The mage lifted one snowy brow. “Such as?”
“Dragons, for example. Is Atorrnash threatened by their wars?”
“Not really. The use of magic is intense in the city, and most dragons find this uncomfortable and give Atorrnash a wide berth. They do bedevil trade routes from time to time, but except in the savannahs and the forest to the north, dragons are a minor inconvenience at worst. Except, perhaps, for that one,” the mage amended, grimacing slightly as he nodded toward a faint red dot in the sky.
Sharlario looked up, and his heart plummeted. “The Master of the Mountains,” he murmured in a voice raw with dread.
“You mean Mahatnartorian, I take it. Yes, he is a bit of a nuisance. I have lost considerable cattle to his appetite—my herdsmen’s magical defenses are pitifully inadequate against a great wyrm. I will construct better wards when my work permits me the time. But surely, Mahatnartorian is no threat to your homeland, distant as it is.”
“The dragon is flying north, and I know where he is bound,” the Moon elf said grimly. “We must leave at once.”
“Ah.” Ka’Narlist nodded in understanding. “You have had dealings with him, I take it?”
“He was conquered and banished by a clan of avariel. I fought with them, as I owed them an honor bond.”
“Avariel?”
“Winged elves,” Sharlario said grudgingly, wishing for some reason he had not spoken of them.
But Ka’Narlist seemed to take the comment in stride—no doubt he was jaded by exotic beings brought into existence by his own work. “And now the dragon is returning to settle the score. Of course you must go. But if you can tarry an hour’s time, my wemic will see that you have a warrior band to take with you. A vengeful dragon is no easy thing to vanquish.”
For a moment, Sharlario was tempted. He could not dismiss, however, the casual way that the archmage had spoken of the dark-elven attitude toward conquest and dominance. Instinct told him that accepting Ka’Narlist’s offer would almost certainly seal the fate of the forest elves.
“I thank you, but I cannot wait. Not only is my family endangered, but I am bound by oath—” the Moon elf began.
Ka’Narlist cut him off with an upraised hand. “I quite understand. Do as you must, with all possible speed.” The wizard turned to the ever-attentive servants who lingered on the garden’s perimeters and bade them escort the Moon elves to the northern gate without delay. “Or better yet,” he amended to Sharlario, “I will put you well on your way myself. Did you pass close to the white cliffs, some several days’ travel to the north? Good. I shall send you there.”
The wizard stretched out one hand. He clenched it into a fist, then made a quick sweeping motion to one side. There was a brief flash of light, and the Moon elves were gone.
“Hmph,” the wemic grunted, obviously unimpressed by this solution to their visitors’ problem. “They’re not dressed for the trail.”
“They are now. All their original belongings are with them, as well as most of the things they acquired in the city. Except for this harp,” Ka’Narlist said, his lip curling as he cast a derisive glance at the instrument. “Dispose of this tinkling horror at the first opportunity.”
“As you wish, master. But the elves—you just let them go,” the wemic said, a question in his catlike eyes. “You had thought to give them in sacrifice to your god.”
Ka’Narlist shrugged. “Fetch me another pair of white elves from the slave market—Ghaunadar will not mind the substitution. I have a different use for the northerners.”
He waited for the wemic to ask, but the slave merely gazed at him—or past him. Ka’Narlist chuckled.
“You are stubborn, Mbugua. I see you wish to know, but I could flay your hide from your bones before you would ask. Very well, then. As you know, the dark elves are not the only People wielding powerful High Magic. Our raiders have been perhaps a bit too zealous of late, and conflict between the races of elves escalates. In time, there will be war, and the fair races have much to avenge. As things now stand, the outcome of such a war is in no way certain. And yet, if our visitor speaks the truth—”
Here Ka’Narlist paused and raised an eyebrow in question. The wemic knew what was expected. He had been a shaman among his own people, and he was still well versed in reading the hearts and spirits of those around him.
The slave grudgingly nodded an affirmation. “He speaks truth.”
“In that case, I should very much like to acquire some of these winged elves. Sharlario Moonflower is a merchant. Perhaps he could be persuaded to provide me with a few.”
