He spent the first few hours ashore wandering the city. His face – the little of it that could be seen between the brim of his hat and the tangles of his whiskers – was fairly well-known in Tirremuir, and more than once he had to stop to field questions. He managed to put on a brave face, but perhaps too little showed because most of the market-goers seemed disheartened afterwards, apologising to him as if he were already dead, or saying teary farewells and turning aside.
At least he had a chance to practice his Chakobese. And he got his wane – got it for free from a wet-eyed old herbalist, and a big bag of it, too. He had a couple of leaves before cramming the rest in his demiskin and heading back into the inner city.
Whether it was just that the wane came from a notably-effective crop, or he was in just the right mood – or from some combination of factors – he found himself walking in a luxurious daze. He strolled by a group of kids playing pebble-shot in an alley, little red rocks in their hands, rats scurrying by. He watched as a heavyset woman shook a grass-green rug from her weed-choked balcony, sending glittering clouds of dust into the white, sunlit air. He listened to the changing of the guard, like he used to in Miserdell, the crisp report of booted feet and clank of spear-butts. Fears and thoughts of dragons and lairs melted away, and he felt that he would remember the sight of pebbles rebounding and dust billowing, the tune of trumpets singing, until the day he died.
Then he saw a young couple, clad in the long black urums with their hoods cast back, holding hands as they sat on a bench beside a canal – his thoughts turned to Ana, and he promptly forgot whatever twaddle he’d been contemplating for the last…
Hours…?
He looked up at the darkening sky – it was late afternoon already. At once he turned about, heading across the temple quarter towards the Sandtrap.
The Sandtrap had been their base of operations in the country since they first arrived. The tavern’s owner, Suremor Salas, had essentially long-term leased them a large suite of rooms for what Ibbalat considered half-price, given the magnificence of the establishment. And the quartet had plenty of cash to waste. It couldn’t all go on master-crafted artefacts of the highest calibre, could it?
Within ten minutes he was there. The Sandtrap was a squat, circular building with a dozen or more white minarets sprouting out of its middle: the ones around the edges were shorter, with the central minarets being the tallest, giving the impression at a distance of a single landscape-dominating structure. Each opulent apartment covered three floors of a tower and had its own internal staircases – the main spiral stair went up the centre of each minaret, so that each storey could be wrapped-around with its own private balconies. The many large windows let in copious amounts of sunlight or starlight, as the occupant desired. Exquisite tapestries were used in place of curtains.
“Your key, young master!” Suremor cried across the lobby as he saw Ibbalat enter.
The skinny, ever-smiling man had a face of creased leather; he’d gone grey at his temples, the corners of his moustaches, and even had white flecks in his eyebrows. He came up to the mage and embraced him warmly, then settled his arm around the mage’s shoulders as he steered them towards the desk for the key.
“It is good to see you! You are well, yes? When I heard the dragon might have followed you out to sea I was afraid! Your friends are in your rooms – they have met with Derezo – the man in the red robe, he is this champion you went to fetch?”
Carried on a rising wave of questions and exclamations, they ascended the southern minaret that housed, well, basically everything Ibbalat couldn’t carry in the demiskin – along with their man in Tirremuir, Derezo. It had been Derezo’s job to keep an eye on things while they were away for almost a month. He’d fought alongside them, saved each of them enough times to have earned their trust a dozen times over. There was no better candidate, even when they’d been bound for Derezo’s homeland.
Ibbalat managed to get rid of Suremor in the doorway before stepping through into the lounge, which in itself was something of a minor miracle. He entered the apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Derezo was pouring drinks; the blond-haired, big-jawed veteran had quite the taste for fine wine these days, and he called a greeting as the mage entered the room. Ibbalat hailed him back, quickly appraising the environment. Phanar and Kani were sitting on one couch, Redgate and Ana on the other. The warrior and cleric sat with a clear three inch gap between them, while Ana was nestled close to the champion.
