Alexa Drey- the Veils of Lamerell

by Ember Lane

  Over them, the trail continued, now etched into the cavern’s wall. It descended quite steeply, circling off into the distance and presumably down to the cavern’s floor which I couldn’t see. A couple of hundred yards up it, but marching at a pace toward us, was a group of twenty or so dwarves, dressed in bright-red uniforms.

  “The dwarf king’s personal guard. Things have either just gotten interesting or severely dire,” Petroo muttered.

  Name: Alexa Drey. Race: Human. Type: Chancer.

  Age: 24. Alignment: None. XP: 500. Level: 3.

  Profession: None. Un/Al pts: 6. Reputation: Nobody.

  Health Points: 160/160 Energy: 80/80 Mana: 60/60

  HP Regen: 16/Min EN Regen: 8/Min MA Regen: 5/Min

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (3, 13), Stamina: (8, 0), Intelligence: (6, 0)

  Charisma: (3, 0), Wisdom: (5, 0), Luck: (1, 5)

  Humility: (1, 0)

  Skills: (Level, % to next level, Boosts %, Level Cap)

  Running: (4, 33, 25, 12), Perception: (3, 32, 0, 15), Commerce: (1, 0, 0, 6), Magic: (4, 0, 0, ∞), Concealment: (2, 22, 0, 15), Night-vision: (3, 11, 0, 10)

  Talents:

  Tongues of Time. The Veils of Lamerell.

  Quests:

  Seek out the Legend of Billy Long Thumb. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Unknown.

  13

  The Dwarf King

  Shylan and Gromolor were having heated words. The wizard was throwing his hands up in the air, turning around and stamping his feet, but the dwarf was taking little note. Eventually, Shylan gave up, backed away in a huff, and Marista stepped in. She too gesticulated, shouted, wagged her finger, and again, the dwarf didn’t so much as flinch. All the while, the troop of dwarven soldiers closed.

  “Shylan seems…excited,” Petroo said, he paused and tugged me close. “Wizards, they have flexible tempers,” he whispered.

  “Flexible?”

  He leant against the cavern’s wall, so I followed suit. “Flexible,” he reiterated. “If a wizard looks angry, acts angry, flies into a rage of rages, you can never tell if he’s actually upset or just trying to get his own way—much like a sneaky child.”

  “Surely he could just threaten to, I don’t know, turn them into frogs?”

  Petroo grunted out a laugh. “Politics, even wizards have to adhere to politics.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said. “Let’s take the dwarves. He can’t possibly upset them. He knows that only with the dwarves help can he hope to keep the ShadowDancer at bay. You see…” Petroo slid down the wall and slumped on the ground, drawing his knees in. The troop had now joined in the argument, as had Cronis and Shylan, once more. I took Petroo’s actions to mean the row could well go on for a while and sat too.

  “You see,” he continued. “Dwarves guard all the underground routes, both from the Lowlands and under the sea. Even more importantly though, they plug the deep down underground trails that snake below the mist’s influence. If Shylan upsets the dwarves and they decide to ally with the paladin of Ruse, then ShadowDancer could pop up anywhere and attack any land—he could reinforce at will, bring armies from Ruse, and not dribs and drabs of the bravest of the brave. So, Shylan can’t afford to upset them. Not at all, and that’s what makes his boil.”

  “What are the paladin of Ruse?”

  Petroo snorted. “ShadowDancer comes from a much different place from here. He heralds from the Land of Ruse.”

  “How is Ruse different?” I asked.

  “In Ruse,” Petroo made to explain, but stopped as though the explanation itself was too difficult to put into words. “Different,” he ventured, his words strained. “The night rules the day and everything is muddled,” he finally blurted.

  I leaned in and whispered: “You’re not making much sense.”

  He scoffed. “Sense and Ruse are not companions. In Ruse you can walk through your nightmares while your dreams run for the hills. In Ruse, every truth is a lie.”

  A shiver went up my spine.

  Petroo ran his fingers through his hair. “Ruse is in shadow and the Dancer would see that dark stain dragged from Slaughtower to Shyantium.”

  “The paladin?” I asked again.

