Mask of Dragons (27 page)

As long as he was at it, he might as well wish for a chicken that laid golden eggs and a flagon of beer that never went dry. Both were just as likely. 

“Probably more likely,” muttered Mazael, settling back in to complete his time at watch.

Still, at least it was confirmation that the Prophetess was indeed going to the Veiled Mountain, where she planned to steal away the Mask of Marazadra from the treasure hoard of an ancient dragon. 

Perhaps the dragon would simply eat her.

Somehow Mazael doubted it would be that simple. 

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As they traveled north and moved higher into the mountains, following Basjun’s guidance through the maze of paths and old roads, Sigaldra expected the air to grow colder. It did, at least for the first few days.

Then, to her surprise, it started getting hotter.

The air of Skuldar was cool and dry, but after starting their travels on the third day after Armalast, a clammy, warm mist seemed to settle over the slopes. Sigaldra felt the air grow warmer, until she started to sweat beneath her clothes and tugged off her cloak, slinging it over her arm.

“This weather is wrong,” said Romaria. “It shouldn’t get this hot this high in the mountains.”

“Unless the mountain is bleeding liquid fire,” said Mazael.

“This path, sir,” said Basjun, pointing at a narrow path that climbed a rocky hill. “I believe it will rise above the level of these mists, and then we can see the Veiled Mountain for ourselves, at least before the wind changes.”

“Lead on,” said Mazael. 

They climbed the hill, the boulders looming like silent guards, the mist rippling past them. Sigaldra griped her bow tighter, making sure that her arrows were ready in their quiver. She could not see more than a dozen yards in any direction, and she disliked the feeling. For all she knew an army of valgasts was crouching just out sight, or a soliphage, or the Prophetess herself. If any enemies attacked, she would have only a few seconds to release an arrow before they closed. 

She glanced at Adalar. He kept his greatsword in its sheath, but she saw the wariness in his stance. 

Then, all at once, the hill broke through the mists 

The cold at the summit of the hill was shocking compared to the warmth of the mists, and around them Sigaldra saw the tops of rocky hills jutting from the haze like islands in a lake. 

Before her rose the Veiled Mountain.

It was a jagged mass of dark stone, silent and solemn, with no trace of anything alive upon it. Unlike the other mountains, it had no snow upon its peak or slopes. In fact, its peak had been broken off in a jagged crater. Sigaldra imagined molten stone and ash erupting from that lofty crater, pouring forth to incinerate anyone foolish enough to approach the mountain.

The perfect home, she supposed, for an ancient dragon. 

“The Veiled Mountain,” said Basjun. 

“An ominous-looking place,” said Earnachar. 

“Didn’t mighty Tervingar often venture into ominous places?” said Romaria.

For once, Earnachar did not answer with bluster. “He did. So must we, it seems. If we survive an encounter with a dragon, then the loresingers must add us to their tales.”

“Didn’t Ragnachar drive off a dragon?” said Sigaldra, unable to resist baiting him.

“He did,” said Earnachar again. The sight of the mountain had quieted some of his usual bombast. “That is why we followed him, of course. He never lost. Until the Grim Marches.” 

“Basjun,” said Mazael. “Which way?”

“Here,” said Basjun, Crouch trotting to his side. The dog seemed annoyed to return to the warm, clinging mist. If Sigaldra had a coat of fur, she supposed, she would feel the same way. For an instant she considered asking Romaria what having fur felt like, and then dismissed the entire thought as inappropriate. “This way.” Another path descended the north slope of the hill, vanishing into the mists. “That will take us to the Dragon’s Gate. From there it is a short distance to the caverns below the Veiled Mountain. I suggest we remain on our guard. I do not know if the salamanders will issue forth or not.”

“How do you fight a salamander?” said Adalar.

“Kill it before it burns you alive, sir,” said Basjun.

“Sound counsel,” said Mazael. 

They picked their way back down the slope, sinking into the mist. Crouch let out a long whine as they entered the mist, and then fell silent. The path descended to a valley, and as it did, the mist thinned a little as the wind picked up. The Dragon’s Gate looked little different than the other mountain valleys Sigaldra had seen in Skuldar, rocky and dotted with pine trees. The Veiled Mountain loomed overhead like the wall of a black fortress.

An unpleasant smell came to her nostrils.

