Upon This World of Stone (The Paladin Trilogy Book 2)

by James A. Hillebrecht

  He had gone only a short distance, however, when the tingling within his staff told him he was leaving the path to the inner caves. He paused, staring at the bare rock wall that barred his way, and he tried moving in different directions, hoping the staff would sense some alternate path. It was no good. This was the closest that the fissure approached the habitable tunnels. Malcolm sighed, realizing he had no choice.

  Placing the staff between the palms of his hands, he thrust his arms forward, feeling the power going out, sensing the trembling response in the rock before him. Then he slowly drew his hands apart, and with a low rumble, a crack began to appear in the rock before him. Malcolm kept his mind focused, moving his hands only slowly, trying to keep the crack as small as possible, and watched to make sure that the ceiling of the fissure did not begin to give way. When the crack was wide enough, he relaxed with a grunt of weariness and paused to let his breathing return to normal, his heart pounding both from the exertion and the fear of what lay beyond that crack. With luck, the inhabitants of the tunnels who sensed the shift might think it no more than the natural violence of the volcano, but far more likely, he had proclaimed his presence as surely as ringing the front bell. He shrugged resolutely, then flew carefully through the newly formed opening.

  The crack opened on a smooth tunnel of uniform size, nearly three times his height tall and wide enough for a dozen men, the floor bowed in the middle as if recording the passing of many heavy, curved bodies. The reek of sulfur and ash from the volcano were still strong here, but beneath them was a still more powerful smell, permeating every part of the corridor, a sour, pungent, reptilian odor that made every human throat wretch and gag: the dragon stench. Malcolm stood quietly for a moment, making his lungs accept the tainted air, and when he could breathe normally again, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

  Slowly, he began to picture three small glowing shapes, and he focused on them, making them real in his mind, giving them form, color, and movement, letting some small part of his power enter them. Then he opened his eyes to include the cavern again, pushing the three forms forth from his mind like a woman giving birth, and suddenly, there were three small birds flying directly before him, a robin, a sparrow, and a wren.

  “Go, my little friends,” he said with a smile. “Go and probe the darkness.”

  Obediently, the robin flew down the corridor behind him, while the wren and sparrow headed in the direction he intended to go. The magical birds had only limited sight here, barely enough to avoid the cavern walls, but that was still sufficient to give them (and him) some warning of the approach of an enemy. Malcolm watched them go and took a firmer grip on his staff, feeling comfort in the familiar tingling within the wood. It would have been both quicker and easier if he had simply used the staff to conjure these scouts, but he had learned long ago to husband the staff’s power, knowing he might well need all the magic it contained in the minutes ahead. Then he began to walk steadily down the tunnel.

  The walls of the caves sparkled with glints of gold, as if veins of pure ore lay just beneath the surface, a fortune awaiting only a pick and willing hand. Fool’s gold, thought Malcolm grimly as he kept his eyes warily on the tunnels ahead. He knew a close inspection would soon show that the specks were not ore at all but rather the embedded scales of gold dragons as they had slithered past against the walls. But by the time a greedy prospector had pulled his eyes away from those specks, he could easily find himself facing the terrible source of that gold.

  He passed a side tunnel, then another, then two more, the proliferation lessening the effectiveness of his scouts as they tried to cover more and more area. He knew he was still far from the vital sections of the dragons’ lair, the treasure hordes, the sleeping chambers, the breeding den and the hatchery, and it was highly unlikely he would get any closer this time than he had in the past. Despite the danger of approaching such sensitive areas, Malcolm let the staff lead him towards them, knowing it was the best way to force his opponent to show himself. If he simply waited here, he would yield the initiative and the advantage to Mraxdavar.

  The wren and the sparrow were nervously hesitating in the darkness ahead, the sound of a heavy body moving along the rock corridor getting steadily closer to them, and Malcolm quickly sent the wren ahead to investigate. A moment later and a faint red-gold radiance gave him his answer. A dragon was twisting steadily down the corridor, its wings folded, its heavy taloned claws dragging it along, the dim light coming from the dragon itself, a sign of the great heat pulsing within its body. Yet despite the size and fierceness of the beast, Malcolm recognized it was only a young dragon, hardly more than one of Mraxdavar’s grandchildren.