  “They fight for Ruse, but they fight best at night, or in the dark—it is where their talents are best spent. It is the dwarves that must face them if they come.”

  The argument in the cave was reaching a tipping point. I got the distinct feeling that either it was going to escalate into all-out war, or… There didn’t seem to be a second option.

  “What are they arguing about?” I asked Petroo. Talk of Ruse had formed a cloud of gloom over us.

  Petroo shrugged. “I have a heightened sense of hearing—well I suppose you call it a skill, but it’s something all us apachalants have, and trust me, I’m doing my best not to eavesdrop—some of the language is quite colorful.”

  “A clue though?”

  “Oh I know exactly what’s upset them. The dwarven king has summoned you to his tower.”

  “Summoned me?”

  Petroo brought out a waterbottle, took a great gulp and then passed it to me. “Yes, he wants to see you—and you alone—oh, and he’ll let me, or Greman, accompany you.”

  “But not Shylan, Marista or Cronis?”

  Shaking his head, Petroo let slip an evil smile. “No, not them. Quite funny really.”

  I decided there and then, it was going to take me a little while to get used to this land. “You’re actually enjoying it?” I asked.

  “Alexa, when you’ve known that pair of wizards for as long as I have, you enjoy seeing someone knock them down a peg or two.” He nudged me. “Trust me.”

  The argument was definitely boiling over. The dwarven soldiers were all shuffling forward, barging Shylan, Cronis and Marista back toward us. Greman ambled over as if he were just taking a walk in the vale.

  “You or me, Petroo,” he asked.

  Petroo smiled that evil smile again. “I’m hoping for a funnier outcome than that.”

  Greman dumped himself down beside us. “Wizards,” he huffed.

  “I will not hear of it!” Shylan shouted, raising his voice a few more octaves.

  “Hear what you will, Wizard. The king has stated that he will only entertain two.” Gromolor shrugged. “Maybe I can persuade him to allow three.”

  Petroo nudged me. “Wait for it.”

  “Well,” Shylan said, puffing himself up. “Three would be acceptable. Which of us shall accompany her though? I will,” he scraped his fingers over his stubbly chin. “I think it right, being the most powerful wizard in the land.”

  Gromolor reared—as much as he could, and smiled, though a grin packed full of mischief. “The beggle, he will allow the beggle and the apachalant, but no other, not while his caves and mines are being looted by humans.”

  “Ah,” said Petroo. “So it is all about—politics. Didn’t I tell you, Alexa—politics? The dwarven king is holding Shylan responsible for human actions as usual.”

  “Everything that’s wrong with the land is to do with politics,” mumbled Greman. “Probably all the new folk raiding dungeons, looting mines and ignoring protocols laid down for centuries. It’ll calm down.”

  I looked over at them. Marista appeared ready to leave.

  “Your terms are fine. Both Petroo and Greman will escort her,” she said, dismissively.

  “But… but…” raged Shylan.

  “I have made up my mind,” she said with a large dose of finality and raised her finger up, touching it to her lips. “Ssshh your mouth, the dwarf king wishes to meet bearer of the veils, and we agree with that.”

  “We do?” Shylan said, perplexed. “Why do we?”

  Marista winked at Shylan, clearly having thought of a new plan. I could even see Gromolor become suspicious.

  “And when they’re done,” Marista continued. “A troop of your soldiers will escort all three to Merrivale where we will be waiting. And
they will get them there before the moon is half done with the night. Do I make myself clear, Gromolor?”

  The dwarf coughed, turning away from his guard. “You do,” he said, “and what exactly do you intend to do in Merrivale?”

  “We will stay at the inn.”

  “We will?” said Shylan, his own voice a mix of intrigue and hope.

  “One of your number will be good enough to escort us to the Dragon and Unicorn Inn, where we will await their return. These are our terms, Gromolor, and they are not negotiable. You should have informed us of this deviation back at the cave.” Marista’s tone gave no quarter to the dwarf.

  “We will await their return,” said both wizards, nodding sagely. “At the inn,” they both added, with more than a tinge of excitement.

  “Are we agreed?” Marista said.

  “Can’t imagine why we’re hanging around,” Shylan said.

  “Nor I,” Cronis muttered.

