It was a strange, hollow sound, but in the silence around the mound it was unmistakable.
“Drakis. . Come!”
Drakis turned to Ethis, but the chimerian was already craning his neck higher, straining toward the sound.
“Drakis. . Ethis. . come!”
“Where is it coming from?” Drakis whispered hoarsely.
“I don’t see where. . wait!” Ethis pointed with his upper right hand. “There. . just to the right of center. I would swear that was closed just a moment ago!”
Drakis gazed closer in among the deepening shadows being cast by the overhang around the mound. One of the blocked openings was suddenly and inexplicably open. A tunnel ran backward and up into the mound. Two torches burned in sconces mounted on either wall.
“That’s a little too accommodating,” Ethis said.
The voice from within called once more. “Drakis. . Ethis. . night is falling. Come. . RuuKag. . Mala. . Jugar. . Lyric. . come!”
“It’s Belag,” Drakis said as much for his own assurance as Ethis’ benefit.
“No, it can’t be,” Ethis countered. “This makes no sense, Drakis!”
“Perhaps not, but I’m going to get a closer look,” Drakis said, dropping his pack. He unstrapped the small shield and adjusted the sword at his hip. “You wait here and watch. If I don’t come back, get everyone out of here and back to some more civilized place.”
“North, I suppose?” Ethis quipped.
Drakis chuckled. “If I don’t come back, I wouldn’t advise following such an obviously flawed prophecy.”
Drakis bounded from the cover of the grass straight onto the flat, open ground. He ran quickly across its surface, puzzled at the springy quality of the ground under his feet as he ran but too intent on the opening looming before him to stop. He flattened himself against the wall next to the opening and then slowly turned to look inside.
The tunnel floor rose upward. Pairs of torches fluttered in a breeze coming from inside the tunnel, emitting greasy smoke as they flagged, each pair lighting the way farther inside. The upward curve of the tunnel itself prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet or so down its length. The closing mechanism was obvious to him now as a round, carved stone rolled out of its channel and into a space in the wall. Something had built this place.
“Drakis. . I’ve got to explain something.” The voice was unmistakably that of Belag, but there was an odd quality to it that Drakis could not identify.
Drakis ducked into the tunnel and, grabbing a torch, ran up the curving incline. He passed several pairs of torches along the way as the rough-walled tunnel first curved upward into an incline and then began to curve down away from him. There were no side passages nor openings that he could see. Each step carried him farther and deeper into the great mound.
The tunnel ended abruptly in a black void so large that the torch in his hand did not penetrate it.
Just over a hundred feet in front of him, illuminated by a single torch, sat a manticore on a woven throne.
“Belag?” Drakis called in a loud whisper.
The manticore stood. “Drakis! Thank the gods! I must beg your forgiveness. . I would have come, but the Hak’kaarin would not permit me to leave.”
Drakis did not wait but walked quickly toward his friend. “You are being held a prisoner, then?”
“No. . not exactly. . please, Drakis, I need to explain. .”
“Explanations later,” Drakis said. “First, let’s get you out of here.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Belag said, holding his huge hands out in front of him. “I need to warn you. The Hak’kaarin. .”
“Warn me?” Drakis stopped at once, crouching down and turning slowly, his senses heightened. “What is it?”
“The Hak’kaarin,” Belag started again. “They love to. .”
In that instant, ten thousand torches flared into life; their light banished the blackness from the enormous chamber.
“WELCOME!!!”
Drakis screamed in shock, his body reacting at once in fear. When he came to his senses once more, he was crouching, his sword drawn and shield held high as he stared in wonder.
“The Hak’kaarin,” Belag sighed, “love to surprise guests.”
The torches illuminated hundreds of caves that honeycombed the walls of the mud cavern. Branching caverns could be seen in several directions, now completely visible in the bright light. But it was the eyes staring back at him that astonished him the most; each of the hundreds of caverns was filled with short, reddish brown creatures with enormous eyes and hooked noses. They wore hides, pelts, and tanned leathers for clothing, and each held a torch in large hands with long fingers.
Drakis was standing next to a great blackened pit filled with dried grass bundles and even a few dead trees. As he watched, two of the small creatures scurried forward and tossed their torches onto the pile. The pit erupted into a towering fire, and the thousands of creatures in the caverns lining the walls broke into an enormous cheer.
“Where in the abyss have you been?” Drakis yelled at Belag, trying to be heard over the noise.
“Here,” Belag roared back. “They caught me last night trying to get a better look at them. They have a rather impressive defensive plan that. .”
“Not now,” Drakis yelled back. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“They wouldn’t let me,” Belag replied. “We need their help, and I didn’t want to hurt any of them.”
“So you just sat here?” Drakis barked.
“No,” Belag shook his great head. “The Hak’kaarin are mud gnomes. . wanderers of the wasteland. About the only thing they love better than surprising other creatures is hearing their stories.”
Drakis was not sure he heard the manticore correctly over the noise. “Did you say ‘stories’?”
“Yes!” the manticore bellowed in reply.
Drakis looked up, suddenly aware that the cheering had become rhythmic.
“Oh, no!” Drakis’ murmured words were completely obscured by the chanting.
“DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS!. .”
The human warrior turned to the manticore and smiled grimly as he yelled. “I think I can guess which story you’ve been telling!”
CHAPTER 33
“Soen Tjen-Rei, Inquisitor of the Iblisi,” the brilliantly robed gnome shouted from the far end of the Great House Hall, throwing his chubby arms wide. “My dear old friend! The sight of you fills my eyes with joy!”
Soen bowed deeply at the hall entrance, dust billowing from his robes as he quickly returned upright and threw his own arms wide, his narrow face split into a sharp-toothed smile. “Argos Helm, Caliph of the Dje’kaarin and my most honored citizen of the north! The burdens of my journey are lightened at your sight!”
Argos Helm slapped both his fat hands down on the top of his trouser-covered thighs with a resounding clap. This caused both his short legs to jerk forward slightly in reflex, his ornate silk shoes swinging away from the tall throne where they hung two full handbreadths above the floor.
Soen determinedly held his fixed smile, fingering his Matei staff in his right hand and mentally reviewing the many ways in which he might use it to most satisfactorily obliterate the pompous, scheming, slippery, and utterly corrupt gnome who sat so cheerfully before him. Argos was the latest in an unfortunately long line of Caliphs who had ruled the Stone Gnome tribes of the northern coastal regions of Vestasia since the Grand Army of the Emperor had come to a disappointing end to its march at these miserable shores three centuries before. Mortis Helm was only one of several dozen self-proclaimed warlords, but it was he alone who had both the shrewd foresight and unbridled pragmatic opportunism to ally himself and his family with the weary invaders. Mortis was in awe of the might and splendor of the Rhonas Imperium from the distant south-especially their stand against the humans who had, in his mind, long ignored and dismissed his people as unworthy of their attentions. He envisioned a day when all his people would be a part of that Empire, forever giving up the wandering ways of the tribes, living in one place in sheltering walls of stone while enjoying at their ease the luxurious splendors of a more civilized world. Of course, being the only visionary he knew, Mortis would rule them on behalf of the greater good. The Dje’kaarin would no longer govern themselves, but then governance was such a burden for the unworthy and unenlightened. Better that he should do their thinking for them.