Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [111]
“The Emperor’s word is not the word of the Duuk-tsarith,” said Mosiah.
“But, surely, they would be constrained to obey,” Saryon said, and it seemed to me that he was pleading for reassurance.
“Since when, Father? There is a saying on Earth. ‘They have their own agenda.’ I do not see them being impressed by a visitation from an angel.”
“Do you think we were followed?” Eliza asked him.
“I think we should be very careful,” Mosiah answered her gravely. “And that we have taken enough time.”
We resumed our journey, moving with greater caution but more speed. It was already late afternoon. We had less than twenty-four hours before the arrival of the Hch’nyv. The part of me that remembered Earth wondered, with a pang, if our planet was now under attack.
No use fretting about events over which I had no control. I would do my part here. We continued following the corkscrew tunnel, which delved straight down and which had perhaps been shaped by the warlocks who had brought the Dragons of Night into being.
We walked at a good pace, for the way was easy, and we made good time. Still, our walk lasted over an hour from our starting point, which leads me to believe that we must have descended at least three or four miles below the surface of Thimhallan.
Though we could neither see nor hear the dragon, which would be slumbering during the daylight hours, we could smell it and its refuse. The air grew fetid and various odors of a most unpleasant nature—stale urine and dung and decay—soon caused us to gag and cover our noses with handkerchiefs or whatever cloth came to hand.
The one consolation we had, if you could call it such, was Mosiah’s pronouncement. “The dung smells fresh,” he observed. “This must mean that your dragon is still alive, Father, and still making this cave its residence.”
“I don’t remember the smell being this bad,” Saryon said, his voice muffled by the sleeve of his robe.
“The dragon’s had twenty years to add to it,” Scylla observed. “I don’t like to think of what else we’ll find in that lair. Mounds of rotting corpses, among other things.”
“Fortunately, dragons will not eat humans,” Eliza said, shivering, “or so we’ve heard. We taste bad.”
“Don’t believe all you hear, Your Majesty,” Mosiah said, and that effectively ended that conversation.
Our enthusiasm had begun to wane, though not our hope and hope is what carried us on. We were tired, our legs ached, and we were all of us half-sick with the stench, which tainted everything, even the water we had brought with us. We rounded yet another corner, our feet dragging, when Scylla, who was in the lead, came to a sudden halt, her hand raised.
The torchlight that had before gleamed off curve after curve in the rock wall now illuminated nothing. A vast yawning darkness gaped before us.
“This is the dragon’s lair,” Saryon whispered, and so quiet were we that his whisper carried clearly.
We hardly dared breathe, for we could hear the sound of other breathing, stentorian breathing, as if someone were pumping a giant bellows.
We hesitated, at that tense point when the gambler at the craps table breathes on the dice, then clutches them in his hand for a single, heart-stopping instant, asking for the win. And then throws.
“I will go first,” Saryon said. “Do not come until I call that all is safe. If the dragon attacks me, Scylla, Mosiah”—he gazed at them intently—”I expect you two to do everything possible to protect my children.”
“I promise, Father,” Scylla said reverently, and raised her sword, hilt first.
“I promise, as well, Father,” Mosiah said, his hands folded. “Good luck. I’m sorry . . .” He paused, and did not finish his sentence.
“Sorry?” Saryon repeated mildly. “Sorry for what, my son?”
“I’m sorry about Joram,” Mosiah said.
Saryon lifted his eyebrows. Joram had, after all, been dead twenty years.
He had been dead to them, but not to Mosiah.
Eliza hugged Saryon close. Blinking back her tears, she managed a smile. “The Almin go with you, Father,” she whispered. “My father, the only