Son of the Dragon (The Netherworld Gate Book 3)

by Sam Ferguson

  There is a map to Basei’s temple as well. It is an old map, drawn from memory and not from visions. I was there once. I tried to plead with Basei for balance a long time before your father was ever born. That is how long I have been trying to thwart the End War. Needless to say, the demigod of battle did not agree with me. I barely escaped with my life. That is why your father and I made our pact with Khefir. You, Talon, must succeed where I have failed. I tried diplomacy and reason, but you must use the sword to end the tyranny and death Basei has caused.

  Ironic, that your father would marry a human who was devoted to Basei. Perhaps that is what ties your destiny together with Basei, or perhaps it is a cruel joke of fate that I had to watch as my son abandoned everything I had taught him for love. Still, he came around to my way in the end, once I had the visions of you and Basei.

  Do not let me down. All hope rests upon you.

  Always,

  Jahre, Sage of the Elven Isles and, perhaps most importantly, your grandfather.

  Talon flipped through the pages and found the maps described in the letter. One of the maps depicted the very hill he now stood upon, and showed him the direction back to town. He sighed and slipped the book into a pocket. He set his jaw and turned toward the town. It was time to get back to his mission.

  *****

  Lysander sat at his favorite table in the Pearled Eye inn, sipping from his pewter mug of mead, eyes focused not on the plate of fish and rice in front of him, but the open book off to the side. It was his newest acquisition, a compilation of tales he purchased from a scholar of the Order of Anorit only a few days before as the scholar was passing through town on his way to Duerbet.

  He enjoyed most of the stories, though a few were grim and slightly depressing for a man like Lysander to read. He didn’t enjoy the more dismal tales of betrayal and murder. He preferred light hearted fables, and stories of great champions.

  He leaned over to turn the page, reading about a particularly funny sprite who lived in Flejjim on the Island nation of Flourrs, when a shadow stretched across his table. Lysander looked up and saw a tall stranger before him. He wore green, shimmering robes made of something that looked like silk, but appeared to be thicker and stronger. He wore a gray tunic and black trousers, and carried a spear in his left hand. He had narrow, light blue eyes set in a rather gaunt face with sharp, angular features.

  “Terribly sorry,” the stranger said in a nasally voice, “but I was wondering if I might join you for a bit?”

  Lysander regarded the man curiously. There was something odd about him, Lysander could sense it. Still, he saw no harm in allowing the stranger to sit with him. If the man was looking for trouble, Lysander’s sword was near at hand and Lysander was a very fine warrior more than capable of defending himself.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” Lysander said as he pointed to the chair opposite him. “What brings you out here?”

  “You do,” the stranger said as he leaned his spear against the table and fanned out his cloak so he could sit comfortably.

  Lysander narrowed his eyes on the man. “What business do you have with me?”

  The stranger smiled and pulled back his hood to reveal a head of black hair. “I believe your father once told you I would pay you a visit,” he said cryptically.

  “My father has been dead for many years,” Lysander said as he closed his book. “What is this about?”

  The stranger tapped a long finger on the table. “I wasn’t talking about him,” the stranger explained. “I am talking about your real father.”

  Lysander let his left hand go down to the hilt of his sword. Something was very wrong. No one in this town knew who he was, and he had worked very hard to keep it that way as long as he had lived here.

  “I don’t intend to let your secret out, you can relax,” the stranger said. “I am here for another purpose.”

  Lysander studied the man, but he didn’t relax the grip on his sword. “Speak plainly, or I shall cut you down. Did my brother send you?”

  The stranger let out a single puff of air in a stifled laugh and shook his head. “No. Your brother and I have no connections whatsoever.”

  “Then what do you know of my father?” Lysander asked in a deadly whisper.

  “Plenty,” the stranger replied. “I have something I wanted to ask you. It’s very important.” The stranger locked eyes with Lysander then and Lysander knew that the stranger was using magic to probe his mind for information.

  Lysander, using powers of his own, shut the stranger out of his mind. “I think you need to leave,” he said.

  The stranger nodded and rose from the table. “I have what I need from you,” he said.

  Lysander stood from his chair, knocking it backward onto the floor as he rose, but the stranger disappeared. He was nowhere to be seen. Other patrons in the inn looked at Lysander and then glanced down to his sword. Only then did he realize they were staring at him because his sword was half-drawn from its scabbard.

  Lysander grumbled to himself as he dropped a few coins on the table and scooped up his book. It was time for him to move again

  CHAPTER 6

  Talon arrived at the castle just as the sun was beginning to set. The stone structure was not nearly as large as the drow castle Talon had retrieved the Key from only days before, yet the two-storied fortress was well built, and seemed to have been erected with little concern for expense, as intricate stone work, and several towers stood as testament to the abilities of the Selemet stone masons. Talon also noted the local Tantine guards manning the main entrance, as a throng of several hundred elves had gathered there. An old priestess stood upon a wooden platform, addressing the crowd. Talon drew his hood as far over his face as possible, making sure to blend in with the crowd.

