treasure.”
Anton shook his head to think he’d helped to slay not just a dragon, but a legendary one. It was the kind of thing a paladin in an epic might have done.
But of course he wasn’t a paladin, and Tu’ala’keth and the rest of the sea folk had done the bulk of the slaying. He’d just landed a couple of cuts toward the end. With a snort, he resolved to put such fancies out of his head and focus on the matter at hand.
Which was to say, on a prospect that seemed brighter than he’d imagined possible before. He grinned at Tu’ala’keth. “Well, may the gods bless madmen and dragons both for hoarding because this means you’ve succeeded. You can use the blades and such to save Seros.”
The shalarin declined to enthuse along with him. The narrow face behind the inky goggles remained as dour as before. “No. They will be useful, but by themselves, insufficient.”
“You’re joking. I realize some of the items may not work underwater. But many will.”
“You have not have seen the dragon flight. Nor have I, but I have heard it described by survivors. There are dozens of wyrms. If my people are no stand against them, we need something more.”
Anton returned his attention to Diero. “Well,” he said, “you heard her.”
“Yes,” the wearer of purple replied, “but I don’t know what else to tell you. These are the weapons and talismans that were kept here. You found them all, and now know how to use them. I suppose I could give you some pointers on wyrm anatomy and how they tend to move in combat, but that wouldn’t be sufficient either.”
Anton placed the edge of his knife against the magician’s neck. “If you can’t help Tu’ala’keth enough for it to matter, you’re not going to make it back to Turmish.”
The touch of the blade made Diero stiffen, but when he answered, his voice was steady. “Break your word, slit my throat if you want, but I’m not holding back. Haven’t you realized I’m not one of the zealots? I joined the cult to further my ambitions, and I’d gladly betray it to save my life. That’s exactly what I have been doing.”
“All right,” Anton said. “In that case you need to tell us all you can about dragons and everything related to them.” He was hoping that maybe, just maybe, the magician actually did possess the key to destroying the dragon flight but simply didn’t realize it.
“You understand it’ll take a while.”
“Then you’d better get started.”
As Diero had warned, he talked through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Anton found parts of the discoursewhere to strike to cripple a dragon’s wing, for example, or what sort of fortifications were of actual use against a gigantic reptile that could fly-fascinating. But once the cultist ventured into genuine esotericasuch as the link between wyrms and various elemental forces of the cosmoshe simply couldn’t follow it. His own petty, intuitive knack for sorcery notwithstanding, he lacked the necessary education.
He could only hope Tu’ala’keth would pluck something useful from all the babble.
In the end his mind drifted. When Diero finally said something that tugged at his attention, he didn’t even realize for a while, and wasn’t certain what he’d truly heard.
“Go back,” he said.
“How far?” Diero replied, hoarse again from so much talking.
“You were explaining how to turn dragons into dracoliches.”
“Right. The details vary from one stronghold to the next, depending on which deities the priests serve, the particular strengths and conjuring styles of the wizards, and what have you. But in its essentials, the process is always the same. Artisans craft phylacteries, amulets of precious stones and metals, which the spellcasters enchant in a series of rituals. Even I can’t recite all the incantations from memory, but you have the texts in that purple-bound volume on the table. Meanwhile, the alchemists and apothecaries distill a special libation in a process just as magical and complex. When both elements are ready, the wyrm can transform. At the climax of a final ceremony, it drinks the elixir. That frees its soul to leap from its body into the medallion, establishing a mystical bond that will safeguard its existence thereafter. Unless someone destroys the phylactery, the dragon can never truly perish. Then, having ensured its immortality, the spirit returns to its body, which rises as one of the undead.”
“So what you’re telling us,” Anton said slowly, “is that basically, the drink is a poison? It kills the wyrms, and that’s what ‘frees’ their spirits?”
“Well… yes. Though we don’t usually put it that way. It’s difficult enough to win and keep the dragons’ trust without bandying words like ‘poison’ and ‘kill’ about.”
“Despite their heartiness, it slays them every time without fail?”
“Yes. A single drop of it would kill almost anything, but the formula was especially devised to stop a dragon’s heart.”
“What if a wyrm drank some when there was no ritual going on and no amulet for its spirit to inhabit?
“Why, it would die, pure and simple.” Diero smiled like a man who’d begun to believe his captors might permit him to live after all. “Let me anticipate your next questions. Yes, we brewed a supply of the stuff here on Tan, and yes, it’s ready for use.”
Supervised by the occasional hovering ixitxachitl, lines of koalinths and locathahs trudged through the stronghold, collecting treasure and carrying it down to the sea caves for transport to Exzethlix. Meanwhile, Tu’ala’keth stood watch over her share of the plunder. She didn’t think the ‘chitls would try to steal it. Puffed up with the glory of killing dragons, Yzil seemed satisfied with his share. But it was never prudent to underestimate the ‘chitls’ rapacity or fundamental scorn for any species other than their own.
Footsteps sounded outside the magician’s sanctum where she’d collected the dragon-killing gear and, later, the clay jugs containing the poison. It was the brisk, sure stride of an air-breather, not the slapping shuffle of a creature with webbed feet, managing out of water as best it could, and for a moment, she smiled.
Beard shaved and hair chopped short again, Anton appeared in the entrance to the chamber. He carried a sea bag slung over his shoulder, and the greatsword in its scabbard in the other hand. “I came back,” he said.
“I see that,” she replied.
“I seem,” he said, “to have picked up the habit of doing stupid things. Now that the cog is gone, I’ll have a bitch of a time getting back to Turmish. That is, unless you help me.”
“But you do not wish to return to Turmish. Not yet. You have decided to accompany me.”
He smiled wryly. “Yes, and judging from your attitude, you’re not surprised. Don’t you ever tire of being right?”
“Of late, I have often been mistaken. But not about your role in Umberlee’s design.”
“Just so you know, I still don’t see any ‘design.’ I simply think we’ve had a lot of luck. I came back because… well, I’m not sure why. Except that I tried to kill you, and you wound up freeing me and finishing my mission for me. So maybe I owe you.”
“You do not. You helped vanquish the cult, and in so doing, atoned for your apostasy. The goddess forgives you.”
“But do you?”
“Of course. You are my comrade in a great and holy endeavor.”
“If you say so. I admit, after coming this far, I’m curious to see the end of it.”
“Then let us proceed. I found some potions that will allow you to breathe under water and also some netting to fashion into bags. We will carry our plunder down to the water, and I will summon seahorses, those we rode before and others, too. Enough to bear us and our possessions away.”
CHAPTER 13
A3 Anton had initially suspected, all Myth Nantar lay under a benign enchantment enabling visitors from the world above to breathe, withstand the pressure of the depths, and even see clearly despite the hundreds of feet of water filtering out the sun. Thus, he could discern the preparations for war. Mermen strung enormous nets between the luminous spires and equally massive spurs of corals. Sea-elves shot crossbows at targets, and shalarins jabbed in unison with tridents, as the alliance’s raw new army, hastily scraped together to replace the superior one the
