The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  "Easy." Ahira's voice was a harsh whisper. "It's only me."

  He set the sword back on the grass and tightened his cotton loincloth around his hips. That had been enough to sleep in, on a warm night.

  He looked around. Within the circle of wooden boxes, everyone else was asleep, sprawled out under their blankets like a collection of corpses—except for Andy-Andy, who was huddled under hers in a fetal position, shivering in her sleep. Barak shrugged. It was her own fault: Not only had she turned down his suggestion that they share each other's warmth, but she had stubbornly ignored his reminder to make certain she kept at least two-thirds of her covering underneath her. The ground stole a body's warmth more readily than even the chilliest air.

  Rubbing his eyes, he glared up at the dwarf, not able to make out his expression in the dim starlight. "My turn to go on watch? Already?"

  "No." Ahira beckoned him to his feet. "Look down the hill, down toward the city."

  Barak drew air into his lungs and stared off into the distance. Nothing. A few lights twinkling in the city, stars shimmering over the sea, but that was all.

  Wonderful. Our leader is jumping at shadows. "So?"

  "You don't see anything on the road?"

  Below them, the road was a black ribbon on a black background. "Don't be silly. You do?"

  "I . . . I thought I saw a shape, like somebody fallen—there it is. Can't you see it? It's glowing like a—"

  "Glowing?" He stared. Nothing. Oh. "I don't see in the infrared, remember?"

  "Sorry—wait." The dwarf pointed. "But you can see that, can't you?"

  Barak followed the other's gesture. Farther down the road, lanterns twinkled like fireflies. Three—no, four of them. They were too far off, too dim for Barak to make out the shapes holding them, but . . . "I do see the lanterns. But why are they out—"

  "Ohmygod. The shape on the road—it's Hakim." The dwarf spun around. "Everybody, up. Now."

  Barak stooped to pick up his scabbarded sword. Best to keep it in its dark sheath, lest the bright steel reflect light, announcing his presence. He cast a longing look at his leather armor, heaped next to his blankets on the grass. "I'd better take it."

  "Like hell you will. No time."

  "No, I didn't mean the armor. I meant I'll get him, bring him back. Your legs are too short to run fast." Four of them, eh? He would have to take out two quickly, before they became aware of his presence. And even two-on-one would be a chancy shot. "Get your crossbow, follow me."

  Ahira's face was still unreadable. He hesitated. Then: "Go."

  Barak sprinted away. Behind him, Ahira called to the others. "Get up, damn you all."

  * * *

  Barak reached Hakim when the soldiers were still a few hundred yards away, the flicker of their lanterns announcing their coming. "Walter!" He reached out a hand and felt at the thief's neck. Good; there was a pulse. He slipped his hand down, his fingers coming away sticky. There was a knife in the thief's shoulder, dripping blood.

  He rubbed his hand on his thigh. Where the hell was Lightfingers? No time to worry about that now. He could try to move Hakim off the road, but that might be too dangerous. There could be other wounds; moving him might kill him.

  He smiled. Besides, there was some business to take care of first.

  Slipping silently into the bushes beside the road, he loosened his sword in its sheath. Well, Karl, now we find out if you have it.

  Karl? No—Barak. Karl Cullinane hadn't raised a hand in anger since the third grade. Karl wouldn't squash a spider; he'd lift it on a piece of paper and fling it out of a window instead.

  Karl was a peasant, Barak a warrior. So it had to be Barak, not Karl.

  And to a warrior, everything is a challenge, or a reward. But he had to decide what the challenge was. Merely chasing them away wouldn't do; perhaps they could dig up reinforcements. He had to take out four soldiers—no euphemisms, kill them—and he had to do it without getting hurt himself. Doria had none too many healing spells left; Walter might need all of them.

  "Arno, I think I see him," the closest of the soldiers said in curiously accented Erendra, then broke into a trot. Chainmail and a shortsword, plus his lantern—Barak could save him for later. But the lantern, dangling from a pole—that had to go quickly, before anyone spotted him crouching in the bushes.

  Barak felt around the ground. His fingers located a jagged rock, half the size of his fist. He hefted it experimentally, and threw.

