While the elves were represented by a mix of genders, four men and three women, the dwarves were all male. Dwarven custom didn’t bar women from service, their women simply preferred to stay out of the public eye in order to concentrate on matters of greater importance to the nation—home and children. Let the men play their silly political games of trade and war, the women understood who ultimately controlled the future of the dwarven nation.
The elves were arrayed in fine robes of varying color. Each color signified the aspect of elven society they represented, healing, magic, lore, hunting and agriculture, defense, trade and craft, and bureaucracy. The dwarves were not so formal, preferring to wear their work clothes—heavy overalls and tough leather aprons—having come to the council chamber from their daily labors. Dwarves did not segment their responsibilities as the elves were given to do. Each man among them was a master tradesman as well as a general in their army. Most of them had inherited council membership from their father, and most would pass the position down to the nearest male heir.
Katalas found his friend Duras as he entered. The dwarf gave him a genuine smile, the relief for his friend’s safe return was clearly written on his face. Katalas found it hard to make himself more than a passing acquaintance with anyone who did not serve at his side, but not so with Duras. They were brothers in all but blood, though they shared something there as well. They were each Blade Bearers, holding an ancient and sacred trust in common.
Katalas made for the center of the room, then bowed in respect to the High Councilor. She was a tall, raven-haired elf whose beauty made his heart race. Inoun, lore master, sage, and his secret weakness. It took considerable effort to calm himself as he looked into her dark purple eyes.
“Commander Katalas,” her voice chimed, “you’ve abandoned your post. The council would be pleased to learn your justification.”
Katalas swallowed hard. Inoun never wasted time on pleasantries while council business was pressing. He tried to imagine himself addressing his cadre, striving to be simple and direct.
“Chashak has returned.”
The council took a collective gasp and an agitated murmur spread. Inoun held up a hand and silence descended again.
“What proof do you offer?” she asked. “Misleading rumors are heard often enough as to become tiresome and discounted with ease. Mere shadows at dusk.”
Katalas met her gaze, years of experience steeling his resolve. He spoke in calm assurance, appealing to the logic Inoun held so dear. If he won her support he knew he would carry the council, for her opinion carried great sway.
“You’re no doubt read the yearly reports,” Katalas said. “The Dreadcrest has grown more active in recent years, both in volcanic and fiendish activity. Yrch patrols changed from haphazard to routine. The beasts have become organized with near military efficiency, mounting hourly patrols around the mount in ever increasing numbers. My own cadre came close to discovery far more times than I care to count.”
“Doesn’t prove the Evil One’s back,” came the gruff voice of Breuagnor. “Could be that black dragon is forcing more work out of his slaves.”
“True, my lord Breuagnor,” Katalas turned to the grizzled dwarf, “but there are other signs. Mavros himself has been more active of late, flying his own patrols several times a day. One day he flew south and was missing nearly a fortnight. When he returned, he carried a rider. A rider in black armor.”
Katalas turned back to Inoun whose face was ashen. “Lore master,” he asked, “in all of recorded history, who is the only being ever to ride on the back of Mavros the Black?”
Inoun’s eyes were pink with fear. “Only the Dark One,” she whispered.
The chamber erupted in a cacophony of voices as the council surged to their feet. Inoun sat firm, gripping the arms of her throne and holding Katalas’s gaze as she fought to compose herself.
Katalas lifted his voice and said, “There’s more.”
Uneasy, the councilors settled back to their seats. Inoun’s grip turned white on her throne.
“Continue,” she managed.
“After the Dark Rider came, we heard hammering echo from the depths of the mountain. The Dreadcrest coughed up thick billows of black smoke. It’s red fires turned the night sky to blood.”
“What was it?” Duras asked.
Katalas shrugged. “In truth I don’t know, but it sounded like forge work to my ears. The hammering echoed across the Fen night after night, stopping only at dawn, and resuming at dusk. One night the hammering stopped, the night before we set out for home.”
