Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1)

by Margaret Weis

  CHAPTER 40

  THE LIFTALOFTS, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

  “CAPTAIN,” REPORTED THE LIEUTENANT, PEERING AT THE GROUND below, “THERE ARE

  an unusual number of Gegs waiting for us on the Palm.”

  “They’re not Gegs, lieutenant,” said the captain, spyglass to his eyes. “They appear from the looks of them to be human.”

  “Human!” The lieutenant stared down at the Palm. His hands itched to snatch the spyglass away from his captain and see for himself.

  “What do you make of it, lieutenant?” inquired the captain.

  “Trouble, I should think, sir. I’ve served on this run a number of years, and my father served before me, and I’ve never heard of humans being found on the Low Realm. I might suggest-” The lieutenant caught himself and bit his tongue.

  “Might suggest?” repeated Captain Zankor’el in a dangerous tone. “You might suggest to your captain? What might you suggest, lieutenant?”

  “Nothing, sir. I was out of line.”

  “No, no, lieutenant, I insist,” returned Zankor’el, with a glance at the geir.

  “I might suggest that we do not dock until we find out what’s going on.”

  This was a perfectly reasonable and logical suggestion, as Captain Zankor’el well knew. But it would mean discussion with the Gegs, and Zankor’el couldn’t speak a word of Geg. The Lieutenant could. Captain Zankor’el immediately came to the conclusion that this was just another trick of the lieutenant’s to make a mockery of him-Captain Zankor’el of the royal family-in the eyes of the crew. The lieutenant had done so once already, with his damn-fool heroics. The captain decided he would see his soul in that small lapis-and-chalcedony-inlaid box the geir carried with him at all times before he’d let that happen again.

  “I didn’t know you were quite so afraid of humans, lieutenant,” responded the captain. “I cannot have a frightened man at my side going into what might be a dangerous situation. Report to your quarters, Lieutenant Bothar’in, and remain there for the duration of the voyage. I’ll deal with the beasts.”

  Stunned silence settled over the bridge. No one knew where to look and so avoided looking at anything. A charge of cowardice leveled against an elven officer meant death once they returned to Aristagon. The lieutenant could speak in his own defense at the Tribunal, certainly. But his only defense would be to denounce his captain-a member of the royal family. Whom would the judges believe?

  Lieutenant Bothar’in’s face was rigid, his almond eyes unblinking. A subdued midshipman said later that he’d seen dead men look more alive.

  “As you command, sir.” The lieutenant turned on his heel and left the bridge.

  “Cowardice-a thing I won’t tolerate!” intoned Captain Zankor’el. “You men remember that.”

  “Yes, sir,” was the dazed and halfhearted response from men who had served under their lieutenant in several battles against both humans and rebel elves and who knew, better than anyone, Bothar’in’s courage.

  “Pass the word for the ship’s wizard,” commanded the captain, staring through the spyglass at the small group gathered in the palm of the gigantic hand.

  The word went out for the ship’s wizard, who appeared immediately. Slightly flustered, he glanced around the group on the bridge as if endeavoring to ascertain if a rumor he’d heard on his way forward was true. No one looked at him, no one dared. No one needed to. Seeing the set faces and fixed eyes, the ship’s wizard had his answer.

  “We’re facing an encounter with humans, Magicka.” The captain spoke in a bland voice, as if nothing was amiss. “I assume that all aboard have been issued whistles?”

  “Yes, captain.”

  “All are familiar with their use?”

  “I believe so, sir,” replied the ship’s wizard. “The ship’s last engagement was with a group of rebel elves who boarded us-“

  “I did not ask for a recitation of this vessel’s war record, did I, Magicka?” inquired Captain Zankor’el.

  “No, captain.”

  The ship’s wizard did not apologize. Unlike the crew, he was not bound to obey the orders of a ship’s officer. Since only a wizard could possibly understand the proper use of his arcane art, each wizard was made responsible for the magic aboard ship. A captain dissatisfied with the work of his ship’s wizard might bring the wizard up on charges, but the wizard would be tried by the Council of the Arcane, not by the Naval Tribunal. And, in such a trial, it would not matter if the captain was a member of the royal family. Everyone knew who were the true rulers of Aristagon.

