Dargonesti lh-3

by Paul Thompson

  “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 stretched 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.”

  “How did you get here, Gundabyr?” Harmanutis asked. “How long have you been a prisoner?”

  “Nobody’s a prisoner here. We’re slaves.” The dwarf shrugged in reply to their stunned expressions. “I was forgemaster for the Ironmongers Guild in Thorbardin. We hired a ship, Sea Queen, in Tarsis to carry a load of copper and iron ingots to Balifor. Me and my brother Garnath got stuck with the chore of tagging along with the ship to sell the ingots. Garnath said the ship’s name would bring us luck, and it did-all bad. Sea Queen ran into fog off the Silvanesti coast, and when it cleared, we were a hundred leagues off course.”

  Vanthanoris smiled sardonically. “I know that fog,” he said, then went on to describe Evenstar’s encounter with the mysterious wall of cloud.

  “Sounds familiar,” Gundabyr agreed. “Well, next thing we knew, Sea Queen was aground on the biggest sandbar Reorx ever created. Me and Garnath took a work party ashore to try to dig a trench under the ship to refloat it, but the whole filthy sandbar sank under us.” A mighty frown creased his face. “Me and Garnath went down like anvils.”

  “The kraken.” Harmanutis felt the heat of anger wash over him, despite the coolness of the cave. “It’s no coincidence then. These Quoowahb use the monster to sink ships!”

  “Yep, they do.” Gundabyr finished his strip of cod. “Dolphins carried me and Garnath and a handful of other survivors down here. We’ve been in this hole for-” He looked up at the stone wall, on whose surface were drawn a number of white chalk lines. “-Um, forty-eight days.”

  Harmanutis related the story of their own arrival in Urione, including the fact that Princess Vixa and Colonel Armantaro were getting “special treatment” in the city, at least as far as they knew. Gundabyr rubbed his hairy cheek when he heard that.

  “Hmm. Wonder what they want with your lady and the colonel?”

  “Ransom?” Vanthanoris suggested.

  Harmanutis shook his head. “Not unless Her Highness reveals her true status. I’ll wager this Coryphene is questioning them about Qualinost, since we seem to be the first land elves they’ve captured.”

  Vanthanoris paced between the piles of wreckage. He turned suddenly to the seated dwarf. “Slaves? We’re to be slaves, you say?” Gundabyr belched and nodded. “What sort of work are we supposed to do?”

  “They’re building a wall,” explained the dwarf. “A very high wall across the Mortas Trench, from this mountain to the next.”

  “Why?” asked Harmanutis, curious.

  “To keep the chilkit out.”

  Vanthanoris planted his fists on his hips. “And what, by Astra, are chilkit?”

  “More like ‘who’ than ‘what.’ The chilkit are the mortal enemies of the Quoowahb. Now and then they come down the valley and attack the blueskins.”

  Harmanutis’s blue eyes gleamed. “So the sea elves have enemies, do they? This may be our opening. Could we treat with these chilkit, Gundabyr? Would they help us get away from the blueskins?”

  “Nope. The chilkit aren’t people at all. They’re monsters. Big, ugly crab-things. They eat any Quoowahb that they capture. We might be a different flavor, but they’d surely eat us too.”

  “Nonetheless,” said the corporal, hanging on to hope, “our best chance may be to make our escape when the blueskins are distracted by their enemies. If we-”

  The cave filled with the sound of churning water. “Work parties returning,” Gundabyr said quickly. “I hafta hide from the guards!” In a flash he was back in the barrel.

  “Wait! Gundabyr?”

  “Go away! Don’t let on I’m in here!”

  Puzzled, the two Qualinesti left the dwarf and walked toward the pool. A troop of wet, semi-naked prisoners was rising from the water. Armed sea elves made a d
ouble line through which the captives passed. The last pair of Dargonesti held woven bags. As the prisoners went by, they deposited their used airshells in the bags.

  The first slaves, emaciated humans with long beards, passed the Qualinesti without a second glance. There was more recognition from some dwarven captives-eye contact and slight nods. Then, to the elves’ astonishment, Gundabyr came marching out of the cavern pool at the rear of the line.

  “Eh?” Vanthanoris said, looking back toward the flour barrel. “What’s this?”

  Harmanutis jabbed him with an elbow. “His brother, remember? Must be his twin brother.”

  In a flash the Qualinesti warriors understood the dwarves’ trick. Because they were twins, one of the brothers could hide from the Dargonesti guards, while the other went out to work. By alternating days off, the dwarves spared themselves half the work, along with half the jeopardy.

  They followed Gundabyr’s twin, Garnath, as he trudged to the rear of the cave and flopped heavily onto the hard stone floor. Water trickled off him, pooling in the low places in the rock. He became aware that someone was standing over him and opened his eyes.

  “Whaddya want?” Garnath rumbled.

  After performing introductions, Harmanutis dropped hints of their meeting with Gundabyr.

  “I’m Gundabyr,” said the sodden dwarf. “My brother, Garnath, succumbed to an ague weeks ago.”

  “Of course. My condolences,” Harmanutis murmured.

  “He was a fine dwarf,” said Garnath mournfully.

  “And a good forgemaster,” put in a voice from inside the flour barrel.

  “Salt of the earth,” Garnath added.

  “You can come out now,” Harmanutis told the flour barrel.

  Gundabyr worked his head and shoulders out of the barrel. Garnath sat up, and the dwarf twins shook hands.