Dragon Mage

by Andre Norton

  Sigmund fought, however, spitting and kicking, and getting picked up by the men when he planted his feet and resisted with all his strength.

  The boy reminded Nidintulugal of Shilo—determined and defiant. He’d come to admire those traits. Perhaps all the natives from the land called Georgia were so strong of character. Or perhaps it is indicative of all the natives from that time, the priest thought. Sigmund had told him they were from the future. He believed the boy, though he still had difficulty comprehending it.

  The men half dragged, half carried Sigmund, and Nidintulugal listened sadly to the boy’s cursing.

  “Don’t hurt the boy,” Arshaka said over his shoulder. “Not yet, in any event.” After a pause, “The priest, either. I’ll not sully any of our souls by causing harm to one of Shamash’s own.”

  Shamash’s no longer, Nidintulugal thought. A priest no longer. I’ve lied … twice. Can I possibly repent and find redemption? Perhaps in saving the boy from whatever the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar has planned, I might be delivered. And if I can save the boy, maybe I can still entertain the notion of saving the dragon’s eggs. I must do something to save my spirit from the endless abyss.

  Arshaka trundled down the corridor, which sloped sharply and then opened into an oval room, the walls of which were covered with glazed bricks decorated with lions and bulls. A wide, arched door led from it, and Nidintulugal could barely make out brick stairs going down—the Hand’s light did not reach far enough to see beyond the first few steps. There were two benches in this room, both carved from dark wood and polished so they gleamed, the legs resembling lions’ legs and ending in black stone talons. A table near them held a diorama of sorts, and after staring at it a moment, Nidintulugal realized it was a miniature representation of the Hanging Gardens. It was flat, as if someone had peeled off the greenery and stretched it across the table.

  A lit oil lamp hung above the table, casting its soft light everywhere. There were small flags across the diorama, and squinting, Nidintulugal read a few names of trees. Blue ribbons curled here and there, apparently representing the troughs and streams that watered all the plants. In the very center was a tiny bucket on a post, this being the conveyor machine that brought water up from the river.

  Were he not a prisoner, Nidintulugal would have asked to examine the map, and he would have asked how the wondrous conveyor machine worked. He would have asked where the most exotic of the plants and trees came from, and how the king’s representatives had managed to put all of this together. Despite his predicament, he couldn’t take his eyes off the diorama. Did it show ways out from under the mountain?

  And was there another table somewhere, with a diorama that showed the tunnels that twisted beneath the Hanging Gardens?

  “I do not understand.” Nidintulugal finally spoke. “I do not understand, Hand of Nebuchadnezzar, why the girl was important to you. And now why this boy has caught your interest.”

  Arshaka went to the table, put his lantern on the floor, and leaned over the diorama. “A curious priest. Of Babylon’s gods, I favor Marduk. Not because I believe in him, or because I like what is ascribed to him, or because his priests are not so inquisitive. But because his temple is the largest. I’ve not been inside the Temple of Shamash in nearly four years. Are all the priests there so curious?”

  Nidintulugal did not answer.

  “I suppose there is no harm in sating your curiosity, priest. It is Georgia, really, that holds my interest. And the twentieth century.” The Hand of Nebuchadnezzar adjusted one of the flags, retrieved the lantern, and shuffled to the benches. He set the lantern on one, then plopped himself on the other and nodded to the men holding Nidintulugal. “It’s all right. He’s not going anywhere. Are you, Nidintulugal? You won’t try to flee from me, will you?”

  “No.”

  “See? It’s all right. Take his knife, though. One thing I’ve learned from all my years in Babylon is that Shamash priests do not lie. They’d rather die first. So if Nidintulugal says he will stay put, he will. The boy is another matter.”

  Nidintulugal was grateful that the Hand was watching Sigmund now. The Hand might have noticed his darting eyes and quickened breath, might have discovered that indeed he was not being truthful—again. A third time Nidintulugal had lied, for he truly intended to flee from the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar with Sigmund. He could accept whatever punishment was due him for all his deceit. But the boy deserved no ill.