  “The magic is functional?” pursued the captain. “Fully operational?”

  “The crew members have but to put the whistles to their lips.” The ship’s wizard drew himself up, stared down his nose at the captain. The magus did not even add the customary “sir.” His talent was being questioned.

  The geir, a wizard himself, could see that Zankor’el had overstepped his authority.

  “And you have done quite well, ship’s wizard,” intervened the geir in soft, oily tones. “I will be certain to pass on my commendation when we return home.”

  The ship’s wizard sneered. As if it mattered to him what a geir thought of his work! Spending their lives running after spoiled brats in hopes of catching a soul. One might as well be a servant running after a pug dog in hopes of catching its droppings!

  “Will you join us on the bridge?” asked the captain politely, taking the hint from his geir.

  The ship’s wizard had no intention of being anywhere else. This was his assigned station during battle, and though in this instance the captain was perfectly correct in making the invitation, the wizard chose to take it as an insult.

  “Of course,” he stated in clipped and icy tones and, stalking over to the portals, glared out at the Palm and its contingent of Gegs and humans. “I believe we should make contact with the Gegs and find out what is going on” he added.

  Did the ship’s wizard know that this had been the lieutenant’s suggestion? Did he know that this had precipitated the current crisis? The captain, thin cheeks flushing, glared at him. The ship’s wizard, his back turned, did not notice. The captain opened his mouth, but catching sight of his geir shaking his head warningly, snapped it shut again.

  “Very well!” Zankor’el was making an obvious effort to contain his anger. Hearing a noise behind him, he whipped around and fixed a baleful eye on the crew, but everyone was apparently engrossed in his duties.

  The ship’s wizard, bowing stiffly, took up a position in the prow, standing in front of the figurehead. Before him was a speaking cone carved out of the tooth of a grenko [18]. Across one end of this tooth was stretched a diaphragm made of the tier skin and magically enhanced to project a voice spoken into it. The sound boomed forth from the dragon’s open mouth and was quite impressive even to those who knew how it worked. The Gegs considered it a miracle.

  Bending near the cone, the wizard shouted out something in the uncouth language of the dwarves that sounds to elves like rocks being rattled in the bottom of a barrel. The captain maintained a rigid, stony-faced posture during the entire proceeding, expressing by his attitude that it was all errant nonsense.

  From down below came a great squawking bellow-the Gegs were answering. The elven wizard listened and replied. Turning, he faced the captain.

  “It is all rather confusing. As near as I can make out, it seems that these humans have come to Drevlin and told the Gegs that we ‘Welves’ are not gods but slavers, who have been exploiting the dwarves. The Geg king asks that we accept the humans as his gift and that, in return, we do something to reestablish ourselves as divine. He suggests,” the wizard added, “doubling the usual amount of treasure.”

  The elf captain had regained his good humor. “Human prisoners!” He rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “What’s more, prisoners who have obviously been attempting to sabotage our water supply. What a valuable find! I shall be decorated for this. Inform the Gegs that we will be happy to comply.”


  “What about the treasure?”

  “Bah! They’ll get the same as usual. What do they expect? We don’t carry more.”

  “We could promise to send another ship,” stated the wizard, frowning.

  The captain’s face flushed. “If I made such an agreement, I’d be the laughingstock of the navy! Risk a ship to deliver more treasure to these maggots? Hah!”

  “Sir, nothing like this has ever before occurred. It appears to me that the humans have discovered a way to descend safely through the Maelstrom and are endeavoring to disrupt Geg society to their own advantage. If the humans could manage to take control of our water supply …” The wizard shook his head, mere words apparently being unable to convey the seriousness of the situation.

  “Disrupt Geg society!” Zankor’el laughed. “I’ll disrupt their society! I’ll go down and take control of their stupid society. It’s what we should have done long ago anyway. Tell the grubs we’ll take the prisoners off their hands. That should be enough for them.”