  “Then we have an accord,” Gromolor said. “I will escort you personally to the inn, as it will be dusk by the time we get there, and my eyes will be able to endure the half light of its taproom.”

  Petroo got up and dusted his tunic and leggings down. “They’re all friends again,” he said.

  “That fast?” I queried.

  “Marista realized the argument was futile, and she has probably reserved the sole decent room at the inn—the only one with a bath.”

  “And Shylan and Cronis favor an ale?”

  Petroo smiled. Greman patted me on the shoulder. “You’re getting the hang of them,” he said.

  Marista came over and reeled off a list of dos and don'ts, told me to dump all my unallocated points to vitality—just in case—and then threatened endless retribution, mostly directed at Greman and Petroo, if we got in trouble. She straightened my tunic, gave me a smile, and before I knew it, Petroo, Greman and I were walking down the narrow, rocky trail, sandwiched between two groups of dwarven soldiers. I was in the middle, between Greman and Petroo. I allocated my points.

  “What do you think the dwarven king wants?” I asked Greman.

  “Difficult to say. Technically, you are Sakina’s replacement, but only technically. No offence, but she was a wizard of the highest order, a great warrior, filled with Earthpower, Seapower and the Power of the Sun. Quite the act to follow, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “How can I be her replacement?”

  “The Veils of Lamerell, of course. She had them, and now you have them.”

  “What are they?”

  Greman scratched his head. “They are the way. Each veil is a test, almost a quest. It will be revealed to you in due course, and then you must walk its path.”

  “Will I succeed?”

  Greman draped his arm around my shoulder. “Impossible to say, but I hope so,” and something in his tone told me he’d said all he was going to.

  I looked past Petroo and over the trail’s edge. We were descending fairly quickly, and the tops of the blunted stalagmites were now above my head. I supposed each was about the diameter of Shylan’s tower—forty or so feet, and I saw that each of them had a spiral walkway winding up their glistening outside. The enormity of them staggered me, and I spied rank upon rank of them filing away into the distance. The hum of the place was now just that—like a buzz of distant excitement, and the smell was a mix of sweat, rock, and a sweet tang that I couldn’t identify.

  As the trail fell and curved farther, and we neared the stalagmite towers, their true form opened up to me. Some were littered with windows and balconies, and I could see their dwarven residents going about their business. Others looked like they had been hollowed out and somehow had an air of power emanating from there. I guessed they were tall, multilevel temples or some such sacred places, and a few had spinning spheres in the center of their floors, spraying light like a beacon. I wondered what or whom the dwarves worshipped.

  Other open-plan stalagmites were clearly restaurants, or even gardens that were spilling over with luminous plants. Occasionally, a rope and plank walkway joined two of the towers. It was a breathtakingly beautiful, enchanted, underground city. In my wildest dreams, I’d never thought I’d walk amongst such a place.

  It took us a few hours to get to the cavern’s bottom, I finally got to look up and appreciate the enormity of those towers. It took my breath away some more; they were as daunting as Shylan’s, if not more so, and resembled giant waxen candles.

  The bottom of the cavern had roads hewn into it, pavements, even little bridges over idyllic underground streams. All around, shops sold axes, hammers, shields, or served fat platters of strange looking and odd smelling food. Laughter spilled out of them, and growls, and arguments. As we threaded our way through, I spotted inns and some larger, more prestigious-looking places that were peddling delicacies from the surface. It was a tight press of industry, and though I knew we were going to the dwarven king’s palace, I couldn’t see anything beyond the few rock towers that surrounded us to give me a clue how close we were.

  “What’s he like, the dwarven king?” I asked Petroo.

  “Never met him,” Petroo shrugged. “Assuming it’s a him. It usually is.”

  “So, you don’t know his name?”

  “If it’s still the same one as last time I had reason to find out, then its Aragnoor Grouchmorg, if he’s dead it’ll likely be his heir, Ishitar Grouchmorg. I tend to think it is him. Dwarves rarely show signs of subtle humor, but playing with Shylan was definitely something Ishitar would have done.”

  “How can you not know who the king of the dwarves is?”

