FOUR TOWER OF BURYN

Rikus’s eyes were fixed on the hand of Caelum, which was glowing fiery red and smoking from the fingertips. It shone so brightly that it was translucent, save for the dark network of thick bones buried beneath the flesh.

“Hold him tightly,” the dwarf said. “For its magic, the sun demands payment in pain.”

Rikus pulled Gaanon into his lap, slipping his hands beneath his friend’s massive arms and locking his thighs around the half-giant’s thick waist. “You’re sure this will work?” asked the mul.

Caelum glanced at the disk of flame hanging in the olive-tinged sky. “Each morning, do you also doubt that the sun will burn itself free of the Sea of Silt?”

“No, but this is-”

“May I proceed?” Caelum interrupted, using his free hand to point at his glowing palm, “This is quite as painful for me as it will be for your friend.”

At the other end of Gaanon’s long body, Neeva gripped an ankle under each of her muscular arms. “I’m ready.”

Rikus nodded to Caelum, and the dwarf plunged two smoking fingers into the half-giant’s ulcerating wound. Tongues of light shot outward from the wound like the strands of a spiderweb. Gaanon’s leg grew as translucent as Caelum’s hand, his veins showing through his skin like thick cord.

The gladiator’s eyes popped open. A thunderous bellow roared from his lips and echoed off the huts of Kled. He instinctively tried to sit up, and it took all of Rikus’s abundant strength to hold him down. At the half-giant’s ankles, Neeva repeatedly bounced on the flagstones as she struggled to keep his legs relatively motionless.

Gaanon pulled against Rikus’s arms, trying to reach down and knock the dwarf away from his wound. The mul held him, but only barely. Keeping a wary eye on the screaming half-giant, Caelum continued to hold his fingers in the wound. Slowly, the color faded from his hand and the flesh once again grew opaque. When all the fire had left his fingers, the dwarf withdrew them and stuffed a wad of cloth into the freshly scorched puncture.

The half-giant’s leg continued to glow, and Rikus fancied that he could even see tiny flames flickering along the sinews and veins. Gaanon stopped screaming and laid his head back in Rikus’s arms. A moment later, he closed his eyes and fell to breathing in the heavy rhythms of deep slumber.

“It’s safe to release him now,” Caelum said. He secured the plug in the half-giant’s thigh by wrapping a bandage around the leg, then glanced at Neeva. “You’re very strong. Because you held him so well, my work was much easier than it could have been.”

Neeva wrinkled her brow and did not reply, unsure of how to accept the compliment.

“What now?” Rikus asked, laying the half-giant’s head on the ground. “Do we pour water down his throat?”

“Too soon,” said Lyanius, shaking a crooked finger in Rikus’s direction. The old dwarf, who wore a bloody bandage around his head, was the one who had spoken out to warn Rikus against surrendering. Lyanius was also Caelum’s father and the village uhrnomus, a term that seemed to mean “grandfather” sometimes, but also, in a context of grave respect, “founder.”

Lyanius took Rikus by the arm and guided the mul to his feet. “You will wait for a day before he awakens.”

“A day?” Rikus gasped. “That’s too much time.”

K’kriq, who had been assigned leadership of the scouts, had already sent a runner to report that the survivors of the morning’s combat were moving toward a large group of stragglers from the first battle. There was no sign that Maetan was with the Urikite army, but now that the legion had filled its waterskins, Rikus wanted to resume their pursuit as soon as possible.

“The sun will do its work in its own time,” Caelum said. “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do to hurry your friend’s recovery.”

“Cast another spell on him,” the mul demanded. “Even if it takes you a few hours to look it up in your spellbook and memorize it again-”

“I am no sorcerer,” the dwarf snapped, the corners of his mouth turned indignantly downward. “I am a cleric of the sun.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Neeva, placing herself between Rikus and the dwarf.

Caelum’s expression softened when he spoke to her. “Sorcerers steal their magic from plants,” he explained. “Mine is a gift of the sun. Using it takes nothing from any living thing.”

“So why doesn’t everybody use sun magic?” asked Jaseela, stepping to Neeva’s side and peering at the blazing ball in the sky. “There’s plenty of it, and everyone would benefit from magic that doesn’t ruin the soil.”

