouted.
Ragh said nothing.
“See, I’m a miner, and I’ve worked in a smithy, so I know what sulfur smells like,” Churt said. He reached for a pick on the ground; its tip glimmered sil
ver and Ragh knew it had been dipped in the dragonmetal. “Since you’re wearing Campfire’s form, that means you’re a murderer. I know all about sivaks.”
Ragh spread his stubby legs, holding his hands to his sides. “I’ve no reason to fight you.”
“I know all about sivaks, and I know they can die.”
Ragh tried reasoning with them. “Look, I’ve truly no wish to fight with you. There’s been enough bloodshed today. A fight will only…”
“Like Campfire’s blood?” Grannaluured said. “Like you didn’t want to kill him? We all have been around long enough. We all know about sivaks. You wear the forms of the ones you killed! You did kill Campfire, just like Churt says.”
“He didn’t give me any choice. He attacked me. Leave this be.”
Grannaluured and Churt split to the right and left, angling around the sivak. Behind them both, Ragh saw, Feril was stirring. She lifted her head and stared through Churt’s legs to see the dwarf whom at first glance she thought was Campfire. Feril pushed herself to her knees and peered closer to see an inky pool spreading away from Campfire. The dying fire was just enough to illuminate the shadow.
“Dhamon!” Feril murmured. She jumped to her feet just as Ragh let his dwarf form melt away. “Needle, Churt, don’t fight them! You can’t win!”
“Them?” Churt glanced at her, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I only see one enemy, just one wingless sivak, and soon it’s going to be wearing my body. ’Cause if I remember right, sivaks also take on the form of what kills them.”
“It’ll wear my body! I’ll be the one to kill it!” Grannaluured argued.
“Needle, leave them be!” Feril called.
“Them?” Grannaluured echoed mirthlessly. What she saw next made her gasp, however, as the inky shadow that was Dhamon grew into a shimmering dark cloud expanding and contracting behind Ragh. The mass of shadow grew legs and wings and a serpentine neck that stretched above the sivak. “Dragon! A dragon!”
Dhamon released his aura of dragonfear, so Churt whirled and tripped, picked himself up and ran, heading to the south and disappearing into darkness. Grannaluured froze, trembling, legs locked, the skillet slipping from her fingers. The color drained from her face. Ragh and Feril were affected too, but held their ground.
“The dragon won’t hurt you, Needle.” Feril stepped behind the dwarf and put her left hand reassuringly on her shoulder. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“D-d-d-dragon’s a f-f-friend?”
“Yes, and I promise that he won’t hurt you. I swear!” Feril exchanged looks with Dhamon, who gradually suppressed most of his fear aura. As he did, the elf stepped in front of Grannaluured and walked slowly toward the dragon.
“Feril…”
“My arm’s broken, Dhamon, but I’m all right.” She told him that during the quake her arm had become trapped between shifting rocks. “I got it out. I can make stone move,” she explained. “It’s how I knew I could get the scale if it was wedged—making the stone flow around it so I could pull it out.”
Dhamon nodded. His old friend Maldred was able to perform the same magic with stone. Feril hadn’t been so accomplished with her nature magic when he knew her years earlier. He wondered what other surprises she had in store.
“I tried climbing straight down, but everything was shaking so badly. I ended up crawling like a baby to get here. Churt and Needle set my arm.”
Cuts crisscrossed her face and arms, and there were welts on her legs from where rocks had pelted her. She was favoring her right side, and Dhamon suspected she might have cracked some ribs. A nasty bruise decorated her cheek.
“I feared you were dead,” Dhamon said. Even though he spoke softly, the ground rumbled, and Grannaluured, all but forgotten momentarily, whimpered in fear.
“I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, Dhamon. Terribly foolish of me to go in there tonight. Unforgiveably foolish. Feldspar would be alive if I had waited. My curiosity and eagerness be damned. Too much ale, too much… Feldspar shouldn’t have followed. Now I’ve blood on my hands.” She tilted her head down sorrowfully. “Maybe Campfire would be alive too.”
“Doubt it,” Ragh said. “Campfire was looking to die.” The sivak glanced at his clawed hands, blood still drying on them. Then he looked to the female dwarf, who was still wide-eyed and shaking. “What are we going to do about her, Dhamon?”
Feril raced to Grannaluured’s side. “Needle? You’re going to do nothing about Needle.”
“Got to do something with her,” the sivak pressed. “Can’t leave her here alone, can we?”
The female dwarf blinked, looking up dully at Feril. “D-d-dragon. We should run.” Her legs had stopped shaking, but she was still locked like a statue.
The complicated explanation tumbled from Feril’s lips, about how Dhamon was once a man and had been cursed by a shadow dragon to become a dragon. How he could turn himself into a shadow form. How they were in the mountains looking for an overlord’s scale that might help make Dhamon human again.
