Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  She heard footfalls running toward her. They brushed by and she was pulled through the doorway. Still blinking, her eyes still adjusting, she could barely make out Hadrian throwing back the bolts, sealing it out and them in. From the other side they heard a roar that shook the walls, then silence.

  Royce and Gaunt lay on the floor panting. Hadrian collapsed near the door, and Arista found herself sliding down a wall to her knees. Tears filled her eyes.

  It was over. Thranic had been right. No one was going to cross that room… ever.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE SACRIFICE

  Hadrian raised the lantern and looked up at the collapse. Shattered rock and broken stone crushed into a solid wall blocked the corridor and obliterated the stair. He looked at Magnus at his side. “Well?”

  The dwarf shook his head with a scowl. “If I had a month, perhaps two, I could tunnel it.”

  “We have six, maybe seven, days’ worth of food and perhaps three days of water,” Hadrian told him. “And who knows how much air? I’m also guessing Wyatt and Elden won’t wait much beyond five days before setting sail home.”

  “And don’t forget the Ghazel,” Magnus reminded him. “By now, how many do you think there might be? Five hundred? A thousand? Two thousand? How many more oberdaza have they brought up to deal with the princess? They will be watching the other end of this for some time, I think.”

  Hadrian sighed. “It’s not looking good, is it?”

  “No,” Magnus replied sadly. “I’m sorry.”

  When they returned to the room, Arista was still sitting in the corner by herself. Since the attempt to cross the Vault of Days, she slept a lot and he wondered if she was looking for answers in her dreams. Mauvin lay on the floor, not bothering to use a blanket to cover the stone. He stared up at the ceiling blankly. Gaunt lay curled in the opposite corner from Arista, holding the amulet with both hands, his eyes closed.

  By contrast, Royce and Myron sat chatting next to the last remaining lantern. To Hadrian the two appeared surreal. Myron spoke excitedly, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sifting through the piles of parchments he gathered around him. Each one had been carefully wiped clean of oil. Royce leaned comfortably against the wall, his feet up on Gaunt’s pack, his boots off as he flexed his toes. They could have been in the Dark Room at The Rose and Thorn or any cozy pub.

  “The Ghazel conquered Calis,” Myron was saying. “They came out of the east on ships and attacked. Neither the men nor dwarves had ever seen them before. The men called them the spawn of Uberlin, but it was the dwarves that named them the Ba Ran Ghazel—sea goblins. They overran Calis and drove the clans of men west into Avryn while the dwarves returned underground. The elves warned men not to cross the Bernum River and when they did, the elves declared war.”

  Myron stopped speaking as Hadrian and Magnus approached, both of them looking up expectantly. “No luck, then?” Royce asked, reading his face, which Hadrian was certain was no great feat.

  “No,” he replied with a sigh. He was aware his shoulders were slumped, his head hanging. He felt beaten, defeated by stone, dust, and dirt. Exhausted, he lay down and, like Mauvin, stared at the ceiling. “There’s no way out of here.”

  Magnus nodded. “The stone they used is solid and the princess did an excellent job as well. The collapse is hundreds of feet deep. I think she took out the entire stair and a good deal of the corridor beyond. Perhaps with a crew of twenty dwarves and a month to work with, I could clear the wreckage, build supports and reinforcements, and form a new stair, but as it is, we’ll be dead before I could tunnel a foot-wide hole.”

  The dwarf sat down amidst the scrolls and, picking one up, glanced at it.

  “Can you read Old Speech?” Myron asked.

  “Not likely,” Magnus replied. “Dwarves aren’t even scholars in our own language. Are you finishing that story? The one about how the dwarves saved mankind?”

  “Ah—well, yes, I suppose.”

  “Well, go on. I liked that one.”

  “Um, I was just saying that when the goblins arrived, it drove men west. They had little choice, and those who crossed the river were mostly women and children, refugees of the goblin push. According to what I read, the elves knew this and some argued to allow the humans to stay, but there was more to consider.

