by Jack Conner
What did that mean? Surely it was a reference to the Sabo itself, an entity the Libertarians had not been made aware of, by why had Castle soldiers been the ones to place it here? Surely Sarnova wanted the Libertarians to come this way because it was a trap! It made no sense. And what of the dragon? Jean-Pierre’s powerful psychic sense had informed him that the dragon had been under the (very strained) thrall of an immortal, yet who could be powerful enough to control a dragon?
Jean-Pierre wanted to shrug the questions off, to keep on going down the tunnel and into the maze he knew so well, but it was not that sort of urge that had kept him alive all these years. Above all else, he knew the right moments to be prudent, and he sensed that now was one of those times. He could not enter the Castle through the Sabo. This was a nuisance, but he could handle it.
He could always go around the ledge and enter the Castle via the Old Courtyard. However, this presented two major problems. One, the sun was just coming up, and Jean-Pierre hadn’t had enough to eat to properly mend his wounds; the hike up the ledge to the Old Courtyard would only allow the sun to grow higher and stronger. It was quite possible that, as sorely wounded as he was, the sun would kill him.
Also, he wanted to create as little a stir as possible. He wanted to approach Kharker and Sophia in stealth, find out what they knew and proceed from there. Caution seemed the word of the day.
He left the tunnel and replaced the big boulder before the entrance. Looking about him, he considered his options. He needed to get into the Castle—
The dragon! Shit.
Weak, it flew out from behind a shoulder of the mountain and struck for the lake. The dawn sun glistened on its green scales, glittering on the clusters of wicked horns and scraggly whiskers sprouting from its head. For a moment, Jean-Pierre was transfixed by its sheer size; its wingspan alone must stretch a hundred yards across, and from barbed tail to enormous head, it surely must be at least four hundred feet. Only magic could keep such a heavy creature airborne, surely. Kharker had been right. The dragon looked tired, even deathly. Gore still dripped from the hole in its belly. Its wings beat slowly, laboriously. Jean-Pierre knew it wasn’t a threat to him any longer … unless he was very, very stupid.
It tucked it wings and barreled into the lake with such force that waves blasted the shore. Jean-Pierre didn’t wait for them to subside before he made his decision.
The dragon had risen from its depths. Surely it had come from some underground chamber that had an opening on the floor of the basin. From there would be a connecting tunnel up the castle—it was the only thing that made sense, in as much as it did)—which would solve Jean-Pierre’s most immediate problem. However, if it was true that the wyrm had risen from some underground location, did it mean that there were more dragons where that one had come from?
Unexpectedly, that thought made Jean-Pierre smile. Dragons. Maybe, if the legends were true, he would find a horde of gold and jewels for the taking. If nothing else, at least the adventure should prove diverting, and the water would shield him from the sun. Hopefully he wouldn’t actually have to follow the dragon all the way down; in his current condition, he simply couldn’t afford to engage even a dying dragon in combat. Also, he sensed that it was still under psychic control, and he had no wish to meet up with anyone that could control a dragon. Kharker had hinted that they were very powerful, physically and mentally.
And so it was that, with a smile on his face, Jean-Pierre dove below the rippling waters and made his way into the darkness at the bottom of the lake.
At first, he couldn’t see the dragon but could easily detect its blood in the water. The trail led to a large hole in the middle of the lake floor, partially hidden behind a rock wall. Jean-Pierre plunged into the opening, which was large, deep and unnaturally even—almost a perfect cylinder. Wrought by powerful magic, he had no doubt. The waters here were warmer, and he wondered whether this was normal or an effect created by the dragon’s blood, which also made the water murkier. Still, Jean-Pierre could see enough to continue.
It seemed as if he followed the dragon for a long time, but maybe this was simply his weariness speaking. Whichever, he soon knew himself to be deep in the heart of the mountain.
He saw a great rift in the shaft’s wall and paused to inspect it. The crack was long, curving along the shaft’s wall for about twenty feet, but only about five feet in height. Obviously, a dragon could not fit here, but it seemed to Jean-Pierre that if there were other creatures, magical creatures, than this rift might lead him to where they lay. Surely that would be safer than following the dragon down to its lair ... and wasn’t caution supposed the word for the day?
