“And how are we to do that?” Belexus asked.
Ardaz blinked many times as he considered the perfectly smooth stone. “Oh.”
“I’ll push it out, you catch it,” Del reasoned, and before anyone could question, the spirit slipped through the wizard-made crack. A moment later, the door shivered, and the top portion slipped out just a fraction of an inch, but enough for mighty Belexus to hook his fingers on. The ranger’s muscular arms bulged as he tugged and the stone slipped out more and more, so slowly. And then, suddenly, the top came out from under the wall and the slab fell forward, and only quick reflexes and great strength allowed the ranger to hold it steady, get it under control, and then turn it aside and let it fall down the mountainside.
“There. No more noise than the avalanche that likely happens here every week,” Ardaz said, and neither Del nor Belexus could tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
“You’re sure about this?” Del asked one final time.
Belexus stepped right by him, into the tunnel.
“On we go,” Ardaz announced, but he stopped suddenly, snapped his fingers, and brought a small fire to the top of his staff.
“That should properly announce us,” Del said, and there could be no mistaking his sarcastic tones.
“We’re not for seeing in the dark,” the ranger said.
“I do not understand why you are so afraid,” Ardaz asked of Del as they started off to follow Belexus. “Can’t bite you, after all, and will likely break a nail if it tries to swipe at you. Hmmm, but I wonder about the fire.”
Del looked at him and shrugged; then, without hesitation, he moved his ghostly hand near to the fire atop the wizard’s staff. Closer and closer Del’s hand went, though his eyes and his rational memories of fire screamed in his mind that he should stop. Still, he felt no pain, no heat, none at all. He closed his eyes, then, denied the logic that this semicorporeal form imparted, and moved his hand down and down, finally feeling the knob of the wooden staff against his palm. Del opened his eyes to see that the fire burned about his hand and through his hand, but did not consume the flesh and did not pain him in the least.
“Oh, the dragon will like you!” Ardaz beamed, but he had spoken too loudly, drawing an angry “Sssh!” from Belexus, and then from himself, the wizard slapping a hand across his own mouth.
They went on quietly then, down and down, through the tunnel, through the maze of chambers and side passages, following the heat and the rhythmic breathing-and that breathing gave them all hope, for if they could catch the wyrm asleep, then perhaps they could find the sword and be away, or perhaps slay the beast before it ever awakened.
Such thoughts were fleeting, though, for both Ardaz and Belexus knew that one did not steal unnoticed from a dragon’s hoard, and that slaying an adult dragon quickly was near to impossible; and of course Del, who had seen this one up close, knew better than to believe truly that either task was possible.
They turned the last corner-all but Desdemona, who whacked Ardaz across the face, leaped from his arms, and shot back the way they had come-and there, looming before them, just as Del had described it, lay the great dragon, the huge lizardlike creature, massive wings folded up neatly upon its scaly, spiked back. And such a glitter of treasure was about it to bring great wealth to all of the folk of all of Calva, though, with the spectacle of the great wyrm before them, the others hardly noticed a single coin.
Belexus put a finger to pursed lips, then motioned to the left, but before he could take his first soft step, the monstrous, horned head swung out on a long, serpentine neck, coming to an abrupt halt barely ten feet from the three, and seeming a whole lot closer than that!
“Oh, pooh,” Ardaz said.
“Well, thieves,” the deafening dragon voice bellowed, and Del feared that the vibrations alone would shatter his semisubstantial form. “Have you any thoughts you wish to share before I enjoy my first meal in centuries?”
Chapter 13
The Master
Long and uncomfortable had been the first reunion, the meeting of Thalasi and his former henchman, the wraith of Hollis Mitchell, out in the rainy, mud-slickened courtyard of Talas-dun. That initial discussion had ended without battle, but it had been only a prelude, a testing ground, both of the powerful and evil beings understood, for it was no longer clear which of them was the stronger, which the true master. And both craved that position and that power.
Nor was the pecking order among the castle’s troops firmly established. Talons argued and fought with talons: those Mitchell brought in, tribes mostly from the lowland swamps south of Kored-dul, against those of the mountain tribes Thalasi already had stationed in the place; and the zombies, standing perfectly still unless ordered to some action by either the wraith or the Black Warlock, kept every living creature on the edge of its nerves.
That heavy tension had to be alleviated, and soon, Thalasi knew, or their discomfort and confusion would not only destroy any plans of conquest, but would likely spell doom for the mighty fortress itself, an eruption of insanity that would take down the very walls of the place. Thus, Thalasi bade Mitchell to join him in his throne room the next day.
Again the cold rain pelted the castle, the gloomy day nearly as dark as the night, with heavy clouds and drenching downpours and the occasional flash of lightning. Thalasi thought that quite appropriate, and perhaps advantageous. Reaching out for universal power had always been easier in times of thunderstorms, when some of those violent powers were so near and readily available.
Mitchell had to know that, too, and the fact that the wraith came into the throne room without being asked twice was a bit unnerving to the Black Warlock. Why was Mitchell so confident?
“When first I returned to Talas-dun after the battle of Mountaingate, there were two in charge here,” the Black Warlock began.
“Talons?” Mitchell said, scoffing, as if to remind his former mentor that no talon could ever prove any real threat.
Thalasi shook his head. “Two within me,” he explained. “The dueling spirits of Martin Reinheiser and Morgan Thalasi, each fighting for dominance in this singular mortal shell. It could not be so, not then and not now, not within me and not within Talas-dun. The talons must know without doubt the identity of their true leader, and the zombies cannot be effective if caught in a tug-of-war of wills.”
“The talons are yours, the zombies mine,” Mitchell decided.
“No!” Thalasi was quick to retort.
“Only the staff gives you any power over them,” the wraith went on, not backing down an inch. “Yet I have innate powers to command the undead. With the staff in my hands-”
“With the staff in your hands, you would have no need of me, and no need of any living talons.” Thalasi sneered, so easily understanding the true intent behind the wraith’s proposal. “Take me for no fool, wraith, and forget not that it was I who created you.”
“That alone may mark you as a fool,” the confident wraith replied calmly.
Thalasi straightened in his throne, rubbing his hands along the burnished black wood of the Staff of Death, which lay ready across his lap. “The staff is mine; the zombies are mine; the talons are mine.”
“And am I also yours?”
“You are my general, as it was before,” Thalasi offered.
The wraith’s hideous, rasping laughter filled the room and echoed throughout the walls of the fortress. “By whose word? Yours? The time of magic is passed; you admitted that much yourself.”
“Not passed, but lessened,” the Black Warlock said. “And I have this, always at the ready.” He held the mighty staff aloft, level with the wraith’s simmering eyes. “And this gives me you, Hollis Mitchell, and all the un-dead I can spare the time to animate.”