“Zorlac, this is patently ridiculous.”
“No it isn't, Zanticus. I say it isn't, therefore it isn't.”
“Yes, it bloody well is. There are no more dragons in the world.”
“An ancient legend says that they may be found – right here in Erseland, Zanticus.”
“Well, firstly, that's just an ancient legend, and they only come true in computer games, Zorlac. Given the amount of them you've played, you should know.”
“I don't play computer games!... much...”
“Secondly, the ancient legend does not say there are dragons in Erseland, Zorlac. It says that the last dragon came here to live out his days.”
“And rekindle his kindred!”
“How many seven-hundred-and-ninety-eight-year-olds have you known to rebuild an entire race?”
“Years are different for dragons.”
“Obviously. Seven-hundred-and-ninety-eight is still fairly old for a dragon!”
“Don't even think about growing a spine, Zanticus. You wouldn't know how to use it.”
“Shove off, Zorlac!” Zanticus roared, whipping around to vent the full force of his rage on Zorlac. His voice echoed between the trees on either side of the dirt trail and off the distant mountain peaks of the Urglenn Mountains proper, between the ancient bushes and dark valleys that had swallowed up entire Thursian armies without a trace, down the deep caves of the karst regions and up into the upper reaches of Elleria's troposphere.
“And what reason would a fine pair of lads such as ye have for yelling so loudly as to disturb the dead?” a voice asked.
Zorlac looked down.
A pale little face, long-haired, seemingly human, smiled sardonically up at them. The man – an Ersian, clearly – was completely unarmoured, dressed in beautifully woven fabrics of green and red, with a thick torque around his neck. This didn't matter, however, because the little Ersian had a huge sword – easily a hand-and-a-half sword for a human, an enormous claymore for the little Ersian propped against Zorlac's waist.
“And mixbloods as well. Tell me, where are ye from?”
“Kamar. I'm Kamarean.” Zorlac supplied.
“Me too.” Zanticus added.
“Really? How do I know?”
“Well...” Zorlac grimaced.
“Just kidding. Only Kamareans are so pale you shine in the darkness. Ye are lucky that your king sided with the Traditionalist Ersians, and ye are luckier still that you met me before you met Progressives. A lot of Progressive tribes can be very cruel, very cruel indeed. Oh – where are my manners? I'm Cássarix, warrior in the employ of King Trénax of the Dálcash sept. Luckily for you, I was instructed to ask questions first and chop later, otherwise you might have ended up with your head nailed to the ground.”
“That sounds unpleasant.”
“Might I ask what ye are doing here?”
“We're looking for dragons.” Zorlac answered, puffing out his chest.
“I'm sorry, I must have heard you wrong. I thought you said you were looking for dragons.”
“That's what we're looking for.”
“Well... son... you see, in these parts, when something dies, it usually – not always, annoyingly, but usually – stays dead. All the dragons are dead.”
“What about Vaseryx Goldenhide?” Zorlac retorted, referring to the dragon from their mythical guide.
“He's dead too. Now go home and try to keep clear of things that are over your head.”
“Cheek! I could pop a dragon like a pimple.” Zorlac exaggerated.
“Doubtful. Listen, son, go home. For your own sake.” Zorlac sighed, theatrically.
“I suppose I should inform you of who I am and where I want to go...”
ten minutes later
“My King? The heir to the Kamarean throne. And he wants dragons.”
King Trénax leaned forward.
“Well then, you'll want to hear about the Gabolga, the Spear of the Ersians. Or, in Kamarean, Belly-Ripper.”
* * *
The bony, tattoo-scalped man hung from the bamboo frame like a sack of potatoes, scarred and pained. He had shouted his defiance, once.
That had ended after the first three days.
Then he'd started talking.
“Tell me.” Ankh said, walking around the bony man. His all-concealing mail clanked gently as he moved. “What was that thing you summoned in the village?”
Vellarion the Demented looked up at Ankh. One eye was fused shut, a scab crusted over the eyelid. He said nothing.
“Don't tell me you're thinking of holding out again?” Vellarion closed his one good eye for a moment, then opened it again.
“Beholder.” he croaked. “Water.”
“Tell me.”
“Can't tell you if my throat's... dried shut... idiot.”
A dribble of water trickled down his throat. He coughed, a wheezing rasp that he knew would kill him if he received no medical attention.
It would kill him.
“It was a beholder.” he forced out.
“A beholder? You mean there's more than one?”
“Uncounted thousands... in the vaults of the Eks Amenur. They were created.”
“Who is the Eks Amenur?”
“Can't tell you that. Nothing you do to me can make me tell you that.” Ankh left it.
“And is – are the beholders the worst these Eks Amenur - ” Ankh tripped over the unfamiliar name “ - can provide?”
“Certainly not.” Vellarion cackled madly. He wasn't called 'the Demented' without reason. “I have seen things, my friend.”
“I am no friend of yours!”
“Ah, friend, enemy... all die. None come back. Despite what you priests preach to the people, there is no heaven to receive the souls of the good. But let me assure you – there is a hell. Oh, there is... there is a hell.” Vellarion hacked, bloody saliva splashing Ankh's mail. “I have seen it. With these two – well, one now... eye. Seen it. Yes, the Eks Amenur are the servitors of Benet – not your feeble Benet, of course, but the true Benet, the dark original. She whose worshippers the Amenurites are.”
“Who are the Amenurites?” Ankh asked.
“Who indeed? You, me, everyone... has a choice, to see the light or to see the darkness beyond the light, the darkness that is coming for us.” Vellarion coughed again and smiled beatifically up at Ankh. His teeth were red with his own blood. “There is a darkness. Yes, beyond the light, and it is Benet. The Amenurites are the disciples of that darkness, those who see the truth.” Vellarion chuckled raspily. It sounded like a death-rattle.
“And what connection have the Amenurites with the Blue Dragons?”
“The Blue Dragons? Aah, you poor deluded fool. Those Blue Dragons, those guerrillas that Shamus of Borova trained to free the poor and help the weak, and establish a state where everyone is equal and there is rich, no poor, no inequality... they are dead. Shamus of Borova lives, but his ideas wither away. The Amenurites have seized his movement and made it their own. We have made it our own! And formidable as the Blue Dragons were - ” Vellarion coughed again “ - the Amenurites are a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand times worse. For in addition to the loyal guerrillas following Shamus, we have all the creatures of the night: beholders, shoggoths, dullahans, demons... and every one of you that falls is another recruit to add to our army.” Ankh leaned closer. The firelight flickered off his polished faceplate.
“Vellarion... are you talking about the undead?”
“Maybe, Ankh. Maybe.”
No comments:
Post a Comment