by Mel Odom
The dragon’s maw was mottled with huge blisters and singed flesh. Life was leaving its eyes even as it glared at the little librarian. “I am the Dragon King,” Shengharck said. “Do you know what that means?”
Slowly, cautiously, Wick got to his feet. He didn’t think this could be some final ploy on the part of the dragon, but he didn’t know for sure. “All the other dragons have to show you fealty.”
“Yes,” Shengharck agreed. “And with that position among the dragons comes special powers and privileges that no one outside Dragonkin knows about. When a Dragon King is killed, those powers pass on to another dragon. And do you know what the first duty a fledgling Dragon King must fulfill, little mouse?”
Not trusting his voice, Wick shook his head.
“Why,” Shengharck said, “to track down the one who killed the last Dragon King, that’s what.”
Cold fear filled Wick and it must have showed on his face because Shengharck, despite the agony the dragon was evidently in, laughed in great bellowing gusts. The dragon continued laughing so hard and so cruelly that it shook itself from the perch on the crack and disappeared.
Wick ran to the edge and peered down, watching the dragon fall a little more slowly because of the outspread wings. Shengharck laughed the entire way, till the molten lava took the great dragon into its embrace and so that the foul creature would never again be seen.
“You killed him, little warrior!” Cobner shouted with glee. “See? I told you that you had the heart of a warrior! Why, if I’d had time to give you a few more lessons in fighting, I bet you’d have killed him in half the time!”
The little librarian watched the molten lava bubble. Somehow, the unexpected victory seemed hollower to him than it did to the dwarven warrior. The dragon, even for all its savage ferocity, was a part of that forgotten knowledge that Librarians sought after with so much dedication. What stories had Shengharck known of the times before the Cataclysm and Lord Kharrion? Now, Wick thought sadly, they will never be known.
Wick glanced up at Cobner, who was guiding him back toward the piles of treasure. “Do you think it’s true?” the little librarian asked.
“Do I think what is true?” Cobner asked.
“The story about the Dragon King? That the new Dragon King will seek out and destroy the person who killed the last Dragon King?”
Cobner grabbed the little librarian in a fierce hug. “I don’t know, little warrior, but I’ll guarantee you this: Should another dragon come calling for you, why you’ve already got the experience of killing one dragon. That new dragon is the one that should be afraid. Not you.”
Somehow, Wick didn’t find that guarantee very reassuring. Shengharck’s final laughter kept ringing in his ears.
“And I’ll make you another guarantee,” Cobner went on, lifting Wick’s hands in his and scooping gold coins and gems into them till they were overflowing. “With this bit of treasure we’ve found, I’ll bet you never have to be bored while you’re waiting on your next dragon! Even better, think of all the new stories you have for that book of yours!”
The volcano rumbled again, and the effect was stronger, knocking Wick and Cobner from their feet.
“Wick! Cobner! You’re alive!”
The little librarian glanced back toward the cistern. The water had finally stopped cascading through the funnel and Brant hung from a rope, one foot thrust through a loop.
Wick pushed himself up and swiftly asked about the others. All of them, it seemed, had survived the goblin attack and getting dumped into the whirlpool. They’d waited until the lake had drained after seeing the dragon fly down into it, then climbed down to see what had become of the dwarven warrior and little librarian.
The volcano kept grumbling, and each wave got worse and worse.
“It’s going to blow,” Brant declared, looking morosely at the pile of treasure. “Let’s get what we can get now and get out of here before the mountain comes down on top of us.”
Less than thirty minutes later, the thieves and the mercenaries retreated down the eastern side of the Broken Forge Mountains. Their bags and pouches and every conceivable thing they could find that could be used to transport gold and gems and jewelry were quickly filled and hauled up the rope to the lake area.
Wick carried his backpack. Although Cobner had complained, the little librarian had kept the books inside instead of replacing them with gold.
The sky was dark with thick black smoke as they worked their way down the mountain. They went as fast as they were able, considering the fatigue from everything they’d been through and all the treasure they carried. Before they reached the foothills, the Broken Forge Mountains blew in a long series of explosions that filled the sky with cinders and ash and spilled lava down the sides.
In less than two minutes, the mountain range had reformed itself, crumbling and caving in, creating rubble where once proud dwarven mines had been.
Maybe it was just time for the volcano to explode and relieve the underground pressure.
Or maybe the underground river emptying into it triggered the explosive release.
Or maybe, Wick mused as he surveyed the incredible damage that had been done, Shengharck’s death and fall into the lava caused the eruption when the dragon’s mystical energy was unleashed.
Cobner summed it up best after they’d all stood there in silence for a while. “Well,” the dwarven warrior sighed, “I hope you all got enough treasure to last you for awhile, because we aren’t going to be going back there any time too soon.”
Epilogue Home Again, Home Again
What are you doing there, halfer?”
Wick looked up from his new journal and saw a dwarven sailor standing before him. For the last three weeks, ever since they’d reached Imadayo’s Pilings, the largest of the port cities on Blackgate Cove, he’d started coming to the little tavern down by the docks to work.
