“Pull yourself together, stonegrabe. Now’s no time for sentimentality. You need to — ”
Magthrum stopped mid-sentence as he took in something that had escaped his attention up to now. A look of horror painted his face as he observed the crushed limbs of Ellotte and Palimin protruding from under the mass of fallen limestone.
“Leave me alone,” Nalin cried. “Would that I had died with them. Now I have nothing left to live for.”
The Fellchief stood speechless for a time, and then gathered his resolve. He flung his arms around Nalin and wrenched him out of his cave. He too shared Nalin’s pain, but now was not the time for grief; it was the time to fight — to survive.
“Nalin,” Magthrum slapped his friend hard across the face. “Kaldora needs you. We are buried alive by the collapse of Jennu Narod, and our air supply is running short.” He dragged Nalin back to the Great Hall and pointed around. “Look, these people need you.”
Nalin blinked, wiped his eyes and gazed around the crowded hall at the throng of dust- covered bloody stonegrabes. “What can I do? Ellotte and Palimin are dead. What is the point of anything anymore?” It was then he saw a most beautiful thing before him, standing almost untouched by the carnage. The cave-crawler. Their means of escape. He walked over to it and swept a layer of dust from the plaque on the fuselage. He read aloud what was written there: Palimin — the greatest inspiration rises from the smallest of things.
Magthrum stepped up behind and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Their spirits will live on in your machine. Don’t let them perish in vain. They would want you to fight on.”
It was in that moment that Nalin’s despair turned to determination, then to anger and finally to an unquenchable desire for revenge.
He climbed into the cockpit of the cave-crawler and summoned four remaining Kaltis. He pulled down on two levers and put the great machine in gear, spurring the giant cave-grabes to exert themselves.
“Forward, you diggods, and dig us out of this tomb,” he cried. “We will not die here. No, we will become the dealers of death, and Cuscosa will rue the day they set foot on our mountain!”
“Death to Cuscosa,” Magthrum yelled, and was joined by a chorus of bellowing stonegrabes falling into line behind the belching machine, following Nalin as he dug his way towards the light.
28
Blood on the Dragon Talon Gates
The Darastrix Vrevel Portam had protected the royal Dragonian palace at Wyverneth for the best part of five hundred sols. Since the erection of the initial fortification by Ralgemah the Pyre-Queen, successive matriarchs had extended the palace organically by the addition of a barbican, ornate machiolations and turrets. The entire edifice was constructed primarily from the dark ironwood that grew exclusively on the slopes of the Dragon Vale. Each tree took about one hundred and fifty sols to mature, so the fact that the massive construct was composed of the material meant that its value in wood alone exceeded five million gold pieces. Once one added the cost of labour to carve the intricate designs that adorned the monument, then it was plain to the most novice of accountants that its value was priceless.
Etezora stood before the Darastrix gateway, sweeping her gaze over it, then up to the spires and bell tower that seemed to reach skyward in sympathy with the dragons that once flew from their tops. She had to admit that its splendour dwarfed that of the crude stronghold that was Castle Cuscosa.
These Dragonians surely earn their reputation as craftspeople, she thought, but now the fruits of their labour are mine. The import of this notion helped sweep aside the fatigue that still clung to her from the monumental exertions on the battlefield barely forty-eight hours ago.
The gates had historically provided a solid defence against all but the most determined assault, yet now they stood open and unguarded.
“You are to be congratulated, Zeetor,” she said finally to the squat, pig-nosed man who stood next to her. “Not only were the city and palace secured, but you accomplished this without significant damage to the buildings.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” he replied. In truth, once the city walls were breached there was little resistance to his battalion’s assault. The only thorn in his side had been the incursion of dragons, but these had inexplicably withdrawn in short order. The man hadn’t believed his luck.
“Ensure that your men fill their stomachs with whatever food they find in the Dragonian cellars, and of course you have my permission to empty their ale casks.”