“What is that smell?” said Earnachar. “None of us have bathed for some time, but…”

“It’s not us,” said Romaria. Sigaldra crinkled her nose. It smelled rather like burned hair, but stronger and somehow greasier. “I’ve been smelling it for some time. It must be the salamanders.”

“I understand salamanders have no odor, save that of sulfur,” said Basjun. “The flames burn everything else away.” 

They approached a small valley nestled at the base of the mountain, the strange burned smell growing stronger. As they did, Sigaldra spotted a dozen motionless black shapes scattered in the valley, twisted and charred. At the far end of the little valley yawned a cavern, opening like a mouth in the side of the mountain. For a moment Sigaldra had the uneasy sense that she was walking into the gaping mouth of a beast. The last time she had been in a cave had not been pleasant. 

“Those are soliphages,” said Adalar. “They used to be, anyway.” 

The black forms were indeed soliphages, and the vile odor radiated from their burned husks. The fire that had killed them must have been intense indeed, hot enough even to melt iron. 

“The dragon?” said Sigaldra.

“The salamanders, most likely,” said Romaria, pointing at the ground. A confusion of tracks marked the few patches of loose soil, but Sigaldra saw the distinctive tracks of the soliphages among them. She also saw the prints of something that looked like a lizard, albeit a lizard the size of the horse.

“Do you see the Prophetess among them?” said Mazael. “Or Rigoric?” 

Fear surged through Sigaldra. Perhaps the Prophetess’s confidence had led her to a fiery death…and perhaps she had taken Liane with her. Sigaldra hurried from charred husk to charred husk, looking for any sign of her sister. 

“No,” said Romaria. “No, they’re all soliphages. It looks as if a…half-dozen salamanders attacked the Prophetess, I think. She fought them off, but at a sharp price. She must have killed…ah. Here’s one.” 

Romaria strode around a low boulder, pointing. 

A dead salamander lay behind the boulder, smoke rising from where its blood spilled upon the rocky ground. The thing was indeed about the size of a horse, though less bulky and much lower, with a long, snake-like tail and thick limbs that ended in webbed feet. Black scales covered its long body, marked here and there with brilliant golden splotches. A massive cut had severed the salamander’s head from its body, and its yellow eyes stared at nothing. Sigaldra had seen Rigoric fight often enough to recognize the wounds from the Champion’s greatsword. 

“Mazael,” said Romaria. “I think this happened about two hours ago. Maybe less.” 

“We are right behind the Prophetess, then,” said Timothy. 

“Then let’s catch her,” said Mazael, beckoning towards the cavern mouth. 

Chapter 14: Fire Caverns

The cavern beyond the entrance was not as dark as Mazael had expected.

The entrance tunnel had been gloomy enough. Beyond the cavern’s mouth the floor had been carpeted in ancient bones, some of them charred, some of them still clad in rusting bits of old armor. Pieces of the armor, Mazael noted, had melted. Mushrooms grew in clumps along the walls, and the air carried the heavy smell of rotting eggs.

Mazael was pretty sure that the odor wasn’t really rotten eggs.

Ahead, the cavern widened, and he saw a sullen crimson glow. He wondered if the Prophetess had set a fire ahead, or if the glow came from the fires of the salamanders or perhaps the dragon herself. Then he remembered the Red Valley at night, remembered looking down from the walls of Arylkrad at the pools of molten stone. 

Lava made that kind of light.

“Timothy,” said Mazael. “Dismiss your light. I don’t think we’ll need it, and the Prophetess might see it.”

For all he knew, the Prophetess was directly ahead. 

Timothy dismissed his ball of glowing light, plunging the cavern into gloom. 

“Now how are we supposed to see?” said Earnachar.

“Give your eyes a minute to adjust,” said Mazael.

They waited, and Mazael’s eyes adjusted to the red-lit gloom. The tunnel did not go on much farther, and ahead the red light grew brighter. He didn’t seen anything moving, though given the soliphages’ gift for stealth, it was possible that any number of them lurked ahead.

On the other hand, maybe the salamanders had burned all the Prophetess’s soliphages to death. Maybe the ancient power that dwelled within this mountain was more than a match for the Prophetess.

Maybe it was more than a match for Mazael.

Time to find out.

“Stay watchful,” said Mazael, and he followed the sloping floor of the tunnel as it descended. The others followed him in tense silence, weapons ready. Yet nothing moved in the gloom, and the sulfurous smell grew stronger. 

