The Unknown Warrior came to Ilkar's shoulder.
“Let's do it,” he said.
“Right,” said Ilkar. He pushed. The wall moved back and left. “It'll stay open. He must have closed it from the inside.”
There was light at the end of the passageway, wan and flickering. The Unknown trotted into the passage, Hirad and Sirendor right behind him and Ilkar bringing up the rear.
As The Unknown Warrior moved toward the light, a shout of terror, abruptly cut off, was followed by a voice, urgent and loud, and the scrabbling of feet. The Unknown increased his pace.
Rounding a sharp right-hand corner he found himself in a small room, bed to the right, desk opposite and firelight streaming in from a short passage to the left. Slumped by the desk, and in front of an opening, was a middle-aged man dressed in plain blue robes. A long cut on his creased forehead dripped blood into his long-fingered hands and he stared at the splashes, shuddering continuously.
With The Raven in the room behind him, The Unknown knelt by the man.
“Where did he go?” Nothing. Not even recognition he was there. “The mage? In the black cloak?”
“Gods above!” Ilkar elbowed his way to the man. “It's the castle mage.” The Unknown nodded. Ilkar picked up the man's face. The blood from his wound trickled over gaunt white features. His eyes flickered everywhere, taking in everything and seeing nothing.
“Seran, it's Ilkar. Do you hear me?” The eyes steadied for a second. It was enough. “Seran, where did the Xeteskian go? We want him.” Seran managed to look half over his shoulder to the opening. He tried to speak but nothing came out except the letter “d” stuttered over and over.
“Hold on,” said Sirendor. “Shouldn't that wall let back on to—”
“Come on,” said The Unknown. “We're losing him the longer we wait.”
“Right,” said Hirad. He led The Raven through the opening, down a short corridor and into a small, bare chamber. In the dim light from Seran's study, he could see a door facing him.
He moved to the door and pulled it open on to another, longer passage, the end of which was illuminated by a flickering glow. He glanced behind him.
“Come on,” he said, and broke into a run down the passage. As he approached the end, he could see a large fire burning in a grate set into the wall opposite. Sprinting into the chamber, he glanced quickly left and right. There was a pair of doors in the right-hand wall perhaps twenty feet away, set either side of a second, unlit fireplace. One of them was swinging slowly shut.
“There!” he pointed and changed direction, not waiting to see if any were following. His prey was close.
Hirad skidded to a stop before the door and wrenched it open, stepping back to look before dashing in. It was a small antechamber, set with massive arched double doors opposite. They carried a crest, half on each side. The walls were covered in runic language; braziers lit the scene. Hirad ignored it all: one of the big doors was just ajar and a glittering light came from inside. The barbarian smiled.
“Come to Daddy,” he breathed as he ran through the gap and into the chamber beyond.
“Hirad, wait!” shouted Sirendor as he, Ilkar and The Unknown raced into the larger chamber.
“Get after that idiot, Sirendor,” ordered The Unknown. “Time to take stock, I think.”
Above the fire hung a round metal plate, fully three feet across. On it was embossed the head and talons of a dragon. The mouth was wide, dripping fire, and the claws open and grasping. Otherwise, the room was bare of ornament. The Unknown moved toward it, half an eye on Sirendor as the warrior hurried toward the door through which Hirad had chased. He stopped suddenly, glanced behind him and frowned.
“What is it?” asked Ilkar.
“This isn't right,” said The Unknown. “Unless I've gone badly wrong, this ought to be the kitchens and that end of this room—” he pointed right to the two doors flanking the unlit fire—“should be in the courtyard.”
“Well, we must be under it,” said Ilkar.
“We haven't gone down,” said The Unknown. “What do you think?” But Ilkar wasn't paying attention to him any more. He was staring at the crest over the fire, his face paling.
“That symbol. I know it.” Ilkar walked over to the fire, The Unknown trailing him.
“What is it?”
“It's the Dragonene crest. Heard of it?”
