The White Dragon (17 page)

“Oh my,” Diamedes said, walking around with his neck craned back so he could see overhead. Indeed, all three men were straining to see what lay above them.

“What is that?” Argos pointed to a side wall of the same chamber. There was another pathway, wide, but not as wide as the one they took, and it led underneath an immense carving of something vaguely human-like. It took them a full minute to cross the main chamber and reach the exiting road that led underneath the legs of what turned out to be the largest carved statue that any of them had ever seen.

“That appears to be a statue,” Eric answered, holding his sword as high as his arm would allow.

Argos warded himself again, and Eric thought the man would tire of the exercise. Only the superstitious and religiously minded would spend the time to do that. Looking overhead, he saw the figure had an axe in one hand and a rod in the other. “
Who
is that?” Eric asked.

“A very good question,” Diamedes answered.

Both fighters turned to look at the historian. If anyone had any answers, it would be him. “What say you, Diamedes?” Eric asked.

Diamedes scratched his head and then turned and looked at the opposite wall that was almost not visible a good two or three hundred feet away. “What was it that the Arnen had once told me?”

Both fighters shrugged. Argos asked, “You spoke to one of those druids about this?”

Diamedes came around from his deep thoughts and looked at the raider. “No, of course not, not about this specifically, but instead about the ancients.”

“There were more than one ancient?” Eric asked, confused.

The small historian nodded. “I believe there were two. One was more elusive than the other.”

“Which one are we looking at?” Eric asked.

“Hmm,” Diamedes thought out loud. “I think this is the less elusive of the ancients.”

“They must have been giants,” Argos said, stepping back to take in the measure of the statue that towered over them.

“Everything seems to indicate that, at least when you look at their city.” Diamedes also stood a few steps back, looking at the same huge statue that was half carved from the very stone of the mountain. Half of it protruded into the chamber, and the back half was buried in the wall, not visible.

“What do you mean by seemed?” Eric asked, moving his sword from side to side, allowing the light to dance off the walls.

Diamedes stroked his chin for a moment. “The rooms on the side, and indeed the entryway we took to arrive here, seemed smaller than comfortable for a human. I have my doubts that these ancients were larger than us.”

“Can you say that?” Argos asked as if the historian would anger the ancients or awaken one of their wrathful gods.

Diamedes shrugged. “Let’s find out. I remembered what the eldest of the Arnen once told me.”

“And?” Eric asked, hating to find out how long this delay would cost them.

“Come.” Diamedes started to walk across the chamber to the opposite wall. “He told me that appearances can be deceiving.”

“That’s it?” Argos asked, jogging to catch up to the pair who had already crossed halfway.

“Pretty much,” Diamedes said, looking over his shoulder. “Though he did say when dealing with the ancients, his order had learned never to expect the obvious.”

“So how does that affect us?” Eric asked, holding his sword out until they reached the far wall of the chamber. There was no opposing statue or anything else notable about this side of the chamber. It seemed to be a dead end, as if the chamber was a gathering place to either go east, the way they had arrived, west, to continue their path, or south, to enter deeper into the mountains. North was not an option.

Diamedes touched the wall and repeated what he had done a half dozen times before, feeling the stone and assessing its structure tactically. Finally, he turned to Eric. “Try your key.”

Eric pulled the simple iron key with the ruby embedded into its handle and looked for a keyhole. “I don’t see anything . . .”

“Over here.” The small historian shuffled to a side antechamber and looked around. Finally seeing something familiar, he pointed to a small slot in the corner facing the wall.

Eric walked over and tried to insert the key. It did the same thing at the entrance, getting pulled in, and they barely heard the sound of something like stone moving on stone, but nothing happened inside the side room.

“I don’t get it,” Argos said.

“The ancient king would not open his own door,” Diamedes explained, a smile crossing his face as he left the room and returned to the main chamber. This time the smooth wall was broken by a small door that led them into another small chamber with a staircase going up and another one on the back wall going down.

“You heard what Zokar said,” Argos protested. “We need to stay on the main path.”

“I’m forced to agree,” Eric said. “We need to return to Moartown and deal with—”

Diamedes interrupted him. “Allow an old man a single hour, please?”