  “Elves had already entered into agreements with men that had proved disastrous. The problem was that humans only live for a few decades. A treaty made with one chieftain would be forgotten in just a few hundred years. More than this, though, was the rate of reproduction. Elves had only one child over the course of their long lives, spanning hundreds, sometimes thousands of years. But humans reproduced like rabbits and the king, a chieftain of the Miralyith at that time, thought that men would choke the world with their number and be more plentiful than ants. It was decided to wipe mankind out to the last woman and child before they grew too numerous to be stopped. At that time the Ghazel were attacking the eastern coast of Avryn and the southern coast of Erivan, taking control of what we know as the Goblin Sea.”

  “Were did you get all this?” Hadrian asked.

  Myron pulled out a red leather-bound book. “It’s called Migration of Peoples by Princess Farilane, daughter, incidentally, to Emperor Nyrian, who reigned from 1912 to 1989 of imperial reckoning. It has wonderful charts and maps showing how the various clans of man shifted out of Calis and into Avryn. There were originally three main clans. Bulard theorized that these distinct groups, both in tradition and linguistic foundations—temporarily homogenized by the empire—created the ethnic divisions and the basis for the three kingdoms after the fall of the empire.”

  “Nothing in those books about the horn, then?”

  Myron shook his head. “But I’m still reading.”

  “Speaking of linguistics…” Royce began. “The names you found in the Teshlor guildhall, Techylor and, ah—What was it?”

  “Cenzlyor?”

  “Yeah, him. I knew a man once—a very smart man—who told me words like that and others, like Avryn, and Galewyr, were elven in origin.”

  “Oh absolutely,” Myron replied. “Techylor is actually swift of hand in elvish, and Cenzlyor is swift of mind.”

  “Is it possible that Techylor and Cenzlyor were actually elves?” Royce asked.

  “Hmm.” The monk thought for a bit. “I don’t know. Until we got here, I never even knew they were people.” Myron looked at Magnus. “Is there really no way of digging out? I would so much like to get back to that library again. If Mr. Bulard found these, there may be other books that survived the fire.”

  “That’s why you want to get out?” Gaunt exclaimed, sitting up and casting his blanket back. “We’re dying here! You know that, right? Your little bookish brain isn’t so dense as to not realize that, is it? We will be dead bodies lying on this stone floor soon, and all you can think of are books? You’re crazy!”

  “This is going to sound really strange,” Mauvin began, “but I have to agree with His Heir-ness on this one. How can you just sit there yapping about ancient history at a time like this?”

  “Like what?” Myron asked.

  Even Arista was taken aback. “Myron, we are going to die here—you understand that, don’t you?”

  The monk considered it a moment, then shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “You don’t find that disturbing?”

  Myron looked around. “Why? Should I?”

  “Why?” Gaunt laughed. “He is nuts!”

  “I just mean—well, how is this different from any other day?” They all looked at him incredulously. Myron sighed. “The morning before the Imperialists arrived and burned the abbey was a lovely fall day. The sky was blue and the weather surprisingly warm. On the other hand, it was a horribly cold and wet night when I met the King of Melengar, Royce, and Hadrian, who opened my eyes to untold wonders. When I traveled south through the snow with the awful news about Miss DeLancy, I had no idea that journey would save my life from the elven invasion. So you s
ee, it is impossible to tell what Maribor has in store for us. A beautiful day might bring disaster, while a day that begins trapped inside an ancient tomb might be the best one of your life. If you don’t abandon hope on pleasant days, why do so on those that begin poorly?”

  “The odds of death are a bit better than usual, Myron,” Magnus pointed out.

  The monk nodded. “We may indeed die here, that’s true. But we will all die anyway—is there any denying that? When you think of all the possible ways you might go, this is as fine a place as any, isn’t it? I mean, to end one’s life surrounded by friends, in a comfortable, dry room with plenty to read… that doesn’t sound too awful, does it?

