by Ryan Cahill
“Follow the threads, Calen,” Aeson said. “Read them. Learn.”
Calen focused on Falmin. Even though somebody who drew from the Spark did not need to use their body to direct the threads, it was almost like a reflex. Falmin’s left hand twisted left, right, up, and down. It directed the Crested Wave through the tunnels.
His right hand, however, was constant. It moved repetitiously around the same space, his fingers contracting and expanding. As if he was smoothing down the surface of a ball.
“He’s blocking the wind…” muttered Calen. His gaze moved from the navigator to the threads of Air, whirling around the platform in sync with the spinning rings.
“Precisely,” Aeson said. His smirk was almost proud. “You are learning quickly.”
Calen couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t sure why, but a compliment from Aeson held twice the weight that it did from most others.
Without warning, everything shifted. Calen grabbed onto the frame of his seat, unsure. He felt weightless. Then he looked out, past the blurring rings. They had left the enclosed tunnel, and they were now hurtling through an open cavern. His heart fell into his stomach. Its thumping made him nauseous. The cavern extended in both directions until the end of Calen’s eyeline and farther. He didn’t even need to look down. He knew that he would not see a bottom. It was only for a few seconds, which felt like a lifetime. A heavy thump sent shockwaves through the platform as they entered a new tunnel on the other side of the cavern. Calen closed his eyes for a minute, doing everything in his power to slow his breathing.
We’re going to die down here.
Just as he calmed himself to where he felt he could open his eyes again, something slammed into his shoulder, cracking it against the back of his seat. “Fuck…” he muttered. He reached back, jerking forward a bit as his thumb ran over a tender spot just below his shoulder blade.
“Sorry!” shouted Falmin without looking back.
Calen now realised why the man wore his odd glasses. If a gust of wind like that broke through the barrier, he wouldn’t be able to see a thing. The thought of colliding with something at that speed put a knot in Calen’s stomach.
Finally, Calen felt them slow down. A tiny speck of light in the distance grew larger by the second.
“Don’t be nervous,” Aeson whispered.
Calen furrowed his brow. “I’m not nervous,” he lied.
Aeson nodded, that same smirk on his face.
There was a short jerk as the Crested Wave came to a stop just short of the cave mouth. Falmin spun around on the spot, pulled the glasses from his face, and placed them on top of his head. His face still held an arrogance to it, a slight grin that just twisted the corner of his mouth.
“Well, a little wind aside…” He paused, as if expecting a round of applause for his joke. A look of disappointment crossed his face when he didn’t receive one. “Here we are, safe and sound. Durakdur. If you give me a moment, I will extend the bridge, and you can be on your way.”
The navigator strode past the group, to the edge of the platform. Drawing on threads of Air, he launched the crumpled-up rope bridge across to another stone landing that lay waiting to receive the vessel’s passengers.
Calen felt a hand rest on his shoulder. “Well, my boy, I wish that I could see this through your eyes. I remember the first time I saw this place. It was a good five minutes before I could speak again.” Arthur smiled and then moved ahead, making his way onto the bridge. His shoulders swayed as he moved. Reluctantly, Calen followed him. He wasn’t looking forward to crossing that bridge again.
“I meant what I said, Mister Bryer.” Calen hadn’t noticed Falmin approach him at the foot of the bridge. The man had a serious look on his face, at least compared to the grin he usually wore. “It was my pleasure to have you aboard – both you and your dragon. I wish you the best of luck, and so does the guild. Should you ever need us, we are at your service.” The navigator bowed at the hip, just a short bow, but it was enough to convey sincerity. It was a formality that Calen did not expect from the flamboyant man.
“Thank you, Falmin. Your… ship? It’s an incredible feat of engineering… as is your skill with Air. It was a pleasure.”
There was a touch of recognition in the man’s smile. “The pleasure is shared.”
Calen extended his arm, grasping his fingers around Falmin’s forearm. Falmin reciprocated the gesture, then walked off across the platform, inspecting every square inch of the Crested Wave. Calen couldn’t help but stare after the man in curiosity. Falmin shook a brass connection, a look of surprise on his face when it came unstuck. He pushed it back in, pursed his lips, gave a satisfied shrug, and walked on.