“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.”

“But-”

“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 you 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 Urikites-”

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 sorely, 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 is present. “But because you’re along at my son’s request, young woman,” he said, flashing her an unexpected smile, “we will use them anyway.”

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

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.

Caelum walked into the next open area, a huge hallway running the perimeter of the keep. The floor was arranged in a pattern of polished black and white squares. At even spaces along the walls, tall white columns supported the vaulted ceiling above. Between each set of arches was a mural painted directly onto the wall.

Neeva stepped over to the nearest and inspected it closely. “You don’t exaggerate, do you Lyanius?” she asked. ‘When you said hair, I didn’t imagine anything like this!”

Rikus joined her. The painting before Neeva portrayed a dwarf dressed in a full suit of golden plate armor, a huge war-club cradled in his arms. From beneath his golden crown cascaded a huge mop of unruly hair that hung well past his shoulders. That was not the worst of it, either. His face was lost beneath a thick beard that started just below his eyes and tumbled in a tangled mass clear down to his belly.

“Come along!” ordered Lyanius. “I didn’t bring you here to gawk at my ancestors.”

He hustled them down the hall, Caelum following close behind. As they passed the other murals, the mul saw that they, too, portrayed grossly bearded dwarves. The painting usually depicted dwarves standing in the somber halls of dimly lit keeps or in the dark chambers of some vast cave.

When he reached the last mural in the line, Rikus stopped. He had no doubt that the picture depicted the guardian of the city, King Rkard. Like the figure that had met them at the city gate, the dwarf in the painting had golden-yellow eyes and wore black plate mail trimmed in silver and gold. His helm was crowned by a jewel-studded crown of strange white metal. In his hands, the picture king even held a battle-axe identical to the one carried by the gate-guardian. The weapon’s serrated blade was flecked by tiny sparkles of light.

As interesting as the king’s picture was, it was the background that fascinated the mul. Behind Rkard, the ground sloped down a gentle hill blanketed by the green stalks and red blossoms of some broad-leafed plant Rikus did not recognize. At the bottom of this slope, a wide ribbon of blue water meandered through a series of lush meadows. In those fields grew food crops of every imaginable color and shape. In the far background of the painting, the river finally disappeared into a forest of billowing trees ranging in color from amber to russet to maroon. Behind this timberland rose a mountain range, its peaks and high slopes covered strangely with white.

“Rkard is the king who led our ancestors into the world,” explained Lyanius.

“What world?” Rikus gasped, his eyes still fixed on the painting.

“This one, of course,” Caelum answered, also studying the painting. “Don’t let the mural mislead you. The artist must have been given to a certain amount of embellishment. Perhaps that green land is his idea of paradise-or maybe the after world.”

“Not so,” said Lyanius, his tone strangely morose. “Dwarven artists painted only what they saw.”

“What do you mean?” asked Neeva, wrinkling her brow at the mural. “Who has ever seen anything thing like this? It is even more magnificent than the halfling forest!”

Lyanius looked away. “Come on,” he grunted. “This is not what I brought you to see.”

The dwarf led the way around the corner and down the corridor until they reached a bronze-gilded door with the bas-relief head of a bearded dwarf. The sculpture’s blue eyes, made of painted glass, followed the movements of Lyanius and his guests as they approached.

Rikus and Neeva glanced at each other, uneasy at the sight of an animate sculpture.

Stopping in front of the door, Lyanius spoke to the head at length, using a strange language of short, clipped syllables. When he finished, the unblinking eyes studied Rikus and Neeva for several moments, looking them up and down. Finally the head’s metal lips began to move, and it replied to Lyanius’s query in the same staccato tongue. The door swung open.

As the door moved, Rikus heard the faintest scuffle in the hallway behind them. “Did anyone else hear that?” he asked.

Lyanius frowned. “I’m certain it was just the echo of the door opening.”

Nevertheless, the old dwarf passed his torch to Rikus. Motioning for the others to stay behind, Lyanius shuffled down the corridor into the murky blackness, where his dwarven vision would not be nullified by the light of the torches.

“Shouldn’t we go with him?” Rikus asked.

“Not if you value your life,” answered Caelum. “My father is quite touchy about taking care of himself.”

