“Now, while concentrating on the sound you picked, speak in a normal tone of voice,” Lyanius said.
Keeping his attention fixed on the old dwarf’s breathing, Rikus answered, “Fine. What now?”
The rush of air into and out of the old dwarf’s lungs faded to the volume of his own voice, and Rikus found he could think again.
“Now come with me,” Lyanius said.
Rikus stood and followed the dwarf back to the banquet table. “Does the sword do anything else?”
“I don’t know,” Lyanius answered. “I’ve seen it mentioned in the Book of Kings, but I can’t read enough of the entry to know all the weapon’s possible powers.”
As Lyanius spoke, Rikus adjusted his magically augmented hearing by concentrating on the dwarf’s words. “Thank you for the blade. This is a great honor.”
“We’re not done yet,” said the old dwarf, taking the black belt off the table.
Lyanius held the belt out to Rikus, its stiff leather crackling like pebbles falling on cobblestones. The thing was so wide it was almost a girdle. The buckle was hidden by a field of red flames, with the skull of a fierce half-man in the center.
“This is the Belt of Rank,” Lyanius said, strapping the belt around the mul’s waist.
Rikus stepped away, asking, “What does it do?”
His question brought a chuckle to the old dwarfs lips. “There is no need to worry,” Lyanius said. “Its magic is not as intrusive as that of the Scourge of Rkard. For three thousand years, this belt was passed from one dwarven general to the next, a symbol of authority over all the armies of the dwarves.”
“Why are you giving it to me?” Rikus asked, allowing the old dwarf to fasten it about his waist.
“Because you are the only knight worthy of it.”
“In fact, you’re the only knight,” Caelum added. “There is no one else to wear it.”
Rikus was about to thank the old dwarf again when he heard an alarmed cry echo from the other side of the closed doors. Though he could not understand the words, he recognized the voice as that of the glass-eyed sculpture on the door where the Book of Kings was stored.
“The book!” he exclaimed, turning toward the doors.
“What about it?” gasped Caleum.
“The door just screamed,” he shouted, motioning for Lyanius to follow him.
Before he could explain further, the mul heard Maetan’s bitter voice cry out in surprise. A loud boom followed the mindbender’s yell.
When Rikus reached the doors to the hall, they opened of their own accord. The wrab that had been clinging to them took flight and swooped down on the mul, but he swatted the nasty little beast from the air before it came close to striking him.
Rikus turned down the corridor and heard the door scream again. There was another explosion, the sound ringing in the corridor and making everyone’s ears ache. The mul took off at a sprint, trusting to his companions to follow.
After the violent explosion, the keep fell ominously silent. To the mul, it seemed to take forever to retrace their steps. The corridor was much longer than he remembered, and his frustration was compounded by mistakenly turning into several alcoves that looked similar to the one where the book was safeguarded.
Finally he reached the correct alcove, and this time he had no doubt that he had found the right one. In front of it lay the inert figure of King Rkard, the heft of his great axe snapped in two and his black armor dented and scorched from an explosion. Rikus reluctantly peered into the helm and saw that the green cloth swaddling the king’s face had been burned away. Now only a charred skull, half-covered by taut leathery skin, peered out from beneath the visor.
As the mul studied Rkard’s face, a yellow light began to glimmer deep within the corpse’s eye sockets. Not wishing to be the first thing that the king saw when he returned to awareness, Rikus moved away and turned toward the chamber where the book was stored.
The bronze-gilded door hung off its hinges, twisted and mangled as though a giant had kicked it open. The bas-relief’s glass eyes had been ripped from the face and now lay shattered on the stone floor.
Lyanius came up behind Rikus, then rushed into the room and let out an anguished scream. “It’s gone!”
“What happened?” Caelum asked. “Who could have done this?”
“Maetan,” Rikus answered, looking down the long corridor.
Neeva rushed up behind them, her torch casting a flickering circle of yellow light over the small group. She did not need to ask what happened.
Lyanius hurried out of the room and grabbed Rikus’s hand. “You must find him! That book is the history of my people!”
As the old dwarf spoke, King Rkard’s corpse rose to his feet and looked around as if searching for something, paying no attention to Rikus or his companions.
The mul stepped away from the others. “Quiet. I’ll use the sword to track Maetan.”
For several moments, the mul gripped the hilt of his new sword, listening to the sounds of the ancient dwarven city. He could hear the nervous breathing of his companions, the occasional squeak of metal as Rkard changed positions, even the soft hiss of the torches they had left behind in the great hall-but he did not detect the faintest hint of Maetan’s presence.
“He’s gone,” Rikus said at last.
Lyanius groaned and buried his face in his hands. “How?”
“The Way,” Neeva answered.
Rikus rested the sword tip-down on the sand-strewn floor, a look of grim determination on his face. “I’ll recover the book,” he said. “Even if I have to chase Lord Lubar all the way to Urik.”
“I’ll come with you,” Caelum said forcefully. “And so will many of the village’s young dwarves. There are many who would make this quest their focus.”
Rikus nodded. “Your help will be welcome.”
Lyanius’s eyes lit up. As if to prove his newfound champion was not simply a cruel illusion left by the thief of his priceless book, the old dwarf reached out and touched the mul’s arm. “Can you do it?”
“Think before you answer, Rikus,” Neeva said. “Don’t promise something you can’t deliver.”
In answer, Rikus placed a hand on the Belt of Rank, then started toward the exit. “We start for Urik in an hour.”
“You haven’t earned that belt yet, my love.”
Though Neeva whispered the words beneath her breath, to Rikus they boomed as loudly as the magical explosions Maetan had used to defeat Rkard and capture the Book of the Kemalok Kings.
FIVE
WROG’S RING
“Keep a watch, and I will search out someone to be my spy,” said Maetan, tucking his frail body between a pair of wind-scoured boulders.
“I do not relish being invoked for such mundane tasks,” objected Umbra. In the flaxen light of Athas’s twin moons, the shadow giant was hardly distinguishable from the more natural darkness surrounding him.
“Until I avenge my honor against Rikus and his Tyrians, no task is mundane!” snapped Maetan. “Do as I command-or does the Black no longer value my family’s obsidian?”
A wisp of ebon-colored gas rose from Umbra’s down-turned mouth. “Your stone has value, but someday you will overestimate its worth,” he snarled, peering up at the pale moons. “A shadow needs light to give it shape and substance. It pains me to serve you in such conditions.”
“If I do not present these slaves to King Hamanu in shackles, my family name will be shamed,” Maetan said. “Do you think I care about your pain?”
“No more than I care about your honor,” Umbra replied, creeping away to do as Maetan ordered. His dark form fused with the other shadows mottling the hillside.
Maetan turned his attention to the sandy gulch below. There, surrounded by a tight picket of drowsy sentries, the Tyrian legion was camped.