  “What is the advantage of fear, or the benefit of regret, or the bonus of granting misery a foothold even if death is embracing you? My old abbot used to say, ‘Life is only precious if you wish it to be.’ I look at it like the last bite of a wonderful meal—do you enjoy it, or does the knowledge that there is no more to follow make it so bitter that you would ruin the experience?” The monk looked around, but no one answered him. “If Maribor wishes for me to die, who am I to argue? After all, it is he who gave me life to begin with. Until he decides I am done, each day is a gift granted me, and it would be wasted if spent poorly. Besides, for me, I’ve learned that the last bite is often the sweetest.”

  “That’s very beautiful,” Arista said. “I’ve never had much use for religion, but perhaps if I had you as a teacher rather than Saldur—”

  “I should never have come,” Gaunt complained. “How did I ever get involved in this? I can’t believe this is happening. Is anyone else finding it hard to breathe?” He lay back down, pulled his blanket over his head, and moaned.

  In the silence that followed, Myron got up and looked around for more unopened scrolls still resting in the many holes.

  “Who was he?” Magnus asked Royce. “The one who taught you elvish?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A bit ago you mentioned a man taught you about elvish words. Who was he?”

  “Oh,” Royce said, wriggling his toes again. “I met him in prison. He was perhaps the first real friend I ever had.”

  This caught Hadrian’s attention. Royce had never spoken of his time in Manzant before, and because he knew everyone Royce had ever called a friend, except one, he took a guess. “He was the one who gave you Alverstone.”

  “Yes,” Royce said.

  “Who was he?” the dwarf asked. “How did he come by it? Was he a guard?”

  “No, an inmate like me.”

  “How did he smuggle a dagger in?”

  “I asked him the same thing,” Royce said. “He told me he didn’t.”

  “What? He found it? Digging in the salt mine? He uncovered that treasure down there?”

  “Maybe, but that’s not what he told me, and he wasn’t the type to lie. He said he made it himself—made it for me. He told me I would need it.” Royce looked off thoughtfully. “When I was locked away, I swore to myself never to trust anyone again. Then I met him. I would have died in my first month if I hadn’t. He kept me alive. He had absolutely no reason—no reason at all—but he did. He taught me things: how to survive in the mine, where to dig and where not to, when to sleep and when to pretend to. He taught me some mathematics, reading, history, and even a bit of elvish. He never once asked for anything in return.

  “One day I was hauled out before Ambrose Moor, to meet an old man named Arcadius who called himself a wizard. He offered to buy my freedom if I did a special job for him—the Crown Tower robbery, as it turned out.” Royce looked at Hadrian. “I said I would do it if he also paid for the release of my friend. Arcadius refused. So I pretended to go along just to get out. I told my friend that when I got clear of the prison, I would slit the old man’s throat, steal his money, and return to buy his freedom.”

  “What changed your mind?” Hadrian asked.

  “He did. He made me promise not to kill Arcadius or Ambrose Moor—it was the only thing he ever asked of me. It was then that he gave me Alverstone and said goodbye.”

  “You never went back?”

  “I did. A year later I had plenty of coin and planned to buy him, but Ambrose told me he died. They threw his body in the sea like all the others.” Royce flexed his hands. “I never had the chance to thank him.”

  Hours went by. Like the others, Hadrian lay on the floor drifting into and out of sleep. He dreamed he fought beside his father against shadowy creatures who were trying to kill the emperor—who looked vaguely like Alric. In another dream, he sat in the burned-out shell of The Rose and Thorn with Gwen and Albert, waiting for Royce, but Royce was late—very late. Gwen was frightened something awful had happened, and he assured her Royce could take care of himself. “Nothing,” he told her, “absolutely nothing, can keep Royce from your side, not even death.”

  He woke up groggy and tired, as if he had not slept at all. The cold floor punished his muscles, leaving him stiff and sore. The air grew thin, or at least Hadrian thought so. It was not hard to breathe, but it did feel as if he were sleeping with his head under a blanket.

  How much is real and how much imagination? Is the flame in the lantern dwindling?