The wemic did not need to ask what use his master had for such exotic creatures: The castle dungeons and grounds were teeming with the results of Ka’Narlist’s magical tampering. And he knew his master well enough to suspect what in particular he had in mind.
“You would make winged dark elves,” Mbugua stated.
“Night flyers,” the wizard affirmed, his crimson eyes misted with the vision of future glories. “What an amazing army they would make! Invisible against the night sky, armed with dark-elven weaponcraft and magic!”
The wemic shook his head, not only to express his doubts, but to shake the horrific image from his mind. “But the red-pelt is an honorable elf. He will not bring his winged brothers to you as slaves.”
Ka’Narlist only smiled in return. “It is a rare merchant who will not be swayed by enough gold and gems. But say that you are correct about our red-haired friend. Do you forget how you came to this keep? Have you forgotten the raid that enslaved your clan and all but destroyed your savannah? Have the scars from my chains faded from your wrists and paws? Has the stench of your dead mate’s burning fur been banished from your dreams?”
The wemic did not respond to the dark elf’s taunting. He knew better, though his throat ached with the effort of holding back roars of anguish and fury.
“You have sent raiders to follow the red-pelted elves,” Mbugua murmured as soon as he could trust himself to speak.
“Nothing so crude as that. I have sent a scrying jewel with him. Why else would I trade a prince’s weapon for a peasant’s trinket?” the dark elf reasoned. “If Sharlario Moonflower’s tales are true, then Mahatnartorian will try to reclaim his mountain kingdom and avenge himself on these avariel, these winged elves. I would like to observe these creatures in battle, learn their strength and their customs. If the winged elves show promise, then I will follow Sharlario to their hidden places. When I have need of these avariel to serve in my own war, I will send raiders to harvest them.”
“This war—it is coming soon?”
Try as he might, the wemic could not keep a note of hope from his voice. In such a conflict there was a chance of defeat for his master—and freedom for himself and his kin.
The dark elf’s smile mocked these dreams. “Not for many thousands of years, my loyal servant,” he said softly. “But do not trouble yourself on my account—I will still be alive and in power, and my people will win the battle handily. And you, my dear wemic, will still be around to witness this victory—in one form or another. This, I promise you!”
As sunrise broke over the eastern hills, Durothil crouched on the blasted plateau that had once been a sacred dancing hill. The elven mage was motionless but for the green eyes that scanned the southern skies. For years now he had spent hours at a time on this mountain, keeping watch and strengthening both his plans and his resolve.
It had taken him a long time to figure out what Sharlario Moonflower was doing. The Moon elf traveled incessantly, seeking out elven communities and enlisting their help for a coming battle. From what Durothil could gather, the great red dragon who had blasted this mountaintop had been bested and sent into exile by the winged elves, with Sharlario’s assistance. Dragons, from all accounts, followed certain codes of battle and behavior. Red dragons were treacherous creatures who did so only with great reluctance—and who usually exacted vengeance later. The time of banishment was almost up.
Th
at morning had dawned bright and clear, but the wind was sharp with the promise of coming winter. Durothil rose and began to move about, swinging his arms to warm himself. He walked over to the edge of the plateau and gazed out over the foothills into the southern sky. There was no sign yet of the approaching red dragon.
A breeze swept up from the steep cliff below, bearing a strange odor to the watchful elf. Puzzled, Durothil wrinkled his nose and tried to place it. There was a powerful scent of musk, with an sweetish note reminiscent of the lemon trees that once had bloomed in the royal gardens of Tintageer.
Suddenly Durothil found himself looking directly into an enormous pair of yellow eyes. The shock froze his feet to the mountain even as his well-trained mind took note of details: those eyes were each as big as his own head, they were slashed with vertical pupils and bright with a malevolent intelligence, and they were set in a terrifying reptilian face armored with platelike scales the color of old blood.
As the stunned elf stared, something like a smile lifted the corners of the creature’s maw. Steam wafted from wet and gleaming fangs.