He turned to catch the eye of each councilor. “Marvos flew sentry around the Dreadcrest’s peak the next day. We hid from his scrutiny, wondering what he was waiting for. Hours later, seven of his siblings arrived, joining him down in the volcano’s heart.
“The dark wyrms gathered together?” Selet, the elven defense minister was alarmed. “Only the Dark One could wield such influence.”
Moddah, an old dwarf who seemed half asleep most of the time, lifted his heavy eyebrows. “You counted six dragons, and Mavros makes seven,” his creaky voice said. “Did you mark which dragon was missing?”
“Kitrinos.”
“Makes sense,” Duras nodded. “He’s been the most loyal to Mavros over the years. Whatever’s going on, he’s likely in the thick of it.”
“Councilors,” Katalas let his shoulders slump, “I have more dark news. The wards protecting the Barrhas Wood are failing. A pack of yrch ambushed my cadre as we entered the forest, and we found another pack deeper within. We dispatched them easily enough, but they shouldn’t have been able to enter the forest.”
Anag’e, the Cela High Mage, sighed. “It’s true. The council has known about the faltering wards for some time. Some force is assaulting the wards, breaking them down little by little. We cannot fathom the origin, but it is a power greater than our own. It’s surely the work of the Dark One or his agents.”
“What can we do?” asked Cetgu, the smallest of the dwarves.
“We lock down the citadel for starters,” Brueagnor said. “I’ve been calling for that for weeks now. If the wards fail, we’ll be overrun with yrch.”
“We must warn our allies as well,” Selet added.
“And our kin on Nesos,” Anag’e said. “It may be that the Yaar mages have the skill to restore our wards, though it’s unlikely they could come in time to aid us.”
“I’ll go to Nesos,” Katalas said. “It’s my homeland. I might be able to best convey our need.”
“No!” Duras stood. He gave his friend a pointed stare. “Assign someone you trust to go in your stead. You and I have a greater responsibility. We must make for the Shrine. If the Bearers are gathering, that’s where they’ll meet.”
“You believe the time of the prophecy has come?” asked Inoun.
“Don’t you?”
Inoun closed her eyes as she sifted through her knowledge of lore and history. “I do,” she said finally. “The signs are clear, though I wish they found us a people better prepared. Those bound to the legacy of Xigara must be gathered if we have any hope of seeing beyond tomorrow.”
Duras joined Katalas in the center of the chamber and bowed to Inoun. “We’ll make ourselves ready.”
Inoun stood and the council followed her lead. She bowed to the pair in the elven way.
“Go with the goodwill of all free peoples,” she said. “This council is adjourned.”
11
The Helisso Mountains
The pace of life was slow in Sidero’s Hollow. Tander was accepted by the locals with great affection, and he threw himself into their work, doing all he could manage to contribute to the community. Every day was one of discovery, hours filled with delight as he explored the sprawling caverns and learned the stories of the refugees who called them home. He marveled at the wonders of the caverns, enthralled by the power and dedication of the subterranean stronghold and its people.
Tander learned that while a significant p
ortion of the excavations had been done by the dragon, a greater portion had been carved by the souls the dragon had rescued over the centuries. Sidero had watched over pockets of Faithful for uncounted years, saving them from oppression and torture, offering them a refuge when the world turned against them and hope seemed lost.
Sidero began his work when the Kith War sundered the northern elves. He searched for survivors and brought them to his home. He nursed them back to health and most of them accepted his offer of sanctuary, making his home their own and joining his efforts to rescue others. In time, the hollow became a menagerie of elves, dwarves, and men. The immigrants intermingled and children were born into this freedom, raising up new generations to aid Sidero’s endeavors, and laying the foundation of a society that might one day rival that of the northern elves before their sundering.
They made secret contact with other enclaves of Faithful and Devoted around the world, inviting those in need to join them in their hidden realm. Their agents scoured the world for knowledge, though Sidero always seemed to know crucial information far in advance of returning messengers.
