Kazin's Quest: Book I of The Dragon Mage Trilogy

by Scheppner, Carey

  “Tell the king—” Manhar turned to Harran. “What is your name?”

  “Harran Mapmaker.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Manhar, turning back to the announcer. “Tell the king Harran Mapmaker is here to see him at the request of General Manhar.” As the announcer prepared to enter through the brass doors Manhar added, “If he doesn’t know who Harran Mapmaker is, let me know at once!”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the announcer.

  Manhar turned and smiled at Harran. “Just in case you’re not telling the truth.”

  Harran glared at Manhar until the general was forced to look away.

  Many torches lit the enormous, semi-circular throne room. A golden throne stood on a dais facing a rounded seating area. The center of the room was reserved for standard seating and to either side of this the seats rose gradually to nearly the same height as the throne. These upper seats were reserved for the nobles of the dwarven realm. Doors at the back of the room opened into a small vestibule which led to entrances into the room on either side. These gave way to two aisles which separated the higher seats from the central ones.

  Presently the room was empty except for the king and one of his scribes. The king was dressed in bright red and therefore stood out against the golden, lion-engraved throne. The plainly dressed scribe stood to one side, idly shuffling papers about in his hands, handing them one by one to the king. King Ironfaust IV was signing these documents when the announcer came in and declared, “Sire, Harran Mapmaker is here to see you at the request of General Manhar.”

  The king looked up, startled. “What? What’s that?”

  “Harran Mapmaker is here to see you at the request of General Manhar,” repeated the announcer.

  “Harran Mapmaker, Harran Mapmaker,” murmured the king. “Ah, yes, Harran Mapmaker!” he shouted, snapping his fingers. He looked at the announcer. “Well? What are you standing there for? Show him in, show him in!”

  The announcer scuttled off.

  “Show in the general, too!” shouted the king after his subject.

  “Sir, your signature,” reminded the scribe.

  “Not now,” said the king irritably. “We’ll do it in an hour or so. Now be off with you!”

  The scribe sighed and gathered his papers before departing.

  “Ah, gentlemen!” said the king, seeing the general and Harran approaching him. “You have just saved me from the horrifying affliction of writers’ cramp!”

  “I am pleased to be of service,” said Manhar, slapping his left shoulder with his right hand in salute. “I have brought you a guest from well beyond our borders. He claims to be a mapmaker in your service.”

  Harran glared at the general. Guest indeed!

  “That he is,” said the king. “So what seems to be the problem?”

  “It struck me as odd, Sire, that a mapmaker in your service would be travelling with a minotaur.”

  “A minotaur, did you say? Is this true, Harran?”

  Harran saluted. “Yes, Sire.”

  “Interesting,” said the king, scratching his beard. “Where is the minotaur now?”

  “He is in one of your cells, Sire,” said Manhar.

  “In a cell? All minotaurs spotted within the mountain are to be killed on sight! Why is this one still alive, General?”

  “It appears—um—your Majesty, that this minotaur has saved the lives of several dishonoured dwarves who were in trouble, as well as your mapmaker, who says he is obligated to return the favour as a matter of honour.”

  “I see,” said the king, sitting back in his throne and stroking his beard again. “Anything else, General?”

  “Two more things, your Majesty. We have just set up operations in the mountain sector you had suggested and the teleporting device is functional.”

  “Obviously,” said the king. “You couldn’t have returned so quickly otherwise. But didn’t I tell you to use it sparingly? Bringing back a suspected mapmaker is hardly a reason to abuse the magic of the device.”

  “That brings me to the other thing I wanted to mention,” said Manhar. “Your mapmaker claims to have encountered some lizardmen, as well as a lizardmage.”

  “What?!” cried the king. “Is this true as well, Harran?”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Harran.

  The king stood. “Manhar, you go back to the base and bring some extra soldiers with you. Harran, have you got a map indicating where you had the encounter?”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Harran.

  “Good. Give it to the general. Manhar, take a legion with you and cover every inch of those tunnels. Interrogate and then kill any lizardmen you encounter! Understood?”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Manhar, accepting Harran’s map. He saluted stiffly and departed.

  “I thought we had seen the end of those slimy creatures,” murmured the king.

  “Apparently not,” said Harran.

  The king brought his attention back to his mapmaker. “Well, Harran, suppose we start at the beginning?”

  Harran began his tale starting when he last departed the dwarven city. He pulled out several maps that he had made and pointed out the trails that led to possible mining locations. One led across four narrow chasms and over a steep gorge with a lava pool beneath. At the end rich veins of gold could be seen. The gold would be well worth mining if safe bridges could be constructed. Another map showed a trail that ran down into the mountain at a steep angle. There rich points of amethyst covered the walls, and beneath that were signs of silver. Hand holds and a pulley system would be all that was needed to safely mine that area.

  Finally Harran reached the point where he was captured. He left out the part about being held for ransom in a minotaur town. Instead he opted to say that he was being held in a patrol tower cell and the minotaurs were undecided about what to do with him. From there he proceeded with the story as usual, mentioning his deal with the minotaur and their adventures until they were caught in the net.