  A single thought brought the wren flitting back down the corridor, while Malcolm concentrated on the dragon, his mind moving along the corridor, touching the rock and the rock again, until it finally found the active, hungry intelligence of the monster. Concentrating hard, he began gesturing constantly to the left with his fingers, focusing in that direction, frowning, wondering, luring. Far ahead in the darkness, he could sense the dragon hesitating, alert to something though it wasn’t sure what. An older, more experienced dragon would be instantly aware of the influence, might even be able to focus back on its source, but this creature was still far too young and impulsive. Its head turned to the side as if listening, and it quickly slipped down an intersecting corridor, moving out of Malcolm’s way.

  If only all the encounters could be that simple, he thought.

  Another distant sound attracted the attention of the robin in the corridors behind him, and Malcolm concentrated, trying to identify it. He sent the robin flying back to investigate, but the little bird had gone only the shortest distance before it simply popped out of existence. Malcolm frowned, the nervousness rising sharply within him. The spell should have lasted for at least another hour, and while there were many things that could have disrupted the magic, the most likely explanation was that the spell had simply been cancelled by another caster.

  A dragon. And one with magic to augment all his other powers.

  Then, an instant later, both the wren and the sparrow vanished as well, the magic destroyed. The nervousness turned to real fear, and Malcolm moved quickly forward, knowing the short distance between himself and where the birds had been would still be safe for a few moments. He reached an intersecting corridor and immediately ducked down it, but while his mind assured him this was a wise move, some sixth sense warned him. He slowed, moving cautiously, as if walking the rim of a trap, waiting for the first sign of the spring.

  A distant sound, like wind sweeping through a narrow tunnel, and with a thrill of terror, Malcolm knew his death was upon him. With only an instant in which to act, he desperately spun and held up the ebony staff, sending forth his power blindly, and in that same moment, he was enveloped in a blazing inferno that filled all the corridor, a deluge of fire that seemed to incinerate the entire world, the flame deflected around him only by his thin shield of power. For endless seconds, he endured that conflagration, the sheer heat penetrating his shield, singeing his skin and hair, slowly cooking him within his own protections, the shield itself beginning to give way, for nothing could endure long in the midst of such power. Just as he was beginning to stagger beneath the onslaught, the fire vanished as abruptly as it had begun, leaving him staring at the long neck and fierce face of a huge red-gold dragon. Even as he blinked, Malcolm could see the beast was slowly drawing in more air to replace the fiery breath he had just unleashed, readying another attack.

  “Farla Car Alen!” Malcolm cried, thrusting forth his staff and sending the invisible shield which had saved him flying forward. The force smashed into the dragon like a monstrous fist, sending him reeling backwards, and Malcolm gave him no chance to recover.

  “Farla Carn Abu Senta Len!” he roared, and the invisible shield smashed down on the dragon’s head, pinning him to the floor of the cave. The creature thrashed wildly, his tail striking the walls and making the entire cave tr
emble, but Malcolm held his staff steady, knowing the dragon was powerless.

  “You are far too rash, Albathor,” Malcolm said calmly to the dragon, knowing that hearing his proper name from the lips of a mortal would be even more degrading than being held by the spell. “Your youth has betrayed you. Even a wizard’s apprentice knows a dragon can have no magical protections up if he is using his fire-breath.”

  “And what do novices know of a father’s wrath?” asked a deep voice behind him. Malcolm whirled instantly, his stomach churning with fear at being caught unprepared. There, rising up from the floor of the cave was the head of a gigantic dragon, nearly twice the size of the prostrate Albathor, its whiskers as thick as a man’s arm, its white teeth each the length of a full double-handed sword.