Eric thought better of it, but the historian had more than assisted him without demand or expectation of compensation. Perhaps they could spare a single hour. “All right, lead on.”

Argos rolled his eyes in the darkness, and Diamedes seemed to not notice. “A king would not go down.” The man started to climb the spiral stone stairs, disappearing around the curving wall.

“Better catch up with that light of yours,” Argos said, and Eric took the steps two at a time till he caught up to the historian. “We could climb for more than an hour,” Argos complained.

“I don’t think so,” Diamedes said, continuing to walk. “I don’t expect the leader of the ancients to walk that far.”

“Yeah, and how are you so certain about these ancients?” Argos asked from below.

“I’m not,” Diamedes answered. “I’m taking an educated guess.”

They climbed the stairs in silence and traveled a good bit further than anyone had anticipated. “Maybe the ancients like to climb stairs?” Eric had said at one point.

“It’s getting hard to breathe,” Argos said, and the others felt the same feeling as if the air was not helping much. They did not know if they were simply winded or if they were climbing higher where there was less oxygen. They did not understand the concept of rarified air, but they knew that it was hard to breathe on top of mountains, and they could only imagine the same here.

Finally they reached the top of the stairs and entered into a strange domed chamber that had huge rock slabs around columns all around its center where a gem-encrusted throne-like chair stood. The three men fanned out, looking at the intricately carved columns and adjoining pedestals. Clearly they were in a special place—at least, according to the ancient civilization that built this place.

Eric walked over to a pedestal in the center of the room at the side of the throne chair. The top looked familiar, and he pressed his key into the slot there.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were—”

Argos never got to complete his sentence. The huge rock slabs started to grind down, lowered by some sort of mechanical force, and they were hit by a blast of icy cold air. Snowflakes swirled around them, entering from the outside. Sunlight from a rising sun low on the eastern horizon overwhelmed their sense of sight as they instinctively raised their hands to block the blinding light. Had they not been underground for so long, they would have thought the fainter light of the rising sun to be more than comfortable.

The wind howled around them, and it took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust. Finally, after blinking away tears and approaching the edges of the domed columns, they saw that they had ascended to the top of a mountain peak, one of the taller ones in the Felsic Mountains.

“Is that what I think it is?” Argos pointed to the east, keeping the fainter sunlight at bay by raising his hand to shield it.

“Yes,” Eric answered. “That is Kesh.”

“And there is Ulatha,” Diamedes said, shading his eyes by turning and looking west into a lush green valley spotted with signs of settlements.

But it was what lay to their north that chilled Eric to his core. There, far away but clearly visible, was a distinct jagged mountain peak where the Felsic Mountains branched off, flaring out one branch to the east and the other to the west. There was the mountain that held the lair of the white dragon. Diamedes seemed to understand as well.

“Bloody hell,” the historian said.

Eric couldn’t have agreed more.

“They are coming this way.” Kirost spoke his thought out loud.

“Yes,” Amora agreed, “I lowered my spell, which now makes us visible.”

Kirost watched as the white dragon grew larger in the morning sky. The rising sun was at their backs, and its rays glistened off the shiny armored scales of the flying beast. Far below, the racing forms of wolves and ice devils spotted the rising landscape as they approached the Kesh wizards. “Do you have a plan that you care to share?”

“I told you that I called for reinforcements.” Amora looked at his second-in-command as if he were a school child.

“Yes, right after you sent word for the bounty to be placed on the Ulathan mercenary.” Kirost nodded.

“It appears that the bounty was not effective.”

“Such a shame,” Kirost responded. “Do you know why?”

“Yes,” Amora said. “The Balarian assisted in his escape.”

“Does the Balarian governor know of this betrayal?”

“It remains to be seen.” Amora pondered the question. “If so, then the entire cooperation between our two realms would be called into question. If not, then there is a faction within our ally that has turned against us and must be dealt with . . . swiftly.”

“You know,” Kirost began, “that this news will have serious repercussions for the impending war. Does the High-Mage know yet?”

“He will, once he answers my call.”