Ibbalat threw himself down in the seat beside Ana. He couldn’t sit across from them, watch them. Better this way, with just Phanar and Kani opposite him.
As night fell Derezo went over the logistics. The veteran pointed with a calloused fingertip, tapping here and there on the map spread over the low table between the couches. Camels were ready to take them across the corner of the Obarsk Waste, a journey of a little over two days, then, if they were willing to do some climbing, they could be at the supposed lair within a day.
“Ibbalat can help me?” Kani asked, looking over at him as she sipped her lemon-water. She wasn’t a strong climber.
“I can help everyone, where it comes to flying, with some preparation,” he replied. “Only lasts about seven minutes, though. I have to do it with wizardry – I’m still struggling with shifting others’ forms. I’ll have to pick up some more vampire-bat-wings from –“
“Seven minutes?” Derezo cried. “Where’s this spell been all my life? No, seriously, lad,” he continued as he saw Ibbalat’s sceptical eyebrow-raise, “d’you have any idea how far you could get in seven minutes?”
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“We might be able to fly directly to the lair from the foot of the mountain?” Phanar asked. “I am loath to expend my boots’ magic.”
Derezo shook his head, tapping again. “You remember what I said about the crevasse?”
“What’s this?” Ibbalat asked, sitting forwards and swallowing his wane with a gulp of wine. His eyes were dry; he couldn’t see well in the lantern-light.
The veteran quickly went back over a few points he’d discussed with the others before Ibbalat returned from the markets, features of geographical interest. In the month they’d been away from Tirremuir, Derezo had (at their considerable expense) ‘persuaded’ a team of local scouts to take a look around the mountain.
Specifically, the crevasse Ord Ylon was thought to have entered.
Given the scouts’ report, to fly inside the sloping crack would be a death sentence – apparently there was a whole city carved into the overhanging side of the slope, a city teeming with kobolds, their windows and balconies crafted so that they might overlook the dragon as it slithered down into the deeper levels.
(Yes, Derezo said, the scouts had unfortunately suffered a run-in with a few hundred of the hairy, scaly creatures. No, none of them had died in their brave escape.
(Yes, they had wanted extra money. No, Derezo hadn’t paid up.)
The presence of several thousand watching eyes made travelling straight down the chasm, by flight-spell or by rope, an exercise in seeing how many arrow-shafts you could comfortably fit inside a human body.
“We can still try it,” Ibbalat said. “Invisibility’s a thing, you know. A pretty awesome thing.”
He wanted to wink at Ana, then realised he couldn’t. Not anymore. Things were no longer the same between them. If he intended an action as flirtatious, but she was with Redgate, wasn’t he breaking some unwritten rule or other?
Not like it mattered. She probably never saw his lame flirtations for what they were anyway, if Phanar was right about her blind-spot. Redgate had just… swooped in…
Someone like the archmage… this walking, talking, living hero out of myth… he wouldn’t understand the knot of anxiety inside Ibbalat. The wink wouldn’t even register as cause for concern. Redgate simply took what he wanted. The mage was less than a gnat to the champion when it came to matters of romance – Ibb wasn’t ever going to be his rival.
“The scouts weren’t spotted,” Derezo was replying in a grim tone to his invisibility suggestion. “They were pretty sure it was some kind of magic – tons of bats, out of nowhere, and then the arrows started. You know there’s kobold magicians – remember the ruins back in the Hintamar Bogs?” His voice took on a musing quality. “What was it called, Ikamax?”
“Ikamax,” Phanar confirmed.
The mage scowled. Derezo was right. You couldn’t account for the shamans and witch-peoples amongst the monstrous races.
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “But what’s the other route?”
Something far less fun, he brooded.
“You go through the kobold city,” Derezo said.
Phanar’s eyes widened and Ibbalat felt the tension in Ana’s body as she leaned forwards. Kani, though, barely reacted, as if this wasn’t news to her…
Perhaps she saw it in her dream? the mage wondered.