  The lantern shattered, drenching the soldier in flames. He dropped his sword and screamed, his skin crackling.

  The screams were like a signal to the other three; they dropped their lantern poles, the nearest two drawing their swords, the other, probably the leader, bringing up his crossbow. Its tip weaved, uncertainly.

  The wind brought a stench of burning flesh to Barak's nostrils. He slipped his sword from its scabbard, keeping the blade low, next to the ground.

  "Where?"

  "I don't see—"

  "It's the thief—he's shamming." The leader's crossbow leveled itself at Hakim's crumpled form.

  Barak gripped his sword and charged out of the bushes, directly at the leader, a growl forcing itself from his throat.

  The crossbow wavered as Barak closed, breaking stride to kick one of the swordsmen sprawling, ducking under the other's wild swing. Too bad. You want to live too much. The leader's drill was obvious: Kill one enemy, ignore the other one charging you.

  He smacked the flat of his sword against the side of the crossbow, sending it spinning away in the dark, the bolt discharging harmlessly to his left.

  The leader's eyes grew wide; he reached for his sword as Barak's backswing caught him at the base of the neck, the swordtip cleaving his throat effortlessly, dark blood fountaining.

  The heavyset man clapped both hands to his throat, trying to hold the wound closed, his cry of pain only a gurgle as a dark torrent poured out through his fingers.

  Barak spun around, leaving him at his back. No time to finish him off, not yet. When it's one-on-many, you can't worry about killing a disabled enemy when there are still unhurt ones around.

  The one he had kicked away was gone, vanished in the dark, his sword lying still on the ground. Where is he? Never mind—worry about him when you've killed the other.

  The small dark man in front of him smiled, crouching, his sword in his right hand, a long, curved dagger in his left. "Many thanks for the promotion, friend," he said in Erendra, stepping lightly forward, his sword weaving like an eager cobra. "I never liked Arno anyway."

  No time for chatter; there was still one man unaccounted for. Barak slashed, the blade of his sword parallel to the ground.

  The soldier slid to one side, easily deflecting Barak's sword with the flat of his dagger. Before Barak could bring his sword back into line to parry, the slim rapier had nicked at his biceps. It stung, terribly.

  "Not used to two-swords, eh?" He lunged, in full extension.

  And gasped down at his right wrist, almost severed by Barak's blade. The sword dropped to the dirt.

  Barak smiled down at the crumpling figure. "Then again, maybe I a—"

  An arm closed on his throat, dragging him back, off-balance. At the edge of his vision, a gleaming dagger rose, and started to fall.

  Time seemed to slow. You stupid idiot. You know better than to chat while a fight's going on. He released his grip on the sword, bringing his hands up to block the downward thrust, knowing that he'd never make it in time.

  It just wasn't possible; the knife only had to travel a few inches to reach his throat, but his hands would have to seize the wrist, stop the downward movement—

  Both hands met at the soldier's flaccid arm, as the other arm loosened at his throat. He grabbed, twisted, brought an elbow back into his enemy's midsection, and spun around.

  "No need," Ahira's voice rasped from behind.

  Barak looked at the soldier. A crossbow bolt transfixed the man's head from temple to temple, its dark iron head bent
, crumpled.

  The dead soldier stared up at him, eyes wide in reproach.

  Twang! Barak turned to see Ahira standing over Walter, drawing the string of his crossbow back, slipping in another bolt and sending it whistling into the leader. "Never worry about conserving bolts. Better to make sure that they stay dead." The dwarf sent another bolt into the smoldering body of the first soldier, the one whose lamp Barak had shattered, then looked up, a crooked grin on his broad face. "Not bad, Barak. Not too bad at all." He frowned. "Except for that stupid bit of bravado. But never mind; just do it better next time. Right now, we've got to get these bodies hidden, have Doria heal Hakim—and you, come to think of it; don't want your arm getting infected—then get ourselves packed up and out of here. There's probably going to be hell to pay—hey, what's wrong?"

  Karl Cullinane was on his hands and knees in the dusty road, the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils, vomiting like a fiend.

  * * *

  Squinting in the dawn light, Ahira tugged at the cords lashing his two rucksacks together, then shook his head. It would tend to keep him off balance, having two packs on his back, but that couldn't be helped. Somebody had to carry the extra—either that, or leave behind supplies that might be needed.

