The dwarf blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. I’ve already made half a hundredweight. How much do you need?”
“We need all you can make, my friend. All you can make, and more!”
Coryphene was waiting at the quay for Naxos. It was half an hour beyond the appointed time, and there was still no sign of the shapeshifter. Furious at the insult to his dignity, Coryphene ordered his personal guard to search for the insolent wretch.
“Bind him, if you must, but bring him to the palace at once!” he shouted. His troopers dove headfirst into the water to carry out their master’s order.
Coryphene stalked back to the palace, leaving the bearers of his sedan chair to puff along behind. He was oblivious to the praise called out to him by the common folk. Snarling a dismissal at his bearers, the Protector went through the magical barrier and swept into the palace plaza alone. There, lounging against one of the many green columns, was Naxos.
“You! You have earned my displeasure! How dare you keep me waiting!” stormed the warlord.
Naxos’s face showed nothing. “I, sir? Kept you waiting? I have been waiting here for you for some time.”
“What?”
“I was told to come to you, Excellence. Where else would I go but to the royal residence? I did not suppose you would come to the city quay to meet me.”
This reasonable explanation cooled Coryphene’s rage. He put a hand to his temple. His gills were dry, and his head had begun to ache. Seeing his leader’s discomfort, Naxos went to the nearest pump and filled a shell with water. By the time Coryphene had splashed the water over his head and shoulders, his fury had abated. He savored the touch of the life-giving fluid on his gills. After several moments, he was able to speak in a calmer tone.
“Her Divine Majesty has a task for you and the sea brothers,” he said.
“What’s that, Excellence?”
“You are to go to the coast of Silvanesti and survey the area for us.”
Naxos’s green-blue eyebrows rose. “May I ask why?”
“It is enough that Her Divinity wishes it done. Go at once.”
The shapeshifter bowed with a flourish that bordered on mockery. He whirled and took four long strides away, but stopped and turned back. “Does this perhaps concern the Qualinesti we captured, Excellence?” he inquired.
“You ask too many questions. Our Queen has ordered it. That is all you need to know.”
“I obey her divine will,” Naxos said smoothly. “I was just wondering—forgive me, Excellence—why the coast of Silvanesti interested Her Majesty, and not the waters off Qualinesti.”
Coryphene smiled. “As we have visitors from Qualinesti, it is not surprising that we don’t need your help in learning more about that land.”
Naxos’s smile was mirthless. “Ah, thank you for enlightening me. I am grateful for any scraps of wisdom Your Excellence deigns to bestow. I go, with all speed.”
The shapeshifter departed. Coryphene found his hands clenched around his sword hilt and dagger pommel. He forced his fingers to relax. Damn Naxos anyway! His insolence was infuriating. Every time they met, there was a battle of words, and Coryphene always found himself somehow coming off the worse.
As he walked into the palace, the Protector consoled himself with the thought that it was only a matter of time before the arrogant shapeshifter’s wit got him in deep trouble. That was something Coryphene would enjoy. Wholeheartedly.
Chapter 10
Fire and Flood
A strange thing happened on Vixa’s fourth day in Nissia Grotto. Morning arrived, what morning there was two hundred fathoms down, and no Dargonesti came to lead the captives to work. Men awoke and wiped their bloodshot eyes, yet no taskmasters broke out of the pool with airshells and brusque commands.
Hours passed, and still no one came.
“I don’t like it,” Harmanutis said. “Something’s amiss.”
“Obviously,” replied Armantaro. “But what?”
Gundabyr and Garnath returned from the depths of the cave, covered in all sorts of colored dust. Garnath announced they had the makings for a full hundredweight of gnomefire, but not enough pots and jars to hold it. Vixa had insisted the paste be divided into dozens and dozens of smaller containers, rather than concentrated in only a few larger ones. The dwarves and elves had scrounged up almost thirty pots. These lined the cave walls now, filled to their brims with sticky yellow goo.
Surveying the dusty twins, Armantaro asked, “Were you up all night? You must be exhausted.”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway. The quarrying kept me awake,” Gundabyr said. He looked around at the grotto. “Where are our morning visitors? Haven’t the Quoowahb come yet?”
