Finally he and Krinsel came to the banks of a placid forest lake nestled against a hillside. Its crystal waters were perfectly calm and reflected the trees that lined it like a mirror; broken chunks of ice floated lazily in the current draining into a small stream. From the descriptions Rhapsody had given him of Elynsynos’s lair, he thought this might be the reflecting pool that was fed from its depths. The grove in which the pool rested was serene, the silence broken only by an occasional chirp of birdsong, which grew lesser with each step closer toward the dragon’s lair.
He motioned to Krinsel to follow him around the quiet lake, the only sound now the trickling of the brook. The song of his name grew louder as he approached; when he got to the far shore he could tell that it was issuing forth from the entrance of a cave that was hidden in the steepest part of the hillside, obscured all but entirely by trees and the grade of the land. From the mouth of the cave a small stream flowed, emptying silently into the glassy waters of the reflecting pool.
Achmed indicated the cave entrance wordlessly, and Krinsel nodded again.
No path was visible to the eye; in fact, it seemed to Achmed that the trees that grew around the lake up to the entrance of the cave had been planted, or perhaps subtly twisted, to obscure the way, to lend yet one more layer of guardian flora to the place. Fortunately, not long after she had given him the ridiculous moniker of Achmed the Snake, Rhapsody had also retitled him with other names—Firbolg, Dhracian, Firstborn, Assassin, Unerring tracker. The Pathfinder. The words, spoken in the pure flames of the fire at the center of the earth, had imparted those traits to him, some of which he had had all his life, others of which were new. The ability to find paths was a useful addition to his skills, and he employed it now; the way through the labyrinth of trees became instantly clear to him.
He had started down the path that led to the entrance when the silence of the forest was suddenly shattered by a voice that rumbled through the forest floor, its pitch at once soprano, alto, tenor, and bass.
Stop.
Achmed froze involuntarily.
The odd voice sounded both annoyed and amused.
One does not walk, uninvited, into the lair of a dragon, unless one is a great fool. I suggest you knock, or at least announce yourself.
The words echoed up the tunnel beyond the cave entrance. They rippled unpleasantly over his sensitive skin, disrupting the agreeable vibration of his namesong that had been dancing there, irritating it and making his head throb. Beyond that, there was an inherent power to them, elemental in origin, that was unmistakably threatening.
He looked back at the Bolg midwife, whose face was set in the same stoic expression it always held, but whose eyes were glistening with fear.
“You can wait here,” he said; the woman nodded slightly, relief evident, though her expression did not change.
Achmed walked to the mouth of the cave. On the outer wall, obscured by a layer of frost and lichen, he saw some scratched runes; upon closer examination, he recognized them, and exhaled deeply. The words were carved in the ancient language of Universal Ship’s Cant, a compound tongue that was formed from Old Cymrian and the languages of the known world more than two millennia before:
Cyme we inne frið, fram the grip of deaþ to lif inne ðis smylte land
The irony made his skin itch. This was the birthplace of the Cymrian people, the very spot where Merithyn the Explorer had carved the words given to him by his king with which he was to greet anyone he met in the new world.
Come we in peace, from the grip of death to life in this fair land.
The dragon that lived in the bottom of this cave had been fascinated with the explorer, then enamored of him; she had invited him to return home and bring his doomed people with him to refuge and safety in her lands. And the imbecile had done so, bringing with him all manner of selfish, spoiled people who had gained a sort of immortality, or at least an immense longevity, in the process. Though Merithyn died at sea on the way back, the Cymrians, as the refugees from Serendair were known, then proceeded to conquer the Wyrmlands and the lands beyond, ruling undisputed, subjugating the indigenous peoples who could not withstand conquerors with such unearthly powers and life spans, only to despoil it all with their great, stupid war.
And this was where it all began.
His teeth hurt thinking about it.
“Rhapsody!” he shouted impatiently into the mouth of the cave.
The namesong abruptly ceased, ripping the pleasant vibration from his skin, leaving it humming with a slight sting.
Silence reigned for a moment. Then the multitoned voice spoke again, displeasure evident in its tone now, replacing the humor that had been there a moment before.
You may enter, Bolg king, but mind your manners.
“Huzzah,” Achmed muttered. He gestured to Krinsel to make camp outside the cave, then started down the tunnel into the dark.
The mouth of the cave began to widen a few feet in, stretching into a vast, dark tunnel that glowed farther below with a pulsing light. At the tunnel’s exterior, a starlike lichen grew on the walls of the cave, spreading out into the light of day, but thinned as the tunnel deepened and eventually disappeared.
The walls of the cave twisted in ever-growing circles as the pathway descended. Achmed could hear the sound of trickling water farther in, could smell the unmistakable odor of the forge, of brimstone burning in the tunnel’s depths. The breath of the dragon, he thought, the acrid scent irritating his sinuses. He squinted in the dark, following the glow.
He was wading now through a shallow stream that deepened the farther he went in. Rhapsody had described the lair to him years before, had told him that the wyrm lived along the banks of an inland sea. Steam rose from the water he walked through.
He lost track of time as he traversed the tunnel, much as he, Grunthor, and Rhapsody had when traveling within the Root. The sensation surprised him; he was amazed that Rhapsody was able to pass any amount of time within this subterranean cave, as it was very reminiscent of that time within the Earth’s belly. Being Lirin, a child of the sky, she had suffered every moment she was away from the open air; the journey along the Axis Mundi had been torture for her. And she had been here for months.
The rancid air blasted around him in a wave of tainted heat again, and ahead of him he could hear the sound of taloned feet scraping against the stone floor of the cave, followed by the splash of water as the beast dragged itself out. Achmed stopped as he rounded a corner and looked up.
Ahead of him the dragon loomed, filling the cave from floor to ceiling, its enormous body ethereal but with surprising mass. The immense wyrm was at least a hundred feet in length, perhaps longer, in her nonsolid state, the copper scales that clad her skin glittering in the warm light from torch-fires that illuminated the bottom of the cave, causing her skin to reflect the light like a million twinkling red stars. Her eyes were prismatic orbs bisected vertically with narrow silver pupils, and gleamed like lanterns in the darkness. And in those eyes was the unmistakable look of irritation.
“Do not upset Pretty,” the beast warned, her multitoned voice echoing through the cave. The multicolored eyes narrowed to emphasize the words that had issued forth from the very air itself.
Achmed nodded curtly. “Where is she?”
The dragon eyed him suspiciously for a moment longer, then moved to one side, allowing him to pass by her translucent body and continue deeper into the cave.
In the midst of all the treasure from the sea Rhapsody sat in a canvas hammock suspended between two walls of the cave, a trident buried into the stone up to the top of its prongs holding one end up. Achmed slowed his steps and came to a halt, watching her intently.