  "Hakim?"

  The thief stopped fiddling with his pack and lifted his head. "What is it?"

  Ahira held out a hand. "Toss me one of your knives. If I have to, I want to be able to cut these loose."

  "Fine." Hakim flipped a knife point-first into the ground at Ahira's feet, then turned back to his work.

  Ahira opened his mouth, then closed it. Ever since Doria had healed Hakim, he had been distant, quiet, not himself. Not at all. Best to leave him alone, at least for a while. What had happened in Lundeyll must have been bad—climbing down a sheer wall with a knife in his shoulder, running flat-out for five miles with soldiers after him, wanting his blood . . .

  He'll get over it. He's always been strong.

  Doria gave her rucksack a final pat, then raised an eyebrow in an unvoiced question. There would be a bit of time until the others were ready to leave; Ahira had assigned loads based on physical strength, and the only one with less to carry than Doria was Aristobulus. Less to carry; less time to pack.

  He gave her a nod and the warmest smile he could come up with. "Go ahead." Even if she was almost out of healing spells, maybe she could do some good.

  As Doria crouched beside Hakim, Ahira beckoned the others to him.

  "You almost ready?" Ahira kept his voice low. No need to distract Doria or Hakim.

  Andrea nodded. She was keeping her distance from Barak. That was strange, considering the way she'd behaved the previous morning. Then she had clung to him like a leech. "Just a couple more minutes."

  Barak frowned, rubbing fingertips against the bloodstained tear on the arm of his jerkin. The blood had dried, and Doria had healed the wound, so it couldn't be hurting him.

  Then again, not all wounds are to the body.

  Barak shrugged. "I'll be done shortly. I can take more, if necessary. No need to have the rest put out a lot of effort carrying what I can haul easily." He flexed his shoulders, threatening to split the seams of his jerkin.

  Ahira smiled. Barak was getting damn cocky, after the way he'd almost gotten himself killed. Then again, that was better than his Karl-self exercising his guts about a few local soldiers who had been trying to kill Hakim and him when they died. "You too, Ari? Good. Just as soon as Doria's done talking to Hakim, we head down to Lundeport, and see if we can book passage to Pandathaway." He stooped to pick up Hakim's knife and stuck it diagonally under his belt, the cutting edge up, then bent carefully at the waist to make certain it was secure, and that it wouldn't cut him. A quick check on the straps binding his battleaxe to his chest showed that they were tight, too, although it would take only two quick tugs to undo the loops and free the axe.

  "Pandathaway? Andrea's forehead wrinkled. "God, that sounds familiar." She turned to Barak. "Doesn't it, Karl?"

  He shook his head. "No. First I've heard of it. Maybe you overheard something, when Hakim was telling Ahira what happened down there." He glared down at the dwarf. "Not that he's seen fit to share it with the rest of us."

  The warrior had all the sensitivity of a stone. "He didn't want to have a bunch of people around," Ahira said, not bothering to keep the scorn out of his voice. "How would you feel if you'd been cut up like he was?"

  "Listen—"

  "Karl." Andrea took a careful step closer to him. "Didn't you tell me once, quite a while back, about another character of yours? Something of Pan-something . . . ?"

  Barak nodded, quizzically, stroking at his beard just the way Karl Cullinane used to stroke at the stubble on his face. "Sure. Lucius of Pandathaway—Pandathaway." His face lit up; he dropped his sword, grabbed her by the arms, whirling her around. "Pandathaway! Of course. I know where we are, we—"

  "Put me down!" As he did, she rubbed at her shoulders, arms crossed defensively across her chest. "You practically pulled my arms off, you clumsy—"

  "Quiet." Ahira turned to the big man, who was still grinning like an idiot. "Two things: First, what do you mean, you know where we are? Second: Why the hell didn't you mention it before?"

  "It was a . . . character Deighton and I rolled up, once. I never got a chance to use him, but he filled me in on the background—where he came from, like that." He rubbed his fists against his temples. "I . . . I don't know why I didn't think of it before. It's like there's too much inside my head, too much to manage."