  Everyone was sleeping, Gaunt in his corner, Magnus against the wall—even Myron was asleep, surrounded by scrolls. The princess lay curled up on her side, near the center of the room. She too was asleep, her eyes closed, head on hands, her face revealed by the lantern light. She was not as young as she once had been and no longer looked like a girl. Her face was longer, her cheeks less round, and there were small lines around her mouth and eyes. Smudges of dirt streaked her face. Her lips were chapped and dark circles formed under her eyes. Her hair was a mess. The lack of a brush left her with snarls and mats. She was beautiful, he thought, not despite these things, but because of them. Looking at her made him feel terrible. She believed in him—counted on him—and he had failed her. He had also failed Thrace and even her father. Hadrian had promised Theron that he would watch after his daughter and keep her safe. He had even failed his own father, who had left him this one last chance to bring meaning to his life.

  He sighed, and as he did, he noticed Royce was not among the sleeping. The thief was not even in the room. Getting up, Hadrian stepped into the hallway and found him sitting in the dark a few feet from the mound of stones piled over Thranic’s body. He could barely see Royce, as so little of the lantern light spilled into the corridor.

  Hadrian let his back slap against the corridor wall and slid down to the floor to sit beside his friend.

  “I’ve finally figured it out,” Royce said.

  “What, the perfect career for us? Not spelunking, I hope?”

  Royce looked at him and smirked. Hadrian could see his friend only by the single shaft of light that crossed the bridge of his nose and splashed his left cheek.

  “No. I realized that the key is you—you can’t die.”

  “I’m liking this so far—I have no idea what you’re talking about, but it’s starting out good.”

  “Well, think about it. This can’t be the end because you can’t die. That’s the whole thing right there.”

  “Are you planning on making sense anytime soon?”

  “It’s Gwen, remember? She said I had to save your life, right? She was adamant about it. Only I haven’t. Ever since she sent us out to search for Merrick, I’ve never once saved your life. So either she was wrong or we’re missing something. And as you know, Gwen has never been wrong. We must be missing something and now I know what it is. This is it. This is where I save your life.”

  “That’s wonderful, only how are you going to do that, pray tell?”

  “Our second plan—I’m the diversion.”

  “What?” Hadrian said, feeling like Royce had just hit him.

  “I’ll draw the beast’s attention just like Millie did in Dahlgren and you run, get the sword, and slay it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. It makes perfect sense.”


  “You do remember what happened to Millie, right?”

  “Yes,” he said simply. The single word issuing out of the darkness sounded like a verdict. “But don’t you see? This is what I’m supposed to do. I’ve even considered if this was why she died. Maybe Gwen knew everything. She knew we could not go off and make a life together because I needed to be here to sacrifice myself. Maybe that’s why she was on the bridge that night, maybe she went to her death for me—or rather for you and everyone else, but at least so that I could have the strength to die for you.”

  “That’s a whole lot of ifs and maybes, Royce.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  There was a pause.

  “But it has to be,” Royce went on. “We know she had the sight. We know she knew the future. We know she planned for it, and that she said I would save your life. She knew that without me you would die, and from your death a horrible thing would occur. So if I save you now, we still have a chance to get the horn.”

  “But what if the future changed? What if we did something in the meantime to alter it?”

  “I don’t think it works that way. I don’t think you can alter the future. If you could, she would have seen that.”

  “I don’t know,” Hadrian replied, finding it hard to discuss rationally the virtues of Royce’s killing himself.

  “Okay, let me put it this way,” Royce said. “Can you think of any other way out of here?”

  Hadrian was starting to feel a little sick, the air harder to breathe than before.

  “So your plan is to draw it away and keep it occupied while I run for the sword?”

  “Yep, you get the sword and kill it. I think I can buy you at least two minutes, but I’m hoping for as much as five. More than that I think is dreaming. After five minutes of dodging it, I will get tired and it will get frustrated to the point of using fire. I can’t dodge that. Still, even two minutes should be plenty of time to cross that room and find the sword.”