Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

The latter half of his realization—that his captor had to be a member of an elder race—gave him heart that his captivity actually had purpose. Few urZrethi or elves were in service to Chytrine, so the chances of his being turned over to her were diminished. Exactly what would be expected from him, on the other hand, he had no clue.

A click sounded off to his right. He turned to look and discovered a rectangle of light outlining a doorway. One of the horizontal shafts widened as the door opened. He struggled to his feet and staggered forward, but waited well shy of the portal. He expected another test and listened for noises that might reveal a trap.

“Please, Adept Reese, enter.”

Kerrigan crept closer and felt cooler air moving from the prison into the lighted room. He had to push the door open more fully to accommodate his bulk, even when he twisted to the side, then he pressed it closed behind him. The door shut with a muffled click and Kerrigan hoped he would never be required to pass back through it again.

The chamber into which he entered felt smaller than the prison and was an absolute farrago of priceless treasures and filthy trash. Barely twelve feet wide, and perhaps eight high and twenty long, its interior dimensions were defined by the forward edges of deep shelves, which contained rows of books running floor to ceiling. In some places the books had been recessed and trinkets arranged on the shelves—varying from oddly shaped rocks and the mounted skeletons of birds and beasts to artifacts of an arcane and unknowable nature.

Unknowable without the use of magick.

A wagon wheel had been made into the chandelier and it hung above the long, narrow table that filled the center of the room. Thick candles guttered on the wheel, and companions dripped wax in thick icicles from the shelves. Chairs had been arranged at Kerrigan’s end of the table, and the opposite. A melange of crockery and silver had been set on the table and steam rose from some dishes that Kerrigan could not recognize by sight or scent.

He shared the room with two other occupants. The first was seated across from him, with the high-backed chair turned so the person sat looking diagonally off to Kerrigan’s right. He appeared to be slender, and wore a gorgeous crimson robe of silk that had been painstakingly embroidered with golden thread, depicting dragons scrolling through an intricate knotwork. Thick gold cord covered seams, finished the sleeves, and rimmed the opening in the hood. The hood itself came low on the person’s face, shadowing most of it, and revealing little more than a highly stylized mask that completely covered the person’s face. The figure even wore leather gloves and a bright gold scarf, which meant not an inch of its flesh was revealed.

By contrast, the other figure in the room was all but naked. It squatted in the corner, rump on the ground at its heels, knees poking up above its shoulders, which were hunched forward, with its hands pressed to the floor before its groin. Kerrigan recognized it immediately for an urZrethi, but its shaggy black mane covered its shoulders and its beard bled down into a thick mat of chest hair. That hair continued down over its belly and thickened over its loins. Kerrigan couldn’t tell if the urZrethi was wearing some sort of furred loincloth or not, and did not study it long enough to find out. Where hair did not cover it, malachite flesh showed through, though in the candlelight it took on a sickly color.

Kerrigan immediately amended his assessment. The urZrethi had to be male—at least, it looked more bulky and wider than any female urZrethi he’d ever seen. What surprised him was seeing it at all. While he did not know much about urZrethi males, he had been under the impression that they were never seen outside the mountains. While Meredo’s proximity to Bok-agul made it possible for Kerrigan to have been transported there, the young mage thought that unlikely.

His host waved his left hand casually. “I apologize for the poverty of our surroundings, and the paucity of the victuals, but my means for treating with a guest are lamentably strained.”

Kerrigan nodded politely, then held his dirty hands up. “I am hardly much of a guest.”

Without turning his head, Kerrigan’s host raised his left hand and beckoned. “Bok, his hands.”

The urZrethi hunched his shoulders further and narrowed his black eyes. He made a little chortling sound deep in his throat, managing to rob it of any melodic content at all, then scuttled forward. Bok extended his left hand up, reaching for a silver basin on a high shelf, but without rising from that crouch, the basin remained a good foot beyond his reach.

Then the urZrethi’s arm stretched. Just the forearm bones lengthened, thinning the limb somewhat. The fingers nimbly caught the lip of the basin and brought it down, though Bok had to raise his elbow at an awkward angle to swing the vessel into his right hand.

Kerrigan watched the creature and failed to hide his surprise. He knew urZrethi could shift shape and had seen urZrethi who had changed their shapes, but he’d never seen the process taking place. Moreover, those he had seen in an altered form had kept their limbs symmetrical, which made their odd shapes easier to understand.

Bok reached to another shelf and got a small towel, which he clapped over the top of his head. He continued forward, then squatted at Kerrigan’s feet. He raised the bowl in one hand and warbled hoarsely. At the invitation, the mage dipped his hands into the cool clear water, instantly darkening it, then the creature pulled the bowl away and soiled the towel scrubbing Kerrigan’s hands down.

Kerrigan’s host gestured, and the bowl floated from the floor to his end of the table. He took it in both hands while the urZrethi dried Kerrigan’s hands and swirled the dirty water around. He peered into it as if reading it for portents and signs. Kerrigan watched, straining to catch any phrases of a mumbled spell, but he saw or heard nothing to indicate what his host was doing.

His host set the bowl on the table, then pointed to the chair, which slid back from the table. “Please, be seated.”

Bok moved away, returning to his corner, and Kerrigan sat, pulling his blanket tight around him. His stomach complained about being empty again, but the mage reached for no food. He had waited for a specific invitation to enter, and would wait for another to dine.

His host nodded. “I shall be known to you as Rym Ramoch. My servant is Loktu-bok Jex. I do not know how much you know of the urZrethi, but from your reaction to him I do suspect you know that finding a male urZrethi outside the mountains is exceedingly rare. In urZrethi society, which is a matriarchy, males are segregated and used for work or breeding. They are little more than chattel, though capable of reasoning. The suffix ‘bok’ indicates he is an outcast. I found him lurking in the Bokagul foothills and discovered he had potential as an aide. Alas, away from urZrethi society he becomes more and more feral, but is yet loyal and quite strong.”

Bok looked up at Kerrigan and gave him a toothsome grin.

Rym tapped his gloved index finger on the table, then drew a small circle with it. “You wonder why you are here, of course; any sapient creature would. You have determined that Bok was the one who stalked and captured you. He is quite at home beneath bridges and you fell for the snare we devised. You are, as you know, quite powerful and have a taint about you and your magick.”

“A taint?”

“Indeed, a taint, a stain. I thought it was of one source—the dragonbone armor—but it is more than that.”

Kerrigan blinked his eyes. “Dragonbone armor?”

Rym’s head came up, but the hood’s shadow hid his eyes. “You did not know that the armor that rises through your flesh is composed of dragonbone?”