“A few rumours.” The Unknown shrugged. “So what?”
“And you say we should be standing in the courtyard?”
“Well, yes, I think so but…?”
Ilkar swallowed hard. “Gods, we'd better not have done what I think we've done.”
It was the size of the hall he entered that first slowed Hirad's advance, and the heat that assailed him the moment he was inside. Next it was the odour, very strong, of wood and oil. Pervasive and with a sharp quality. And finally, the huge pair of eyes regarding him from the opposite side of the room that brought him to a complete standstill.
“Gods, Hirad, calm down!” Sirendor yanked open the door to the right of the fireplace and ran inside, seeing the crested double doors in front of him. He pulled up sharply, the dark-cloaked mage appearing suddenly before him. He raised his sword reflexively and took a pace backward, realising the mage's abrupt appearance was caused by the dispersal of a CloakedWalk spell. Probably in his late thirties, the mage would normally have been handsome beneath his tousled black hair and unkempt short beard, but now he looked pale and frightened. He held out his hands, palms outward.
“Please,” he whispered. “I couldn't stop him, but I can stop you.”
“You're responsible for the death of one of The Raven—”
“And I don't want another one to die, believe me. The barbarian—”
“Where is he?” demanded Sirendor.
“Don't raise your voice. Look, he's in trouble,” said the mage. There was movement in his cloak. A cat's head appeared briefly at its neck then disappeared once more. “You're Sirendor, aren't you? Sirendor Larn.” Sirendor, standing still once again, nodded. The mage continued. “And I am Denser. Look, I know what you're feeling but we can help each other right now and, believe me, your friend needs help.”
“What kind of trouble is he in?” Sirendor's voice was low too. He didn't know why, but something about the mage's attitude worried him. He should kill the man where he stood but he was obviously scared by something other than the prospect of death at a Raven warrior's hand.
“Bad. Very bad. See for yourself.” He put a finger to his lips and beckoned Sirendor to him. The warrior moved forward, never taking his eyes from the mage nor the slightly shifting bulge on one side of his cloak. Denser motioned Sirendor to look through the doors.
“Great Gods above!” He made a move to go in but the mage restrained him with a hand on the shoulder. Sirendor turned sharply.
“Take your hand off me. Right now.” The mage did.
“You can't help him by rushing in.”
“Well, what can we do?” hissed Sirendor.
“I'm not sure.” Denser shrugged. “I might be able to do something. You might as well get your friends. They won't find anything out there and they could prove useful in here.”
Sirendor paused in the act of heading for the door. “Nothing stupid, you understand? If he dies because of you…”
Denser nodded. “I'll wait.”
“See that you do.” Sirendor left the antechamber at a sprint, not realising he was about to confirm all of Ilkar's fears.
Hirad would have run, only he'd come too far into the room, and anyway, he didn't think his legs would support him, they were shaking that badly. He just stood and stared.
The Dragon's head was resting on its front claws and the first coherent thought that entered Hirad's mind was that from the bottom of its lower jaw to the top of its head, it was getting on for as tall as he was. The mouth itself must have been more than three feet across, the whole muzzle probably five in depth. Those eyes sat atop, and at the bas
e of, the muzzle. They were close set, rimmed with thick horn, and the pupils were narrow black slits, ringed in a startling blue. A pronounced ridge of bone ran away over the Dragon's head toward its spine, and Hirad could see the mound of its body behind it, huge and shining.
As he watched, it carefully unfurled its wings and the reason for the size of the room became all too obvious. With their roots at the top of the torso, above the front limbs, the wings stretched to what must have been forty feet on either side, and flapped lazily. With the balance afforded by them, the Dragon picked its head from the floor and stood upright.
Even with its slender, bone-edged neck arched so its eyes never left Hirad, it towered sixty feet into the hall. Its tail curled away to the left and was thicker than a man's body even at its tip. Stretched out, the Dragon would surely have been well in excess of one hundred and twenty feet in length, but now it rested on two massive rear limbs, each foot carrying a quartet of claws bigger than the barbarian's head. And it was gold, all over—skin glistening in the firelight and sparkling on the walls.