The tunnel ended and opened into an enormous cavern, easily as large as the naves of the great churches in the city of Barellion. Thousands of stalactites hung from the shadowy ceiling like stone fangs, and a broad stone path wound its way through the cavern.

Pools of bubbling lava filled the rest of the floor. 

The lava glowed a sullen red, the air above its surface rippling with heat. The glow filled the cavern, drawing shadows in stark relief across the rough rock walls. It was hellishly hot, and Mazael felt the sweat trickle down his forehead and neck. He wondered if it would be too hot to cross the cavern, but he thought if they kept to the center of the stone path, they would be able to cross unscathed. 

“Maybe,” said Earnachar, “there is no dragon. Maybe anyone who enters this place simply cooks alive, or chokes on the bad air.”

“Maybe,” said Mazael. 

He took a step forward, and then stopped.

Something was moving on the stone path.

It was a soliphage, pulling itself along with its spider legs. Mazael raised Talon, and he heard the creak as Romaria and Sigaldra drew their bows. Yet the soliphage did nothing threatening. The creature heaved itself forward another step and went motionless, glaring at them with its white-glowing eyes. As it did, Mazael saw that the light in its eyes was flickering, that the creature had been horribly burned along the right side of its body, so badly burned that its right forearm was missing. 

For a moment they stared at each other. 

“Run into a salamander, did we?” said Mazael. 

The soliphage hissed at him. “It is of no concern, human prey.” 

“Isn’t it?” said Mazael. “Those burns look pretty severe, I think.”

“The messenger of the goddess shall prevail,” said the soliphage. 

“The Prophetess?” said Mazael. “Let me guess. You were badly injured, and the Prophetess left you behind. There’s a leader worthy of loyalty.”

“My injuries shall regenerate,” said the soliphage. “Yet my fate is of no concern. The messenger shall prepare the way for the goddess, and the goddess shall return to the world once more. And then you mortal worms shall perish.”

“Maybe,” said Mazael, “but you will not live to see it.”

He took a step forward, lifting Talon, and then a voice thundered through the cavern. 

It was a female voice, but it was not a woman’s voice, at least not the voice of a human woman. It was far too alien for that. Power and confidence filled the voice, along with sort of a vicious amusement. 

“Perhaps none of you shall live to see it.” 

Mazael stiffened, and the soliphage looked around with alarm. He knew in his bones that it was the voice of the dragon. He looked up, half expecting to see the dragon clinging to the ceiling of the vast cavern like a bat, but saw no sign of the creature.

“A spell,” murmured Timothy, his hands gesturing. “She’s using a spell to speak with us.”

“Of course the dragon can use magic,” muttered Earnachar. “As if fangs and claws and wings and breath of fire were not enough.” 

“So the apes and the spiders continue their war upon my doorstep,” thundered the female voice. “For centuries I have watched you war upon each other, and for centuries you have dared to steal from my home. None of you have survived. Behold! For I am Azurvaltoria, and I am as old as the sky and as strong as the mountains! Steal from me, worms, and perish!”

“The goddess,” rasped the soliphage, “shall overcome you, lizard, and…”

Evidently Azurvaltoria could hear them, and she took umbrage at that remark. The lava pool rippled, and a spell-wrought hand formed of molten stone reached up and coiled around the soliphage. The creature had one moment to cream, and then the hideous stench of burning soliphage carapace flooded the cavern as the creature sank into the pool of molten stone. 

“Gods,” said Adalar. 

“The goddess,” thundered Azurvaltoria, “was not able to save you, was she?”

“Are we next?” said Mazael.

The dragon’s voice responded. “Do you choose to insult me as well, mortal?”

“Certainly not,” said Mazael. “We’ve come to help you.”

“Help me?” said Azurvaltoria. “Amuse me, human. How can you help me?”

“We are not here to steal from you,” said Mazael. “Our foe, a woman called the Prophetess, kidnapped the sister of one of my vassals. The Prophetess came here to steal the Mask of Marazadra from your hoard. I have no wish to steal from you, and am not foolish enough to try. Simply do not hinder me as I kill the Prophetess, and I shall leave without stealing from you.”

“An amusing proposition,” said Azurvaltoria, “and I am not often amused. Very well, human. I shall watch as you pursue the priestess of Marazadra, and will not hinder you. Should you attempt to steal from me, of course, the consequences shall indeed be dire.”