  That was when someone bumped into him. Talon turned, but the elf apologized without even turning to look at him. Talon watched as the elf, obviously a person of wealth and position given the robes he wore, and the manner in which he expectantly moved other spectators to the side, continued through the crowd, pushing and weaving his way through the bodies. As he came to the front of the crowd, the elf called out to the priestess in a loud voice that commanded respect.

  “As a former member of the Council of Selemet, I must voice my concern,” the elf said.

  The priestess stopped and glared down at the intruder. “You presume too much, Master Fillion,” she said. “As you have just admitted, you are a former councilor, and therefore you have no right to speak here.”

  “My daughter’s blood, spilled for a myth, has purchased my right to speak here tonight.” Fillion said with a grand sweep of his arm. He paused for a minute as the crowd murmured, clearly recognizing who he was. “Beyond that, my service as an honorable councilor should persuade even you to hear my words.”

  Talon smiled as the tension rose within the crowd. He could care less about the argument’s merits, but he did relish that it gave him the perfect opportunity to slip through the crowd toward the building, just as Jahre’s letter had said it would.

  “Priestess, you stand here tonight ready to recruit new members into the Kruks. Yet, the Kruks are destroyed. Jahre is dead. Was it not he who had the power to help you select recruits?”

  “I can select my own agents without his help,” the priestess said tersely.

  “Have you told those gathered here that the Kruks were destroyed by one man? Do they know that it wasn’t even an elf that nearly conquered your entire order?”

  At this, a murmur rose up in the crowd. Talon used the sudden commotion to slip closer to the castle. If he could make the alley on the right side of the building, he could steal his way inside.

  “That fact is irrelevant. What does matter is that we rebuild the order.”

  “Why?” Fillion replied as he threw his arms out wide and turned to the crowd. “All of the ancient relics are now inside this building. Each of the three items are here, under one roof. Why not lock them away and simply guard them yours
elf? There is no need for further bloodshed. The Sierri’Tai are dead. No one could survive banishment to the Netherworld. It is ludicrous to continue this archaic system. The Svetli’Tai Kruks must be disbanded.”

  Now came Talon’s moment. The crowd erupted into shouts and heated arguments.

  “So much for the wisdom and sense of the elves,” Talon whispered aloud to himself. He slid out from the throng and glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one had seen him.

  They hadn’t.

  The priestess was locked in a debate with ex-councilor Fillion. The crowd was nearly tearing itself apart. None of them even noticed the assassin as he rounded the corner and entered the alley. He found the side door just as the map had depicted. His hands went to the strange lock on the knob.

  The cylindrical hunk of metal had seven adjustable rings, with numbers and runes depicted on small, square protrusions. It was a kind of combination lock. During his walk to the city, Talon had memorized the code written in Jahre’s book. He turned the first ring so that the number seven was in the center. He worked his fingers quickly, aligning the remaining six rings. A pleasant click came from the lock and the door was unlocked. Talon entered the building and closed the door gently behind himself.

  He took in a breath and looked to the end of the small room he was in, where an open arch led into the hallway. He went to it and peered around to the right. The stairs were there, exactly as the map had shown. Talon quickly moved up, keeping his feet soft as they fell upon the wooden floor. He counted two doors on the right and then went into the third.

  An elf in a red robe turned and looked at him curiously.

  “The registration for recruits is…” the elf didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before Talon slashed his throat with a dagger. The elf fell, but Talon caught the body and gently laid it upon the floor so as not to cause a loud noise. Then he moved to the back of the chamber and grabbed a small box of wood. He opened it and there was the black fang he had taken from the gorlung.

  Talon pulled the red book out, holding the fang in his right hand and the book in his left. He thumbed through the pages until he came to the spell he was to use.

  “Kummitus suuresta yli, lavistavat verhon ja anna tasossa elava. Seisoa minun ja tukea minua aikaan.”

  As he finished the strange incantation, a black mist rose from the fang and out leapt a great beast. The paws hit the floor with incredible delicacy and grace, silent as a feather landing upon the wood. A pair of great, green eyes looked up at Talon, and for an instant the assassin felt his heart stop. This had not been an easy beast to kill in life. He could only imagine how much harder it would be to defeat its phantom should it decide to turn on him.

  The muscular frame solidified before the man and the great cat’s tail switched side to side, as if irritated that it had been summoned from its rest. It snarled, revealing its teeth. Then, it bowed its head.

  Master. A feral voice entered Talon’s mind. What would you have me do?

  “Wait here,” Talon said. “Wait in this room until you can stay upon this plane no more, or until I send you back to your realm. Do not kill anyone unless you are discovered.”

  The gorlung growled low and nodded its head. Stepping around the room to hide in the shadows, the cat prepared for a long wait. Talon set the wooden box back where he had found it, and then slipped the fang into his pocket. He exited the room, locking the door as best he could before continuing down the hall.

  He counted three more doors on the left and then moved to a portion of the wall between the last two doors in the hallway. Quickly he set his hands to the wall, sliding them up and to the side. It didn’t take long for him to find the hidden switch spoken of in Jahre’s book. The hidden door creaked open and revealed a metal, spiral staircase that descended sharply. Talon followed it down what must have been three or possibly four levels before he came to the end of the stairs. There was another door at the base of the stairs, this one made of granite.