“Only passing the time,” Wick replied, politely closing his book.
He’d rested for the first few days after reaching the port, but the urge in him to write—to record everything that had happened in the Broken Forge Mountains; he’d decided to use the modern name for them, at least for now—had been too strong to ignore. So he’d bought supplies from the local mercantile with a very small part of the gold he’d taken from Shengharck’s Lair—which was what he was calling that chamber in his narrative—and made paper very nearly the way it was made at the Vault of All Known Knowledge.
He’d cut and trimmed the pages, fitting them proudly and tightly to the binder he’d made of plain pine slats because he didn’t want thieves to mistake the book as being worth something. That last bit of advice had come from Cobner, who generally started his mornings in a tavern somewhere telling stories that only got grander and larger as the evening wore on.
The little librarian worked most of every day in spite of invitations from Brant and the thieves, and even a few tendered meal invitations from grateful mercenaries who wanted to spend time with the famed Scourge of Dragons, as Cobner was fond of calling him in the stories he told. Thankfully, most of the dwellers living in Imadayo’s Pilings didn’t believe Cobner’s stories; they just took his gold and kept his mug full.
“Aye,” the dwarven sailor replied, hooking a chair with his foot and pulling it out to sit without being invited, “I can see for meself that yer a-workin’ really hard at passin’ the time.” He blew the froth off his ale, but turned his head so that none of it flew toward Wick or the new journal, then drained half the contents. “But I was curious about them marks ye was a-makin’ in that book.”
“I’m an artist,” Wick said. That answer covered most of the questions the local population asked of him. When they offered to look at his work and pass judgment on it, the little librarian always politely declined.
“Aye, an’ I thought that’s what ye might be. But it seems like to me that ye might be more, too.”
Wick waited, his heart thumping a little quicker now. He hadn’t stopped looking
over his shoulder for the new Dragon King either.
“Ye see,” the pirate said, “there’s a place I’ve heard of, a place I’ve been to upon occasion, and a place my cap’n is a-shippin’ out for this evenin’ where there’s lots of halfers with an unnatural predilection for … art. If ye know what I mean.”
Wick gazed into the sailor’s eyes. He’d been coming to the tavern and asking questions of every ship’s crew that pulled up at anchorage for all of the past three weeks, seeking someone who might know where Greydawn Moors was. Only that task was almost impossible without naming the city and the island.
“If you’re a Blood-Soaked Sea pirate by trade instead of a sailor,” the little librarian whispered so that only the two of them could hear, “then you’ll know the name of the place.”
The sailor leaned in conspiratorially and grinned. “So how did a Librarian get so far from Greydawn Moors in the first place?”
Wick smiled, feeling excited and sad all at the same time. He was going home, but that meant telling all his new friends goodbye. “That,” the little librarian said, “is a very long story.”
“Well, the sea’s the place for them,” the sailor replied.
That evening, while the sun sank over the blasted remains of Dwarven Forge Mountains, Wick stood on the docks and watched as the crew of Kov’s Heartache finished loading the cargo the captain had taken on. He’d packed all his belongings in a new travel case he’d bought two weeks ago—in which Cobner had cleverly installed a hidden bottom where Wick could hide his share of the treasure—and told his friends that he was leaving.
All of them had decided to see him off. Cobner stood there with his arm around Wick, and the big dwarf had a smile on his face that advertised the fact that he was already heavily into his cups. Sonne and Hamual were there, as well as Baldarn, Rithlin, old Lago—who’d brought two loaves of fresh-baked bread—Kerick, Volsk, Charnir, and the twins Tyrnen and Zalnar. Even Lady Tseralyn and Captain Dahvee had come to see him off.
When the last crate had been loaded aboard the pirate ship, the quartermaster called the final boarding.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do, little artist?” the master thief asked. “You’re still welcome as part of my family.”
“Thank you,” Wick said, “but no. I’ve got another family that I haven’t seen in far too long.” Even while I was there, he thought sadly. “And I’ve still got a job to do.”
Brant nodded. “I guessed that you would feel that way, but I wanted you to know how we felt.” He sighed. “If I have your secret straight, my friend, and I’m sure that I do—” Brant grinned. “—I know that you have a higher calling than being a thief. Still, you were a pretty good one.”
Heart heavy and light all at the same time, Wick said his final good-byes and hugged and shook hands as the fierce dwarves preferred. Even grumpy Baldarn shook Wick’s hand and offered his best wishes for a safe trip. Despite his best intentions, Wick got misty-eyed when he told Cobner goodbye. The fierce dwarf had a lot of pain in him, and Wick could feel it.
“Should you ever get out this way again,” Brant said, “know that you’ll always have friends here.”
“I will,” Wick promised, then he turned and boarded the ship.
“Well, that’s quite a tale you’ve told,” Grandmagister Frollo said.