Calen turned back to the bridge, trying his best to look dignified as he scurried across the wooden planks. “Fucking bridge…” he muttered to himself, nearly slipping as he stepped off the last plank of the bridge. He felt a sense of comfort as his foot contacted the solid stone of the tunnel entrance.
When he looked up, it was exactly as Arthur said it would be. It took away his words.
The platform upon which he stood jutted out from the side of the mountain wall, looking down over the breath-taking city of Durakdur. It looked as though the mountain had been hollowed out, and a city was built in its place. Everywhere Calen looked, stone walkways and bridges weaved through the city, connecting innumerable stone courtyards and platforms. Barely an inch of rock wall had been left untouched. The walkways ran everywhere, with doors and tunnels all along them that led deeper into the mountain.
Lanterns emitting a greenish-blue hue were alight everywhere Calen looked. They were suspended from chains, mounted on walls, and set in doorways. He had never seen a light that colour before. It had a kind of ethereal beauty. Directly across from the platform, on the other side of the cavernous city, a monstrous waterfall cascaded down to the lower levels.
The low, sonorous bellow of horns filled Calen’s ears. He had been so taken away by the sheer beauty of the sprawling city that he had failed to look closer to where he stood.
Just below the platform was a huge stone landing. It was connected to the platform by a double staircase adorned with statues of dwarves in heavy, sharp-cut armour, hefting axes, spears, and swords. The landing was crammed. Two columns of armoured soldiers stood on either side of a small group that waited at the bottom of the staircase.
The dwarves were shorter than the average man of Epheria, but not by the distance that Calen knew from legend. The tallest stood at around five and a half feet. Their faces were as gruff and varied as the stories said, though. Some had thick, squashed noses, while others were sharp and thin. Some had skin as pale as the winter snow, while others looked charred and ashen.
All the men had beards, which were as varied as their faces. Some were short and red, kept tidy with meticulous care. Others ranged from a hundred different shades of blonde and brown, to the darkest of jet. Some were braided, some were tied in intricate patterns, some reached their knees, and some didn’t pass their chest. All of them – even the women – wore bronze, silver, and golden rings tied carefully throughout their hair.
The soldiers at either side of the staircase wore thick plates of armour over coats of shimmering mail. Their helmets were blocky and sharp-cut, leaving space over their eyes, with a bridge of metal that shielded their noses. Each of them held a ferocious, twin-bladed axe hefted over their shoulders.
At the front of both columns of soldiers, the axes were replaced with long brass horns. Four distinct sets of flags hung from the horns. Calen recognised each one from Therin’s teaching. The crimson and gold flag, emblazoned with an intricately crafted hammer, and four stars positioned above it in a semi-circle, was the flag of Durakdur. The green and silver flag with an anvil wreathed in flowers belonged to Azmar. The flag that bore black, crossed axes with a white backdrop was Ozryn’s. And the yellow and black flag with a horned helmet at the fore was Volkur’s.
Four dwarves stood at the foot of the staircase:
three women and one man. They didn’t wear plates of armour and mail like the soldiers did. All four wore an odd mixture of leathers and silks. Their shoulders were padded out and a cuirass of leather covered their chests, which flowed down into a silken garment not dissimilar to a skirt. All four heads were adorned with intricate crowns of the finest gold.
The woman at the front of the group stepped forward. Her hair was a flowing straw-blonde, with scattered silver and gold rings laced throughout. She had a beauty about her. She radiated confidence, and her eyes were fierce.
“Welcome,” she said, “to the Dwarven Freehold. I am Queen Kira of Durakdur.” The sweetness of her voice surprised Calen. She bowed slightly at the hip, though not deeply enough for it to be born of respect. It was more of formality.
“Your presence here is most welcome. I am King Hoffnar of Volkur.” The man wore his dark hair short, only long enough to drop down over his forehead. His face was angular and free of cuts or blemishes, yet he moved like a soldier. Were it not for the friendly smile he wore, Calen might have reached for his blade.