  The king sat back and stroked his beard. Finally he spoke. “I understand your obligation to fulfil your deal with the minotaur, but it appears he got the worst part of the bargain in this case. It is not your fault that he entered the mountain. Whether you guided him all the way through the mountain or just a couple of feet, he has violated the treaty between the dwarves and minotaurs and must be put to death. The fact that he sacrificed his life for dwarves is irrelevant. It is a promising sign, yes, but irrelevant nonetheless. As for his claim to the throne, I’ve heard all kinds of rumours regarding a lost heir, but each time someone claims to be the heir, they disappear again. He may have convinced you, but I need more tangible evidence.”

  “But—,” began Harran.

  “I hereby absolve you of your obligation to the minotaur,” continued the king without waiting for Harran to finish. “Even if you had fulfilled your part of the deal, it would only have prolonged the inevitable. The minotaur must pay the penalty. As for you, we will hold a celebration in your honour tonight for your bold rescue on behalf of our less fortunate brethren. At that time I will pay you for your successful gathering of maps. I am pleased with the results of your mission. But, please, try not to keep company with a minotaur the next time!”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Harran meekly. He stood, straightened, saluted, and departed with much less enthusiasm than he had entered with.

  The celebration that night was rich with music and wine and the opulent array of food adorning the king’s table would have made even a wealthy human stare in awe. Now Harran knew the meaning of the phrase ‘as rich as a dwarven king’. During the celebrations the king presented Harran with a sum of gold for his successful maps. There was a murmur of surprised awe from some of the rich nobles present at the table. Dwarven transactions were usually made in private. To be paid in public like this was a sign of tremendous honour. />
  Zylor was due to be executed the next morning. That fact nagged at Harran all evening. Here he was, enjoying some of the richest luxuries in the world, while his former companion, one who had saved his life on more than one occasion, was sitting in a cell only hours from death. He hadn’t even seen him since they were captured. The preparations for the celebration kept him too busy; the king’s servants measured him up and down to fit him with the finest clothes; the nobles insisted on hearing the story of his daring rescue; the kitchen staff even made lists of his favourite foods.

  He excused himself early and quietly worked his way down to the dungeon. There were two guards in the guard room playing dice. “I’d like to speak to the minotaur,” announced Harran.

  The guards jumped. They were so engrossed in their game, they didn’t hear him enter. “I—uh—sure, I guess,” said the first guard. He quickly led the way to the third cell and pointed. “In there.”

  “Would you mind opening the door?” said Harran. “I have a hard time talking through doors.”

  “Ah, are you sure?” stammered the guard.

  “Open—the—door,” said Harran slowly and deliberately. “Understand?”

  The guard quickly complied. After opening the door he jumped back. “It’s your funeral.”

  Harran simply shook his head and entered. He took one step and stopped dead in his tracks. The minotaur was chained to the floor and ceiling by his hands and feet. That wouldn’t have seemed so odd if it wasn’t for the fact that the cell was only about five feet high! The minotaur was hunched over in such an awkward position that Harran wondered if he had any bones under all that muscle.

  “Took you long enough,” growled Zylor.

  Harran turned on the guard. “Guard!”

  “Y-Yes?”

  “Don’t you have any bigger cells?”

  “Th-There’s one at the end of the hall.”

  “Then why didn’t you put him in there?”

  “We—It was safer to—uh—.”

  “Give me the keys,” ordered Harran. “I’ll take him there myself!”

  “But it’s against—” stammered the guard.

  “Do it!” shouted Harran. “Or do you want to lose your job because of improper treatment of prisoners?”

  With a shaking hand the guard pulled out the keys to the chains and handed them to Harran.

  Quickly Harran undid the shackles. Zylor’s wrists were bleeding. Apparently the cell was not the only thing designed strictly for dwarves. Zylor slumped to the floor. Harran put the minotaur’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to his feet.

  “Sorry,” said Zylor apologetically. “I’m a little stiff at the moment.”

  Harran swore. “It’s my fault for not coming down to check on you sooner. If I’d have known you were tied up like this, I would have come down right away.” He half dragged, half carried the minotaur to the bigger cell at the end of the hall. “Open the cell!” commanded Harran.

  The guard quickly complied and Harran helped Zylor into the new cell. It was higher and wider, perhaps designed to accommodate humans.

  Zylor sat on the floor and stretched his aching muscles. “You mentioned coming down from somewhere. Where are we?”

  It occurred to Harran that Zylor couldn’t have known where he was since he was unconscious during the trip to the palace. Quickly he related the events leading up to the present, stopping only to bandage Zylor’s bleeding wrists. “So I decided to leave dinner early to check on you and here I am,” he finished.

  “You could have come down sooner,” commented Zylor.

  Harran hung his head. “I know,” he murmured. “Even though I was tied up in preparations for the celebration, I wasn’t sure I could face you after what happened. I should have come sooner. I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Zylor dejectedly. “I’m as good as dead anyway.”

  Harran looked at his companion. Then he turned to the guard. “Guard! Get me some more bandages!”

  After the guard scurried off, Zylor asked, “What do you need more bandages for? I’m not injured anywhere else.”