  The ship’s wizard glowered, but there was nothing he could do-for the moment, at least. He could not authorize the sending of a treasure ship and he dared not make a promise that he could not keep. That would only make matters worse. He could, however, report this immediately to the Council and advise that action be taken-in regard to both the treasure and this imbecile captain.

  Speaking into the cone, the wizard couched the refusal in vague and obscure terms intended to make it sound like an agreement unless anyone actually thought about it. Like most elves, he considered the Geg mental process to be tantamount to the sound of their language-rocks rattling around in a barrel.

  The watership glided down on widespread wings, looking fearsome and majestic. Elven crew members, wielding spars, stood out on the deck and carefully pulled and pushed the descending waterpipe into place above the geyser. When alignment was achieved, the magic was activated. Encased in a conduit of blue light that beamed up from the ground, water shot forth and was sucked into the pipe and carried thousands of menka above to the elves waiting for it on Aristagon. Once this process was begun, the elven ship had completed its primary task. When the holding tanks were full to capacity, the magical flow of water would cease and the waterpipe would be drawn back up. The watership could now drop its treasure and return, or, as in this case, dock and spend a few moments impressing the Gegs.

  CHAPTER 41

  THE LIFTALOFTS, DREVLIN, LOW REALM

  THE HIGH FROMAN DIDN’T LIKE IT-ANY OF IT. HE DIDN’T LIKE THE FACT THAT THE prisoners were taking this much too docilely. He didn’t like the words that the Welves were dropping on his head instead of more treasure. He didn’t like the occasional musical note that emanated from the crowd below the Palm.

  Watching the ship, the High Froman thought he had never seen one move so slowly. He could hear the creaking of the cable drawing the gigantic wings inside the huge body, thus speeding the ship’s descent, but it wasn’t fast enough for Darral Longshoreman. Once these gods and Mad Limbeck were gone, life, he fondly hoped, would return to normal. If he could just get through the next few moments.

  The ship settled into place, its wings trimmed so that it maintained enough magic to keep it afloat in the air, hovering near the Palm. The cargo bays opened and the monna fell onto the Gegs waiting below. A few of the Gegs began to clamor for it as it fell, those with keen eyes and good monetary sense latching onto the valuable pieces. But most of the Gegs ignored it. They remained standing, staring up at the top of the arm in tense, eager, (jingling) expectation.

  “Hurry, hurry!” muttered the High Froman.

  The opening of the hatch took an interminable length of time. The Head Clark, oblivious of everything, was regarding the dragonship with his usual insufferable expression of self-righteousness. Darral longed to shove that expression (along with his teeth) down his brother-in-law’s throat.

  “Here they come!” The Head Clark chattered excitedly. “Here they come.” Whipping around, he fixed a stern eye upon the prisoners. “Mind you treat the Welves with respect. They, at least, are gods!”

  “Oh, we will!” piped up Bane with a sweet smile. “We’re going to sing them a song.”

  “Hush, Your Highness, please!” remonstrated Alfred, laying a hand on Bane’s shoulder. He added something in human that the High Froman could not understand, and drew the boy back, out of the way. Out of the way of what?

  And what was this nonsense about a song?

  The High Froman didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

  The hatch opened and the gangway slid out from the bulwarks and was fixed firmly to the fingertips of the Palm. The elf captain emerged. Standing in the hatchway, surveying the objects before him, the elf appeared enormous in the ornately decorated iron suit that covered the thin body from toe to neck. His face could not be seen; a helmet shaped like the head of a dragon protected his head. Slung from his shoulder was a ceremonial sword encased in a jeweled scabbard that hung from a belt of frayed embroidered silk.

  Seeing that all appeared in order, the elf clunked ponderously across the gangway, the scabbard rattling against his thigh when he walked. He reached the fingers of the Palm, stopped and stood gazing about, the dragon’s-head helm lending him a stern and imperious air. The iron suit added an additional foot of height to the elf, who was already tall. He towered over the Gegs and over the humans as well. The helmet was so cunningly and fearsomely carved that even Gegs who had seen it before were awed. The Head Clark sank to his knees.