Kirost understood the meaning of Amora’s words. The mage had been trying to contact their supreme leader by the use of their critirs, and as usual, the High-Mage would respond when he was good and ready. Kesh culture had a foundation, and even a precedent, in that those with power kept those with lesser power waiting. “In the meantime, I wish to bring us back to my original question with regards to the impending arrival of the draconus.”

Kirost tried hard not to sound alarmed, but Amora knew his old student all too well. The sight of the approaching dragon was something to be concerned about, even with the two of them. At their last meeting, they were three and the draconus was alone. Now, the white beast had summoned its minions and flew with more power, as it had time to feed and energize itself, while the Kesh were reduced in number to only the pair of them. Without something to intervene, it would cause any wizard concern to face the mightiest of all of Agon’s creatures, even though the approaching beast was not from Agon.

“Our primary objective to stir the creature to action against our neighbor has been achieved. Our secondary goal now is to keep the beast here, in Ulatha, and not allow it to move to our own realm. To that end, we must hold it here until the reinforcements that I have called for arrive.” Amora looked west at the approaching dragon and its small army of wolves and ice devils.

“So you allowed it to see us?” Kirost deduced out loud.

“Yes, we have to ensure it stays here . . . for the time being.”

Kirost stroked his bearded chin with his free hand, shifting the weight of his staff absentmindedly in his other hand. “How came the draconus to be albino?”

“Who knows?” Amora answered, looking at the dragon as it approached. “It was most unexpected. I am not sure even the High-Mage understood that they have different species within their own ranks.”

“If they have albinos within their kind, then they could very well have other abominations of nature dwelling close by.”

“Very observant of you, Kirost. Now, take the kerosene vials I gave you and empty them around the base of our tower.”

“Why now?”

“We must keep the creatures at bay until help arrives. Fire will do exactly that.” Amora tapped his staff on the base of the rooftop and smiled at Kirost. Turning, he walked over to the trapdoor that was open and prepared to descend the stairs. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said, turning to face his former student.

“Yes?” Kirost asked politely.

“Be sure to light the oil on the parapets, as well as the base that you spread out, and do seal this door behind you. Despite the fire, it would not be wise for you to be exposed to the white devil.”

Amora descended the spiral stairs, disappearing into the magical tower, and Kirost turned to see the white dragon getting closer. He wasted no time in pouring the magical vials of oil and gas that he was given days earlier. Their magic was simply in the storage and volume of its contents. The liquid would burn brightly, hot and long, and once poured, the contents of the vials would magically expand a thousand-fold.

Let the white beast be greeted with fire when it, and its cold-loving minions, arrived.

The battle for Moartown was over. Most of the town’s inhabitants now ran to gather water and try to put out the many burning buildings after the departure of their attackers. No one truly understood why the attack ended prematurely, but they weren’t complaining. The fire had served its purpose and kept many of the creatures at bay, especially the ice devils. Several of them were vaporized, turning into steam when thrown, pushed, or otherwise caught in the intense manmade fires.

“It’s a good thing you came for me when you did,” Gabby said, embracing her father after the battle. Lucius had killed the large wolf that had lunged for her and caught it just as its jaws were clamping down around her neck. Gabby still bled slightly from where the fangs pierced her skin, but it could have been worse. A second longer and it would have ripped her throat out, cutting into her jugular and ending her life once and for all.

“Yes,” Lucius answered, using yet another blood-soaked rag to staunch her bleeding. Looking south toward the keep, he shook his head. “I see movement on top of the walls, so at least some of the soldiers survived the attack.”

“Time to find out,” Alexi said, motioning for the pair to follow her.

The fires continued to crackle, but it appeared that half the town would be spared. The middle was a complete loss, and the buildings would burn all day. There was simply too much wood in their construction, as well as flammable goods inside, to stop the greedy flames from devouring everything within it. The task now was to limit the flames from spreading to the other buildings in town.

The march to the small keep was short and quick. When they arrived, they picked their way over the bodies of the brave pikemen who lay where they were slain. A few civilians were there as well, a testament to the cruel effectiveness of the white dragon’s army.

They entered through the shattered front gates; once large and formidable, they were simply a mass of shattered wood and iron strewn about. They could not stand against the devastation of the white dragon.