They waited for what seemed an eternity before Lyanius stepped silently out of the shadows. “There’s nothing there,” he said irritably. “Probably just a wrab.”

“Wrab?” asked Neeva.

“A tiny, flying serpent,” explained Caelum.

“Filthy blood drinkers,” added Lyanius, stepping through the door he had opened earlier. “Normally, they’re as quiet as death, but every now and then they bump into something.”

Frowning, Rikus peered back down the corridor. When he saw nothing to contradict what the old dwarf had said, he followed the others into a small room. It was lit by a flaxen glow of ambient light that issued from no apparent source, yet filled the chamber like a haze. In the center of the room, an open book hovered in midair, as though it were resting on a table that Rikus could not see.

“I wanted you to know that when you saved Kled, you saved more than a village,” said Lyanius, motioning at the book proudly.

Its binding was of gold-trimmed leather, and the long columns of angular characters on its parchment pages glowed with a green light of their own. In the margins, brightly painted pictures of horned beasts moved before Rikus’s eyes, grazing or leaping as though they still roamed the glens in which the artist had first seen them.

Despite the magical pictures in the book, Rikus was more interested in what he could not see. Passing his hand first under, then over the tome, he asked, “What holds it up?”

“What holds it up?” snapped Lyanius. “I show you the Book of the Kemalok Kings, and you ask the mechanics of a simple enchantent?”

“I’ve never had much interest in books,” the mul said, self-consciously shifting his attention back to the volume. “I can’t read.”

“Neither can I-at least not this book,” answered Lyanius, calming. “It was written in the language of our ancestors. I have learned to translate only a little of it, enough to know that this volume tells the history of Kemalok.”

“That’s-ah-interesting,” Rikus said, glancing at Neeva to see if she understood why Lyanius placed so much import on bringing them here.

“I think Rikus will find the Great Hall more to his interest, Urhnomus,” Caelum said, noticing Rikus’s puzzled expression. “What matters is not that our friends understand the importance of what they did, but that they kept the Book of Kings out of Urikite hands.”

Caelum’s words calmed the old dwarf. “You’re very wise for someone yet under a hundred,” he said, nodding proudly.

After they left the little room, the bas-relief head spoke briefly to Lyanius, then the door closed of its own accord. The old dwarf led his friends farther down the corridor and turned another corner. This time, they stopped before a pair of massive wooden doors so infested with dry rot that Rikus was surprised they still hung on their hinges.

Despite the deterioration of the doors, the strange animals carved into each one remained handsome and distinct. The snarling beasts resembled bears, save that, instead of the articulated shells armoring the creatures Rikus had fought, these were covered with nothing more protective than a thick mat of long fur. The mul wondered if the carvings depicted some gentler breed that the ancient dwarves had kept as pets.

As Lyanius stepped toward the great doors, they swung open, revealing a magnificent chamber so large that the torches could not light it from one side to the other. Still, as the four wandered around the perimeter, the mul saw that it had once been a great feast hall. From the walls hung dozens of steel weapons of all sizes and sorts, interspersed with huge murals vibrant in color and stroke. These paintings depicted either scenes of romance between a handsome dwarven noble and his beautiful lady-love, or valiant struggles in which lone dwarven knights vanquished giants, four-headed serpents, and dozens of red-eyed man-beasts.

Lyanius led the way to the front of the room, then asked Rikus to stand before the great banquet table located there. The mul cast a dubious glance in Neeva’s direction, but did as the old dwarf wished. Lyanius handed his torch to his son and disappeared into the darkness.

For several moments, the aged dwarf rummaged around the perimeter of the room, banging shields and axes about. Finally he returned to the trio with a black belt slung over his shoulder and a steel sword in his arms. He laid the belt on the table, then faced Rikus with the long sword and slapped the mul’s left arm with the flat of the blade.

“In the name and presence of the one hundred and fifty kings of the ancient dwarven race, I acknowledge your bravery and skill in driving the Urikite invaders from the gates of Kemalok,” Lyanius said, giving Rikus a stern smile and slapping the mul’s other arm. “I name you a Knight of the Dwarven Kings, and present you with this weapon of magic, the Scourge of Rkard.”

