The Schemes of Dragons

by Dave Smeds

  "The Dragon is in residence," he told Alemar. "I smell him."

  "Good," the prince said flatly. Toren caught a certain ambivalence in his tone.

  The palms of Toren's hands broke out in a sweat inside the gauntlets. Another league and his journey would be over. He tried to focus on the center of the energies, learn what he could about the exact strength of Gloroc's magic. His probing yielded unexpected results.

  "Strange," he muttered.

  "What?" Alemar inquired.

  "The Dragon's emanations are diffused. I can't pinpoint them. What could be causing that? I can locate every other source of magic with complete clarity."

  "I don't know. You'd think such a powerful nexus would stand out like a beacon."

  "Yes." Distracted, Toren bumped his head again.

  When his forehead stopped throbbing, he probed once more. The source refused to resolve itself sharper than a wide, vaguely defined sphere. He estimated the zone to be about a hundred feet in diameter. He would need greater precision than that once they reached the great hall and he tried to snare his prey.

  The tunnel angled upward. Belly cramps plagued Toren as they climbed. He murmured prayers to his ancestors. What had he gotten himself into? Surely, if he was right for the gauntlets, he would be able to pinpoint his enemy. A bitter, adrenaline tang filled the back of his throat.

  "Geim?" Toren called.

  "Yes?" the other Vanihr called from the back of the group.

  "I just want you to know that whatever happens to you up ahead, it's your own fault for capturing me back in the Wood."

  "I've been thinking what a stupid thing that was to do," Geim replied dryly.

  Toren tried to laugh, but he coughed instead. An image of his and Deena's farewell lovemaking took form, but the memory of her musk drowned in the stale sea reek of the passageway. Maybe he did not need to know if the gauntlets worked. If he hid well enough in the Wood, Gloroc might never find him until long after he had died of old age.

  And Rhi and his descendants would bear the totem of a coward.

  He sighed, trudging on, arms trembling from the anticipation. The Dragon's radiations grew in intensity, all without resolving to a proper locus.

  The tunnel ended almost before he expected it. "Stop," he told the others, and triggered the second crossbow trap. Three paces farther he found a hatch like that at the other end. The gauntlets dealt with the lock.

  He stepped out into a small, empty room lit with the same bluish phosphorescence as the tunnel. The werelight bothered him. It was powered by a subtle, pervasive spell. Who was this Dragonslayer, to cast spells that lingered centuries after his death? Struth illuminated her subterranean chamber the same way. He would have to ask her how he might reproduce the light.

  The aura of dragonmagic was overriding, no longer muffled by layers of sea bottom. Toren rubbed the palms of his gauntlets together. They crackled with static. Near, so near. He wished his knees would quit shaking.

  ****

  Alemar smelled the Dragon's presence as well, even without a gauntlet to augment his senses. The inner lining of his cheeks turned to cotton. He hesitated at the mouth of the tunnel until, realizing that he was blocking the progress of the others, he shuffled forward. Match, Ebben, and Geim all sighed gratefully as they emerged, able at last to straighten their spines.

  Toren waited in the center of the room, eyes closed, gauntlets still pressed together. Beyond him stood an apparently open archway. Alemar approached it, alert for signs of sorcery. Beyond the threshold lay a gallery filled with statues and sculptures, paintings and tapestries. By stark contrast, the room they were in was empty. Dust puffed with each footstep. The light in the gallery was bright, artfully balanced to best display the collection of masterpieces, but none of it came within the dusty alcove. Alemar could see his companions strictly because of the werelight.

  He reached into the archway. His hand flattened against a solid wall. Tregay, equally intrigued, tapped his knuckles lightly against an adjacent spot. "Hard as rock," he muttered.

  "An astounding bit of thaumaturgy."

  Toren's voice made Alemar jump. "Don't worry about making noise," the modhiv added, noticing the prince's reaction. He joined them at the threshold. "No one in the palace can see or hear us. To them this archway is just another section of the wall. Even Gloroc would never suspect our presence, even if he coiled up ten paces away." Toren leaned nearer the invisible wall, admiration sparkling in his eyes. "It must have taken weeks to cast the spell that made this illusion."