Zeetor saluted. “Your Majesty,” he replied, passing no further comment. The offer of food and drink was a mixed blessing as the Dragonians plant-based diet provided meagre sustenance. There wasn’t even the prospect of pleasures to be had with the captured Dragonians. Most had fled into the northern forests leaving only the lame and sick.
Etezora strode through the open gate, stepping over the bodies of two Dragonian guards. “See that the corpses are disposed of quickly,” she said to Dieol, who followed closely behind. Beyond the gates, the grand hall opened out before them. It existed as a vast chamber pervaded by an eerie emptiness, as if the spirits of long dead Donnephon still inhabited the palace. At the far end of the hall, a bachar wood staircase split into two, each side ascending to the upper chambers. A massive dragon statue had been carved out of the wall bisecting the staircase, its scales made of inlaid pearlwood that shone in the transmitted light shining through windows in the vaulted ceiling. The beast’s vast wings spread wide across the wall, and it seemed to Etezora that it guarded the entrance to the upper levels with its imposing presence. Giant legs with feet bearing talons the size of a fully grown man formed archways on each side while the head arched over, gazing down and casting its terrible shadow upon anyone who sought to pass underneath.
Etezora saw Tuh-Ma shiver at the sight of this monstrosity. The poor blue-skin had a phobia for the wyrms, yet to her they were simply objects of contempt. She resolved to arrange for the pretentious carving to be removed at the earliest opportunity.
Etezora placed her hands on her hips and laughed out loud; a hearty, full-throated snort of derision. “So this is how you have been brought down, oh mighty Dragonia! You fall with barely a whimper to mark your passing.”
“Where are they mistress?” Tuh-Ma asked.
“The cowards fled,” declared Etezora, “and today my kingdom spreads further than ancient Cuscosa could ever have imagined. It is I who accomplished this — I!”
Dieol instructed the Royal Guard to ascend the stairs first. “We cannot be certain if the Dragonians left assassins waiting, or might seek an opportunity to exact revenge,” he said.
“Then tell them to hurry,” Etezora snapped, “I am impatient to take my seat on the Dragonian throne.”
Five minutes later Dieol gave them the all-clear, and the entourage passed upwards through several antechambers before entering the Fyreclave chamber. The horseshoe cathedras stood before them, arranged with half empty wine glasses and broken crockery — testimony to the speed with which the Dragonians had departed.
Etezora stepped forward and sat herself on Tayem’s throne, savouring the sweetness of her conquest. Despite the empty silence oozing throughout, nothing could diminish the inner satisfaction of her triumph.
The stillness did not last, however. It was disturbed by a rustling from behind huge window drapes bordering the leaded windows that lined the southern wall. Tuh-Ma moved forward cautiously, his club raised, and then swept aside the curtain with a flourish. He jumped back in shock. There, cowering behind was a small dragonette. How the Dragonians were careless enough to leave the creature behind was bewildering, but to Etezora, the pathetic little wyrm seemed to epitomise all she hated about the Dragonians.
She stood up and chuckled. “You fool. A beast of a man like you frightened by a cold-blood?”
“Tuh-Ma will catch,” muttered the embarrassed troll.
“No,” she replied, “this will be my pleasure.” The roiling energy behind her eyes seemed to erupt with
a fury that took even her by surprise, and although she had no sense of having learned or practised the gesture, she raised her hand. A bolt of unholy violet energy shot from her fingers and arced across the room, scattering her guards and striking the helpless dragon. It penetrated the dragonette’s hide and did its diabolic work inside its chest. Within seconds the creature was aflame, ignited from within, the intense heat causing scales to curl and its pleading eyes to boil in their sockets. All the creature could do was twist and writhe as it collapsed to the floor, crying out its agony to merciless ears.
Still, Etezora did not relent. She continued to allow the purple fire to issue from her fingers, walking forward to observe the dragonette in its death throes. Tuh-Ma had stepped back, his face a picture of wonder and fear. “Burn it ‘til it is no more, Mistress,” he burbled.
