The map showed the land centuries ago, before the Cataclysm, when it was a tundra: barren, flat, and cold. There were a scattering of cities and towns indicated, ones Dhamon knew were now long buried and with names lost to history. The ancient Plains of Dust looked smaller than the land was today, perhaps only three or four hundred miles from north to south, and there was no hint of the glacier, only a deep blue sea.
“Tarsis,” Dhamon said, eyes locking onto a coastal city.
“Tarsis indeed.” Maldred had come up directly behind him. “If I remember my history, Tarsis was quite a port, all big and bustling and with deep water docks to rival any place in this half of the world. Of course, that was many lifetimes ago.”
“Aye,” Dhamon agreed. Tarsis was now a good distance inland, more than one hundred miles from the sea. The Cataclysm had changed this part of the world considerably.
“Tarsis, before the Cataclysm, was thriving,” Maldred said. “That was also before the Kingpriest of Istar tried to become a god. Tales say the gods were angered at his affront and dragged Istar to the bottom of the sea. The world was reshaped over the next few hundred years, and the Plains were caught in that.”
“The Shadow Years they were called,” Dhamon added, his fingers rubbing at the uneven beard he was growing. “They say mountains fell, new mountains sprang up from flat land, famine and plague swept across the world. A lovely time. Probably just about as lovely as this time we’re enjoying with the dragon overlords.”
Maldred angled a finger at the sea. “This water receded, leaving Tarsis and other ports inland. Ships were stranded overnight. Terrible quakes rocked the Plains. Cities and ships were swallowed by the earth—ships with bellies brimming with treasure. We’ll find them. I have every confidence. Then we’ll find your healer.” He rocked back on his heels and looked up at the moon. “I read a book once that claimed there were four hundred earthquakes on the Plains during those Shadow Years. The quakes were strongest along the coast, near Tarsis and…”
He looked to Dhamon and then nodded toward a trio of small port towns shown in the eastern part of the map. Not even a trace of faded ink hinted at their names. “…and were strongest near here. These three towns this old map shows, and the tales, are why I believe my father’s map is genuine.”
Dhamon raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“It was said that the one town in the center was a pirate port, established by a group of powerful Ergothians who found the pickings better here than around their homeland.” Maldred’s voice quickened. “It’s not listed on most of the old maps you’ll find in libraries. Indeed, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a map this old.” His finger drew a line in the air up from the port. “See this faint mark over here? It’s a river, one that doesn’t exist today. It was just wide and deep enough for the few skilled pirate captains who knew how to navigate it. Legend says those who foolishly chased the pirates up that river ran aground, and the pirates turned back to pillage them, in each case leaving only one survivor to recount the gruesome incident.”
Dhamon whistled softly. “It’s because of the survivors that people found out about the pirate city and the vanished river?”
Maldred absently nodded. “Some of the pirates would take their ships up the river, well past this port and store their booty in heavily guarded caves, not trusting their fellow pirates back in the city. The caves are, I believe, just beyond the Screaming Valley.”
“Map, show us the land as it is now,” Dhamon urged.
In the blink of an eye the map changed, mirroring the current geography—much larger and temperate, with grassy plains reaching to a horizon where low rolling hills were dotted with a variety of trees.
Dhamon ran his fingers over the map. He swore he could feel jagged edges of stone where the mountains were sketched to the west. According to this view, the Plains of Dust was nearly three hundred miles across at its widest point, running about two hundred miles from north to south at the center. Only a scattering of towns were marked around the borders of the interior. In the west Tarsis and Rigitt, in the south Zeriak, and in the northwest Dontol, Willik, and Stone Rose. Polagnar was a little to the northeast of Graelor’s End. Due north at the edge of the map was the City of Morning Dew, along with a few other smaller places that were named after long-dead explorers. At the southern edge of the map the Plains were bordered by the inhospitable Icewall Glacier. The map marked it by irregular lines meant to look like mountains, but instead resembling icicles. Dhamon leaned close and felt a chill wind coming up from the parchment.
“Amazing,” he breathed.
Though mountains were indicated on the west part of the map—what most considered dwarven lands—overall there were few marks to represent hills. Dhamon knew just by traveling this far that there were plenty of rolling hills and woods. There was no sign of the unnamed ancient river the pirates traveled, just the River Toranth, which originated in Sable’s swamp and cut through the Plains’ heart, breaking into tributaries and spreading like the fingers of an outstretched hand. There were a few villages along a Toranth tributary to the west, beyond a jagged line that Maldred said was the Screaming Valley.
“We could get a wagon here,” Maldred suggested, pointing to a village just north of the valley.
“In… Wheatland, it’s called. A couple of horses. We’ll need something to haul all the treasure in.”
Dhamon cleared his throat. “Map, are there Legion of Steel Knights in the area? In Wheatland?”
Before he could take another breath, glowing motes looking like plump fireflies appeared in various places across the map—including over the town Maldred had pointed to.
“No way to tell how many Knights are in each spot,” Dhamon mused. “Maybe one. Maybe one hundred.”
Maldred shook his head. “It’s not worth taking a chance to find out.”
“So we find the treasure first, then we’ll worry about a wagon.”
“And we’ve your sivak along, my friend, to carry a good amount.”
* * * * *
They’d been traveling for nearly three hours, the morning sun climbing well into the sky when the landscape changed dramatically from gently rolling grassy plains to ground so cracked and barren that it looked like the wrinkles on an old sailor’s face. For a while they could still see the grassland, to the west and behind them, and they could faintly smell the sweetness of the last of the early fall’s wild-flowers. But when the plains disappeared entirely from view, the air became acrid and laced with sulphur, as if something was burning nearby. Their eyes stung and watered, but there was no trace of flames or smoke.
Maldred was in the lead, lost in thought and picking his way down a long-dry streambed. The draconian was a few yards behind him at Dhamon’s side, eyes darting from left to right and nose constantly quivering.
“What bothers you?” Dhamon asked.
The sivak didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed a clawed finger towards the south and narrowed his eyes as if trying to focus on something.
“What, Ragh?” Dhamon persisted. He followed the sivak’s gaze, but saw nothing.
“Somethin’ there?” This from the half-elf. “All I see is ugly, flat, smelly ground and your wingless back.” She padded up behind the draconian, tugging Varek along. “Whaddya see, beastie?”
A growl escaped the sivak’s throat. “Nothing,” he said after a moment. “I thought I saw movement ahead. Something large. But…”
“Mal? You see anything?” Dhamon asked.
Maldred shook his head.
“My imagination,” the sivak decided. “My eyes are tired.”