  Alemar, equally amazed, lifted his amulet out of his collar and placed the gem against the surface. Not so much as a flicker came from the talisman. The mirage was so well-wrought that it swallowed its own telltale emanations.

  "How do we get through it?"

  "It's keyed to the gauntlets. As long as I hold my hand in the opening, a person can pass through."

  Alemar recognized the gallery from Omril's memories. "The Dragon's chambers are scarcely two hundred yards away." He licked his excruciatingly dry lips. His hand settled uneasily on the hilt of his poisoned dagger.

  "Once we step through, Gloroc will sense the talismans," Toren stated. "I'll have to weave a cloaking spell first. That will take me at least two hours. It should hold long enough for us to run to the hall. Let's rest now. It's only early evening."

  Alemar wondered how Toren could tell the precise time of day when they had been in the tunnel so long, but it matched his own gut feeling. He sighed. The delay would wreak havoc on their nerves, but the strategy was wise. They would attack in the dead of night when the palace activity was at its nadir.

  The prince settled stiffly against one of the walls. Tregay offered him a strip of dried fish, but he declined. Who could eat now?

  An hour dragged by. Ebben chewed short seven of his fingernails and started on the eighth. A drudge entered the gallery, swept up a few motes of dust and wiped down several sculptures, including the one immediately in front of the alcove, a remarkably lifelike rendering of a kelp shark. Alemar instinctively shrank up against the wall, but the woman departed again without once glancing in their direction.

  Geim continued to scowl at one of the statues across the room long after the servant had cleaned it. He nudged Toren. "Take a look at that," he said.

  Alemar also glanced where Geim indicated. He saw a full-size figurine of a slim, petite woman in a flowing gown, a delicate scepter in her grip. The prince recognized it immediately; small versions existed throughout Elandris and Cilendrodel. His father had given one to his mother.

  As Toren stared at it, his jaw slowly fell open. He uttered something in Vanihr that could only have been an expletive.

  "Is something wrong?" Alemar asked.

  "Do you know whom that statue is modelled after?"

  "Of course. That's Miranda, sister of Alemar Dragonslayer."

  Toren exhaled suddenly. He and Geim exchanged a meaningful glance. The modhiv rubbed his head so firmly he creased his scalp.

  "Does that mean something to you?" Alemar asked.

  "Yes. But I'm afraid this isn't the time or place to discuss the matter."

  Alemar frowned. Toren's tone closed the subject. The prince let it rest. Too many other thoughts and memories crowded his mind. Once Toren began weaving the spell of concealment, it was all Alemar could do to sit in one place.

  ****

  The strands of the spell fell into place one by one and became a seamless fabric. Toren would have grinned if he had not been so frightened. With the gauntlets, his magic flowed like the waterfall of Headwater, straight and unstoppable. He stoked his internal fires. Once he and his companions passed out of the room, no time would remain for slow, careful spellweaving.

  I am coming, Gloroc.

  Just short of two hours after he had begun, he tied the final ethereal knot, and the cloaking spell shrouded them. "I'm ready," he announced.

  The others stood and, fingers shaking with nervousness, untied the bindings around the
ir knife hilts. One good yank and each blade would rush free of its sheath.

  Toren thrust his hand into the gap of the archway. "Your lead, my prince."

  Alemar stepped through. The others quickly followed. Toren thrust aside all distractions and moved forward. A silky feeling enveloped him, like cobwebs being drawn across his entire body, then melted away. Behind him stood a bare marble wall. His companions stared at him oddly. It must have seemed to them as if he had sprouted directly out of the stone.

  "Let's go," he whispered, and walked briskly toward the exit, as fast as he could go without disturbing his concentration. The gauntlets moaned. Alemar and the others cleaved to him, so that he would not have to extend his sorcery too far. They left the gallery and entered a short, vaulted corridor leading to the foyer of the great hall.

  A wave of force tore at his cloaking screen. He bolstered it, stifling a wave of panic. He was certain he had woven it correctly. Nevertheless, it began breaking up. "Run!" he shouted as they crossed into the foyer. "The Dragon knows we are here!"