Etezora remained wordless, a crooked leer on her face. The power seemed to have swelled in the reserves of her psyche during her period of recovery, and for minutes she continued to discharge the fire until the thing was little more than a pile of charred bone and hide. The smell of burned fat and meat filled the room, and pungent smoke billowed around like a dense blanket. Dieol and the other soldiers were compelled to cough their lungs out in irritation, yet she savoured the odour. The Hallows energy was a tempest within her, and in a moment of doubt she wondered if she could contain it. The energy seemed to possess a mind of its own. Then, like a psychic turning of a tap, she shut off the well-spring, and the crackling electrified arc disappeared.
The sudden quelling caused her to stagger backwards, and for a moment she stood bewildered yet thrilled at what had just issued from her.
“Well,” she said after a moment, “that was exhilarating.” She looked round at the shocked guards. “What are you staring at, you witless buffoons? Open the windows and clear up this mess.”
A command from Dieol sent two guards scurrying away to carry out the Queen’s orders. She gave further instructions to Dieol and Asselin, charging them with overseeing Wyverneth’s occupation. Once they had gone, she was left alone with Tuh-Ma in the throne room.
After sitting on the former seat of Tayem’s power, contemplating her victory, she realised there was something undermining her complete satisfaction. For many sols she had dreamt of taking Tayem’s throne, having the dragon-schjek kneel before her. But although the first had been accomplished, the absence of the second gnawed at her with increasing irritation.
She ordered Tuh-Ma to retrieve Cuticous and bring her some cured dragon meat. Her appetite had increased exponentially since the battle, and it seemed she had to feed almost constantly. Do you have your own appetites? She spoke to the Hallows. But there was no answer save for the shifting sensation she felt within, like that of a swilling vat of dark ichor sloshing about in the vaults of her corrupt soul.
She was annoyed that Zeetor was the next to return. Her stomach was growling with hunger.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “We completed a preliminary search of the immediate city and ordered a contingent of one hundred soldiers to patrol beyond the northern wall. We hope to pick up the Dragonian spoor within the hour.”
“Do you indeed? I have little faith in your enterprise,” she said. “The Dragonians are not called forest ghosts for nothing. They are uncannily adept at covering their trail. I think we shall need more esoteric means to search them out.”
Zeetor shifted uncomfortably. “Then what do you want me to do, Your Majesty?”
“Secure the borders and continue your search of the city. See if any survivors yield information about the Dragonian’s destination. In the meantime, send for the sorcerer. I am impatient to receive his counsel.”
Zeetor saluted and left, clearly chagrined at his sudden fall from grace.
While she waited for Zodarin, Etezora took the time to peruse the full length of the upper chambers. Tuh-Ma did not delay in returning with Cuticous, and the creature’s prickly attentions helped soothe her sense of frustration at not seeing the remaining Dragon Riders and their beasts at her mercy.
“It is only a matter of time,” she said to the salyx as she walked casually from room to room. She continued like this for the remainder of the afternoon, rifling through drawers of jewellery and handling countless Dragonian ornaments, running her hands over them and delighting in their beauty as a child would in a den of toys. She spent a brief ten minutes speaking to her annoying brother, Tratis who had recently arrived despite her instructions for him to remain at Cuscosa. Still her wizard did not materialise.
In fact, Sol and Sol-Ar had sunk low on the horizon before Zodarin made his appearance. This was dramatic — but not in an imposing sense. Four men brought him in on a dais-come-stretcher, his form propped up on numerous pillows. They laid him on the floor then left, deferentially bowing on their way out.
The wizard’s appearance shocked Etezora. His usual pallor had turned deathly white since their last meeting, and the grey crescents under his eyes were now dark purple as if he had received a hefty blow to each.
“What happened to you?” She asked, more out of a perceived sense of impertinence on the wizard’s part than concern.
Zodarin coughed, a rasping that rose from the depths of his lungs, and when he spoke it was in a husky tone that seemed to require great effort. Etezora sensed the wizard was embarrassed that she should see him in this state. “My undertakings in the Dreamworld that secured your victory exacted more from me than I anticipated, your Majesty,” he said.
