A year ago, Infidel had hunted down a fallen Wanderer by the name of Hurricane. Wanderers have a longstanding pact with Abyss, the primal dragon of the sea, that prevents them from ever drowning as long as they spend their lives without touching dry land. Their behavior is guided by ancient and elaborate laws; transgress these laws, and a Wanderer can find himself put ashore on some distant desert island. Hurricane had suffered that fate, due to acts of piracy against fellow Wanderers. But, he didn’t live out his days on his island prison. He’d built a raft, fled to the Isle of Fire, and resumed his piracy. The Wanderers placed a bounty on his head, a price large enough to catch Infidel’s eye.
Finding Hurricane was no great challenge. He’d set up camp in a sea cave on the western side of the island. Infidel made swift work of his crew, and took Hurricane out with a single punch. We were searching his treasure chest when we found the map in a hidden compartment at the bottom. Even before we opened the thing, we knew it was something special. It was embroidered onto metallic cloth spun from threads of gold far finer than silk. When we unrolled it, it made a musical sound, like tiny guitar strings plinking. It showed the central volcano of the Isle of Fire and plotted out several key buildings from the Vanished Kingdom. I knew this area well, both from my own explorations and my grandfather’s detailed surveys. At the building I call the Shattered Palace, the map showed a tunnel leading into the volcano. Depending on how you held the map to the light, different layers were revealed; there were tunnels beneath tunnels. Someone had used ordinary ink to trace out some of the pathways, and there were notes near these paths, written in a code I couldn’t decipher. I could only scratch my head as I turned the map from side to side, pondering the different images. Beneath the overlapping layers I spotted an ‘X’, and two words written in old-tongue that were perfectly clear.
Greatshadow. Treasure.
Greatshadow is the primal dragon who lives in the central volcano of this island. I’ve never seen Greatshadow, but my grandfather wrote that he’d been on the island once when the dragon was awake, and he said that the big lizard had a wingspan half a mile wide. The heat of Greatshadow’s breath will turn iron armor into hot white syrup dripping off the blackened bones of any knight foolish enough to face him. Like all dragons, Greatshadow has an eye for gems and precious metal. What he does with them, I can’t even guess. It’s not as if he strolls down to the Black Swan from time to time to buy a round. Still, he’s been hoarding riches during the rise and fall and rise of at least two civilizations. If a man could sneak into that treasure vault for even five minutes, he could snatch up enough wealth to carry him through a dozen lifetimes.
While I deciphered the map, I was thinking out loud, pitching my thoughts and theories to Infidel. Almost instantly, I regretted it. I could hear the wheels turning in her mind. We’d been tomb-raiding together for a long time. Why not go after the ultimate treasure?
Here’s why: Greatshadow isn’t just another monster. He’s the living embodiment of fire. He may be wrapped in scaly hide, but he’s fundamentally an elemental being, a sentient force of nature. A fraction of his intelligence is present in every flame. You can’t kill something like this with just a strong arm and sharp sword.
Infidel is tough, but her skills as a thief tend toward the smash and grab. There was no way she could reach Greatshadow’s treasure without confronting the dragon, and, if it came to that, good as she was, Greatshadow would win.
So, at my first convenient opportunity, I ‘lost’ the map.
This was really the only time I’ve ever deceived her, other than the daily, ongoing, unspoken lie that I wanted nothing more of her than friendship. It’s weighed heavily on my conscience for the last year, mainly because she’d accepted my lame explanation of how I’d lost the map down a privy hole on the docks in Commonground. She’d reacted to my story with her easy-come, easy-go shrug and never mentioned it again. Maybe she’d known all along the adventure was too big for her. If so, that makes my lie even worse. If she could have been dissuaded from the lair by simple reason, we could have sold the map for a small fortune, perhaps even a large one. I didn’t need to betray her trust. We could have been living it up in Commonground rather than out robbing pygmies with the same foolish bravery of young boys throwing rocks at a hornet nest.
She turns again in her slumber, moaning softly.
I’m sorry, I pray to her. So, so sorry.