  Sigmund continued to struggle, the hood of his robe thrown back, and his skin streaked. Arshaka watched the boy, a mix of amusement and ire on his fleshy face. He held out his cloth to Nidintulugal. “Take it, take it.” He waved it like a pennant.

  “Come on.”

  Nidintulugal plucked the cloth with two fingers.

  “Wipe off his face. I want to see him better. Do it!”

  Nidintulugal complied, but only because he saw no harm in the task. He gently rubbed the dye off Sigmund’s face and neck, no easy thing to do given that the boy kept fighting against the men who held him.

  “He’s a bad man, Niddy. Shouldn’t do anything he says.”

  Arshaka chuckled. “A little more. There, that’s enough, priest.” He rocked back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Better, much. Now that’s the face that I remember.”

  “Remember?” Sigmund stopped struggling for a moment. “I’ve never seen you before. But Shilo and Niddy told me about you. Never seen you ever. Wish I weren’t looking at you now.”

  This time Arshaka’s laugh was deep and long, sending a chill through Nidintulugal. The priest had never heard the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar make such a sinister sound. He passed the dye-smeared cloth to one of the men who’d held him. Then Nidintulugal rubbed at his arms; there were deep scratches where his captors had dug their nails in.

  “But you have seen me, Sigmund … Sig. When I was younger and we lived in Kennesaw, not terribly far from each other, if my recollections serve me.”

  Sigmund leaned forward, his face pinched as he took a good look at the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar. “No.” He shook his head vehemently. “I would have remembered someone as ugly and rude as you. Why, I think if I had a dog as ugly as you, I’d shave its…”

  “Enough!” Arshaka roared. He was on his feet, shaking his fist at Sigmund. Spittle flew from his doughy lips, and he glared so harshly that Sigmund leaned away.

  One of the men had Nidintulugal’s knife, pointed at the priest to make sure he wouldn’t threaten the Hand. Nidintulugal stood between Arshaka and Sigmund, but he took a few steps back so he could see both without turning his head.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Arshaka said, “whether you remember me.” He talked in English, and Nidintulugal could not understand him. “I remember you, Sig. And I remember the puzzle we found in that old man’s house. I remember traveling to England and seeing the dragon-of-a-man.”

  “Pendragon.”

  “Yes, Pendragon.”

  Sigmund shook his head. “I don’t know you.”

  “I went back to the old man’s house and took a few pieces of the puzzle. You always thought your brother had lost the pieces. Maybe he did—some. But I kept a few, for a reason I didn’t understand at the time.”

  “… Artie?”

  Arshaka nodded. “At last you see me.”

  “Artie?”

  “I discovered that I could use the pieces to travel. And at length, again for a reason that remains a mystery, I picked Babylon to journey to.”

  “Oh…” Sigmund started sucking in mouthfuls of air, shaking his head more, this time in disbelief. “This can’t be real. You can’t really be Artie.”

  “I’ve been here for decades, Sigmund.”

  “But you’re … old.” The last word was said as if Sigmund had just bitten into a lemon.

  Arshaka returned to the bench and sat down, spat on the floor and looked to Nidintulugal. This time he spoke so the priest could understand him. “Sig and I were friends, priest, back when we both lived in Georgia. He
moved away with his parents, to Wisconsin.”

  Nidintulugal mouthed the word “Wisconsin,” growing more confused.

  “And I moved here.” Arshaka rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I have aged, and Sigmund has not. That’s puzzling.” He brightened. “No, I understand. Sigmund traveled here as a child. I traveled here rather than go to college. I stayed, delightful place, this. Sigmund … who knows how old Sigmund really is, or where his adult self has settled.”

  Arshaka rested his elbows on his knees now. Nidintulugal guessed that the Hand might be nervous, or anxious. Always in motion, and sweating more than from the stuffiness of this room. Anxious over a boy? No, anxious over something that was to come.

  The eggs and the demons. Nidintulugal shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. He wished that Shilo were here. Maybe together they could find a way out of here. There was magic about her.