Hirad could hear its breathing, slow and deep. It opened its mouth wide, revealing long rows of fangs, and saliva dripped to the floor to evaporate on contact.
It raised a forelimb, single hooked claw extended. Hirad took an involuntary pace backward. He swallowed hard, sweat suddenly covering his body. He was quaking from head to foot.
“Fuck me,” he breathed.
Hirad had always believed that he'd die with his sword in his hand but, in the moments before the huge claw dismembered him, it seemed such a futile gesture. A calmness replaced the instant's fury that had itself so quickly followed his fear, and he sheathed his blade and looked straight into the creature's eyes.
The blow never came. Instead, the Dragon retracted its claw, unarched its neck and moved its head down and forward, coming to a stop no more than three paces from Hirad, hot, sour breath firing into his face.
“Interesting,” it said in a voice that echoed through Hirad's entire being. The barbarian's legs finally gave way and he sat heavily on the tiled floor. His mouth was wide, his jaws were moving but no sound came.
“Now,” said the Dragon. “Let us talk about a few things.”
“Who are these Dragonene, then?” hissed Sirendor.
Ilkar turned to him. “All mages. They have, I don't know, an affinity, you know, with Dragons.” He gestured uselessly.
“No, I don't bloody know! Dragons don't exist. They are just rumour and myth.” Sirendor's voice was still barely more than a whisper.
“Oh yeah? Well that's one hell of a big myth I can see in there!” Ilkar's ears pricked.
“Does it really matter?” The Unknown's voice, though quiet, still carried all its power. “We only have one question that needs answering now.”
The Raven trio and Denser were all crowded around the partially open door to the Dragon's chamber, animosity forgotten for a while. Hirad sat with his back to them, his hands on the floor behind his back, and his legs drawn half up. The Dragon's head was scant feet from the barbarian's, the huge mound of its body resting on the ground, its wings folded. It was the scale of it all that Ilkar found so hard to take in.
Never mind that he had only half believed the books and the teaching. He had still imagined Dragons and he imagined they would be big; but Hirad looked so tiny in comparison that he had to look away and back before he decided that Sirendor was wrong and they weren't seeing an illusion. And he still didn't really believe it.
“He should be dead,” muttered The Unknown, his hands tightening and untightening around the hilt of his sword. “Why hasn't it killed him?”
“We think they're talking,” said Denser.
“What?” Ilkar couldn't hear a thing. As far as he was concerned they were just staring at each other. But as Ilkar watched, his powerful eyes giving the scene complete clarity, Hirad shook his head and straightened his back so he could use his hands to make a gesture. He indicated behind him and said something but the mage couldn't pick out the words. The Dragon cocked its head to one side and opened its mouth, revealing the massed ranks of its fangs. Liquid dripped to the floor and Hirad started.
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” demanded Sirendor. Denser didn't reply.
“Later, Sirendor,” said The Unknown. “We have to think of something to do. Quickly.”
“What the hell can they be talking about?” No one had an answer. Ilkar looked back to the unreal scene in the huge chamber and a glint caught his eye. For a moment he assumed it was a reflection off the Dragon's beautiful scales but it wasn't a golden colour, more a steel or a silver.
He stared hard, using all the range that his eyes afforded him, and there it was: a small disc, maybe a palm's width across and attached to a chain which seemed to be caught around one of the Dragon's large hind-foot claws. He pointed it out to Denser.
“Where?” asked the other mage.
“Its right foot, third talon along.” Ilkar pointed the way. Denser shook his head.
“Those are good eyes, aren't they? Hold on.” Denser mumbled a few words and rubbed a thumb on either eye. He looked again and tensed.
“What is it? Don't try to—”
“Just pray Hirad keeps it talking,” said Denser, and he began mumbling again.
“What are you talking about?” hissed Ilkar. “What have you seen?”