Maybe, but curiosity pulled at him. Sophia, he thought. I must break off this mad hunt and find another way. I must live to see her again.
He followed the dragon deeper. They must have passed the midpoint of the mountain by now. Just when he was starting to grow worried that they would never stop, he felt the dragon change directions below him. Jean-Pierre stilled himself and managed to embed himself in the wall of the shaft. The dragon had not sensed him. He felt it turn until it faced a horizontal direction and then proceeded.
Cautiously, Jean-Pierre followed the hole down and saw that the tunnel snaked off into a more level direction. He tailed the dragon, which seemed to swim slower with every lash of its mighty tail and every kick of its great talons. In fact, it slowed so much that Jean-Pierre actually found himself in danger of catching up to it. He hung back, wary of being discovered. He knew the leviathan neared death, but even so it would encounter little trouble if it decided to dispatch him.
The moribund wyrm plowed ahead. It rose with the tunnel and surfaced in a large pool, of which Jean-Pierre could see little. Dragging itself out of the water, the creature disappeared from sight.
Jean-Pierre quested out with his mind, trying to get a reading on it, but felt the brush of the beast’s controller instead. Jean-Pierre retreated back into himself. Anything that could psychically dominate the will of a dragon was a thing that the albino feared equally as much as he feared the wyrm. Actually, he realized that he was a little jealous. He was the strongest psychic he’d ever known and the thought of competition both frightened and intrigued him.
Sophia. He had to make it back to her.
He waited for several minutes, then rose to surface in the pool. The air was foul, as if it had been rotting down here for hundreds of years—and perhaps it had. Torches blazed intermittently along the rocky chamber, but they were neither bright enough nor numerous enough to completely lift the space from a darkness that must have plagued this place for countless years. Rock walls surrounded half the circular pool, forcing Jean-Pierre to make his way to the shore on the far side. Fortunately, many large stone outcroppings rose from the hard ground and, once out of the water, he found hiding places easily.
He stuck his head out from one such outcropping and appraised the chamber. Except for the stone and the flickering torches it was empty, but several large—dragon large—tunnels ran off from it. From the blood on the floor, Jean-Pierre determined which corridor the dying dragon had taken … and followed.
The tunnel spilled out into an even larger chamber, this one lit more brightly by torches whose hellish light made demons out of the shadows of every stone outcropping, of which there were many. The light glittered upon a magnificent pile of gold and treasures, just as Jean-Pierre had hoped. It was to this great glittering mound that the dragon sluggishly marched. The albino leapt from the tunnel and slipped behind the largest and nearest stone outcropping. Cautiously, he climbed the rocky pile to its summit and peered out.
Leaking blood, the dragon found its horde and plunged into it with a muffled roar of pain and longing. Jean-Pierre hadn’t realized just how large the horde was until he lost sight of the dragon within its gleaming mound.
The heap bucked at its owner’s movements, sending cascades of priceless jewels and artifacts into avalanches. For many minutes, the dragon wallowed about i
n its wealth, and as more and more of the gems were uncovered and tossed about, Jean-Pierre saw that the wyrm’s blood had spilled all over its possessions. It created an odd sight; where the torches flashed upon the unbloodied jewels, gold and silver and diamonds radiated brilliant light, awing the hidden werewolf. But, where blood poured down in red rivers on the once-glowing rubies and trophies and treasures, the light was absorbed, creating an illusion of a luminous and golden mountain cut through with black streams and speckled all over with tiny ponds.
The massive head of the dragon shot up from the horde, scattering another group of treasures into a loud metallic avalanche, and Jean-Pierre was shocked at the change in the beast’s demeanor. Still, it did not look plump and healthy and vital, but neither did it seem on the brink of death. Its eyes blazed with rejuvenation, and its nostrils quivered, drawing in deep healthy breaths of stagnant stone-filled air.