Infidel returned to Commonground the following day, making good time as she bounded along the shore. In open terrain, she’s fast as a jack-rabbit, using her super-strong legs to propel herself in skips that cover a dozen yards a stride. Around mid-morning she found the wreck of a ship; it couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. She didn’t take long to explore it, but did manage to pull a damp, sand-covered yard of canvas from the wreckage. She wrapped the dragon skull in this — a wise precaution. Even with Infidel’s reputation, Commonground is full of thieves who would be tempted by the sight. It’s a lawless city, a bad place to call home. Of course, there’s not a lot of choice in addresses when you live on the Isle of Fire. Commonground is the only real city on the island.
Actually, there are a couple of things wrong with that statement.
For starters, the city isn’t on the island, but out in the bay. The whole place is up on stilts. Plus, it’s not really a city in the ordinary sense of the word. It’s a collection of docks. It’s like a city that exists entirely of streets where the homes come and go on a daily basis. Wanderers gather here, taking refuge in the sheltered bay, and on any given day you can find a hundred or so of their ships at the port, and several thousand of their ilk milling about. But, the Wanderers don’t live in Commonground. They stay only a little while, then move on, replaced by the crews of other ships.
The only permanent residents of Commonground are people who’ve come there due to the lawless nature of the place. The Wanderers don’t impose their codes on outsiders; they care nothing of the actions of others as long as it doesn’t harm them. So, over the years, Commonground has become a haven to men and women not welcome in the more civilized parts of the world. Along the docks you’ll find barges housing bars and brothels and blood-houses. These draw visitors from distant ports, mainly young, hedonistic men escaping the chains of morality that confine them in places like the Silver City. Also drawn to the place are criminals who’ve fled their homelands to seek out the one place on earth where no one ever asks about your past. It’s taboo even to ask a person’s real name in Commonground. Everyone goes by nicknames. It wasn’t like my mother looked at me in the crib and said, “I bet he’ll be a drunkard. Let’s call him Stagger.”
Commonground is just a lousy name. As noted, there’s no ground at all. And you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’s common.
A few hours after she’d plundered the wreckage for the canvas, Infidel reached one of the boardwalks leading out into the bay. She strode purposefully through the maze of docks, ignoring gawkers as she passed. The sight of her in the colorful sarong was turning heads. Infidel normally dressed in a more masculine fashion, often wearing leather armor even though she didn’t need it.
Not that there were that many people out to gawk at her. The late afternoon sun was unbearable. The docks didn’t really come to life until darkness fell. The algae-green water of the bay was as smooth as jade in the windless heat. Fortunately, the tide was in. When the tide was out, a strong sea wind was the only protection against the raw sewage and fish-rot stench. With the water high, the stink wasn’t so bad, though I was left to ponder why I could smell at all, since I no longer had a nose. Of course, I was seeing without eyes, and hearing without ears. If I wound up near whiskey, would I be able to taste it?
Of course, the best place to put that to the test was exactly where Infidel was heading. Near the heart of Commonground, Infidel reached the largest barge anchored at the docks — the Black Swan. This was a saloon and gambling house that catered to the high rollers from the Silver Isles. Wealthy men could visit the Black Swan with little fear for their safety. Thieves knew that messing with a guest of the barge could result in a visit from the Three Goons. Not many people would risk that for a bag of gold. A dragon skull on the other hand…
Infidel stepped through the door of the bar, pausing as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. The bar was decorated with a level of opulence that stumbled across the fine line separating good taste from garishness. The walls were lined with dark, polished teak; large paintings of scantily clad goddesses hung there. The various gaming tables sported crisp velvet surfaces. Only a single poker table was fully occupied. Everyone else was likely sleeping in the well-furnished rooms above. The main room was at least twenty degrees cooler than the air outside. Behind the bar at the far end of the room was the reason why.
A first timer to the bar might mistake the creature who stood there as male, given the broad shoulders and looming height. Few people have ever seen an ice-ogre of either sex. Aurora’s nine feet tall, with pale blue skin mottled with patches of white, like a sky full of clouds. She’s bald save for a tuft of dark blue hair in a knot at the