  But the High Froman was too nervous to be impressed.

  “No time for that now,” snapped Darral Longshoreman, reaching out to grab hold of his brother-in-law and get him back on his feet. “Coppers, bring the gods!”

  “Damn!” swore Hugh beneath his breath.

  “What is it?” Haplo leaned near.

  The captain had clanked his way onto the fingers. The Head Clark had dropped to his knees and the High Froman was tugging at him. Limbeck was fumbling with a sheaf of papers.

  “The elf. See that thing he’s wearing around his neck? It’s a whistle.”

  “So?”

  “Their wizards created it. Supposedly, when the elves blow into it, the sound it makes can magically negate the effects of the song!”

  “Which means the elves will fight.”

  “Yes.” Hugh cursed himself. “I knew warriors carried them, but not watership crews! And nothing to fight with except our bare hands and one dagger!”

  Nothing. And everything. Haplo needed no weapon. Rip the bandages from his hands, and by his magic alone he could destroy every elf on board that ship or charm them to do his will or send them into enchanted slumber. But he was forbidden to make use of his magic. The first sigil whose fiery blaze he traced in the air would proclaim him a Patryn-the ancient enemy who had long ago very nearly conquered the ancient world.

  Death first, before you betray us. You have the discipline and the courage to make that choice. You have the skill and the wits to make that choice unnecessary.

  The High Froman was ordering the coppers to bring the gods. The coppers started toward Limbeck, who firmly and politely elbowed them out of the way. Stepping forward, he rustled his papers and drew in a deep breath.

  “Distinguished visitors from another realm. High Froman, Head Clark. My fellow WUPP’s. It gives me great pleasure-“

  “At least we’ll die fighting,” said Hugh. “With elves, that’s something.”

  Haplo didn’t have to die fighting. He didn’t have to die at all. He hadn’t expected it would be this frustrating.

  The squawky-talk, designed to loudly transmit the blessings of the Welves, was now loudly transmitting Limbeck’s speech. “Shut him up!” shouted the High Froman. “-throw up your hackles. No, that can’t be right.” Limbeck stopped. Peering at the paper, he took out his spectacles and put them over his ears. “Throw off your shackles!” he shouted, now that he could see. The coppers surged forward, grabbed him by the arms.
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  “Start singing!” Haplo hissed. “I’ve got an idea!”

  Hugh opened his mouth and began to boom out in a deep baritone the first notes of the song. Bane joined in, his shrill voice soaring above Hugh’s in an ear-piercing shriek, heedless of tune, but never missing a word. Alfred’s voice quavered, almost unheard; the man was pale as bleached bone with fear, and appeared on the verge of collapse.

  The Hand that holds the Arc and Bridge, The Fire that rails the Temp’red Span …

  At the first note, the Gegs below let out a cheer and, grabbing their weapons, began to toot and jingle and wheeze and sing with all their might. The coppers above heard the singing below and became flustered and distracted. The elven captain, hearing the notes of the dreaded song, grasped the whistle that hung from around his neck, raised the visor of the helm, and put the whistle to his lips.

  Haplo touched the dog lightly on the head, made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and pointed at the elf. “Take him.”

  All Flame as Heart, surmount the Ridge, All noble Paths are Ellxman.

  Sleek and swift and silent as a thrown spear, the dog cut through the tangled crowd and leapt straight at the elf.

  The elven iron suit was ancient and archaic, designed primarily to intimidate, a remnant of olden days when such suits had to be worn as protection against the painful affliction known as “the bends” that struck those sailing swiftly up from the Low Realm to realms far above. By the time the elf captain saw the dog, it was airborne, aiming straight toward him. Instinctively he tried to brace himself for the blow, but his body, encased in the clumsy armor, could not react fast enough. The dog hit him square in the chest and the captain toppled over backward like a felled tree.

  Haplo was on the move with the dog, Hugh not far behind. There was no song on the Patryn’s lips. The assassin was singing loudly enough for both.

  Fire in Heart guides the Will, The Will of Flame, set by Hand,