  “Why do you really need the boy?” Nidintulugal drew Arshaka’s attention.

  “Yes. Because of Kennesaw. Because of Georgia.” Again the Hand used a language the priest understood. “Because I’ve forgotten whatever magic I commanded that let me travel through time and across continents. Because Sig here hasn’t forgotten.”

  “You want to go home.”

  “Not perceptive enough, Shamash priest. I want to go home, but only briefly. There are some things there I want to bring back, things beyond this culture’s ability to produce.” He gave another deep, malicious laugh, and Nidintulugal shivered. “Oh, this culture is a relatively advanced one, a good bit of it thanks to me.” He pointed at the ceiling. “These gard…” Arshaka stopped himself. “I better not tell you too much, priest, in the event I decide not to kill you.”

  “The boy…” Nidintulugal pressed.

  Arshaka ignored the priest and again rose from the bench. He smoothed at his skirt. “Sigmund … Dear Sig, all you have to do is take me back to Georgia. Anytime after World War II would be just fine.”

  World war? Nidintulugal pictured the image the dragon had painted of demons flowing across the land.

  “There’s a piece or two of technology I want to pick up.”

  Sigmund redoubled his efforts to break free. “I’m not gonna help you do anything, Artie. Yeah, I can see who you are. The eyes’re the same. But that’s it. You’ve gotten old and fat and smelly and—”

  Arshaka roared, “you foul-mouthed worm!”

  Sigmund giggled, but it was a frightened laugh. Still, it succeeded in making the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar even angrier.

  “I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to, Artie. I didn’t get here under my own steam this time. Either Shilo brought me, or a dragon, maybe both of ’em working together. Can’t say for sure, as I didn’t see the dragon.”

  “Dragon?”

  “Yeah, from what I understand, you stole her eggs. Right?”

  Arshaka’s face was red with fury. He stormed toward the boy and lashed out with his fist, striking Sigmund in the side of the face. The men holding Sigmund nearly dropped him—so strong was the Hand’s blow. The boy spat blood and tried to bring his arm to his mouth to wipe it off, but the men wouldn’t allow it. He spat again and pieces of teeth came out. There was pain in the boy’s eyes, but he didn’t whimper.

  Nidintulugal once more thought the boy and Shilo were of a similar mien. “Do not hit the boy again,” the priest warned.

  “And what will you do about it?” Arshaka didn’t take his eyes off Sigmund. “I want that technology, do you understand? And you can cooperate, or you can die.”

  “Everybody dies,” Sigmund answered.

  Arshaka hit him again.

  “Take them to one of the chambers below. I will call for them later.” Arshaka picked up the lantern and headed back through the doorway, pausing just beyond it. “I do not need you, Sigmund, for my plans to be realized. But your help would make things go quicker and smoother. And there would be far less pain for everyone concerned.”

  The lantern flared over the diorama, and the man with the knife pulled it down from a hook. He gestured with the knife for Arshaka to go through the opposite doorway, the one with the steps disappearing into darkness.

  “Where are you taking us?” Nidintulugal used a civil tone. “I have no concern for myself. But I do not want the boy harmed further.”

  The man with the knife opened his mouth, revealing that he had no tongue. His fellows did likewise.

  “Yuck,” Sigmund said. “That’s just disgusting.”

  Nidintulugal knew Arshaka had either done the deed or had ordered it. He doubted he could ever hate a man more. The priest started down the steps, listening to the footfalls of the two men behind him.

  “Double disgusting with a big dollop of ick on top,” Sigmund said. “Artie sure got nasty in his old age.”

  28

  Men of Clay

  “Arshaka, that rich man who was after me, he’s from the South, from our time.” Shilo talked mainly to herself, though she didn’t mind that Kim listened in. “He’s called the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar, and I understand that he’s in charge of Babylon while the king’s gone. He’s terribly powerful.”

  “Bet he likes it when the king is gone.”