  He abandoned the deteriorating spell, casting all his energies into the real challenge. He gathered the feeble emanations coming from the thrijish coral beneath the city and condensed them, intensified them, and focussed them on the great hallway. The snare closed. Only moments had passed since Gloroc had sensed them. If the gauntlets worked, the Dragon was immobilized.

  The talismans throbbed. He shuddered and trebled his effort. An inarticulate cry of pain escaped his lips.

  "Hold on!" Alemar cried.

  Toren clenched his teeth. The gauntlets blazed, their golden beams overwhelming the great candles in their wall sconces.

  A wave of retaliatory magic struck like a hammer against his skull. Lightning sprang from every corner of the room. It hissed and snapped inches from his skin. He landed on his side. Alemar and the others were slammed back down the hallway.

  Toren staggered to his knees, ignoring the lacerations on his cheek. The stench of sulphur and singed clothing smote him. He clenched the gauntlets together, hanging desperately to his spell. His snare held, barely. He crawled forward. He had to get nearer. The spell was weaker than it should have been. But the closer he got to the Dragon, the tighter he could focus his strength.

  Another counterattack rocked him to the floor. Suddenly everything vanished. Fog surrounded him, a grey mist so thick he could not see his own hands. He wormed his way forward, refusing to be stopped.

  "Which way?" Alemar demanded, voice weak and distant. Toren snarled, finally realizing the nature of the counterattack. He was crawling the wrong way. Alemar cast energy toward him. He seized it, supplemented it, and blocked the counterattack. The mist evaporated. He and his fellow assassins lay sprawled in the center of the foyer.

  Match stared sightlessly upward, hands around his throat, face purple from suffocation. The aura of life fizzled out before Toren could attempt to break the spell.

  The modhiv shuddered. The snare snapped. Crying in fear, he wove a new one, felt it settle once more on its victim.

  You won't get away, he vowed. Spittle dotted his lips. He gasped and climbed to his feet, skin crawling with minuscule, flea-bite pinpricks of terror. How could Gloroc be so powerful?

  Within three steps, the marble floor disappeared. He fell. Slick, cavelike walls whisked by beside him. Below loomed a floor strewn with spearlike stalagmites. He twisted, but the points were too closely placed. One of them was aimed straight for his heart.

  Toren cast a screen of interference. The illusion shattered. He was once again on the floor of the corridor. He was not falling, but he was holding the tip of his drawn dagger in front of his own chest. The blade gleamed with a coating of whitish unguent. The potent odor of the dragonsbane nearly emptied his stomach.

  Alemar and the others cried out. They were safe, but barely; Tregay's knife point lay only a finger width from his skin.

  Sweat streamed down Toren's neck. With Alemar hot on his heels, he bolted to his feet and charged toward the great doors.

  Just ahead the floor opened, and a chasm much like the previous one appeared. This time Toren could tell it was real. It was too late for him or Alemar to stop. "Jump!" Toren ordered, and leaped into the air. As their feet came down, circular disks of energy flew out from the gauntlets, providing pads to land on. Four steps took them across. Geim and Tregay loped just behind. Ebben hovered at the edge, trembling, not willing to bridge the gap.

  Toren abandoned the rebel. The Dragon's maneuvers had weakened. No time to hesitate. He jammed the gauntlets against the entrance. The doors flew open.

  "Look out!" Toren shouted. He dived to the side, as did the three men just behind him. A purple bolt of dragonflame shot past them. It caught Ebben standing in the foyer. He exploded.

  Momentarily blinded by the brilliance, Toren instinctively brought the gauntlets up and bolstered the snare for all he was worth. A keening scream deafened them. Toren opened his eyes.

  The hall stretched before him, incredibly high and long. In the center of the room a dragon writhed, caught in the center of Toren's phantom net. It beat its wings furiously against the stone floor, screeching in agony and outrage.

  And on the right side, close to one of the walls, loomed a second dragon, jaws outstretched in feral hatred, eyes glittering. The edges of the snare barely contained its massive body.

  "By my grandfather!" Toren cried, just as the second dragon spat. A bolt raced straight toward Toren, who threw power desperately into his ward, spreading it out to shield his surviving companions. The flame thundered off, corona dancing to the vaulted ceiling. Char rained down.