As for himself, he just grinned tightly. “At least we’ll get some use out of the potions I bought.”
“Is there anything you need to do before we leave?” Ana asked Redgate.
“Find out the name of this vintage.” Ibbalat tried not to look, but he saw in his peripheral vision as the champion drained his glass with aplomb. “I’m going to order a crate when I get back to Mund. The Ord’s hoard permitting, of course.” The handsome nobleman flicked his gaze over the group.
Derezo laughed good-naturedly; his fellow Mundian’s confidence was infectious. “I’ll get you the documents – upon your return.” He said it like it was a challenge.
“I look forward to it, Derezo, my good man.” Redgate smiled back.
“Why do I think I sense some enthusiasm in our strange new friend?” the veteran asked the others by way of reply, sly eyes twinkling. “I spent part of the morning ensuring there’s going to be a ship in harbour, ready to bring news of your failure to Mund, just in case – yet here you are…”
“I’ve never seen a dragon.” The champion leant forwards to refill his glass – at least he wasn’t the sort to expect someone else to do it for him. “And I’ve never slain one.” He took another mouthful, savoured it, swallowed it, and sat back before concluding, in a teasing tone, “I’ve seen and slain worse, though.”
The lounge erupted into a clamour of disbelief and disapproval. Redgate sniggered as Ana rounded on him – Kani and Derezo were crying out in opposition, while Phanar and Ibbalat sat in silence.
I’m not sure I’d trade Ord Ylon for one of those Incursions, the mage admitted to himself. Perhaps Phanar was thinking the same thing. Derezo, for his part, seemed to have switched sides on his fellow Mundian, swearing blind that no foe could top Ord Ylon.
“So when do we leave?” Ibbalat asked at last, cutting through the noise.
“Sunrise,” Phanar replied, meeting his eyes.
The mage nodded to him. “I’d better get some sleep, then. A lot of packing and spell-making to do in the morning.”
Ana looked at him a little disconsolately as he excused himself, a trace of disappointment or guilt in those alluring smoky eyes of hers. What, did she want to continue teasing him constantly with her closeness to Redgate? He stomped up the short stair to the next floor, then the next, until at last he pulled open the door to his private bedroom and collapsed onto the chilly sheets.
Where did my own enthusiasm go? he asked himself. He’d never felt like this before. Like…
Like we are going to fail.
They’d entered dangerous situations dozens of times, and he’d never before had the jitters. Fighting dragons all over the southern continent, fighting demons in Mund, he’d taken it all in his stride – but now? Knowing that it was coming to a close, that their actions in the coming days would be decisive… it put a strain on Ibbalat’s mind even wane couldn’t shift. He wanted to cast the runes and enter the trance, dream the same dream the cleric had endured – but he didn’t have the guts and he knew it.
At last, fuelled by at least four leaves of the drug, he managed to crawl inside his dreams like a man potholing in narrow caves crawls within the cracks, going deeper into the unknown, into a place from which return becomes increasingly impossible.
Ord Ylon’s cave. His lair. A sunken cathedral of skulls. A hideous ocean of gold. A smiling, sword-toothed face.
Then the dragon’s smile became Anathta’s, frozen in mocking aspect. Not Anathta dead, but Anathta alive – laughing, her arms around Redgate’s neck as he held her in a loving embrace.
Distant screams echoed in the halls of his mind and the young mage awoke too early in the pre-dawn darkness, drenched in sweat, his dream-self heaving out a cry of despair to which his waking-self gave voice as he sat bolt upright.
Hands shaking, he set to retrieving his spellbooks, starting his preparations – leaving the wane well to one side.
What had awoken him hadn’t been the nightmare of the cavern, being trapped in its worm-spaces – even the cruel, inhuman smile on the dragon’s face. On Anathta’s face.
No, what had awoken him had been the sound. The remembered thunder of his voice, clashing down across the town before the slaughter began.
‘The slow death.’