“So why doesn’t everybody use sun magic?” asked Jaseela, stepping to Neeva’s side and peering at the blazing ball in the sky. “There’s plenty of it, and everyone would benefit from magic that doesn’t ruin the soil.”
“Clerical magic is not something one takes, it is a gift bestowed on those who commune with the elements,” lectured Lyanius. The old dwarf waved his liver-spotted hand at the village. “Out of all these people who dwell beneath the sun, only Caelum has been favored with the fire-eyes.”
“So your son can’t do us any good,” Rikus said, biting his lip in frustration.
“You mean more good than he already has,” Neeva corrected, covering for the mul’s inadvertent rudeness.
Caelum shook his head and looked at the ground. “I’m sorry. Of course, if you wish to leave the half-giant with the others …”
The dwarves had offered to take care of Tyr’s wounded, but the mul was not anxious to leave a powerful fighter like Gaanon behind.
“We could use a rest,” Jaseela said, pointing her chin toward the plaza. “The past few days may not have seemed a hardship to you, but it’s been a true test of endurance for those of us who aren’t muls.”
Rikus looked over the rest of his legion. Most of his warriors were gathered around the cistern, wearily filling their waterskins or hiding beneath their cloaks in a vain effort to shield themselves from the sun.
The mul nodded. “You’re right, Jaseela. Pass the word.”
“Good,” said Lyanius. “My people will pack supplies for your legion.” The ancient dwarf motioned for Rikus to follow. “You will come with me.”
“To where?” Rikus asked. “What for?”
Lyanius gave him a sour-faced scowl that made it clear the uhrnomus did not enjoy being questioned. After Rikus had averted his gaze, the old leader summoned a dwarven girl with a round face and twinkling eyes, then gave her a long series of instructions in the guttural language of his village. Rikus took the opportunity to call Styan over. The templar had been keeping his distance ever since the mul had summoned him and his men down from the arch.
“The dwarves are giving us supplies,” Rikus said, laying his heavy arm across the templar’s shoulders. “You and your men will carry them. If any of you opens a sack without my permission, I’ll have all your heads.”
“But—”
“If you don’t like it, return to Tyr,” Rikus snapped.
“You know I can’t,” Styan said, narrowing his ash-colored eyes. “I am to stay with the legion and report.”
“Then follow my commands,” Rikus replied. He fingered the pouch into which he had slipped the templar’s crystal. “And the only reports Tithian receives will be those I send.”
Styan gnashed his teeth, then asked, “Am I dismissed?”
In answer, Rikus removed his arm from the man’s shoulder and looked away.
As the templar left, Lyanius took Rikus by the arm once more. “This way,” he said, pulling the mul toward the far side of the village. “You come too, Caelum.”
As the tall dwarf started after his father, he asked, “Are you going to Kemalok, Urhnomus?”
Lyanius nodded slowly, giving rise to astonished, though approving, murmurs from the throng of young dwarves that seemed to hang about him at all times.
“We must ask Neeva, as well,” Caelum said, his voice as firm as his father’s. “She saved my life, and fought as well against the Urikites as Rikus.”
Lyanius fixed his sharp eyes on his son, scowling at his impudence. When the younger dwarf did not flinch under the harsh stare, the old dwarf sighed and said, “If it makes you happy, I will allow it.”
Beaming, Caelum gestured to Neeva, then fell into step behind Rikus and his father. The old dwarf proceeded at a stately pace to the village wall, just below the great sand dune. There, a pair of dwarves stood guard. They were armed with steel battle-axes and stood to either side of a bronze-gilded door decorated with a bas-relief of a huge, serpent-headed bird. The beast’s wings were outspread, its claws were splayed, and its snakelike head was poised to strike. The door itself stood slightly ajar, and Rikus could see that it opened into a deep tunnel that led beneath the dune.
“Why is this door open?” Lyanius demanded, addressing the two guards.
The young dwarves looked at each other uncomfortably, then one answered, “It was open when we returned to our posts after the battle.”