“I see,” the Queen replied, not sure how to greet this state of affairs. His condition explained his tardiness, but should she be concerned about its implications? She mistrusted the sorcerer, but it could not be denied that he had proved his usefulness.
Etezora decided not to chide him. “I am truly grateful for your intervention with the dragons,” she said, “although I had hoped more of them had fallen under the might of your assault.”
“We all have our hopes,” Zodarin said. “They cannot all be fulfilled despite one’s best efforts.”
It fell short of an apology, but Etezora let it pass. “I take it you will make a full recovery?”
“I … believe so,” he said, although the hacking cough that followed did little to convince Etezora.
“Well, I certainly hope that to be the case,” she said, “I require your talents again. As you no doubt heard, Tayem and her dragons fled northward to the Whispering Mountains. If they pass over, then they will melt into the unknown lands. I desire their destruction, Zodarin, and I will not be denied.”
“I can divine their route eventually, perhaps, but my mind is clouded at present, Majesty. The Dreamworld will yield answers, but for the present I am somewhat … depleted.”
Etezora regarded the sorcerer and sensed he was not obfuscating. By Shio, his exertions have indeed taken their toll. Her ire rose again, and she beat her fist on the arm of the throne. “How long before you are of use to me again, Wizard?”
Zodarin closed his eyes, whether from pain or simply holding back a retort, she could not tell. “Give me until morning,” he said. “The journey here has been long and I need to rest.”
Etezora scowled and made to remonstrate, then thought better of it. “Very well. I will arrange for a room to be prepared on this floor for your comfort.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. But I would not presume to take up one of the royal chambers. I already ordered my serfs to prepare the bell tower. It serves my needs more effectively.”
Etezora frowned. More likely you don’t want your activities monitored, she thought. “I will allow it — for the present,” she said, seeking to re-establish her authority.
Zodarin nodded, and then rang a small bell. It summoned his bier carriers, and they soon had him whisked away to his quarters.
“Tuh-Ma still thinks you should let me crush his skull,” he said.
Etezora waved her hand dismissively. “I have better use for your talents, Tuh-Ma. How are your tracking skills?”
�
��Here — in the land of dragons?” The troll said. “Tuh-Ma can follow the trail of any beast and man. But Dragon Riders do not leave a scent — at least one that Tuh-Ma recognises. The only thing I sense is the scent of fear, and that disappears quickly.”
“Then do what you can!” Etezora shrieked. “Gods, have I surrounded myself with dullards?”
Tuh-Ma became the latest addition to those dispelled from Etezora’s newly acquired throne room with their tails between their legs.
Later that evening, Tuh-Ma visited Etezora in her chamber with something that would send her to slumber in a decidedly lighter mood.
“Mistress, come quickly. Tuh-Ma has found something that may help us find the dragon people.”
“Where?” she replied, tetchily. The Hallows within was seeking some form of release — a phenomenon that left her somewhat disquieted.
“In the dragon pens. Zeetor is there already. You should come and see.”
“Don’t leave me in suspense, Tuh-Ma. Out with it. What did you find?”
Tuh-Ma looked crestfallen. She knew he liked to surprise her, but her patience had worn to a thread this day.
“Two of Tayem’s courtiers,” he said. “Tuh-Ma told you he sensed fear. I followed the scent to the enclosures and braved the presence of a wounded dragon to find its source.” He emphasised this last point in an effort to make up for his previous display in the throne room, no doubt.
Etezora wrapped herself in a shawl, summoned her guard and followed the troll to the enclosures. She had hoped to avoid the scene of her humiliation over a decade ago, but the prospect of Tuh-Ma’s find overcame any reluctance.
The smell of dragon dung as they entered the Vrant dragon pens brought these memories back forcibly, but she brushed them off when she laid eyes on the pitiable forms of Disconsolin and his wife, Merdreth. She recognised them from her childhood and wondered at how the ravages of age afflicted any man or woman. They were dishevelled and frightened, two bundles of quaking wretchedness. The guardsmen dragged them across the straw-covered floor and pushed them down before a Queen who had grown from a precocious child into a daunting monarch.
Cradle of Darkness Page 23