Grannaluured didn’t catch everything, and Feril had left plenty out in her effort to explain quickly, but the explanation seemed to be enough to get the dwarf to relax slightly. She took a few tottering steps and breathed deeply.
“Dhamon won’t hurt you,” Feril repeated. “I promise.”
“Churt?” Her words were coming out strangled. “Where’s Churt?”
“He ran,” Feril said. “The dragonfear took him.”
Dhamon nudged Ragh with the tip of his snout, so that the unprepared sivak stumbled forward. “Oh, so I’m elected to go look for the stupid dwarf? Wonderful. Fine, fine. I suppose it’s better than staying around here and staring at an old maid dwarf who probably isn’t going to serve a decent dinner now.” He jogged off into the darkness, in the direction Churt had fled. “Shouldn’t be that hard to find him. Dwarves have stubby legs. He can’t have gone too far.”
Several minutes later Feril was helping Grannaluured stoke the fire. Dhamon stayed nearby, and though the dwarf could see him clearly—and he certainly looked terrifying—gradually she seemed to be calming down.
“D-d-d-didn’t see you come out of the mountain with that scale you were looking for, Feril,” Grannaluured said. She had seated herself by the fire, back propped up against her pack, eyes glued warily on Dhamon. She twitched each time he moved, but she made no attempt to get away. “Too old to run,” she told Feril. “If that dragon’s gonna get me, isn’t anything I can do about it.”
Feril smiled sadly. “We found the scale, but it was cracked, useless. We need one that’s undamaged if we’re to have any chance to make him human.”
“Turning humans into dragons? Turning dragons back into humans? I’ve seen some odd things in my time, but I don’t think that’s something I want to be seeing.”
Feril put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, stroking it gently. “I’m hoping to see it. I’ll not give up on Dhamon. I’m determined to find another scale.”
The nervous Grannaluured tried unsuccessfully to appear at ease. “Might be more scales in those mountains. If there was the one, why wouldn’t there be more? The quakes could have busted them all, I suppose. Yeah, ruined the mine, probably ruined just about everything in this part of the mountains.”
Dhamon had been edging closer until his head was directly over the fire. He could feel the warmth on his barbels. He savored the warmth, happy to feel something other than pain. Grannaluured, eyes wide, watched his every move.
“My elf friend Obelia…” Feril began. She was going to tell the dwarf about the Qualinesti spirit in the flask in her backpack, but a look from Dhamon warned her against it. Perhaps Dhamon thought the dwarf had dealt with enough this day—a sivak, a dragon, the quake, and the loss of two of her companions. She didn’t need to know that a Qualinesti ghost rested a few feet away, swirling his fingerbones around in water taken from Nalis Aren.
“Dhamon, we have little choice,” she said. “We have to try the swamp.”
Gran
naluured spoke before the dragon could. “So interesting the lot of you are. So very, very interesting.” The gray strands that had come loose from her braid looked like cobwebs in the firelight. “I think maybe I’d like to be going along with you, Dawnsprinter. Bet you could use a cook… though I doubt I could fix enough of anything to fill up that dragon. Yeah, I should come along. The sivak’s right. Don’t leave me here alone. I might be helpful in a swamp.”
Dhamon and Feril exchanged looks. “Maybe,” Feril said.
More than an hour passed before Ragh returned, shrugging his shoulders and showing he was empty-handed. “Don’t know where he went. Too hard to sniff him out, all this dirt and stone flying. Lost his tracks. Don’t have wings to hunt from overhead.” He settled close to the fire, ignoring the nervous looks he got from Grannaluured.
Grannaluured was fixing some sort of spiced meat and roots that made the sivak’s mouth water. The skillet simmered over the fire. He waited for her nod, then snatched a piece out of the skillet, blew on it, and stuffed it in his mouth. “By the Dark Queen’s heads, I’m hungry, and this is very good.” Despite herself, Grannaluured beamed at the compliment. The sivak ate several more pieces, noticing she was staring at his dragonmetal-coated talons. “Dhamon, if you want to hunt for that dwarf when the sun comes up, I’ll go with you, but I’m done looking tonight. By the Dark Queen’s heads, I’m tired. This is very, very good.”
Grannaluured nudged Feril, who also took a piece of root mixture and started eating. “Don’t worry, Dawnsprinter. Churt’ll come back. Eventually. Unless some big critter out there got him,” Grannaluured said. “Churt’s too greedy to leave the find, an’ the mountains are his home after all. Probably won’t come back until we’re long gone, though. His hair is probably turning white just thinking about that dragon.” She paused, pushing aside a stray strand of gray hair. “Just where is it you said we’re going to look for a scale?”