“You have much to learn of dragons, little one,” the great creature rumbled, punctuating his comment with a puff of sulfur-scented smoke. “We have wings, yes, but we also have legs! People always expect to be warned by the crash of underbrush and the clanking of scales, when in truth no mountain cat walks in greater silence.”
Durothil shook his head in dazed denial. This was not at all how this meeting was supposed to go. All his magic, all his careful preparations, were locked in some inaccessible part of his mind by the paralysis of dragonfear. The elven mage knew better than to look into a dragon’s eyes, of course, and he would never have done so had the creature not surprised him. Now, he was as helpless as a trapped mouse awaiting a raptor’s strike.
The dragon’s wings unfurled with a sound like a thunderclap and then thumped rhythmically as Mahatnartorian rose into the air. He wheeled slowly about, holding Durothil’s eyes with his hypnotic gaze and forcing the elf to turn with him as he circled around and lowered himself onto the center of the plateau. The dragon lifted his horned head and sniffed at the air.
“There is interesting magic about, elf. Yours?”
Durothil nodded, despite all his attempts to resist the creature’s power.
The dragon settled, tucking his front paws under his chest and wrapping his tail around his scale-covered body. Something about the posture brought to the elf’s mind an incongruous picture of a bored house cat.
“I would like to see what magic you’ve prepared against me,” Mahatnartorian continued, in much the same tone as a king might command a performance from a jester of scant renown. “Do your best, little elf. Oh, don’t look so surprised—or so hopeful. The best wizards of the south could do nothing to harm me. My resistance to magic is too powerful,” he said complacently.
“Then how did Sharlario Moonflower subdue you?”
The words were out before Durothil could consider the consequences. As he cursed his fear-addled tongue, the dragon’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“You are fortunate, elfling, than I am in the mood for diversion,” he said in an ominous rumble. “By all means, divert me. I rather hope your magical attack tickles—I have grown unaccustomed to the cool air of these northern lands, and a hearty laugh might be pleasantly warming.”
Durothil felt the dragon’s hold on his mind slowly slip away. As soon as he could move of his own accord, he tore his gaze from those malice-filled eyes. Then he reached into a moss-lined bag and gently removed a small cube. He took a deep breath and began the chant he had been preparing for years.
The dragon listened, massive head swaying in derisive counterpoint to the rhythm of the elven chant. As the magical forces gathered, however, the dragon’s horned brow beetled in puzzlement and consternation. The elf was focusing his efforts not upon the dragon, but upon some object—and on something else that Mahatnartorian could not quite identify.
As Durothil’s chant quickened and rose to a swift climax, he hauled back one hand and hurled a small object at the dragon. A small, viscous green glob splatted on the creature’s armored side.
Mahatnartorian regarded the mess, one horned brow lifted incredulously. “That is the best you can do? You disappoint me, elfling. At the very least, you could—”
The dragon broke off abruptly as a sudden chill, sharp as a rival’s teeth, stabbed through the protective armor of his scales. He glanced down, and noted that the spot of green was beginning to spread. The dragon reached out with the tip of his tail and tried to peel the strange substance off. His tail was caught fast in it—try as he might, he could not pull his tail free of the elastic substance.
Roaring with rage, Mahatnartorian rose onto his haunches and tore at the swiftly spreading goo with his front paws. Not even his massive talons could halt the flow. Frantic now, the dragon beat his wings in an instinctive attempt to fly, to seek the safety of his lair. The buffeting winds sent the elf hurtling back, rolling perilously close to the edge of the flat.
But the effort came too late. The dragon’s hind quarters were already stuck firmly to the mountain. In moments Mahatnartorian was completely encased in an enormous cube that claimed nearly the entire plateau.
Durothil scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving and his breath coming in ragged gulps. He walked cautiously around the still-struggling dragon, taking care not to meet its stare. Finally the dragon settled down in apparent resignation, and its massive jaw moved slightly as if in speech. There was a moment’s silence as a ripple passed through the cube to the outer edge.
“How did you do that? What magic do you command?”