“I am Queen Elenya of the dwarven kingdom of Ozryn. Your swords are welcome under our roof.” Elenya was a warrior. If her words did not give that away, she was the only one of the four who carried a weapon; a short throwing axe strapped to her belt. Her hair was like a roaring fire, wild and untamed. It cascaded down over her shoulders and back, reaching near to her elbows. The hardness in her face unsettled Calen.
The last of the four was Pulroan, the queen of Azmar. Her blonde hair was tied back behind her head in braids. She was a stocky woman. The furrows in her skin and lashings of grey through her hair clearly marked her as the senior of the other three.
“Thank you for your kind welcomes,” Arthur said, bowing at the hip. “As you know, I bring with me today, esteemed guests. Two, you have met many times before. One has never graced these halls. May I present to you Calen Bryer, the first Draleid free of Lorian influence since the fall of The Order and the first new Draleid in four hundred years.”
Arthur stepped aside, waving him forward. Calen was not sure what to do. He wished that he were better at listening. Therin had probably told him precisely what to expect four times over. There was so much to take in, so many customs and traditions. It was as if each new piece of information forced something else back out of his mind to make space. Everybody stared at him expectantly. He tried to remember the greeting that Therin had told him. It was in his head somewhere.
“Your Majesties, thank you for welcoming us into your halls. From Valerys and I, may your fires never be extinguished and your blades never dull.” He tripped over his words a bit, but he was sure he had gotten it right. Valerys mirrored him with a low rumble. He spread his wings to their fullest.
All the four – except for Kira, who had a twist of impatience on her face – smiled back at him warmly. “May your fire never be extinguished and your blade never dull,” they chorused, though Kira’s words lacked the verve that the others possessed.
Calen saw a look of satisfaction on Aeson’s face, which was mirrored on Arthur’s.
“Please,” Hoffnar said, catching Kira with a sideways glance, “let us escort you to the Heart. We have much to discuss. Have you eaten? We can arrange for food to be prepared.”
“Food would be—” Oleg clamped his lips shut after a glare from Arthur.
The king seldom chastised those who served him, but Calen was beginning to notice a steeliness to him. Although Oleg was the dwarven emissary, he was now in the company of kings and queens. It was his turn to bite his tongue.
“That is quite all right, Hoffnar,” Arthur said. “We left for the Wind Tunnels as soon as we received your message. Our bellies might rumble a touch, but we can wait for supper. As we are all aware, ever since our companions returned from their voyage, the empire has held a blockade some three days’ march from Belduar. With their intentions not yet determined, and with the arrival of the Draleid, I’m sure you can appreciate the need for haste.”
“That I can,” Hoffnar replied.
The route through the city wound from walkway to bridge and through numerous open squares. Most of the squares were completely cleared ahead of time – armoured soldiers stood waiting on each – but Calen could see throngs of dwarves lining the walkways above, staring down over the procession that weaved its way through the city.
A harsh whoosh sound drew Calen’s attention to the air above him. A Wind Runner shot from the mouth of a tunnel overhead, soared through the sky, then flew perfectly into the open mouth of another tunnel. The machines truly were incredible.
He remembered Therin saying that no matter how hard they tried, no mage had ever been able to make themselves fly. Nobody was sure why, but it was the way. To Calen, it looked as though the dwarves had come as close as was possible.
The procession stopped at an enormous set of wooden doors. They could have been the twins of the doors that marked the entrance of the keep in Belduar, were it not for the intricate carvings inlaid in the wood.
One of the soldiers stepped from his column and strode over to the doors. “Open the gates!” he bellowed. “Queen Kira has returned.” Without waiting for a response, he fell back into his column. A stiff creak rumbled through the air as the doors crept open, struggling under their own weight. The doors gave way to a courtyard. It was at least the match of the inner circle in Belduar, except this one was surrounded by buildings. Each was carved from slabs of smooth stone, gilt lacing their edges.