Caelum frowned in concern. “How could the Urikites—”
The old dwarf raised a hand to cut off his son’s question, then stared into the serpent-bird’s eyes for several moments. Finally, he reported, “The door opened of its own accord.”
How often does it do that?” Rikus asked, concerned.
“Now and then,” Lyanius answered, giving the mul a cryptic smile. “But I am not worried. Two Urikites did creep through after the door opened, but they will quickly regret their mistake.”
“Why’s that?” asked Neeva.
The old dwarf looked away without answering, then said, “Leave your weapons with the guards.”
With that, the old dwarf looked up at the bird sculpture and gave a short, squawking whistle. The door creaked fully open, its hinges screeching so loudly that Rikus suspected the sound could be heard on the far side of Kled.
Somewhat reluctantly, Rikus and Neeva left their blades with the guards and followed Lyanius. The mul did not like being without his weapons, but it was clear the urhnomus would tolerate no arguments.
Inside the tunnel, Lyanius retrieved a pair of torches from the floor. Caelum lit them by simply passing his hand over the tops.
Lyanius eyed Neeva sorely, then said, “Three of us have no need of these.” He was referring to the fact that, like elves, dwarves and muls were gifted with the ability to sense ambient heat when no other light source is present. “But because you’re along at my son’s request, young woman,” he said, flashing her an unexpected smile, “we will use them anyway.”
After handing one of the brands to his son, Lyanius led the way down a cool tunnel. To keep the sand from cascading in and burying the excavation, the passageway was lined with wide strips of animal hide, gray and cracked with age. This lining was supported by wooden beams, the ends of which rested on stone pillars. The narrow corridor was so low that Rikus and Neeva had to crawl to pass through it.
Just when Rikus was about to ask how much farther they had to go, the tunnel opened up into a small chamber. The path led to a small stone walkway that looked as though it had once been a bridge. Beside this causeway lay more than a dozen weapons of various materials. Several of them looked to be quite ancient, judging by the rot of their wooden handles or the yellowed brittleness of their bone blades.
Two of the weapons, however, were quite new. A pair of obsidian short swords lay to one side of the bridge, the white fingers of a man’s lifeless hand still gripping the hilt of each weapon. The remainder of the bodies were not visible, having slowly sunk into the powdery sand that now filled the moat beneath the bridge. Still, Rikus had no doubt that the swordsmen wore the red tunic of Hamanu’s soldiers, for the shape of their weapons was identical to those carried by the rest of the Urikite legion.
A deep, full-bellied laugh escaped Lyanius’s lips and echoed off the still walls of the sandy cavern. “Heed the words of the ancients, or such will be your end,” he said, leading the way across the bridge.
On the other end of the bridge the small group stopped beneath the arched gateway of a magnificent stone wall. Inscribed into the spandrel were several strange runes that Rikus took to be the letters of a written language.
“Beyond this gate, place your trust in the strength of your friendship, not the temper of your blade,” translated Lyanius, a crooked smile on his ancient lips.
The old dwarf led them to a gateway, where, a few feet above Rikus’s head, hung a portcullis of rusty-red iron. It was supported by thick chains that disappeared through a set of openings into the gatehouses that flanked the pathway
. The walls of these buildings were constructed of white marble, so finely cut and carefully fit together that even a sliver of torchlight could not have slipped between them.
“Welcome to Kemalok, lost city of the dwarven kings,” Lyanius said, waving his guests through the gate.
“I’ve never seen so much iron in one place,” Neeva said, running her gaze from the portcullis to the chains. “What king could afford this?”
“What you see here is nothing compared to the wonders of the keep,” bragged Caelum. “Follow me.”
The dwarf stepped beneath the portcullis. When Neeva and Rikus tried to follow, a chest-high figure stepped from around the gatehouse corner and blocked their path. It wore a complete suit of black plate mail, trimmed at every joint in silver and gold. In its hands the figure held a battle-axe with a serrated blade of steel flecked with scintillating lights, and its helm was capped by a jewel-studded crown of gleaming white metal, the like of which Rikus had never before seen.