As the old dwarf held the weapon out to him, Rikus’s jaw dropped open. “Won’t carrying a weapon in Kemalok anger Rkard?” he gasped. “Especially when it’s his?”

“This isn’t Rkard’s weapon,” Lyanius answered, the corners of his mouth turning down. “It’s the blade that inflicted his last wound, the one that killed him. As for Kemalok’s law-guest are forbidden to carry weapons, but you are no longer a guest. You are a knight of the city.”

As soon as Rikus’s hand touched the weapon’s hilt, his mind began to whirl in confusion. Suddenly he could hear his companions’ hearts pounding in his ears like the drums of a Gulgian war party, and their breathing sounded to him like a dust typhoon storming its way across the Sea of Silt. From behind Rikus came the harsh grate of huge claws scratching across stone. The mul instinctively leaped to his feet and spun around, only to discover the sound had been caused by a black beetle scurrying across the floor several yards away.

No sooner had he relaxed from this strange sound than he heard the throb of wrab wings beating the air outside the great hall. Shoving past Neeva and Caelum, he rushed to the chamber doors and pushed them shut. The creak of their hinges rang in his ears and ran down his spine like a lightning bolt. The deafening crack of the clicking latch nearly knocked him from his feet. An instant later, the wrab alighted on the outside of the door with a deep rumble. A series of terrific rasps echoed through the wood as it searched for a crack. Rikus shook his head and stumbled back from the doors, raising the Scourge of Rkard to defend himself.

As the gleaming blade came into view, the mul’s confused mind slowly began to make sense of the situation. The sword was magic, he realized. With it, he could hear any nearby sound as though it were made by a giant right next to his ear.

“Rikus, what’s wrong?”

Neeva’s concerned voice boomed through his head like a thunderclap, scattering the thoughts he had just managed to collect. The sharp pain that shot through his ear made him cry out. At last Rikus dropped the sword, then fell to his knees.

“What’s the matter with him?” Neeva demanded. Her words still pained the mul’s ears, though they no longer seemed as loud as they had a moment ago.

“Rikus, pick up the sword again,” ordered Lyanius. “I should have warned you about what to expect and told you how to control the magic.”

When Rikus did not reach for the sword, the old dwarf shuffled toward him.

“I don’t think I want that sword,” Rikus said, glancing fearfully at the blade.

Lyanius stopped next to him. “Pick up the sword,” the dwarf whispered. “Concentrate on one sound, and the others will fade. You will find that it is a useful thing to have.”

Reluctantly Rikus obeyed, focusing his thoughts on the old dwarf’s breathing. To his surprise, all of the other sounds faded to mere background noise. He remained aware of them, but they no longer reverberated through his head or hurt his ears. Unfortunately, the old dwarf’s breathing still sounded like the roar of the Dragon to him.

“Now, while concentrating on the sound you picked, speak in a normal tone of voice,” Lyanius said.

Keeping his attention fixed on the old dwarf’s breathing, Rikus answered, “Fine. What now?”

The rush of air into and out of the old dwarf’s lungs faded to the volume of his own voice, and Rikus found he could think again.

“Now come with me,” Lyanius said.

Rikus stood and followed the dwarf back to the banquet table. “Does the sword do anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Lyanius answered. “I’ve seen it mentioned in the Book of Kings, but I can’t read enough of the entry to know all the weapon’s possible powers.”

As Lyanius spoke, Rikus adjusted his magically augmented hearing by concentrating on the dwarf’s words. “Thank you for the blade. This is a great honor.”

“We’re not done yet,” said the old dwarf, taking the black belt off the table.

Lyanius held the belt out to Rikus, its stiff leather crackling like pebbles falling on cobblestones. The thing was so wide it was almost a girdle. The buckle was hidden by a field of red flames, with the skull of a fierce half-man in the center.

“This is the Belt of Rank,” Lyanius said, strapping the belt around the mul’s waist.

Rikus stepped away, asking, “What does it do?”

His question brought a chuckle to the old dwarfs lips. “There is no need to worry,” Lyanius said. “Its magic is not as intrusive as that of the Scourge of Rkard. For three thousand years, this belt was passed from one dwarven general to the next, a symbol of authority over all the armies of the dwarves.”