“No, they haven’t,” Vanthanoris put in, yawning.
“You say the quarrying kept you awake—what quarrying?” Vixa wanted to know.
Garnath spoke. “The diggers working outside. I guess they found a new vein of limestone for the building blocks.”
The elves exchanged looks of surprise. “No one’s been working outside since yesterday,” Harmanutis said.
“What exactly did you hear?” Vixa asked.
Gundabyr tugged at his black beard. “I dunno, but they are still at it, I think.”
“Show us!”
They passed word to the other prisoners to cover for them should the Dargonesti appear. Then, pausing only to make a gnomefire lamp, the elves and the dwarf twins plunged into the deeper recesses of the cave. Twenty paces beyond the Qualinesti’s sleeping area, the tunnel was dark and dank, the floor irregular. Crystals glittered in the black lava walls. Thirty paces in, the passage opened into a high chamber where dew dripped from the ceiling in an unending shower. This was their main source of fresh water. To keep the other prisoners from meddling in their explorations, the dwarf twins had made it their practice to tend the many buckets and seashell basins kept here to collect the dew.
Garnath raised the lamp over his head. “Listen,” he hissed.
In the quiet, the elves heard a faint sound—tink, tink, tink—regular as a heartbeat. It sounded like sharp blows on rock, muffled by many feet of stone. Indeed, someone was digging on the mountain!
“The Dargonesti, do you think?” asked Vixa in a hushed voice.
“Why? They can come in through the pool anytime they want,” said Gundabyr.
“Yes, and if there was any kind of digging to be done, you can bet they’d have us doing it,” Vanthanoris commented.
Armantaro circled the large chamber. “It’s loudest here. What direction is that?” Harmanutis, Vanthanoris, and the dwarves had a brisk disagreement about this. Their voices rose.
“Quiet!” Vixa commanded. “That’s the direction of the Mortas Trench!”
The revelation hit them like a lightning bolt. No Dargonesti would dare stray into the trench. It was thoroughly infested by …
“The chilkit,” whispered Harmanutis.
“They’re digging through to flank Coryphene’s wall!” Vanthanoris exclaimed. In his shock, he backed away from the sound of digging and bumped into Gundabyr. The dwarf sat down hard in a deep puddle of water.
Vanthanoris apologized. Gundabyr started to complain loudly, but his remarks halted abruptly as he leaned down to sniff the puddle. Then he stuck a finger in the water.
“This isn’t dew,” he reported. “It’s seawater.”
The group ran back to the inhabited end of the grotto. Armantaro climbed up on an outcropping of rock and shouted for everyone’s attention.
“We’ve found signs that the chilkit are boring into this tunnel!” he reported. The prisoners erupted into terrified exclamations. Armantaro held up his hands for silence, but had to shout over the tumult. “Listen to me!” he cried. “We must throw up a barricade!”
“If they can dig through solid rock, how can we stop them with ships’ timbers and dunnage?” yelled a human.
“We need to buy time,” Vixa countered. “We’ll need airshells to get out of here. Someone will have to go ou
t and tell the Dargonesti.”
“That’s suicide!”
“Better to drown than face the chilkit alone,” put in another slave.
“Who’s the best swimmer here?” Armantaro shouted. No one came forward. Finally, Vanthanoris stepped out of the crowd.
The old colonel regarded the youngest of the Qualinesti somberly. “You, Van?”
The elf shrugged. “Who else is there?”
“If the chilkit breach the mountain, this cave will probably flood,” Gundabyr warned.
Groans and lamentations filled the air.
Armantaro jumped down from his perch and led the prisoners in piling up all the wreckage they had—bolstered with rocks, gravel, even their meager bedrolls.
Gundabyr and Garnath ferried their newly made store of gnomefire behind the barrier. Vixa stood atop the growing barricade, staring into the depths of the cave.
“Keep some of those pots handy,” she said quietly to the dwarves. “We may need them to discourage the chilkit.”
While she spoke, a thin stream of water came rolling down the cave floor. Some of the captives saw this and let out screams of fright.
“Vanthanoris, stand ready,” Armantaro called. The young elf was poised by the edge of the pool.