As magnificent as the figure’s armor was, it was the thing’s eyes that arrested Rikus’s attention. The orbs were all that was visible of a face swaddled in green bandages, and they burned with a glow as yellow as the afternoon sky.
“Don’t move!” commanded Caelum.
Rikus obeyed, as did Neeva. The mul had no idea what the thing was, but he knew he did not wish to anger it.
“Rkard, last of the great dwarven kings,” explained Lyanius, stepping back to them. He brushed past the mummified king as casually as he moved past his own son. “He means you no harm. Show him that you bear no weapons.”
Rikus and Neeva did as Lyanius asked. When they faced forward again, Rkard stepped aside. As soon as the two gladiators passed, the ancient king again blocked the gate.
“Strange,” mumbled Lyanius.
“Maybe there are more Urikites around,” Rikus suggested, peering into the darkness on the other side of the moat.
“Don’t be daft,” the old dwarf snapped, pointing at the two obsidian swords stuck in the moat. The hands previously wrapped around the hilts had vanished completely. “Two Urikites came in, and two have died.”
With that, Lyanius led the rest of the way through the gate. On the other side, a confusing warren of tunnels branched off in a dozen directions, leading down what had once been the grand avenues and hidden alleys of a sizable metropolis. The greatest part of Kemalok still lay buried under mounds of sand, but enough of it showed for Rikus to see that most of the buildings were constructed of granite block. The five-foot doors and narrow, chest-high windows left no doubt that this had, indeed, been a dwarven city.
Caelum guided them down the widest tunnel, while Lyanius explained, “I found Kemalok two hundred years ago.”
“How?” Neeva asked.
“I happened upon a short section of parapet the wind had uncovered,” Lyanius answered, a faintly amused smile on his wrinkled lips. “I knew instantly I had found a dwarven city from the time of the ancients. The merlons were too short for you people, and the stonecraft was far beyond anything the paltry masons of our age can achieve.”
The old dwarf went on to describe the next century and a half of excavations, working alone at first, and eventually coming to be the leader of an entire village focused upon the eventual reestablishment of Kemalok. Rikus paid him only cursory attention. Instead, the mul listened for footfalls behind them and glanced over his shoulder every few steps. The fact that the door guarding this secret city had “opened of its own accord” set his nerves on edge, and he did not place much faith in Lyanius’s body count.
Eventually they came to another bridge leading to a gate. This time, the bridge was made of wooden planks, now half-rotten and patched here and there with the wide, flat ribs of a mekillot. Caelum pushed open an immense set of iron doors, then led them through a short tunnel lined by chest-high arrow loops. On the other side, Lyanius’s dwarves had dug a series of vaults, revealing the outer bailey of a great castle.
As they passed through this area, Rikus peered into the windows of what had been the shops and homes of the castle’s smiths, tanners, fletchers, armorers, and a dozen other craftsmen. Their tools, made mostly from steel and iron, still hung in the racks where they had been neatly stored thousands of years ago. Rikus could not help gaping at the vast treasury of metal.
They passed through another gate and into the inner bailey. In the center of this courtyard, a square keep of white marble rose high overhead, the roof lost in the sand overhead. At each corner of the keep stood a round tower, its arrow loops commanding much of the courtyard below.
“This is the Tower of Buryn, home to dwarven kings for three thousand years.” Lyanius proudly opened the doors.
“Three thousand years?” gasped Neeva. “How do you know?”
The old dwarf frowned at her as if she were a child. “I know,” he answered, motioning her and Rikus inside.
On each side of the entrance foyer sat a pair of stone benches, one sized for the short legs of the dwarves and one for the longer legs of humans. In the corners stood full suits of dwarven plate, the shaft of a double-bladed battle-axe gripped in the armor’s gauntlets. Both the armor and the weapons were made of polished steel, gleaming as brilliantly as the day they had been forged.
Remembering the greeting they had received at the city gates, Rikus cautiously studied the fantastic armor. Fortunately, behind the helms’ visors he saw neither gleaming eyes nor anything but dark emptiness. Nevertheless, the mul did notice that the suits were too small for a dwarf. While they were about the right height, they were far from broad enough for the massive shoulders and bulging limbs typical of the dwarven race.