  She nodded. “It took me a while to admit it, but I can’t figure another explanation for it. He’s from the future—our present. Well, your or my present or thereabouts.” She stepped carefully along the slope of the narrow passage, as it was uneven and there were muddy depressions.

  “So what’s he doing here?” Kim walked too close behind her, bumping into the backs of her legs. “There’s no plumbing and electricity. No air-conditioning, no hot showers, no television, no macaroni and cheese. Why’d anyone ever want to come here? Nidin said Arshaka’s the one who probably stole the dragon’s eggs … or since he’s rich, had them stolen. You think he traveled through time, like us, but to hurt things, not to help out like we’re doing?”

  Shilo thought about that a moment. “I don’t know why he traveled through time, but I get the idea he’s been here for several years. I don’t think he originally set out to get the eggs. I think he found out about them, though. And somehow he’s going to use the baby dragons to unleash demons.” She shuddered. “Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”

  Kim made a tsk-tsking sound. “You’re not really into history, huh?”

  The question hurt. She loved history.

  “I mean, I ain’t read that much about it, Shilo, but I’m not stupid. Ever heard about Stalin? Hitler? Mussolini?”

  “Point made.” She stopped at a gauzy curtain. Odd to find such a thing hanging in a tunnel, she thought. “But have you ever heard of Arshaka in a history book?”

  Shilo couldn’t see Kim shake his head. “Of course not, Shilo. That’s ’cause the guy hasn’t done his thing yet. But if he unleashes these demons, and if we make it back home, then we’ll probably find him in the history books. Probably be bigger than Hirohito and Caesar, Napoleon, and all of ’em. People from the future have no right to meddle in the past. It’s not their time, and it’s not their place. History could be changing right now, you know.”

  She thought him wise for his age, and she was pleased that her father had such a friend. “If Arshaka unleashes the demons, Kim, there might not be any home or history books.” Shilo held her breath and touched the edge of the curtain with her free hand. The dripping sound was louder—annoying in its volume—and was directly ahead of them. She drew the material back slowly.

  The lantern shone through the gauze, casting the room beyond in an eerie light and reminding her of one of the better haunted houses her dad had taken her to. She stepped through, careful not to catch the lantern on the curtain and start a fire. There was no one in the room, and she let out a deep breath of relief. Kim came through behind her, then walked past, stopping when he reached the center.

  It wasn’t really a room; it was like the chamber of a cave, though it had been excavated by man, not nature. The walls were dirt, and here and there she s
aw tree roots protruding like bent and broken fingers. There were two other passages leading out, both dark and making her think they looked like black eyes staring malevolently right at her. What bothered her the most, though, was its contents. Crude shelves lined two walls, stretching up to a ceiling that she guessed was at least ten feet high. One shelf was covered with clay bowls, some as small as a cereal bowl, others large enough to bob for apples in. They’d all been thrown on a pottery wheel. The wheel sat off to her right.

  That’s where the dripping sound came from. A contraption like a vat hung suspended near the ceiling. It was above a trough that looked like a double-sized bathtub, and it was next to the pottery wheel. There was a spigot at the bottom of the vat, and it regularly plopped gobs of liquid clay into the tub. Because the tub was metal and the gobs had several feet to fall, they plopped rather loudly.

  “Hey, Shilo, that’s where the squishy sound’s coming from.”

  “I figured that out.” The clay in the massive tub was too wet to work with. But she spotted two smaller tubs beyond it, half-filled with clay that looked more firm. “Drying it out some, looks like.” She didn’t want to stay here long, fearing someone would come to check on the clay or to throw some more of the ugly bowls.

  There were more than a dozen tall, thick candles in the room, and a lantern hanging near the vat, all of them unlit. She sniffed the air, trying to tell if they’d been burning recently. All she could smell was the clay and the earth of the chamber, and her own stink from going so long without a bath.

  “Need to be moving on,” she told Kim. “But I want to get a closer look at what’s on the shelves.” She met his gaze, her eyes daggers.

  “I know, don’t run off. Don’t touch anything.” Softer: “Stop acting like my mother.”