  "I understand." Ahira had been wrong to give him trouble for not remembering. Things in James Michael Finnegan's life seemed like something distant; it took a bit of effort to be James Michael, sometimes, to think like him.

  But that didn't cure his impatience. "Would you please tell us what you know about Pandathaway? It could be—"

  "Damn important." Barak nodded, still smiling. "And it's all good. Pandathaway's a port city, on the Cirric—"

  "The Cirric?"

  "It's a huge freshwater sea, sort of like one of the Great Lakes, only big—" He caught himself, pointed an eager finger at the vast expanse of water spreading out over the horizon. "That's the Cirric!"

  "Almost certainly. You were talking about Pandathaway?"

  "You're going to like it. Nice place. No government—well, not much of one. The city's run by a council of guilds. Lot of them are merchants, so they like to keep the city open and safe, to keep the customers coming. Doc said that you can buy most anything there. There's a saying: Tola ergat et Pandathaway ta." Everything comes to Pandathaway, in Erendra. Barak shook his head, puzzled. "But he didn't say it in Erendra, he said it in—"

  "It translated." Aristobulus nodded wisely. "As we did. It makes sense, if you think about it."

  "Not to me," Barak said, shrugging. "But I was saying—you can get anything there: jewels, silks, spices, slaves, horses—Lucius owns a Pandathaway-bred mare; keeps a quarter horse's pace for a full two miles—anything." He beamed. "And I haven't even given you the best."

  Ahira returned his smile. The swordsman's enthusiasm was positively contagious. "Do I have three guesses?"

  "No. You wouldn't guess right, anyway. In the city—right smack in the middle of the city—is the Great Library of Pandathaway. Doc said, and I quote, 'The Great Library of Pandathaway is to the Great Library of Alexandria as a broadsword is to a paring knife.' "

  Andrea chuckled. "You mean that it's big and awkward, no good for paring an apple?"

  "Get off my—"

  "Shut up." Ahira couldn't help joining in the laughter. "What he's trying to say is that there might be a map there, to show us where the Gate is."

  "Might? If it's known, it's there. It seemed kind of strange, then, how he kept going on about it. I thought Doc was patting himself on the back."

  Aristobulus had been listening quietly, his lined face somber, his head cocked to one side. "And there might be something else there. Something
we need, badly." His gesture included both Andrea and himself. "Spell books. Give me sufficient time, and I'll make two copies of—"

  Ahira shook his head. "I hope we have time for that. But we might not. Consider—"

  "I will consider nothing. Do you have any idea what it is like for a wizard to be without spell books? It's like being a, a . . ."

  "Being a cripple?" Ahira kept his voice low, as his hands balled themselves into fists at his side. "I . . . have some idea of what that feels like." He forced himself to open his hands. "Believe that. But tell me: How long does it take to write a spell? Just one spell, a simple one."

  Aristobulus shrugged, indifferent. "Given the right materials and enough quiet . . . ten days, perhaps. But I don't see—"

  "Precisely. You don't see. And if you don't have everything you need on hand? How long would it take?"

  "That depends, of course. For the Lightning spell, the ink must contain soot from a lightning-struck tree—preferably oak, of course. And then the pen has to be made . . . ." The wizard spread his hands. "But it doesn't matter. I have to have spell books. So does she."

  Ahira shook his head. Didn't the old fool see that anything—everything—had to take a back seat to getting to the Gate? This world was dangerous. It had already cost the life of one of them. They had to get home.

  And me? Am I going to exchange security for the ability to be a full person? Here, I'm not a cripple. "Just listen—"

  Barak stepped between them. "Let's leave this alone for the time being. We should have enough time to argue about it on our trip, no?" He frowned.

  Ahira nodded, accepting the implied criticism. Barak was right, of course: The leader had no business getting involved in an argument, not when there were things to be done. Maybe Barak should take over—no, he hadn't acted very intelligently during the fight. An excess of bravado was bad enough in a team member.

  And besides, I took on the obligation. It's mine, not his. "Correct, Barak. My fault.—You haven't packed your armor, have you?"

  "Huh? What does that have to do with anything? I haven't, but I don't see what—"

  "Take off your clothes—I need your jerkin, but you can keep your leggings. You can put your armor on over your bare hide."