  Mraxdavar, breathed Malcolm to himself. And he’s caught me in a corridor of his own choosing. A gesture with his staff released the force holding down the younger dragon, and a subtle twist of a ring on Malcolm’s right hand lifted himself from the ground and carried him slowly back down one of the broader corridors. Albathor roared his fury, shaking his neck in preparation for a lunge at his retreating tormentor, but a hiss from the Eldest Dragon brought him up abruptly. Yellow eyes gleamed at each other in the darkness, unspoken messages being exchanged, and finally, Albathor slowly retreated, his eyes like venom still burning the wizard who had humiliated him.

  Malcolm’s instincts warned him this tunnel was the very course Mraxdavar wanted him to take, a long, wide corridor with numerous side tunnels, but there simply wasn’t any other choice. He went only a short distance along, however, before settling himself back down on the stone floor, preferring to be uncomfortably close to the master of the tunnels than what might be lurking in the labyrinth farther back.

  Mraxdavar took a heavy step forward, the ground actually trembling from the blow as the great dragon revealed more of himself. Huge and glistening, gigantic muscles flexing beneath armored scales, moving with a snake-like speed despite his size, Mraxdavar radiated power, the ability to easily obliterate anything as small and insignificant as a human being, but Malcolm held his ground, holding his staff slightly ahead, power coursing up and down the wood in warning. It was clear the intruder would not be pushed further down the corridor, so the dragon, too, came to a halt.

  “My son will one day crush your bones between his teeth for this offense,” breathed the dragon slowly, his eyes glinting with a light of their own in the darkness. “He will dream restlessly of your blood through all the long ages of his life.”

  The voice filled the corridor, surrounding Malcolm, threatening to enchant him with its sheer volume. He held off the fascination and shook off the fear, staring at the monster’s long neck to avoiding the hazard of those shining eyes while still watching him carefully.

  “If this is the extent of his ability, then he faces a long life of frustration,” the Wizard answered. “To match his father’s power, he must first match his wisdom.”

  “Perhaps. But it depends still more on the power of his prey.”

  The dragon’s head was in slow, constant motion, the movement itself hypnotic, its sweeping eyes trying ever to catch his glance, to drive home its overwhelming presence on this mere mortal, to capture him in the dragon-spell. Malcolm was ever cautious to avoid the eyes, and never to let his attention slip for even a moment.

  “You have risked much to return to my home unbidden,” the Dragon said. “Have you come seeking treasure?”

  “Aye,” answered Malcolm, “the greatest treasure of all. I come seeking the aid and counsel of the Lord of Dragons, the Master of Fire and Air.”

  “Indeed?” the dragon whispered, and there was the slightest touch of amusement in his deep voice. “And what matter could be of such import for you to risk instant death?”

  The voice, too, was melodic, rhythmic, seeking to capture his attention, to hold him captive with words. Malcolm cleared his throat harshly, the echoing sound helping to hold the Dragon’s voice at bay.

  “There is a mighty movement of creatures of my kind across the northern plain,” he said. “An invasion the like of which has never before been seen.”

  “Alacon Regnar and his tribes of barbarians,” sighed the dragon. “But the movement of such ants is nothing to me. If humans kill each other, it makes the world a safer place for all other creatures.”

  “But Regnar brings with him an army of Rock Goblins,” Malcolm answered, knowing the name would send a shiver of hatred through the dragon. “A long train of the creatures marches out of the Earth’s Teeth, bearing down on the Mountains of the Winds. Bearing down, perhaps, on these very caves.”

  The gigantic front claw came forward a half-pace, the cave shaking slightly from its impact, and Malcolm took a breath and concentrated. Immediately, a faint sparkling sphere became visible around him, the myriad lights warning Mraxdavar that the intruder was not defenseless, and a tiny tremble ran through the rock right beneath that massive claw. The dragon remained where he was, but he seemed to ease back slightly, recognizing that any further advance would be met with real power. Malcolm let the sphere vanish again, but he knew his position was growing slowly, steadily more precarious, that each ploy and gambit laid bear another layer of his defenses, supplying another key to this ancient master, giving him a base from which to probe further.