Noticing the mul’s careful study of the armor, Lyanius said, “Our ancestors were not as robust as we are today.” The old dwarf’s cheeks reddened and he looked away. “They even had some hair.”
Neeva raised an eyebrow, and Rikus bit his lips to keep from showing his own aversion. Muls and dwarves generally prided themselves on their clean skin and scalps. The idea of having their bodies covered by a matted growth of sweaty hair was considered repulsive by most members of both races.
Caelum walked into the next open area, a huge hallway running the perimeter of the keep. The floor was arranged in a pattern of polished black and white squares. At even spaces along the walls, tall white columns supported the vaulted ceiling above. Between each set of arches was a mural painted directly onto the wall.
Neeva stepped over to the nearest and inspected it closely. “You don’t exaggerate, do you Lyanius?” she asked. ‘When you said hair, I didn’t imagine anything like this!”
Rikus joined her. The painting before Neeva portrayed a dwarf dressed in a full suit of golden plate armor, a huge war-club cradled in his arms. From beneath his golden crown cascaded a huge mop of unruly hair that hung well past his shoulders. That was not the worst of it, either. His face was lost beneath a thick beard that started just below his eyes and tumbled in a tangled mass clear down to his belly.
“Come along!” ordered Lyanius. “I didn’t bring you here to gawk at my ancestors.”
He hustled them down the hall, Caelum following close behind. As they passed the other murals, the mul saw that they, too, portrayed grossly bearded dwarves. The painting usually depicted dwarves standing in the somber halls of dimly lit keeps or in the dark chambers of some vast cave.
When he reached the last mural in the line, Rikus stopped. He had no doubt that the picture depicted the guardian of the city, King Rkard. Like the figure that had met them at the city gate, the dwarf in the painting had golden-yellow eyes and wore black plate mail trimmed in silver and gold. His helm was crowned by a jewel-studded crown of strange white metal. In his hands, the picture king even held a battle-axe identical to the one carried by the gate-guardian. The weapon’s serrated blade was flecked by tiny sparkles of light.
As interesting as the king’s picture was, it was the background that fascinated the mul. Behind Rkard, the ground sloped down a gentle hi
ll blanketed by the green stalks and red blossoms of some broad-leafed plant Rikus did not recognize. At the bottom of this slope, a wide ribbon of blue water meandered through a series of lush meadows. In those fields grew food crops of every imaginable color and shape. In the far background of the painting, the river finally disappeared into a forest of billowing trees ranging in color from amber to russet to maroon. Behind this timberland rose a mountain range, its peaks and high slopes covered strangely with white.
“Rkard is the king who led our ancestors into the world,” explained Lyanius.
“What world?” Rikus gasped, his eyes still fixed on the painting.
“This one, of course,” Caelum answered, also studying the painting. “Don’t let the mural mislead you. The artist must have been given to a certain amount of embellishment. Perhaps that green land is his idea of paradise—or maybe the after world.”
“Not so,” said Lyanius, his tone strangely morose. “Dwarven artists painted only what they saw.”
“What do you mean?” asked Neeva, wrinkling her brow at the mural. “Who has ever seen anything thing like this? It is even more magnificent than the halfling forest!”
Lyanius looked away. “Come on,” he grunted. “This is not what I brought you to see.”
The dwarf led the way around the corner and down the corridor until they reached a bronze-gilded door with the bas-relief head of a bearded dwarf. The sculpture’s blue eyes, made of painted glass, followed the movements of Lyanius and his guests as they approached.
Rikus and Neeva glanced at each other, uneasy at the sight of an animate sculpture.
Stopping in front of the door, Lyanius spoke to the head at length, using a strange language of short, clipped syllables. When he finished, the unblinking eyes studied Rikus and Neeva for several moments, looking them up and down. Finally the head’s metal lips began to move, and it replied to Lyanius’s query in the same staccato tongue. The door swung open.
As the door moved, Rikus heard the faintest scuffle in the hallway behind them. “Did anyone else hear that?” he asked.
The Crimson Legion Page 8