  Talon took in a breath. This would be the first true test of Jahre’s words and visions.

  The lock on this door could not be opened by key or combination. It was a blood cypher. There was no knob anywhere on the door’s surface. There was no hole. There was only a single protrusion, about as long as a person’s little finger that stuck out from the center of the door. Atop the end of this protrusion was a thorn, a metallic spike. Talon reached forward with his left hand and let his left index finger hover over the spike.

  Had he been a man who put any stock in the gods, he might have uttered a prayer to one of them as he pressed the spike into the pad of his finger. His blood was pulled into a central groove in the protrusion, running into the door itself. A soft crimson glow kindled and Talon pulled his hand back. The protrusion retracted into the door and the glow brightened until the door opened and swung away.

  His blood had been accepted. It was written in the red book that the door would accept Jahre’s blood, or the blood of another triad member. This was proof beyond Jahre’s visions that the elf sage was in fact Talon’s grandfather. Talon sighed with relief as he stepped through the doorway into the shrine, but he also grimaced at the fact that he now had to accept the sage as his progenitor. There was still a large portion of the assassin’s heart that held contempt for Jahre.

  Rather than focus on the existential questions of forgiveness and heritage, Talon decided instead to concentrate on the task at hand. Get the items, and escape before someone else could find him.

  Talon moved down a corridor that was decorated down its length with carvings and glowing runes on either wall. Small blue lights sparkled in the ceiling above. Had Talon been a man of aesthetic taste, or perhaps simply a man with time on his hands, he might have admired the beauty of the work. As it was, he only had interest in finding the portion of the carved wall that would show him a cave on a mountain guarded by Kruk warriors.

  When he found the part of the wall which showed the depiction of the gate’s hiding place, he splayed his hand out on the cold stone. After a moment the stone melted away, leaving a faint blue outline of the carving hanging in the air in front of him. He moved quickly into the large room beyond that held three large, high-backed chairs with ornate carvings and inlay, presumably for the triad members to use during council, and a dozen or so smaller, yet equally ornate chairs interspersed regularly between each of the three larger ones around the edges of the round room. Ignoring these, he went to a table made entirely of obsidian which stood in the center of the room under a skylight high above, which currently provided the only light in the large room. Atop it sat the three relics Talon needed. The Tomni’Tai Scroll held the incantation to open the Netherworld Gate. The King’s Ring would unlock the first physical barrier to the gate, and the Key would unlock the second physical barrier. It had been a delightful, exciting hunt to acquire the relics the first time around. It was almost disappointing to gather them so easily this time.

  That is when Talon reflected on the battle to come.

  There was no elf that could give him a better battle than he would soon have with Basei.

  A smile stretched his lips and he took the items quickly, stuffing them almost carelessly into the leather satchel that was hidden under the flap of his cloak. He turned and left the council chamber quickly.

  The magical door rematerialized behind him, and he hurried to the granite door through which he had entered the shrine. It too closed behind him magically, resealing itself and sending the thorned protrusion out once more.

  Talon ascended the stairs and then slipped through the hallway on the second floor. After ensuring no one was near, he snuck back down the passageway and out the side door into the alley.

  He bumped into someone, hard.

  The elf he had collided with turned and looked at him with an arched brow. It was ex-councilor Fillion.

  Talon thought to reach for his dagger, but then Fillion smiled at him and glanced down at his waist, as if he could see the contents of the satchel
even under the cloak.

  “I would be careful with those,” Fillion said in a hushed tone. He tilted his head, indicating out to the front of the building. “There are many elves out there who would slay you for having them.”

  Talon’s hand stopped before it retrieved the dagger. “But you won’t?”

  Fillion shrugged. “Open the gate for all I care. Show these idiots that their precious order is nothing more than a mechanism of popular control. It isn’t as though the Sierri’Tai still live, anyway. The worst that will happen is you will open the gate and let in a monster or two, but that won’t be anything we elves can’t handle.” Fillion smiled with his thin lips and then leaned in more closely still. “I have the utmost interest in the preservation of my people from the reaching hand of the Kruk order. If the priestess and her remaining rag tag group of followers should one day be gone from this castle, I know several on the council and among the older houses who would be happy not to go looking for them.” He held Talon’s gaze significantly for a moment, and then nodded satisfactorily. “Perhaps then we can put all of this nonsense behind us.” The ex-councilor then turned and continued walking down the alley.

  Talon watched him for a moment, and then he slipped into the shadows, disappearing from the city before anyone else caught the slightest hint of what he had done.

  CHAPTER 7

  Talon traveled for days through the forest. The trees and underbrush were thick, slowing him down considerably, but they provided shelter and protection. He knew he would be far better off traversing the dense forest than attempting the road.

  In the late afternoon on the third day he came to the ruined rubble that had once been Elroa’s tower. It was little more than a heap of stone and brick now. One wall remained partially intact, jutting upward fifteen feet or so into the air. The jagged bricks lent the ruin an eerie edge. Talon thought to inspect the area, in part to relive the battle he had had there with two gnomes that nearly bested him. Granted, they had magic on their side, but all the same the thought of two diminutive figures giving him a challenge irked him.