Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 2 - The Crimson Legion (10 page)

“Clerical magic is not something one takes, it is a gift bestowed on those who commune
with the elements,” lectured Lyanius. The old dwarf waved his liver-spotted hand at the
village. “Out of all these people who dwell beneath the sun, only Caelum has been favored
with the fire-eyes.”

“So your son can't do us any good,” Rikus said, biting his lip in frustration.

“You mean more good than he already has,” Neeva corrected, covering for the mul's
inadvertent rudeness.

Caelum shook his head and looked at the ground. “I'm sorry. Of course, if you wish to
leave the half-giant with the others...”

The dwarves had offered to take care of Tyr's wounded, but the mul was not anxious to
leave a powerful fighter like Gaanon behind.

“We could use a rest,” Jaseela said, pointing her chin toward the plaza. “The past few
days may not have seemed a hardship to you, but it's been a true test of endurance for
those of us who aren't muls.”

Rikus looked over the rest of his legion. Most of his warriors were gathered around the
cistern, wearily filling their waterskins or hiding beneath their cloaks in a vain effort
to shield themselves from the sun.

The mul nodded. “You're right, Jaseela. Pass the word.”

“Good,” said Lyanius. “My people will pack supplies for your legion.” The ancient dwarf
motioned for Rikus to follow. “You will come with me.”

“To where?” Rikus asked. “What for?”

Lyanius gave him a sour-faced scowl that made it clear the
uhrnomus
did not enjoy being questioned. After Rikus had averted his gaze, the old leader summoned
a dwarven girl with a round face and twinkling eyes, then gave her a long series of
instructions in the guttural language of his village. Rikus took the opportunity to call
Styan over. The templar had been keeping his distance ever since the mul had summoned him
and his men down from the arch.

“The dwarves are giving us supplies,” Rikus said, laying his heavy arm across the
templar's shoulders. “You and your men will carry them. If any of you opens a sack without
my permission, I'll have all your heads.”

“ButÑ”

“If you don't like it, return to Tyr,” Rikus snapped.

“You know I can't,” Styan said, narrowing his ash-colored eyes. “I am to stay with the
legion and report.”

“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 we 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 UrikitesÑ”

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 sourly, 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 was present. But because you're along at my
son's request, young woman,“ he said, flashing her an unexpected smile, ”we will use these
anyway."

After handing one of the brands to his son, Lyanius led the way down a cool runnel. 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.

Caelum guided them down the widest tunnel, while Lyanius explained, “I found Kemalok two
hundred years ago.”

“How?” Neeva asked.

“I happened upon a short section of parapet the wind had uncovered,” Lyanius answered, a
faintly amused smile on his wrinkled lips. “I knew instantly I had found a dwarven city
from the time of the ancients. The merlons were too short for you people, and the
stonecraft was far beyond anything the paltry masons of our age can achieve.”

The old dwarf went on to describe the next century and a half
of excavations, working alone at first, and eventually coming to be the leader of an
entire village focused upon the eventual reestablishment of Kemalok. Rikus paid him only
cursory attention. Instead, the mul listened for footfalls behind them and glanced over
his shoulder every few steps. The fact that the door guarding this secret city had “opened
of its own accord” set his nerves on edge, and he did not place much faith in Lyanius's
body count.

Eventually they came to another bridge leading to a gate. This time, the bridge was made
of wooden planks, now half-rotten and patched here and there with the wide, flat ribs of a
mekillot. Caelum pushed open an immense set of iron doors, then led them through a short
tunnel lined by chest-high arrow loops. On the other side, Lyanius's dwarves had dug a
series of vaults, revealing the outer bailey of a great castle.

As they passed through this area, Rikus peered into the windows of what had been the shops
and homes of the castle's smiths, tanners, fletchers, armorers, and a dozen other
craftsmen. Their tools, made mostly from steel and iron, still hung in the racks where
they had been neatly stored thousands of years ago. Rikus could not help gaping at the
vast treasury of metal.

They passed through another gate and into the inner bailey. In the center of this
courtyard, a square keep of white marble rose high overhead, the roof lost in the sand
overhead. At each corner of the keep stood a round tower, its arrow loops commanding much
of the courtyard below.

“This is the Tower of Buryn, home to dwarven kings for three thousand years.” Lyanius
proudly opened the doors.

“Three thousand years?” gasped Neeva. “How do you know?”

The old dwarf frowned at her as if she were a child. “I know,” he answered, motioning her
and Rikus inside.

On each side of the entrance foyer sat a pair of stone benches, one sized for the short
legs of the dwarves and one for the longer legs of humans. In the corners stood full suits
of dwarven plate, the shaft of a double-bladed battle-axe gripped in the armor's
gauntlets. Both the armor and the weapons were made of polished steel, gleaming as
brilliantly as the day they had been forged.

Remembering the greeting they had received at the city gates, Rikus cautiously studied the
fantastic armor. Fortunately, behind the helms' visors he saw neither gleaming eyes nor
anything but dark emptiness. Nevertheless, the mul did notice that the suits were too
small for a dwarf. While they were about the right height, they were far from broad enough
for the massive shoulders and bulging limbs typical of the dwarven race.

Noticing the mul's careful study of the armor, Lyanius said, “Our ancestors were not as
robust as we are today.” The old dwarf's cheeks reddened and he looked away. “They even
had some hair,” he added testily.

Neeva raised an eyebrow, and Rikus bit his lips to keep from showing his own aversion.
Muls and dwarves generally prided themselves on their clean skin and scalps. The idea of
having their bodies covered by a matted growth of sweaty hair was considered repulsive by
most members of both races.