For a moment, Jean-Pierre was afraid the wyrm would smell him, but apparently it did not, as it did not glance his way. He wondered if its mound of treasures was responsible for the sudden burst of healing. Did a dragon feed off of wealth as vampires fed off of blood?
Suddenly, the immense body of the dragon rose from the mound and shook itself, sending various treasures flying across the room. To the albino, it looked much like a dog shaking itself dry after being walked in the rain.
The dragon stretched, gave a low roar of contentment, and lowered itself to lay sideways on its horde, giving Jean-Pierre a good view of its wound, which seemed much smaller now. Then, to his great surprise, a blood-drenched, human-sized figure emerged from the cavity, dragging behind it what looked to be a knight in charred armor.
One of the knight’s legs and one of his arms were missing, and there was much damage to the body and armor. Obviously, whatever had dealt the dragon its almost fatal blow had damaged or killed the knight, too.
The bloody figure, a tall man wearing a hood and cloak that was so thoroughly soaked with blood that they plastered his frame like glue, shook his head and swore. He removed his hood, revealing blood-soaked blond hair and a face that made Jean-Pierre blink. Ambassador Mauchlery …
The Ambassador knelt down and pulled off the knight’s helmet, revealing a bearded face that Jean-Pierre knew only vaguely. Some member of the Dark Council, he knew. De Soto, he thought. Mauchlery spent several minutes trying to revive the Council-member, but with no success.
“Goddamn Ruegger,” he growled. Clearly, he was tired and seemed to have lost a lot of blood. Angrily, he kicked De Soto in the side. “At least you’re dead, anyway. Next time I’ll be sure not to underestimate that damned vampire.”
“Next time?” queried the dragon, and Jean-Pierre started to hear it speak. It did so in a low, rolling voice, but the albino was sure that, had it wanted to, it could have split the earth with its thunder. It was weary, though, and seemed to harbor little anger toward the Ambassador. “I don’t think there will be a next time.”
Mauchlery nodded. “This wasn’t much of a success, was it?”
“Still, I thank you for your loyalty. You may have used me, but at least you came back to save me. You could’ve abandoned me in the lake, or the connecting shaft, and taken your dead friend there with you. You stayed with me ... within me ... gave me your blood and strength, and forced me back to my home, even though I hadn’t the power to do it on my own.”
The dragon brought its enormous wedge-shaped head down to regard Mauchlery and blinked its amber eyes slowly. The Ambassador stroked its snout and said, “That’s what friends are for, Gethraul. I’m just sorry I had to use you like that in the first place.”
The wyrm snorted, stirring Mauchlery’s matted hair. “You didn’t control me very well, though, did you? I got to have a little fun despite you.”
“You weren’t supposed to have that kind of fun, Geth. I can’t believe you spat fire even after I begged you not to.”
Amused, the dragon smiled. The image was quite unnerving. Almost, Jean-Pierre thought, the thing was human.
“When we struck the bargain, Francois, you promised I’d get to have a little sport.”
“Not that kind! Geth, you killed some friends of mine today; that simply can’t happen again. When I said fun, I meant you’d get to leave the mountain for awhile, not get to burn up twenty good men.”
Gethraul lay its head down on its front talons, very much like a dog indeed, and sighed. “Definitions vary, my friend. Next time, we’ll sort out the fine print before I agree to any more excursions. Does that sound fair?”
Mauchlery scowled, and Jean-Pierre felt certain an argument between dragon and immortal was about to break out; it was time to go. He wouldn’t make it past this chamber, not with these two, and if the other great tunnels that led from the pond chamber spilled out into other dragon dens, Jean-Pierre wanted no part of them.
Quietly, he crept off down the stone outcropping and slipped back through the tunnel he’d followed to get here. Soon he stood in the dark chamber of the pond, feeling relief and exhilaration wash over him in liberal doses. He’d seen a dragon! He had learned a dragon’s secret, that gold can cure one’s ailments, and had even heard one speak.
Quite a morning.