  Toren's snare, despite his best efforts, collapsed to half its size. The second dragon spun. A portal suddenly popped into existence. The great serpent dived through it. An instant later the window snapped out of existence.

  At long last, the power flowing through the gauntlets focussed into a single, irrepressible beam. Toren, blinking, strands of his long hair curled into wisps from the heat of the dragonflame, nearly fainted from the force of the energies. He tightened his snare. The remaining dragon screamed and sagged to the floor, pinned, thrashing weakly.

  Toren stumbled forward. "Knives!" he shouted.

  Alemar, Geim, and Tregay brushed past, brandishing their daggers. They hovered just out of the dragon's range. Feeble as the creature's movements were, one sweep of its tail or wings could crush them.

  Toren, barely able to lift his feet off the floor, continued on until he felt the wind of the dragon's panting. It raised its forward claw a few inches and dropped it. Toren reached out and buried his fingers in the flesh of its neck. It stiffened and with a final whimper ceased all movement, save for the fluttering of its eyelids.

  "Now!" Toren shouted.

  Alemar plunged forward and sank his dagger to the hilt in the dragon's belly. Tregay and Geim followed through on the other side. They abandoned the weapons and darted back out of the way.

  Their haste was unnecessary. The dragon did not shift. Finally it sank into a limp pile. Its head glanced off Toren's ward and came to rest at his feet.

  Toren opened his hands. The web of energy coalesced and disappeared into the gauntlets. He swayed. Alemar and Geim caught him as he fell and dragged him away from his dead opponent.

  Tears rolled down the modhiv's face. He had done it. He had been the correct candidate. Had there been only one dragon, Match and Ebben need not have died. He brushed the gauntlets against his bruised face. His cheeks were numb. All of him was numb.

  "Two dragons," Alemar whispered.

  The pounding of many boots rang in the foyer. Geim and Tregay sprinted to the great doors and slammed them shut. Toren cast a lock spell.

  "That will hold them," he said, and coughed up a slug of vile phlegm. "At least until a wizard arrives."

  "We've got to get out of here!" Geim said.

  "Not yet," Toren said grimly. He turned to the side wall and concentrated. The portal opened.

  Through the ope
ning they saw a room much like the one in which they stood. Over a hundred men-at-arms crowded up to the opening. Four finely robed figures waited behind them, auras bright with the power of high wizards, one of them no doubt of the Ril. The escaped dragon towered at the rear of the room. One arrow-quick shake of its snout told Toren that it had completely recovered from the attack.

  As soon as the window opened, the guards rushed forward. The lead row simply disappeared, out of view. The one-way nature of the portal prevented their entry. The second row halted, shaking their pikes and swords, shouting in anger.

  Toren locked eyes with his giant enemy. "Gloroc," he said.

  "Foul little creatures!" the Dragon hissed. "My parents were not enough for the likes of you! You have killed my sister as well! Escape if you can, but I shall find you!"

  Tregay and Geim staggered backwards, caught unprepared by the waves of hate accompanying the words, which penetrated where physical substance could not. Toren let it wash over him without effect.

  "I've been a fool," the modhiv murmured under his breath. Alemar stared at him quizzically.

  Toren smiled wryly, realizing how artfully he had been duped. Of course Struth would want a candidate to use the gauntlets. Since Faroc and Triss had had more than one offspring, Toren's enlistment was simply a means of evening the odds.

  Gloroc snapped his jaws. His indigo eyes flashed. "Tell the Dragonslayer he won't be so lucky next time! I know now that he lives, and I shall find him, also!"

  Alemar let out an astonished squeak. He stared up at Gloroc. The Dragon leaned forward.

  "A spawn of the wizard in the flesh! Come to me, little one. Wouldn't you like to throttle me?"

  Alemar lunged forward, hands outstretched.

  "No," Toren yelled. He waved his hand. The portal shut just before the prince reached it. Alemar tumbled forward, checked his momentum, and sagged against the wall. He shook, realizing that had been hypnotized, sobered to see how willingly he had been rushing toward his doom.

  Men battered loudly at the doors. Toren pictured an entire city of enemy soldiers, sorcerers, and magical creatures chasing them and tried not to be sick.