“Trust me. I can save him,” said Denser. “And just be ready to run.” He took a pace forward and disappeared.
“Look, this is really hard for me to take in,” said Hirad. The Dragon put its head on one side and stretched its jaws a little. A line of saliva dripped from a fang and Hirad moved his leg reflexively to avoid it.
“Explain,” ordered the Dragon, the word bypassing the barbarian's ears on its way to thump through his skull.
“Well, you have to understand that never in my wildest drunken dreams did I ever imagine I'd be sitting and talking to a—a Dragon.” He gestured and raised his eyebrows. “I mean I…” He trailed off. The Dragon flared its nostrils and Hirad felt his hair move in the breeze of its breath. He had to fight himself not to gag at the smell, rotten with that burned sourness.
“And now?” it asked.
“I'm absolutely terrified.” Hirad felt cold. He was still shivering intermittently and he felt as though his sweat was freezing on his body, yet the room was hot, very hot. Large fires crackled and snapped in ten grates set around the far half of the hall, surrounding the Dragon on three sides, and the beast himself was sitting in what looked like soft wet mud. He rested back on his hands once again.
“Fear is healthy. As is knowing when you are beaten. That is why you are still alive.” The Dragon twitched its left wing. “So, tell me, what are you doing here?”
“We were chasing someone. He came in here.”
“Yes, I thought that you would not be by yourself. Who were you chasing?”
The barbarian couldn't help but smile; the whole situation was getting quite beyond him. Although he was, he was sure, talking to a beast he had only heard of in rumour, he couldn't dispel the idea that it was all some kind of illusion. Something with a sensible explanation, anyway.
“A mage. His men killed one of my friends. We want him…have you…seen anyone?” said Hirad. It was simply too much. “Look, I'm sorry, but I'm having trouble even believing you exist.”
The Dragon laughed, or at least it was a sound that Hirad thought was laughter. It boomed around his skull like waves striking a cliff and he juddered and closed his eyes as the pain that followed smashed at his brain. And then those fangs were inches from his face and the nostrils blew gouts of hot air into his eyes. Hirad started violently but before he could experience the shock of the Dragon's speed of movement, it twitched its head up, catching him on the point of his jaw. He was hurled backward to slide across the tiles, coming to rest, dazed. He sat up and massaged his chin, blood running from a deep graze.
“And now, little man, do you still have trouble believ
ing I exist?”
“I…No, I don't think so…”
“And nor you should. Seran believes in me, although he has failed me now. And your friends beyond that door. I am sure they believe.” The Dragon's voice inside his head was louder now. Hirad got to his feet and walked toward the beast, shaking his head to clear his mind of the fog that encased it.
“Yes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend.” Hirad's heart was pounding in his throat once more. Another sound from the Dragon. Perhaps another laugh, but this time it sounded dismissive, somehow.
“But you questioned my very existence,” said the Dragon. “Perhaps you are lucky that I am slow to offend. Or perhaps that I am slow to question yours.” Hirad tried to slow his breathing and think, but there seemed to be no way out. The only question remaining was how long before the Dragon tired of the game and snuffed out his life.
“Yes.” Hirad shrugged and waited to die. “But you must understand that you were the last thing I expected to find here.”
“Ah.” Feelings of amusement arose in Hirad's mind. “Then I have disappointed you. Perhaps I should be apologising to you.” The Dragon laughed again. More quietly this time, more in thought than in mirth.
There was a faint rustling by Hirad's left ear, then a voice, just audible:
“Don't react to my voice and don't say anything. I am Denser, the man you are after, and I'm trying to help you.” He paused. “So when I say run, run hard. Don't argue and don't look back.”
“Now, little man. Ask me a question.”
“What?” Hirad blinked and returned his attention to the Dragon, amazed that he could forget, however momentarily, that it was there.
“Ask. There must be something you want to know about me.” The Dragon withdrew its head somewhat, its neck arching high above the mound of its body.
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