done. He just feared it was being done too late to save the commander from death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A dragon hoards its treasure.
A dragon guards its haunts.
Where does a dragon lay its head?
Why anywhere it wants.
They rolled through another gate, this one set into a wall so hidden by the structures built off of its face that it was barely discernible for what it was. The farmsteads and dirt-packed roads had become more frequent and gave way to stable yards, inns, and eventually a shabby, cobbled mercantile district. The glowing windows of the one- and two-story dwellings cast beams of steady yellow lantern light, making it hard for Vanx to see into the shadows. But it didn’t matter. This was where the poor and less fortunate lived, those who toiled for what little coin they had. The hawkers sold plums and apples that Vanx knew were on the verge of rotting. The tavern sold ale so watered that it barely had a scent at all, and the whores, he was certain, were dirty and pocked with sores.
Just as Vanx expected, the world on the other side of the city gate wasn’t much different. People wore plain, roughspun garments just like the farmhands and plowmen at the city’s fringes. But there were others wearing imitation finery, the stuff the wealthier classes expected their servants to wear. Sweat-stained doublets belted over ill-fitting hose. Gowns with hems that were tattered and frayed. There was an occasional well-dressed merchant or land owner conversing with the more respectable whores on lamp-lit corners.
The buildings here were more closely packed. The streets were cobbled and clean and nearly closed in overhead by the jutting balconies on the third and fourth levels.
A well-lit balcony full of lace-pressed cleavage and multi-colored locks held women who giggled and called down to the guardsmen of the escort. Vanx saw that their faces were painted gaudily. These were the whores who didn’t walk the street. A few of the men called back promises, some in lewd detail, of what they would do later when they were free of duty. The other people on the streets averted their eyes and ignored the group as they passed. Their reaction, or lack of it, caused Vanx to wonder if carts full of people in chains were a common sight here.
The road wound around a bend and the old Dyntalla Stronghold rose up before them. The dwellings and the spaces between them became wrought-iron fences with evenly spaced lantern-topped brick posts, probably the homes of minor nobility and the wealthier of the area’s families.
The mercantile district here was free of hawkers. Uniformed men were posted so that one was always within sight. The fineries worn here were not imitation. The tavern rooms boasted minstrels and dancing, and by the smells and sounds spilling forth from their doors, they were serving more wine than ale.
The stronghold itself loomed up before them, looking like so many of Parydon’s castles, all blocky and square at the lower levels, but surrounded by steeply pitched tile roofs and copper-sheeted tower peaks. It wasn’t gloriously illuminated like the palaces Vanx had seen on the Isle of Parydon, but then again this wasn’t another castle down the lane competing for vanity among its rivals. In Dyntalla, there was only one castle, and its iron- bound gates cranked open loudly for them like some hungry, mechanical maw.
The smell of the ocean was strong. The sea breeze was rushing steadily inland. Even as they were taken down into the dungeon, the scent of brine found Vanx’s nose.
Vanx ate ravenously from a dirty wooden platter full of cheese and stale bread. He washed it down with tepid, but clean, water. After that, his chains were removed and he was led to a plain stone room barely four paces long and half as wide. A torch held in the jailor’s hand revealed a semi-clean floor with a dark, dry stain in the middle of it that might have been old blood. Then the door banged closed and a latch was set. The torchlight was reduced to two beams: one that spread through a head-high peep hole, the other a thin, wide, plank-like beam just below waist level.
“Two bells after,” the jailor grumbled. “Rest until then.”
Vanx hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but slumber found him as soon as he settled against the wall. It was a sound, dreamless sleep. Then he was rudely awakened by the loud rasping of his door’s lock being slammed open.
The same torch-bearing man came into the cell.
“Follow me,” the man grunted a chuckle before turning and stalking off.
Vanx was relieved to see Quazar standing with both Darbon and Matty at a rough-hewn archway. They began to descend down a wide, well-worn stairwell that took them, to Vanx’s best estimate, about fifty feet below the level of the streets. They stopped at a landing.
The torch-bearing dungeon guard left them and went back up the stairs. Quazar cast a bright white orb into existence. As they hurried to follow the wizard down a wide tunnel, Vanx wondered how much farther down those stairs went. Neither the torchlight nor the wizard’s bright orb was able to penetrate the depths. The tunnel they were traversing twisted and turned its way through the rock into which it had been hewn. Occasionally, brackish water puddled on the floor for them to splash through. White streaks of salt and mineral deposits marked where seawater trickled in through the crevices. Vanx had the unnerving feeling that they were moving under the sea. He didn’t like the thought and fought to keep his worry at bay. Luckily his concern disappeared when Quazar led them into an open cavern.
A million surfaces caked with salt crystal reflected the wizard’s magical light in a spectacular manner. The whole cavern sparkled and twinkled. Every surface reflected, refracted, or glimmered. Vanx figured it was like being trapped inside a diamond.
“Here is where we part ways,” Quazar said as Trevin stepped out of a side tunnel brandishing a torch, the orange light of which was nearly negated by the sparkling spectacle around them.
“Vanx.” Trevin nodded his greeting with a grim smile. His torch was like a single candle trying to shine in the heart of a roaring bonfire.
“How is Gallarael?” Vanx asked.
“She’s dying, but conscious for the moment,” Trevin answered. “Quazar says he can maybe keep her alive until we return with the fire wyrm’s blood.” He paused. “Gal said thank you for helping get her through the Wildwood. She will tell the archbishop what you and Matty did.” He paused to choke back his grief. “You’ll come with me to fetch the stuff, won’t you, Vanx? I doubt we have enough time.”
Vanx forced a grin. “I will, but there will be more than just one dragon to deal with. I’ve heard from someone who has been there that the island is full of the dangerous bastards.”
“I have heard the same,” added Quazar.
“Let us hurry from here,” Darbon said, taking Matty’s hand and starting toward Trevin. “I want away from the dungeon. This dark place is not right.” He was clearly startled when Matty pulled her hand from his. She hadn’t moved to join them. “What is it?” Darbon turned to her in confusion.
“I’m not going, Darby,” she said plainly. Then she looked to Quazar. “You can keep me hidden for a time?”
“I can try,” Quazar nodded. “I will try.”
She gave the young smith’s apprentice a hug and kiss, then found the shadows behind Quazar to hide her tears. From the darkness she spoke again. “Vanx Malic, you keep him safe. The Goddess commands it.”
Quazar stepped to Vanx’s side and whispered. “He doesn’t know she’s with child,” in a voice so soft Vanx nearly missed it. Then in a normal tone, “Remember to take the dragon’s blood during Aur’s alignment with her stars. It is imperative that this be the case. Samples taken at any other time simply won’t be pure enough.”
The distant sound of boots slapping the wet stone floor and shouting men echoed to their ears.