“Yes, Grandmagister,” Wick replied contritely. The ship’s voyage across the Blood-Soaked Sea had taken two months. The little librarian had enjoyed his time aboardship despite the ever-present threat of sea monsters and fierce pirates. He’d even taken the time to sketch and write about some of them. While he’d sat on the deck or in the rigging, he’d worked on his journal, putting all the pieces together in a final document that he’d presented to Grandmagister Frollo upon his arrival at Greydawn Moors.
That had been two days ago. Now they sat in the grandmagister’s office—and Wick waited to see what the man had to say. After he’d disappeared so abruptly immediately following the Boneblight attack, rumors had run rampant through Greydawn Moors that Edgewick Lamplighter, Third Level Librarian at the Vault of All Known Knowledge, was dead.
Even Wick’s room with Erkim had been filled. Upon his return to the Library, Wick had had to stay with the Novices until Grandmagister Frollo decided what to do with him.
“Your writing lacks polish, Librarian Lamplighter,” Grandmagister Frollo said. He pushed across the journal Wick had given him to read. “Oh, in places there is a cunning phrase or two, or a description that really catches the mind’s eye. And most of the dialogue rings true. However—”
Even after facing pirates and goblinkin slavers and thieves and Purple Cloaks and even a dragon that had died by Wick’s own hand, the little librarian waited in breathless anxiety.
“However,” Grandmagister Frollo said, “you can tell that you spend far too much time reading that drivel you find in Hralbomm’s Wing.”
“Yes, Grandmagister.” Wick glumly guessed that whatever salvageable material was in his journal would be rewritten by more experienced Librarians. He tried not to sigh aloud.
“I’ll expect much better effort from a Second Level Librarian,” Grandmagister Frollo said.
Wick blinked, wondering if he’d really heard what he thought he heard. Was it a trick? No, Grandmagister Frollo really had no sense of humor. A mistake? Grandmagister Frollo wouldn’t have made that kind of mistake. “Second Level Librarian, Grandmagister Frollo?”
Grandmagister Frollo gave Wick a curt nod and pointed a quill at the four books the little librarian had brought back with him. “I’ve shown those books to all the present First and Second Level Librarians. None of them know the language. Someone has to decipher it.”
“I can do it, Grandmagister,” Wick promised, trying to keep the excitement from his voice.
“I hope so. Your new position is only temporary, dependent upon whether or not you can decipher those books.”
For a moment, Wick wondered if the grandmagister was setting him up for failure, fully expecting him to fail at the translations. He kept the doubts closed up inside him. “I can do this, grandmagister.”
“We’ll see.” Grandmagister Frollo gestured toward the four books with his quill. “Get your work off my desk, Second Level Librarian Lamplighter. I’ve enough work of my own to do.”
Struggling to keep the smile from his face, Wick grabbed the books, added his own journal, and backed away. “Thank you, Grandmagister Frollo. You won’t regret this.” Suddenly, the little librarian stepped on the hem of his robe. The robe tightened at the neck and choked him, causing him to stumble and fall heavily on his rump.
Grandmagister Frollo stared at Wick solemnly. “I certainly hope I don’t regret this.”
Blushing, Wick gathered himself and stood, quickly retreating from the room.
“Dragon-Killer,” Grandmagister Frollo muttered to himself loud enough for Wick’s keen ears to hear. “Dragon-Killer, indeed.”
As Wick made his way down the steps to the nearest reference room, he spotted an envelope sticking out of one of the books. He took it out and found only WICK written across the face of it. Opening it, the little librarian read:
Well, have you been off to see the world, then? I trust this letter finds you hale and hearty. If not and it’s left among your effects to be tossed out after your funeral, then my scrying mirror isn’t what it used to be regarding foretelling the future.
By now you’ll also have the four books you found in the cemetery at Hanged Elf’s Point. When you get those translated, we’ll need to talk again.
In the meantime, would you like to play chess? Grandmagister Ludaan and I used to play all the time. I think we could both learn a lot. If you’d like to play, simply drop off your letter at the Yondering Docks Customs House. They’ll know how to reach me.
Or I could amuse myself by turning people into frogs.
Best,
Craugh
Wick closed the note and put it back in the book. Craugh was a wi
zard and had been Grandmagister Ludaan’s closest friend. He didn’t know why Craugh would get in touch with him or how the man had known about the four books from Hanged Elf’s Point. Craugh was another mystery that he’d have to explore when he had time. For now, he wanted to have lunch with Nayghal, work on the books, then help his father with Ardamon’s lanterns that evening. After that, though, he planned a trip to Hralbomm’s Wing.
A Second Level Librarian, Wick mused, would probably be better off cutting back on the things he read from Hralbomm’s Wing, but he wasn’t ready to completely give them up.
After all, now that he’d had adventures of his own, he might have a deeper appreciation for a tale told well!
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE ROVER
Copyright © 2001 by Mel Odom
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Brian Thomsen
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Design by Angela H. E. Arapovic
eISBN 9781429965781
First eBook Edition : August 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Odom, Mel.
The rover / Mel Odom.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”