The entrance to the courtyard was framed by a colonnade of pedestals, with one of those strange lanterns placed on top of each one. It was only then that Calen realised the lanterns around the city did not contain candles, but flowers. Inside each lantern were bunches of small flowers, the petals of which glowed with a vivid, bluish-green light.
“Heraya’s Ward,” the Queen of Azmar, Pulroan, said as she stood beside Calen, a warm smile touching her weary face. “The gods’ gift of light in the darkest of places. Little natural light touches the heart of mountains, and although the Wind Tunnels provide air flow, we must reserve open flames for the kitchens and the forges.”
“The entire city is lit by—”
“Yes, my child, by flowers. I quite enjoy the notion of it.” Before Calen could respond, Pulroan pottered on, joining the other dwarven rulers at the front of the group.
In the very centre of the yard stood a fountain, with a statue of a woman in a long flowing robe, with a circlet atop her head. The woman held a small jug, from which the water flowed. Calen recognised the statue of Heraya – the Mother, the Waters of Life flowing from her jug.
Kira turned to the procession. “The Heart of Durakdur.”
The Heart was a city all on its own. On the far side of the square, an armourer hammered away at a piece of mail. The orange glow from the forge behind him cast an enmity against the bluish-green glow of the lanterns. Beside the armourer was a fruit seller. The colours and shapes of her fruit put even Arthur’s feast to shame. They gleamed in vivid oranges, ocean blues, and one of the oblong fruits was even purple. Servants and officials darted around, dressed in crimson and gold livery carrying silks, scrolls, jewellery, and a wide assortment of other trinkets.
“Captain,” Kira said, addressing the armoured dwarf who had ordered the doors open, “please disperse the guard. May your fire never be extinguished and your blade never dull.”
“At once, my Queen,” the soldier replied, mimicking the salutation.
The sound of so many heavily armoured men moving in unison filled the chamber until they moved far enough away that it was only a faint murmur in the background.
“Please, let us continue. The council chamber is just this way.” Kira led the group through the many streets and squares of the Heart. She stopped, passing servants in their livery, doling out instructions wherever she went. It seemed to Calen that she was the unofficial leader of the council – or, at the least, she thought herself to be.
Unlike A
rthur, she carried herself in the way that Calen had expected of a monarch. Her shoulders were thrown back, and her chin was just a touch higher in the air than anybody else’s. Even for one of such a short stature, she managed to make her strides long and purposeful.
As they made their way through the city within a city, Calen noticed that it wasn’t just dwarves that resided within Durakdur; there were elves and humans as well. Though there were not many, there were enough to be noticeable. It was not something that Therin had mentioned.
“Mages,” Aeson replied when Calen asked who the men and elves were. “Far more than all other cultures, dwarves value magic above most other things. They cannot touch the Spark themselves, for reasons unknown to even the most voracious of scholars. Despite this, the dwarves have always embraced magic wholeheartedly. I suppose it is their way. They see the value of things, big and small. Mages are held in high esteem here in the Freehold and in dwarven cities beyond. It is where a lot of young mages come when they are shunned by the world or on the run from the empire. If they are lucky.”
Perhaps it was because, up until a few weeks ago, Therin was the only elf Calen had ever met – well, the only non-human Calen had ever met – but to see so many different races in one place seemed odd to him.
Calen had been so engrossed by what was going on around him, he only just realised that everyone they passed in the street stared at them. Not in the way you would expect people to stop and watch a foreign delegation or to admire their queen; they openly gawked, with wide-open mouths and eyes that looked as though they may pop from their heads.
A shriek, growing closer to a deep growl, reminded Calen what they were gawking at. Even there – miles inside a mountain city, surrounded by dwarves, elves, mages, and a particularly hulking giant – Valerys stood apart. They had seen giants before. At least, they had seen Asius. Magic was in their every day. All the things that overawed Calen were normalities to them. Yet, they had never seen a dragon. Calen had to conceal a smile when Valerys shrieked sharply at a dwarf whose eyes had lingered just a touch too long.