“Then follow my commands,” Rikus replied. He fingered the pouch into which he had slipped the templar’s crystal. “And the only reports Tithian receives will be those I send.”
Styan gnashed his teeth, then asked, “Am I dismissed?”
In answer, Rikus removed his arm from the man’s shoulder and looked away.
As the templar left, Lyanius took Rikus by the arm once more. “This way,” he said, pulling the mul toward the far side of the village. “You come too, Caelum.”
As the tall dwarf started after his father, he asked, “Are you going to Kemalok, Urhnomus?”
Lyanius nodded slowly, giving rise to astonished, though approving, murmurs from the throng of young dwarves that seemed to hang about him at all times.
“We must ask Neeva, as well,” Caelum said, his voice as firm as his father’s. “She saved my life, and fought as well against the Urikites as Rikus.”
Lyanius fixed his sharp eyes on his son, scowling at his impudence. When the younger dwarf did not flinch under the harsh stare, the old dwarf sighed and said, “If it makes you happy, I will allow it.”
Beaming, Caelum gestured to Neeva, then fell into step behind Rikus and his father. The old dwarf proceeded at a stately pace to the village wall, just below the great sand dune. There, a pair of dwarves stood guard. They were armed with steel battle-axes and stood to either side of a bronze-gilded door decorated with a bas-relief of a huge, serpent-headed bird. The beast’s wings were outspread, its claws were splayed, and its snakelike head was poised to strike. The door itself stood slightly ajar, and Rikus could see that it opened into a deep tunnel that led beneath the dune.
“Why is this door open?” Lyanius demanded, addressing the two guards.
The young dwarves looked at each other uncomfortably, then one answered, “It was open when we returned to our posts after the battle.”
Caelum frowned in concern. “How could the Urikites-”
The old dwarf raised a hand to cut off his son’s question, then stared into the serpent-bird’s eyes for several moments. Finally, he reported, “The door opened of its own accord.”
How often does it do that?” Rikus asked, concerned.
“Now and then,” Lyanius answered, giving the mul a cryptic smile. “But I am not worried. Two Urikites did creep through after the door opened, but they will quickly regret their mistake.”
“Why’s that?” asked Neeva.
The old dwarf looked away without answering, then said, “Leave your weapons with the guards.”
With that, the old dwarf looked up at the bird sculpture and gave a short, squawking whistle. The door creaked fully open, its hinges screeching so loudly that Rikus suspected the sound could be heard on the far side of Kled.
Somewhat reluctantly, Rikus and Neeva left their blades with the guards and followed Lyanius. The mul did not like being without his weapons, but it was clear the urhnomus would tolerate no arguments.
Inside the tunnel, Lyanius retrieved a pair of torches from the floor. Caelum lit them by simply passing his hand over the tops.
Lyanius eyed Neeva sorely, then said, “Three of us have no need of these.” He was referring to the fact that, like elves, dwarves and muls were gifted with the ability to sense ambient heat when no other light source is present. “But because you’re along at my son’s request, young woman,” he said, flashing her an unexpected smile, “we will use them anyway.”
After handing one of the brands to his son, Lyanius led the way down a cool tunnel. To keep the sand from cascading in and burying the excavation, the passageway was lined with wide strips of animal hide, gray and cracked with age. This lining was supported by wooden beams, the ends of which rested on stone pillars. The narrow corridor was so low that Rikus and Neeva had to crawl to pass through it.
Just when Rikus was about to ask how much farther they had to go, the tunnel opened up into a small chamber. The path led to a small stone walkway that looked as though it had once been a bridge. Beside this causeway lay more than a dozen weapons of various materials. Several of them looked to be quite ancient, judging by the rot of their wooden handles or the yellowed brittleness of their bone blades.
Two of the weapons, however, were quite new. A pair of obsidian short swords lay to one side of the bridge, the white fingers of a man’s lifeless hand still gripping the hilt of each weapon. The remainder of the bodies were not visible, having slowly sunk into the powdery sand that now filled the moat beneath the bridge. Still, Rikus had no doubt that the swordsmen wore the red tunic of Hamanu’s soldiers, for the shape of their weapons was identical to those carried by the rest of the Urikite legion.
A deep, full-bellied laugh escaped Lyanius’s lips and echoed off the still walls of the sandy cavern. “Heed the words of the ancients, or such will be your end,” he said, leading the way across the bridge.
On the other end of the bridge the small group stopped beneath the arched gateway of a magnificent stone wall. Inscribed into the spandrel were several strange runes that Rikus took to be the letters of a written language.
“Beyond this gate, place your trust in the strength of your friendship, not the temper of your blade,” translated Lyanius, a crooked smile on his ancient lips.
The old dwarf led them to a gateway, where, a few feet above Rikus’s head, hung a portcullis of rusty-red iron. It was supported by thick chains that disappeared through a set of openings into the gatehouses that flanked the pathway. The walls of these buildings were constructed of white marble, so finely cut and carefully fit together that even a sliver of torchlight could not have slipped between them.
“Welcome to Kemalok, lost city of the dwarven kings,” Lyanius said, waving his guests through the gate.
“I’ve never seen so much iron in one place,” Neeva said, running her gaze from the portcullis to the chains. “What king could afford this?”
“What you see here is nothing compared to the wonders of the keep,” bragged Caelum. “Follow me.”
The dwarf stepped beneath the portcullis. When Neeva and Rikus tried to follow, a chest-high figure stepped from around the gatehouse corner and blocked their path. It wore a complete suit of black plate mail, trimmed at every joint in silver and gold. In its hands the figure held a battle-axe with a serrated blade of steel flecked with scintillating lights, and its helm was capped by a jewel-studded crown of gleaming white metal, the like of which Rikus had never before seen.
As magnificent as the figure’s armor was, it was the thing’s eyes that arrested Rikus’s attention. The orbs were all that was visible of a face swaddled in green bandages, and they burned with a glow as yellow as the afternoon sky.
“Don’t move!” commanded Caelum.
Rikus obeyed, as did Neeva. The mul had no idea what the thing was, but he knew he did not wish to anger it.
“Rkard, last of the great dwarven kings,” explained Lyanius, stepping back to them. He brushed past the mummified king as casually as he moved past his own son. “He means you no harm. Show him that you bear no weapons.”
Rikus and Neeva did as Lyanius asked. When they faced forward again, Rkard stepped aside. As soon as the two gladiators passed, the ancient king again blocked the gate.
“Strange,” mumbled Lyanius.
“Maybe there are more Urikites around,” Rikus suggested, peering into the darkness on the other side of the moat.
“Don’t be daft,” the old dwarf snapped, pointing at the two obsidian swords stuck in the moat. The hands previously wrapped around the hilts had vanished completely. “Two Urikites came in, and two have died.”
With that, Lyanius led the rest of the way through the gate. On the other side, a confusing warren of tunnels branched off in a dozen directions, leading down what had once been the grand avenues and hidden alleys of a sizable metropolis. The greatest part of Kemalok still lay buried under mounds of sand, but enough of it showed for Rikus to see that most of the buildings were constructed of granite block. The five-foot doors and narrow, chest-high windows left no doubt that this had, indeed, been a dwarven city.