Now, though, he knew he had to follow the water back up to the rift in the shaft of the wall, the rift he felt would lead him closer to the Castle, and further from the dragons. Thinking of all he had to tell Sophia and Kharker, and even Ruegger, he knew he needed to avoid the great beings for awhile.
Feeling the sleek golden dagger he’d purloined from Gethraul’s lair against his thigh (he’d stuck it in his waistband), he grinned as he plunged headfirst into the pond.
* * *
After Ruegger was gone, Lord Sarnova poured more liquor into his coffee, sat back deeper in his chair and watched the fire.
Godsdamned fire. He hadn’t meant to sacrifice his horse, even to the worthwhile goal of pumping De Soto for all the information he was worth. Nevertheless, Tepes was dead and Sarnova had no chalgids on hand to bring him back. Except, of course, for Junger and Jagoda ...
Bastards. Trying to take over the Sabo! What arrogance. Did they really expect Sarnova to sit back and let them seize the Labyrinth? If they were that stupid, they shouldn’t be hard to kill. Unfortunately, Sarnova did not doubt their intelligence, which could only mean that they thought they were powerful enough to withstand his countermeasures. There would be countermeasures.
He drank more. Francois should have been here some time ago ... but then he did have a dead dragon on his hands. Just as Roche was about to add more liquor into his coffee, someone knocked the side door.
“Come in, Ambassador.”
Mauchlery entered and slumped into a chair near his king. He looked drained. “Gethraul made it,” he said. “But De Soto’s dead.”
The Dark Lord had not expected a different answer. “At least he’s not around to cause any more problems. Not only that, but his death will probably throw the revolutionaries into turmoil.”
“So you hope. For all we know, they liked him as much as we did. They might think his death a blessing.”
“Thanks for looking on the bright side.”
Francois smiled thinly. “Sorry, Roche. I just don’t feel very cheerful at the moment.”
“Get some rest. Take a mortal, feel better. I’m sure getting Gethraul back to life was no piece of cake.”
“I’ll live.”
“By the way ...”
“How did I do it?” Off Sarnova’s nod, Mauchlery smiled again. “Through sheer force of will, Roche. Through sheer force of will.”
The Ambassador sat there for several moments, silent, as if trying to will his own strength to return to him. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths and just generally looked as if trying to locate something—something within himself—that he’d lost. At last, he seemed to give up, and said, “Roche, where’s the scotch?”
“Where it always is.”
The Ambassador prepared himself a dr
ink. “So what do you think about Ruegger?”
“He’s strong. Smart. Not very respectful of his elders. But I think he’s in favor of my vision—of the Undead Jerusalem. I don’t know why, but I trust him.”
Francois nodded, sipping. “Think he’ll beat Kiernevar?”
“I’m not prepared to guess.”
“Do you still want Ruegger to lose?”
“No,” Roche said.
“Do you want him to win?”
“No.”
“So ...”
Roche groaned. At first he had seen Ruegger as a disruptive element, an enemy, but the public held the Darkling in high regard (or at least the press did; the Marshals sold papers), and it would have made Sarnova look bad if he had been forced to kill Ruegger without at least giving the Darkling a fighting chance. And then of course there was Kharker to consider. So he’d given Ruegger the opportunity to go up against Kiernevar, hoping that the Darkling would be defeated and Sarnova could have him executed without losing the support of his subjects.
At the same time, he did not want Kiernevar to win. The only upside to a victory by Kiernevar would be that—hopefully—the lunatic would be easier to handle than Ruegger. Kiernevar, existing solely in his own limited world, might not fully realize the power he would possess if were to be Sarnova’s successor ... whereas Ruegger would be fully aware and in a position to exploit his position.
“Well?” pressed the Ambassador.
“I don’t know. I ... like Ruegger. And I don’t think he has any urge to rule. The danger he poses is small. On the other hand, now that Junger and Jagoda have taken such an interest in Kiernevar—and are expanding their own boundaries ...”
“What do you mean?”
“The fuckers have created some thing ... or things ... that is, or are, taking over the Sabo.”
“What?”
Briefly, Sarnova related what he’d seen through the eyes of the doomed horse.