The dragon’s voice was oddly altered by its passage through the cube—muffled and mutated until the wobbly cadences sounded more like the mutter of a drunken dwarf than the great, thrumming bass instrument that was nearly as terrifying as dragonfright. But to Durothil, those words sounded sweeter than a siren’s lullaby.
“I do not command such power—I merely entreat. Since elven magic would not serve against so mighty a foe, I sought the power of an ancient god to bring against the great Mahatnartorian.” The response was extravagant, but Durothil was in a mood to be generous—and he knew of the legendary vanity of red dragons.
“A god. Hmm.” The dragon seemed somewhat mollified by this information. “Very well, then. Now that I’m subdued—although I’ll have you know that this is hardly the traditional means of subdual—what service does your god require from me?”
“Information,” the elf began. “I have heard rumors of silver dragons to the north.”
“Consider them confirmed.”
“Your part is not so easy as that. I need to know where the creatures lair. And I need an egg. When I have retrieved and hatched a viable egg, you will be free to go.”
The dragon’s shoulders abruptly lifted and fell, sending a shiver through the cube. A moment later, his derisive snort broke through the gelatinous barrier.
The next series of ripples came quickly, heralding the force of the words to come. “In that case, elfling fool, I will sit in this ridiculous cube forever. You have no hope of success. Have you ever seen a brooding she-dragon protect her nursery? No, of course you have not, for you are still alive to stand before me with that annoying smirk on your face.”
There was more truth in the dragon’s words than Durothil liked to admit. The retrieval of a living egg was the weakest part of his plan. “You have another suggestion?”
“I will retrieve this egg for you,” the dragon offered. “Loose me now, and I will hunt down and slay the silver she-dragon. That I would do, regardless, for I wish to add the silvers’ hunting lands to my own territory. You may consider the egg the fulfillment of the terms of subdual. It is unorthodox, but what about this encounter is not?”
Durothil considered this. “What assurances do I have that you will deliver a viable egg? Or even a dragon’s egg—for all I know of such matters, I might find myself sa
ddled with a manticore kitten. And what is to keep you from turning upon me and my people, once the egg is delivered?”
The laughter that emerged from the cube was tinged with genuine respect. “You are learning, elfling. Let us make a bargain then, leaving your part undone until you have bonded with your silver hatchling. Then you will find some ruse to bring Sharlario Moonflower to this mountaintop. Do that, and I will consider this a bargain well made. The rest of the forest elves can live in peace.”
“I cannot betray one of my own People to you!” the elf protested.
“Can you not? Yet you demand that I deliver one of mine into your hands. For all I know—or care—you could want the little silver brat to cut up for use in your spells, or to sacrifice to this god of yours. Ghaunadar, isn’t it?” the dragon said shrewdly. “Now that I consider the matter, you are precisely the sort of being who would draw the Elder God’s attention—ambitious, smarter than most of your kind, perhaps a bit of a rogue. Willing to try new things, to stretch the limits. Strong with the life-force that Ghaunadar reveres—and craves.
“You do know about that particular little requirement, don’t you?” the dragon continued. From the corner of one trapped eye, he caught a glimpse of Durothil’s puzzled face. A chuckle rumbled through the viscous slime that was a gift of the ancient, evil god.
“You don’t! By Tiamat’s Talons, you are more a fool than you appear! Did you think that one such as Ghaunadar would grant you such gifts, yet demand nothing in return? Oh, he will demand, upon that you may stake anything you like. He will demand the sacrifice of a life-force—yours or another’s. So why not persuade Ghaunadar to consider this Sharlario Moonflower the required sacrifice? Thus can you pay two debts with a single coin. Are we agreed?”
Durothil stood silent, stunned and shamed beyond speech. He had known only that Ghaunadar was an ancient power, one who had sought him out and offered assistance in his quest to aid and rule his People. He should have seen Ghaunadar’s evil nature; he should have known what sort of service the god would require of him. He should have, but he did not, so blinded was he by his desire for power. But that desire, in and of itself, was not evil. Surely not.
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