There was a loud crash, and a cloud of dust spurted down the passage. A knee-deep surge of water followed, splashing against the foot of the hastily built barricade. Parts of the makeshift wall were swiftly washed away. Prisoners quickly armed themselves with stones or rude clubs made from ship timbers. Vixa stood atop a heap of flattened crates, heart pounding.
The mining noises ceased. The level of water slowly rose, seeping through the barrier. Then another, more sinister sound reached those on the barricade: the clicking of chilkit feet on stone. Vague shadowy forms appeared in the dark recesses of the cave.
“Astra, be with us,” Armantaro whispered. Then he yelled, “Go, Van!”
Vanthanoris dove into the pool.
The prisoners stood behind the debris barricade, straining every nerve to see the enemy. The clicking grew louder.
“Ah! There!”
All eyes went to where Vixa pointed. Clinging to the roof of the grotto was a chilkit. The sight sent panic through the slaves. Armantaro shouted for them to stand fast. The old colonel’s voice, long used to command, froze most of the fearful in their tracks.
Tentatively, the chilkit entered the illumination cast by the weak Dargonesti light globes. Its long antennae swept the air. It seemed confused and hesitant.
A second chilkit appeared, near the left wall. A third came slowly out of the darkness at floor level.
“Have at them!” Armantaro cried.
A barrage of stones hit the monster clinging to the ceiling, forcing it to back away. It waved one claw to ward off missiles, batted some aside. The chilkit on the wall rushed forward with startling speed and crashed into the pile of wreckage. Timber balks and broken yardarms fell apart, trapping several men underneath. The crates Vixa stood on slid sideways, throwing her off. She splashed down into six inches of water and rolled to a stop against something hard.
A chilkit’s legs. She’d landed on the wrong side of the barricade, at the feet of the monster who’d advanced across the floor. For an endless second the creature regarded her with inky eyes. An antenna flicked lightly across her face. Vixa had a fleeting notion that the creature might not be hostile—until it raised a claw over her. The sharp inner edges were hard and white, in contrast to the bright red of the rest of the claw.
She wriggled between the monster’s legs until she was directly under it. The claw raked the stone floor just behind her feet. Vixa kept crawling, using her elbows and knees. The dripping wet belly of the chilkit was inches above her. Oh, for Armantaro’s dagger right now!
The chilkit did a fast turn, stepping over and uncovering Vixa. One of its spiny-fingered hands closed around her ankle. She yelled and kicked at it.
A red-bearded man darted in and hammered the chilkit with a club. After the third blow, his waterlogged weapon snapped. The monster thrust forward a closed claw, spearing the human in the chest. The chilkit easily lifted its victim off his feet and threw him back across the barricade.
By this time the grotto was a perfect riot of noise: shouts, screams, the smash and splinter of wood, the clatter of stone on flesh and stone. Vixa was still flailing in the shallow water, trying to free herself from the chilkit’s grip when the burly Garnath approached. With a rock weighing as much as Vixa herself, the dwarf smashed the monster’s arm, right on the joint. The crimson shell splintered and pink flesh tore. Vixa pulled away, the chilkit’s four-fingered hand still locked around her leg.
Brave Garnath did not long survive that mighty blow. Stuttering in pain, the chilkit swung a massive claw sideways at the dwarf. It connected with a solid thud. Amazingly, Garnath kept his feet, though blood flowed from his lips. Vixa grabbed the first thing she could find: the stump of an oar. She whacked at the chilkit, but to no effect. The monster opened its claw around Garnath’s neck. The dwarf threw up his arms to hold the deadly pincers apart, but the scissor claw closed with a hideous crunch. The gallant dwarf’s head was severed from his body.
Vixa shouted a torrent of obscenity, yanking the chilkit hand from her leg. She climbed over the barricade, snatching up one of Gundabyr’s pots of gnomefire paste. Her aim was true. The pot hit the chilkit that had slain Garnath, splattering sticky liquid over its armored chest.
The steady hail of rocks and missiles dislodged the chilkit clinging to the ceiling. It fell with a crash and lay squirming on its back. The other monster climbing along the left-hand wall was pushing through the tumbledown barrier, slaying anyone within claw-reach.
