Jean Rabe - The Lake of Death

“Whatever kind of spell are you going to cast with a dragon scale anyway? How can you help that sivak? You trying to get its wings to grow back or something?” Feldspar’s feet crunched faster over the gravel as he tried to catch up with the Kagonesti. “You know, I really don’t care much for magic.”

When she turned, she was taken aback by his narrowed eyes and the light slanted across the underside of his brow, which made him look sinister. She knew from conversations with Jasper that a lot of dwarves were distrustful of magic—save for the healing kind that Jasper practiced.

“I’m not a sorcerer, Feldspar, and the scale’s needed for a spell that I don’t understand…completely…yet, but I’ve no intention of casting this spell anywhere near your mine or your mountain. I just want the scale and then I want to leave.” The words tumbled from her lips, slurred a little because of the ale. Just then another tremor struck. Rock shards and dirt rained down and sent her and the dwarf into a coughing fit. It took a few minutes before the air cleared.

“So the scale’s valuable? Just what is it worth to you, missy?”

“I can’t pay you for it. I have no coins. I just need it for a spell.”

“Fool elf,” the dwarf said. “Must be some important spell to risk your fool neck. That scale must be worth more than a bit.” He stretched his hand out and waggled his fingers, his head bobbing at the same time. “You keep on going, Dawnspringer. There’s a chamber up ahead, about a quarter mile or so. Some of our gear’s left in it. It’s near the main vein we’re working. There’s a fissure beyond it, and what you’re looking for is just past that, I believe. Fissure’s too narrow for us. Easier to get at it from the outside. The scale you’re looking for is easy to spot…from the outside of the mountain, but the quake has buried it deeper, right? That’s why you’re using our tunnels. To get at it from the inside?”

“Yes, that’s why,” Feril said.

“Hope it doesn’t bury you, too.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, waggling his fingers again. “Hurry up. I’ll go along with you so you can see where I mean, and so I can watch you, but I ain’t helping you—and don’t disturb our stuff. You’re going to have to pay us somethin’ for that scale. Campfire’ll insist on it, if I don’t. Labor, if nothin’ else. That sivak ought to be good for haulin’ rocks.”

She smiled her acceptance and let him take the lead.

“I want you to be human, too,” Ragh said. “I want it every bit as much as Feril does, and as you do. This dragon thing…it doesn’t suit you.” If anyone had been watching, it would appear the sivak was talking to his shadow. “Dhamon, I well know that you’re not happy to be a dragon. I envy your wings, but nothing else. You’ve too lonely a life in that huge body, and I well know about being lonely. You can’t even hold your son in your arms. Can’t spend a single steel piece of your treasure. Can’t be…familiar…with your elf lady friend.”

The light globe in the sivak’s hand was fading, as he neglected his concentration. He paused and focused the magic until the light grew bright again.

The tunnel narrowed ahead. He held the globe close to the thick supporting beams on the walls, finding a mix of dirt and granite and the worked stone of a castle wall. There wasn’t a trace of ore, no evidence this area had been mined.

He hunched over and squeezed between a pair of supports. “Wonder how much of a head start the elf has on us? Wonder if I’m headed in the right direction? She might have taken the other tunnel.” Ragh sniffed the air, picking out the scent of wood that had started to decay and the strong odor of the dwarves.

“The dwarves have been doing something down here,” he said, half to himself, half to Dhamon. “Their smell is strong; the supports are recent, a relatively new tunnel, I’d say.” He ran his scaly fingers over one wall. “Probably less than a year old. Maybe as recent as a month or so.” He passed under the next set of support beams. “Can’t smell the elf. Maybe I ought to go back, try the other tunnel.”

He smelled something else intriguing that he couldn’t put a name to, so he continued on. He clenched his teeth when the mountain trembled all around him, and he shut his eyes, expecting to be buried under tons of rock. The thick supporting beams held and only a moderate amount of stone dust filtered down.

“Should go back,” he said. “Doubt your elf came this way.” He wanted to find out what was behind the unknown scent and just what the dwarves had been mining in this tunnel, though. The elf was curious and had keen senses; she might have come this way. His senses were also keen, and he was just as curious.

“Damn,” he said, as he noted the tunnel gradually angling downward. “Damn. Damn. Damn. She didn’t come this way. This way only goes down.”

Ragh turned around to retrace his steps, but then he smelled the unusual smell again; it was slightly stronger heading down, so he thought he might go on just a little farther. Even the faint tremor which he felt didn’t give him pause.

“You keep telling me that the elf can take care of herself,” he told Dhamon, as he felt the shadow tug in the other direction. “She’s probably doing just fine.”

The tunnel narrowed further. Ragh pictured the dwarves squeezing through. It would be a tight fit for the one called Churt—he had wide shoulders for a dwarf. It was sure tight for him. The sivak bumped his head on the low ceiling. A long string of curse words came out and faintly echoed back at him.

“Tunnel turns ahead, or maybe there’s a chamber,” the draconian said, feeling how strange it was to be talking to himself and to keep hearing his own words echo back at him. “Let’s see what we’ve got ahead, then we’ll go right back the other way and find Feril. Let’s see what’s making that smell.”

A dozen steps later the tunnel opened into a chamber so small that he imagined that all four dwarves would be hard pressed to fit. He spotted earthen jars stacked three high against one curving wall. He edged forward, crouching under the lowering ceiling. At the far side of the chamber was a small pool of liquid.

“That’s what smells.” He dropped to his knees and shuffled closer, scraping the satchel on his back and realizing that only the youngest dwarf would be able to stand up in here. Ragh inhaled deep and held his light globe over the surface.

At first he thought he recognized a trace of sulfur coming from the liquid. No, but there was the suggestion of steel or something like steel. It was nothing he was familiar with. It was at the same time a pleasant and disturbing odor, subtle and cloying, rare but memorable. It nagged at his curiosity.

His light revealed that it was a small but deep pool. Welling up from somewhere far below was a liquid metal, glistening brighter than pure silver. He tentatively reached out one finger, finding the liquid cool as a mountain stream and thick as pudding.

The liquid metal clung to his talon, and as minutes passed, he watched it harden.

“By the memory of the Dark Queen, what in all the levels of the Abyss is this?” He scratched on the stone at the rim of the pool, trying to scratch the metal off, but instead digging a line in the rock with its hard edge. “By all of the Dark Queen’s glorious heads!” He proceeded to dip each talon of his free hand in the substance, then worked on his other talons. The claws of his feet were next.

“Dragonmetal, Dhamon! This is a pool of dragonmetal.” He said these words softly, so softly he wasn’t sure that Dhamon even heard. He waited a few minutes as the metal dried. “Dragonmetal is the only thing this could be,” he said louder, excitedly. “No wonder they wanted us to stay out of their mountain. People would kill for this. Go to war over this.” He glanced at the clay jugs. “They’ve figured out a way to store it without it hardening up on them. The earth, clay, that’s it. Encased in earth it stays liquid. Wonder who they’re going to sell it to?”