The dragon’s source of knowledge was a curiosity, one which Sidero promised to share with Tander.
The dwarven steward Bita led the boy and Vonedil along a glittering passage that plunged toward the mountain’s heart. The old bard seemed revitalized, his health restored by the healing arts of the elves and the free spirit of the community. Vonedil spent his evenings in the massive common hall, sharing his music and wisdom with an appreciative audience. Some nights the old bard would tell tales for long hours, holding the people’s attention as he brought stories both strange and familiar to life. When not in the common hall, he could often be found in quiet contemplation in the hollow’s beautiful temple.
Tander often joined the bard and played his lute. Many other residents joined in with a smorgasbord of instruments and voices. The boy thought his old friend had finally found the flock he deserved, and one that deserved him in turn.
Tander looked ahead at his new friend. Though gruff in speech and somewhat uncouth, Bita was as kindhearted a soul as Tander had ever met. Fierce in his loyalty to the dragon, he was the hollow’s steady presence, its conscience, its heart. Bita had been rescued by the dragon as a lad, snatched away from a slave caravan as it traveled across the northern reaches of the continent.
His body still carried the scars of the ordeal, thirty stripes from his father’s own hand. He’d been beaten and sold into slavery for questioning his parents’ worship of Sane. One of the scars burned bright pink against the ebony skin of his face, a permanent reminder of the evil torture from which he’d escaped.
The downward passage gave way to a square room, its only feature a large wrought iron door on the far side. The door had no knob, lock, or clasp to be seen, only six large holes bored part way into the smooth surface. Bita pulled his war hammer from his belt and rapped the door three times. When he turned back around his face was split in a wide grin.
“Welcome to the private hall of Sidero,” he said. “Don’t touch nothing without permission.”
Tander smiled back. He’d grown familiar with Bita’s bluntness, seeing it for the affectation it was. But something in the dwarf’s tone told the boy it wasn’t a jest.
The heavy door started to slide away a few seconds later, disappearing into the rock wall. Sidero stood revealed in his humanoid shape, using his taloned hand to push the door aside.
“Come in, my friend,” Sidero’s voice echoed in the chamber. “I’ve been preparing for your visit. I hope my planning proves sufficient.”
They stepped aside as Bita led them into the largest single cavern Tander had ever seen, larger even than the massive common hall. An array of lamps spread about the room struggled to light the grotto, but the ceiling was so high the light failed long before reaching the ceiling, illuminating only the tips of the longest stalactites overhead.
The sound of metal squealing against stone interrupted their inspection. Tander turned to see Sidero’s hand embedded in the door, sliding it shut. No one but the dragon’s hand could move the slab of iron. Sidero gave a toothy smile and led his guests inward.
Bita’s warning against touching things became clear. Rows of shelves filled the left hand side of the cavern, packed to overflowing with books, scrolls, and artifacts of every sort. The right hand side teemed with racks of weapons both ancient and modern. Swords, spears, axes, and hammers rested in bins while suits of armor and great war engines loomed beyond. Tander recognized specimens from a multitude of ages and cultures, from the stone axes of ancient Northmen to elven longbows.
It seemed a museum dedicated to war.
Sidero led them up between these displays of knowledge and power towards a wide dais carved from the cavern floor. A long ramp led up to the rock platform where they found a small setting of furniture in a near corner. But it wasn’t the low sofas that drew Tander’s attention, it was the food.
Elven bread sat near a pile of salt-cured pork—a dwarven staple. Fresh corn and snow peas rested in bowls next to sea pears, a delicacy from the inland seas, highly favored by the tann. A block of green cheese of a sort Tander had never seen before sat near a melange of drinks—elven tea, spiced wine, dwarven mead, malt beer, fruit spica, and fresh mountain spring water.
The remaining surface of the platform was bare but for a tall pillar on the far corner. A luxurious sheet of blue velvet covered the thick column, obscuring whatever object rested at its top. Tander thought it clearly precious to the dragon.