“Why are you giving it to me?” Rikus asked, allowing the old dwarf to fasten it about his waist.

“Because you are the only knight worthy of it.”

“In fact, you’re the only knight,” Caelum added. “There is no one else to wear it.”

Rikus was about to thank the old dwarf again when he heard an alarmed cry echo from the other side of the closed doors. Though he could not understand the words, he recognized the voice as that of the glass-eyed sculpture on the door where the Book of Kings was stored.

“The book!” he exclaimed, turning toward the doors.

“What about it?” gasped Caleum.

“The door just screamed,” he shouted, motioning for Lyanius to follow him.

Before he could explain further, the mul heard Maetan’s bitter voice cry out in surprise. A loud boom followed the mindbender’s yell.

When Rikus reached the doors to the hall, they opened of their own accord. The wrab that had been clinging to them took flight and swooped down on the mul, but he swatted the nasty little beast from the air before it came close to striking him.

Rikus turned down the corridor and heard the door scream again. There was another explosion, the sound ringing in the corridor and making everyone’s ears ache. The mul took off at a sprint, trusting to his companions to follow.

After the violent explosion, the keep fell ominously silent. To the mul, it seemed to take forever to retrace their steps. The corridor was much longer than he remembered, and his frustration was compounded by mistakenly turning into several alcoves that looked similar to the one where the book was safeguarded.

Finally he reached the correct alcove, and this time he had no doubt that he had found the right one. In front of it lay the inert figure of King Rkard, the heft of his great axe snapped in two and his black armor dented and scorched from an explosion. Rikus reluctantly peered into the helm and saw that the green cloth swaddling the king’s face had been burned away. Now only a charred skull, half-covered by taut leathery skin, peered out from beneath the visor.

As the mul studied Rkard’s face, a yellow light began to glimmer deep within the corpse’s eye sockets. Not wishing to be the first thing that the king saw when he returned to awareness, Rikus moved away and turned toward the chamber where the book was stored.

The bronze-gilded door hung off its hinges, twisted and mangled as though a giant had kicked it open. The bas-relief’s glass eyes had been ripped from the face and now lay shattered on the stone floor.

Lyanius came up behind Rikus, then rushed into the room and let out an anguished scream. “It’s gone!”

“What happened?” Caelum asked. “Who could have done this?”

“Maetan,” Rikus answered, looking down the long corridor.

Neeva rushed up behind them, her torch casting a flickering circle of yellow light over the small group. She did not need to ask what happened.

Lyanius hurried out of the room and grabbed Rikus’s hand. “You must find him! That book is the history of my people!”

As the old dwarf spoke, King Rkard’s corpse rose to his feet and looked around as if searching for something, paying no attention to Rikus or his companions.

The mul stepped away from the others. “Quiet. I’ll use the sword to track Maetan.”

For several moments, the mul gripped the hilt of his new sword, listening to the sounds of the ancient dwarven city. He could hear the nervous breathing of his companions, the occasional squeak of metal as Rkard changed positions, even the soft hiss of the torches they had left behind in the great hall-but he did not detect the faintest hint of Maetan’s presence.

“He’s gone,” Rikus said at last.

Lyanius groaned and buried his face in his hands. “How?”

“The Way,” Neeva answered.

Rikus rested the sword tip-down on the sand-strewn floor, a look of grim determination on his face. “I’ll recover the book,” he said. “Even if I have to chase Lord Lubar all the way to Urik.”

“I’ll come with you,” Caelum said forcefully. “And so will many of the village’s young dwarves. There are many who would make this quest their focus.”

Rikus nodded. “Your help will be welcome.”

Lyanius’s eyes lit up. As if to prove his newfound champion was not simply a cruel illusion left by the thief of his priceless book, the old dwarf reached out and touched the mul’s arm. “Can you do it?”

“Think before you answer, Rikus,” Neeva said. “Don’t promise something you can’t deliver.”

In answer, Rikus placed a hand on the Belt of Rank, then started toward the exit. “We start for Urik in an hour.”

“You haven’t earned that belt yet, my love.”

Though Neeva whispered the words beneath her breath, to Rikus they boomed as loudly as the magical explosions Maetan had used to defeat Rkard and capture the Book of the Kemalok Kings.

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