  If Mraxdavar uncovered all his defenses before the conversation was completed, Albathor would not have to wait and dream of his revenge. Malcolm’s bones would join all the others that littered the glittering caves.

  “We have dealt with the Rock Goblins before,” the dragon answered, settling down to play with words again. “They are naught but fleas to my race.”

  “An army of stinging fleas can fell even the proudest of creatures,” Malcolm countered. “And they are not alone. You know what leads this army, what walks unhindered through stone and space, what comes upon you again from out of the darkness of time.”

  Mraxdavar paused, clearly pondering how much this human actually knew, how much of what he said was knowledge, how much conjecture, and how much pure bluff. But even the pause told Malcolm much. The Dragons had been born before the time of men, and Malcolm had learned they had been involved in the Ancient Wars when the gods had striven against each other for dominance of the world, the time when the Juggernaut itself had been created. It had been a guess that the Juggernaut was linked with the enemies of the great wyrms, but Mraxdavar’s reaction told him he had guessed correctly.

  The Eldest Dragon coiled his huge body once as a sign of annoyance, but Malcolm smiled openly. Darius had recognized the significance of the dragon’s appearance in the mirror-wall, but he had not grasped the extent of aid that was possible from this source. If Mraxdavar were to summon all the creatures subject to him and lead a determined attack upon the Northings, he might be able to turn the invasion back by himself. But it would be hard enough to induce him to offer any help at all, let alone an all-out effort.

  There was the softest of sounds behind him, the suggestion of a stealthy approach, and without turning, Malcolm caused the tunnels behind him to burst into light. There was a startled movement, and the sound retreated, the approaching creature having recognized its peril. Another ploy, another counter, and nothing escaped the watchful gaze of the master of the caves.

  He could not win a matching of power, not here. Mraxdavar had spent centuries crafting his lair to focus his energies and put any intruder at a disadvantage, and it was now clear he had been aware of Malcolm’s presence moments after he entered the caves. That would have given him ample time to work any magics he might wish, for Mraxdavar was a redoubtable spell-caster, perhaps even more accomplished than Malcolm himself. Even now, those magics seemed to flicker across the dragon’s scales, sheer power with an unknown purpose awaiting only a thought or a gesture to be released, striking outward within the blink of a human eye.

  “The red feather has been sent forth,” the Dragon answered casually. “The armies of the Southland
s are already gathering even as the Dukes sit in Council. Yet they shall march only to their deaths.”

  Malcolm’s eyebrows rose the slightest fraction at the extent of Mraxdavar’s information, which also inferred his interest in the subject. And he knew the dragon would not have revealed his knowledge without a specific purpose.

  “If you know they march to their deaths,” observed Malcolm shrewdly, “then you must also know how the slaughter might be prevented. Will you not offer us aid against this common foe?”

  “Aid?” scoffed the Dragon. “The Rock Goblins might be vicious, but man has ever been our deadliest enemy. What can you possibly offer to induce us to aid our killers?”

  “Access to the Castle of the Winds,” Malcolm replied, using the Dragon’s name for Llan Praetor. The Dragon’s head rose in surprise, confirming Malcolm’s suspicions. For years now, he had been aware of Mraxdavar’s interest in Llan Praetor, and he had even begun to suspect some strange link between the dragons and the castle. His own investigations into the nature and origins of the castle had begun to flounder, and he had toyed before with the idea of giving the dragons access in order to learn more of its secrets. But the risks had always been too great. Now, however, with Llan Praetor already breached by Darius and the party following him, it was critical to learn as much of the castle as quickly as possible; where one thief tread, others would not be far behind.

  “You would yield the castle to us?” asked the Dragon slowly.

  “No,” Malcolm answered firmly. “But I will guide you through its halls, show you something of its secrets, and answer any one question you may put to me to the best of my ability.”