Tander was startled by the sudden sound of stone crumbling. He whipped around to see Sidero in the midst of his bone-contorting transformation into dragon form. Though he’d witnessed the change several times during his stay in the hollow, Tander wondered if he’d ever get used to the sickening sound of bones contorting. A glance in Bita’s direction told him even the seasoned dwarf was disturbed by noise.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for not sitting at the table,” Sidero’s voice echoed in the cavern, “but I find sitting on those little elven couches uncomfortable. I’ll be a more gracious host resting here in my true form.”
“When have we ever stood on formality, my friend?” Vonedil asked. “Besides, who would dare tell a dragon he’s an ill-mannered host?”
“Can we eat yet?” Bita groused. “It’s a long walk down here you know.”
Sidero’s laughter filled the chamber. “Yes! Sit, eat, and enjoy.”
Bita collapsed to the floor with a thump, settling down to sit cross-legged at the low table’s edge rather than take a place on the couches. Tander and Vonedil watched with amusement as he piled his plate high with food.
Soon, they were all sitting and enjoying the fare and one another’s company. The mood was light, and Tander began to wonder if there were some point to the gathering beyond mere hospitality. He thought Sidero had promised answers.
He didn’t have to wait long, for as he ate the final remnants of cheese from his plate, Sidero shifted their conversation.
“What do you think of this haven we’ve built, manling?”
“It’s wonderful,” Tander’s mouth was stuffed with cheese. “Impressive.”
“Come now,” Sidero gave a playful scoff, “surely an aspiring bard can elaborate. You speak in generalities. What about our home leads you to choose words of such high praise?”
Tander glanced and Vonedil and blushed. “Well, I’ve seen many wonders to be sure. Caves glittering with jewels, great waterfalls crashing down into vast pools illuminated by glowing fungi, the architecture of many races blended together to create dwellings fit for kings. Yes, I’ve seen wonders.”
“But?” Vonedil prompted.
Tander gave an apologetic shrug. “Those wonders seem insignificant in light of the people who live here. Your people create these grand dwellings and share them with the most humble of citizens. I’ve never imagined a society like this, as close to a utopia as ever conceived, and voluntary. A rag-tag collecti
on of refugees and former slaves has blossomed into perhaps the most prosperous and advanced culture our world has ever known, yet that world knows nothing of its existence.”
“That will soon change, I fear,” Sidero’s voice was quiet. “But what of you, Tander, son of Festin? How do you fit into our community?”
Tander rocked back in his seat a bit, feeling the weight behind the question. He sensed the burden of destiny in the dragon’s voice, a burden too great for a boy of his years to bear.
“I…I haven’t thought about it much,” he stammered. “I’ve only thought of each moment as it comes.”
“Typical human,” growled Bita.
“Hush,” Vonedil chided. “Give the boy a chance to grow up.”
“Don’t hush me, old man,” Bita retorted. “The pup’s a Bearer ill-prepared for the road ahead. We’re to put our fate in his hands? It’s madness, I say. Foolishness.”
Tander was shocked by the dwarf’s sudden passion. “What’s going on?”
Vonedil was muttering about the intemperance of dwarves when Sidero’s soft voice caught their attention.
“History moves on, my friend, whether we are prepared or not. Events have been set into motion and will sweep us along regardless. Everything I’ve helped create here, indeed the purpose of my life, is but a piece in a vast game.”
“What does all this have to do with me?” Tander frowned. “Now you’re the one speaking generalities. What game? And what are the rules? If I’m to be made part of it, I need to know how to play.”
Sidero stared at Tander for a moment, and Tander felt his indignation wither under the dragon’s scrutiny. Then Sidero blinked and burst out in a rumbling laugh.
“The ears of a bard indeed,” Sidero chuckled. “You turn my own words against me. Settle yourself, manling, and let us speak plainly.”
The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara) Page 7