Inside, the walls of the tomb bore torches that burned but produced no smoke, their flickering, yellow glow playing along the black, shiny interior. The room was empty except for benches that lined the walls, an obsidian dais upon which rested an empty sarcophagus, and an altar at the far end of the tomb.
“Those were Huma’s,” said Gilthanas, gesturing to a sword and shield at the foot of the coffin. He was silent and still for a moment, then he quickly walked over to the stone altar. The others quietly joined him.
“The Order of the Sword… Crown … and Rose” said Fiona, pointing at the carvings in the altar’s surface. She quickly pulled her hand back, for fear of coming too close to touching the altar.
Gilthanas crouched on the floor. “Down here,” he said.
Centered below the altar was a large, iron plate. Its surface was flush with the floor, so it could only be lifted by pulling up the iron ring in its center. Gilthanas tugged the plate free, and slid it to the side.
“After you” the elf said to Ulin.
The young mage warily looked down into the black hole. “Something else you forgot to mention?”
Gilthanas laughed, and pointed to the opening. “This is our route to Dragon Mountain. In order to get inside, we have to ride in this windpipe, which leads us underground and then, up into the interior of the mountain.”
The elf gained Groller’s attention, pointed at the half-ogre, and then pointed down the hole. Groller blinked slowly, then repeated the gestures, directing them back at Gilthanas. “Yes, me, too,” said the elf, nodding.
“I’ll be first,” said Fiona, striding forward. She sat down on the smooth floor, slid herself over to the hole, and situated herself so she was perched on its edge, her lean legs dangling into the dark expanse. “I can feel the air moving, like a warm wind pulling me down “
Fury settled by her side, then jumped to his feet as she began to lower herself down into the hole. “There are handholds down here,” came an echoing voice from inside the shaft. “I’ll just climb—”
Her voice disappeared in a sudden gust of wind that made them all rush forward to the edge of the opening. “She’s probably almost inside Dragon Mountain,” said Gilthanas. “It’s that fast”
Fury yapped, his long muzzle directed down the hole. His claws slid against the obsidian floor as he readied himself to jump, then hesitated and backed up a few inches. Groller moved behind the wolf, and stroked Fury’s magnificent red coat of fur. The wolf suddenly sprang forward, silently disappearing into the darkness of the shaft.
One by one the remaining adventurers lowered themselves into the windpipe and were instantly whirled away on great columns and gusts of air to the interior of Dragon Mountain. They emerged in a brightly illuminated chamber, climbed a great curving staircase and discovered the Hall of Lances in the upper gallery.
Many of the lances were ornate, with handles of silver and gold that practically glowed. Some looked so very similar to Rig’s lance that the elf suspected they were made by the same craftsman. Others were made of intricately carved wood while still others were plain—merely functional weapons that stood out among the others because they were so proudly unadorned. Not a speck of dust was on any of them.
“Which one was Huma’s?” Ulin asked.
“I think that could take us a while to find out,” Gilthanas answered. “Unless our friends here have some clue we’re unaware of.” The Qualinesti looked at the Knights of Takhisis. Neither offered a suggestion. “Fine. Then let’s everyone relax. We’ve reached our destination, and I for one would like to be out of the cold for a while. And I’d like to catch some sleep.” He walked several feet down the corridor, yawned for emphasis, and dropped his fur cloak on the floor. “Ah, here’s a good spot.” He quickly settled on it. “I don’t intend to inspect any of these lances until I’ve inspected the inside of my eyelids for a few hours.”
Fiona stood at the entrance of the hall, her eyes searching the rows of weapons fading into the distance. Ulin followed her glance, and swallowed hard. He put his furs on the floor, and arranged them into a makeshift bed. Finding Huma’s among all of these was just about impossible, he thought. But he would do his best in trying. He took a deep breath, and relished the novelty of the warm air spreading over his face and hands. “Warm,” Ulin said to himself. “I do remember what warm feels like.”
Chapter 17
Curious Malevolence
Curling wisps of steam drifted upward from the Red Dragon’s cavernous nostrils, mingling with the heat from the volcanoes that ringed her plateau. Heat rose from the craters and from the rivulets of lava that ran down their sides. The air was oppressively hot, the way the dragon liked it, and tinged with the agreeable scent of sulfur. And the rocky ground she rested upon was seared and lifeless, the way she preferred it.
The Red Marauder, as those humans in her realm called her, spread her wings and stretched her neck, working out an uncomfortable kink while admiring her surroundings. She pointed her massive head down and opened her maw. Fire rushed out in a great gout of blinding red, the flames crackling. The flames raced to touch the farthest edges of her plateau, moving like a crashing wave of boiling crimson to flow over every crevice and rock.
The flames licked about Malys’s claws and rose higher, and still the dragon continued to dispense fire. The blaze grew and flowed about her belly now, lapping against her scarlet scales, soothing her with its smothering, comforting heat. The great red dragon paused only to draw a breath of air before she again unleashed her brilliant flames.
This blessed heat, Malystryx purred to herself. It helped to placate her temper and ease the loss of one of her pawns. The Red had been watching through Rurak Gistere’s eyes, and she had witnessed the destruction of the subcommander’s unit. Malys was only mildly upset at losing Gistere, who had shown slightly more promise than the other Knights of Takhisis she had toyed with.
But more than Gistere, she had wanted the man who singlehandedly cut down half the knights in the woods in Khellendros’s realm. She thought the man would make an even more suitable pawn. And when she had him, she would also have his magnificent weapon to study. Through her link with Subcommander Gistere, she had sensed the magic in the blade and wondered how a mortal came into the possession of such a deliciously deadly thing.
The Red knew that one of her consorts, Khellendros, was searching for ancient magic from the Age of Dreams— though the Blue was unaware she knew. Such magic was powerful, and Malys intended to snatch her share, to fuel her own dark schemes. The glaive the man had wielded was obviously a relic, one capable of parting armor as if it were cloth and easily slicing through the skin and bone underneath. Malystryx would have it—and she would get the man to bring it to her.
“It will be mine,” she hissed.
Though Gistere had failed her in life, he had succeeded—at least partially—with his death. He’d grafted her scale onto the man and established a tenuous link with her that the new pawn seemed to know nothing about.
Malys looked through the man’s eyes now, seeing polished wood beams several feet above him, a swinging wrought iron candle holder, and the top of a bookcase against a far wall. The man was laying on a bunk below the deck of a ship, his bed swaying with the motion of the waves. She had tried to peer through his eyes many times before, but without success. The link was far from perfect; still, with repeated efforts and great patience, she was certain she could make it work. Propped against the wall, at the edge of the man’s vision, was the glaive, its sharp edge beckoning to her in the afternoon light that spilled in through the porthole.