Blinking back tears of rage and sadness, Vixa climbed atop the remnants of the barricade. The now one-handed chilkit she’d hit with gnomefire paste was busy trying to drag Garnath’s body back into the shadows. The yellow paste ran in slow streams down its front pair of legs. Several yards back into the darkness, the level of the steadily rising water reached the paste and ignited it.
The monster released Garnath’s body and whirled frantically, trying to scrape off the flaming mess. This only spread the flames to the rest of its body. Then the chilkit lowered itself into the water, trying to wash the gnomefire away. This fanned the blaze farther. The burning monster made strange bubbling sounds. The other two chilkit stopped their attacks and went to their comrade’s aid.
“Hit them with the gnomefire!” Vixa cried. “Seawater ignites it! Throw the pots!”
Armantaro and Harmanutis led the charge. All of Gundabyr’s supply of gnomefire was on their side of the barrier, so they had ample ammunition. Harmanutis proved to have a strong arm and good aim. He hit the nearest chilkit twice in succession. Flames roared in the tight passage, the heat driving the prisoners back. The chilkit collapsed, his body blazing. The one-handed monster, grievously burned, staggered backward. When it was nearly out of range, a pot smashed into the wall above it, and paste rained down on its head. The chilkit turned and fled, and the gnomefire burst into flame. The last chilkit beat a fast retreat, leaving its two fellows blazing.
The grotto resounded with cheers. Some of the men waded out from behind the barricade and battered the dead monsters with their clubs.
“Come back! Come back!” Armantaro called. “The water is still rising! We must get to higher ground!”
The immediate danger from the chilkit was over, but the more insidious peril of drowning was growing stronger. Despite Armantaro’s urging, there wasn’t really any higher ground in the grotto—the entire cave sloped downward to the pool entrance. All the prisoners collected by the pool. Water was streaming from the rear of the cave. Pots and jars of gnomefire floated everywhere. Gundabyr, his face bloody, reminded them of the danger. If the gnomefire got wet …
“Where are the Quoowahb?” someone shouted.
“Will they leave us to drown?” cried another.
“Vanthanoris may not
have gotten through,” Harmanutis said grimly. He was cradling his left arm against his chest. A chilkit had gashed him badly.
The gnomefires at the rear still burned. By this light, and the feeble illumination of the Dargonesti globes, three hundred prisoners stared at each other helplessly, clinging to floating debris, the rough walls, or each other.
“E’li save us! They’re back!”
Four more chilkit had appeared near the original barricade. They stayed where they were out of respect for the firepots, but busily demolished the wreckage that was damming the water coming in from their excavation.
“Now would be a good time for an idea,” Vixa said, bumping into Gundabyr.
“Don’t ask this dwarf. I’m stumped.” Gundabyr wiped blood and soot from his face. He looked around at the floating prisoners. “Where’s Garnath got to? Garnath! Hey, Brother!”
Vixa clamped a hand on his arm and shook her head. Her anguished expression told him more than he wanted to know.
The sight of the chilkit had spurred some of the prisoners into taking a desperate gamble. They drew in great breaths of air and then went under, heading for the open sea outside. They could only hope that the Dargonesti would find them before they drowned. Vixa remained where she was, treading water valiantly. She couldn’t wager her life on so slim a hope. Not yet, anyway.
The four chilkit, reinforced by three newcomers, were advancing cautiously down the tunnel toward them. More and more men vanished below the water, fleeing the grotto. A chittering cry echoed through the cave. One of the chilkit had bumped a pot of gnomefire. It tilted, dumping its cargo into the water. Flames enveloped the creature, and its six cohorts promptly fled.
Rising water and burning gnomefire were using up the precious air. “It’s getting harder to breathe,” Vixa gasped.
“My lady,” Armantaro wheezed, “it has been a privilege serving—”
“Save your breath, Colonel!”
The chilkit regrouped, this time advancing with timbers clutched in their claws. They gently pushed aside all floating containers. Their comrade had succumbed to the fire. Its charred body spiraled slowly down to the pool, trailing noxious smoke. The stench was overpowering.
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