  Petroo looked at me like it was the dumbest question he’d ever had to answer. “Alexa, it’s very rare that the business of the surface penetrates underground. Why would I need to venture into the realm of dwarf, paladin or goblin? I’d be just as likely to fly with the birds. Besides, there’s more than one king of the dwarves, like there’s more than one type of dwarf.”

  Getting nowhere with that line of enquiry, I decided to try another.

  “So… So why did Shylan and Marista decide to use the underground to get to Merrivale?”

  “I have no doubt they had their reasons. More than likely it was to do with your level—your ability to be able to follow them—they can do some pretty odd stuff.”

  “How would you have gotten out of the vale?”

  “Same way I got in…run…straight over the mountain.” He nudged me with his elbow. “You’ll get there, but at this moment, you’d have probably frozen to death high in their peaks and passes.”

  We rounded one of the glowing-green towers, and came to a halt before another. I knew at once it was the king’s own tower.

  It was molded into the cavern’s walls, forming a D-shape in its surface. Rather than the waxen, dripping look of the other stalagmites, this one was smooth and had brick-like lines etched onto its surface, making it look like a great castle turret. It had openings carved into the sides and flowing balconies overhanging. A pair of tall doors, at least twenty feet high, sat at the top of a brief set of steps and signified the entrance. The soldiers formed a line on either side of them, like a guard of honor. Petroo held me back.

  “Wait for the gates to open.”

  “And cover your ears when I tell you,” Greman added.

  And slowly, the doors swung wide. A slice of light came from inside, a dull, purple light that so contrasted with the green haze all around. The smell of the city vanished in an instant, and a sweeter smell, like vanilla, pervaded all around. I saw both Petroo and Greman had their hands over their ears, and I wondered if I’d not heard the instruction. At the top the doorway hung what looked like the mouth of a huge shell. A deep and resonant note burst out, shaking my bones from my toes to my head. I tried to raise my hands to my ears, but it was too late.

  I saw both Greman and Petroo drop their hands and mouth some words at me, but I could hear nothing but ringing. Both of my companions appeared to be struggling to contain their mirth.

&
nbsp; Giggling with them and looking back up, I saw that the shell had been withdrawn, and a dwarf was standing at the top of the steps. He looked like an older version of Gromolor, except shorter. Somehow, standing on the steps with his hands on his hips trying to look all-powerful, he just looked plain funny. And so I started to giggle even more, and I realized I couldn’t stop. I laughed at Billy Long Thumb, with his incredibly long thumb. I laughed at the vale, the tower, Cronis’s charred clothes, Marista Fenwalker’s odd house. I just laughed.

  The dwarf king glared at me.

  “So it is Ishitar.” Petroo walked through the guard of honor. Greman grabbed me by the hand and pulled me on, up the steps, and we followed Petroo. Ishitar Grouchmorg grunted at me and spun around, vanishing into the tower. I took a breath and tried to control myself. Nobody else appeared in the slightest amused anymore, and I wished I had a cloak with a hood large enough to hide in.

  “What’s so funny?” Greman hissed, as we got to the last step.

  “I… I don’t know. He just looked like he was trying to be all big, and imposing, and…”

  “He’s short and stocky—all dwarves are… I’ll never truly understand humans.”

  “Sorry.”

  Greman raised a bushy eyebrow in admonishment.

  “Sorry,” I said again, took a deep breath and stepped into the king’s tower.

  Its purple haze appeared to suck us in, and the great doors shut behind us. “Not so funny now, is it,” Ishitar’s voice rang out, and though I looked around, I could see nothing that would wipe out my earlier mirth—I knew it was still bubbling away inside me.

  I’d expected a vast chamber, some grand reception room, but instead we were in a fairly long stone hallway, a bench on one side, and empty wooden rack upon empty rack on the other. A table holding a purple glowsphere stood in the center, and another set of doors hung at the corridor’s end. I strayed over to the glowsphere, enchanted by its spinning self. Like the ones in Shylan’s tower, it was striated like an artist’s brush had painted it, and as it spun, it looked like a little planet. That drew my thoughts back to Pique—Cronis’s planet, the one that had been destroyed. “Ruse,” I muttered. “Petroo, how long has Ruse been around?”