There was no challenge to their entry, and quickly, the Fist of Astor found the body of the justiciar where it lay against one of the inner walls. He was still alive, barely, and several men and healing women attended to him. When she approached, Corwin nodded, blood spitting out through his lips where he was showing the signs of internal hemorrhaging.

Gabby and Lucius followed close behind. Gabby saw the man’s condition and spoke. “He doesn’t have long.”

Alexi nodded and knelt at the man’s side. “You—”

She was interrupted by Justiciar Corwin as the man coughed and grabbed the front of her plate armor with a bloody hand. “You must evacuate the town. Get them . . . to safety.” He struggled to finish.

“I will,” Alexi promised.

“You must also . . .”—the justiciar coughed again, blood splattering on the Fist’s already crimson red clothing—“bring . . . to justice the mercenary . . .”

Gabby protested. “You saw for yourself the dragon. Eric spoke truthfully.”

Corwin’s eyes grew heavy, his eyelids blinking twice as he seemed to see who was speaking. Instead, he tightened his grip on the Fist. “No matter . . . he stirred the white . . . demon . . . to anger . . .” Another round of coughing before he finished. “He brought this upon us . . . He must pay . . . Justice demands it.”

“Why . . .” Gabby stuttered for words, but Lucius grabbed her and pulled her back. The soldiers were listening, as was the magistrate, who had survived the attack.

In horror, they watched as the justiciar’s hand released its grip and fell to the ground. With his last breath, the man died in front of them.

“You heard the justiciar. Eric Bain has been pronounced guilty of his crimes,” Magistrate Galen pronounced, looking at the few surviving soldiers for confirmation of the man’s words.

Several of them nodded and looked at Gabby with narrow, hate-filled eyes. “Come, time to go,” Lucius said, pulling Gabby back from the scene.

“You are a Fist of Astor.” Galen turned to Alexi. “Your honor demands that you carry out the sentence.”

Alexi stood, still looking at Corwin, who seemed more at peace now. “There was no sentence, only a verdict.”

Galen scoffed and then stammered. “He must face justice, then. Let his sentence follow the verdict.”

Several soldiers murmured in agreement. “Fine,” Alexi said. “I will commandeer the justiciar’s troops as well as your own for the task.”

Galen protested. “We have need of our forces.”

“No,” Alexi corrected the man. “The justiciar’s last pronouncement was the evacuation of your town. Bury your dead, tend to your wounded, and then prepare to leave by sunset.”

“What? Where do you expect us to go?”

“You will go north for now. The pass isn’t safe,” the Fist said, standing over the smaller magistrate with her hand on the bloody hilt of her sword.

Galen shook his head, looking around and seeing no help from anyone who would anger the tall holy warrior. He walked away, headed back to town.

“Gather every capable person who can wield a sword,” Alexi ordered, and the soldiers nearby nodded, spurred into action.

“What are you expecting to do?” Gabby asked from a dozen feet away, restrained by her father.

Alexi walked over to them and sighed, looking around the small courtyard at the death and destruction that was wrought that day. “You must lead the townspeople to Razor Rock and from there north to Rigis. It’s the only way for now.”

“And let you bring Eric in for
justice
?” Gabby said, mocking the last word.

“I’m bound by honor to follow the justiciar’s orders, even in death,” Alexi said, obviously not pleased to do what she had to do.

“Well, I’m going with you. Someone a bit fairer, and with less bias, should accompany you and explain things to him. He at least deserves that,” Gabby said.

“He can still appeal the decision to the duke,” Alexi said.

“Yes,” Gabby said, starting to formulate a plan. “My father will lead the people north. I will come with you.”

“What?” Lucius found himself objecting now.

Gabby turned to him. “Come now, Father. We both know that you’re not up to climbing those damn mountains over there, and though I appreciate your sword back in town, we both know that your fighting days have long been over.”

Lucius turned to face the Fist, “I’m afraid I agree with her,” Alexi said.

The man shook his head. “My duty is to Eric and The Hunt.”

“Then you can help him by helping the town,” Gabby explained. “Take them to Razor Rock and then find a way to get to Rigis. Helping them will help Eric in front of the duke.”