  “I needed the guard to go away so I could talk,” said Harran in a conspiratorial whisper. “I went to the castle’s library of maps this afternoon and guess what I found?”

  “What?”

  “A map showing a subterranean passageway linked to this part of the palace! I compared it to some of the other maps and I believe I’ve found a way for you to get out of the dwarven city without being seen! The only part I haven’t figured out yet is how to get you out of the dungeon. I can’t exactly use the same strategy I used in the lizardmen’s cavern. I don’t like the idea of killing my own people.”

  “You said I’m to be executed in the morning,” said Zylor. “We don’t have much time to come up with a plan.”

  “I’m working on it,” said Harran. Just then both guards appeared, one carrying bandages and the other nervously carrying a tray of food. Harran rose. “I won’t need the bandages anymore. The bleeding’s stopped. The prisoner could use some food though.” He took the bowl and handed it to the minotaur. After Zylor finished eating, he handed the bowl back to Harran, who handed it back to the guard who brought it.

  “I’ll have to put the shackles back on again,” said Harran apologetically. “The guards wouldn’t want you to be a threat.”

  “As long as they’re bigger than the last ones,” said Zylor, rubbing his wrists ruefully.

  As it turned out, the shackles in that cell matched the size of the cell and were more comfortable to wear, if such could be said of them.

  Harran, satisfied that the minotaur was as comfortable as could be under the present conditions, gave the guard permission to lock the cell door. The guard obliged with obvious relief.

  As Harran left the guard room, two replacement guards came in. The guards that were just on duty were so relieved it was the end of their shift they pushed past Harran and literally ran down the hallway and out of sight. The two new guards looked at each other and shrugged.

  On his way down the hall, Harran noticed a shallow alcove with boxes numbered similarly to the cells. This must be the prisoner’s effects, he thought. He reached for box eighteen, Zylor’s present cell number, but remembered he was originally in cell three. Opening box three, he spotted all of Zylor’s belongings, including his blanket roll and axe. Carefully lifting the contents out, he deposited them in box eighteen where they should be. They would be needed if he managed to break the minotaur out of here. If only he could think of a way to accomplish that! He left the palace and headed home to visit his uncle. Maybe uncle Red would have an idea or two. It would be nice to have someone to help out in this matter.

  He was only a few blocks away from the palace when a loud wailing noise erupted from the palace’s courtyard. “What’s going on now?” said Harran to no one in particular. There was no one travelling in the dwarven tunnels at this time of night anyway. Despite living underground, dwarves still kept track of time in mostly the same way as surface dwellers, but without the aid of the sun or moon, hence their inability to cast spells.

  Harran was about to continue on his way home when it occurred to him they might be preparing to execute the minotaur! He charged toward the palace gate and nearly ran into some sentries who were coming out the other way. “The minotaur’s escaped!” one cried. “Have you seen him?”

  Harran shook his head in disbelief. The sentry assumed that was the answer to his question and charged past Harran down the tunnel after his comrades. Harran ran toward the prisoner’s section and descended to the dungeons. He passed the cell boxes in the hall and noticed the box for cell three was open. In the guardroom several guards roamed aimlessly about. The cell keys were on the table. “What happened?” asked Harran.

  “The minotaur has escaped!” sai
d one guard in a state of near panic. It was one of the replacement guards. “What are we gonna do?”

  “You’re going to help search for him,” said a voice from the doorway behind Harran. It was the commander of the guards. “Come into the courtyard so we can organize the search parties.”

  The guards meekly followed their commander out to the courtyard, leaving Harran alone in the guard room. “Now what?” asked Harran aloud, again without an answer. Seeing the keys he decided to see if he could do a little tracking of his own. He picked up the keys and walked over to cell eighteen. On the way he passed the door to cell three. It was ajar. “That’s funny,” murmured Harran. He could have sworn it was closed after they had moved Zylor. Finding the appropriate key, he opened the door to cell eighteen—and almost had a heart attack. Standing there, shackled to the wall, was a grinning minotaur.

  “I think someone forgot my change of address,” said Zylor.

  When Harran could find words again, he said, “You didn’t escape!”

  Zylor shook his chains. “Dwarven steel.” Then his grin vanished. “Now’s our chance. Hurry!”

  Harran quickly released the minotaur. “This way!”

  Then they ran out of the guard room and stopped so Zylor could get his belongings. Harran opened the box for bin 18 and handed Zylor his axe and pack. Obviously the guards didn’t check the proper bin in their excitement. But then, it was Harran who had moved the contents in the first place. Harran led Zylor to the prisoner’s kitchens and back into a storage room. There was no one about. Either the guards had already checked the area or they were searching in the wrong places.

  “Somewhere there’s a trapdoor in the floor,” said Harran after lighting the small torch in the small room.

  “At least there’s not much ground to cover,” said Zylor.

  “Here it is!” said Harran in triumph. Under an old mat was the outline of a trapdoor. “Help me pry it up.”

  Zylor found an old cleaver and dug it into the crack. With a slight creak it opened, revealing a set of stairs down into pitch blackness. Taking the torch with them they descended, closing the trapdoor behind them so that the mat would fall on top, concealing their escape route.