Paul Thompson - Dargonesti

“We’ll escape, Van. I don’t plan on dying a prisoner of these blue-skinned barbarians!”

Name boards of ships long sunk and forgotten were attached to the walls: Sinar’s Pride, Sea Dragon, Balifor Star . Craft from all over Ansalon had ended their days here.

“I wonder if Evenstar survived,” Harm said quietly.

“Poor Paladithel,” murmured Van. “How he hated fish.”

The cave stretched on and on. If every squalid pile of bedding denoted one prisoner, then there were hundreds of captives in Dargonesti hands. Why? Why did the sea elves hold so many land-dwellers?

A huge pile of debris blocked the end of the cave, leaving only a narrow space between it and one wall. It divided the inhabited section from the empty darkness beyond. In this moldering heap of debris were yards of rope, mounds of sailcloth, lengths of rusted and broken chain, clay pots, amphorae, and smashed wooden boxes-the detritus of centuries of shipwrecks, yet nothing that would help them get out of here.

Harmanutis kicked the nearest object, an empty flour barrel lying on its side.

“Oof!” said the barrel.

Harmanutis froze, his foot still in the air. “Did you hear that?” he hissed.

In reply, Vanthanoris kicked the barrel himself, saying sternly, “Come out. We know you’re in there.”

A pale, craggy face, framed by matted hair and a black beard, popped out of the barrel.

“A dwarf!” Vanthanoris exclaimed.

“You’re not blueskins!” said the dwarf, crawling out of the barrel. Drawing himself up to his full height-just over four feet-he added, “You’re Qualinesti, aren’t you? Well, that’s new. My name’s Gundabyr.”

Harmanutis introduced himself and Vanthanoris. “Are there any other elves down here?” he asked.

“Nope. No elves at all except the blue-skinned variety. I guess the Quoowahb don’t care that you fellas are cousins, eh?”

“Quoowahb?

“The blueskins. That’s what they call themselves.” Gundabyr pulled up a battered sea chest and hauled himself up onto it. His feet dangled above the floor. A stick of some whitish stuff protruded from his vest pocket. He pulled it out and gnawed on it.

“Dried cod,” he explained. “That’s about all we get to eat around here.” He looked them up and down, noted their abbreviated attire, and sighed. “It’s a pity you fellas aren’t carrying some ale on you.”

“How did you get here, Gundabyr?” Harmanutis asked. “How long have you been a prisoner?”

“Nobody’s a prisoner here. We’re slaves.” The dwarf shrugged in reply to their stunned expressions. “I was forgemaster for the Ironmongers Guild in Thorbardin. We hired a ship, Sea Queen , in Tarsis to carry a load of copper and iron ingots to Balifor. Me and my brother Garnath got stuck with the chore of tagging along with the ship to sell the ingots. Garnath said the ship’s name would bring us luck, and it did-all bad. Sea Queen ran into fog off the Silvanesti coast, and when it cleared, we were a hundred leagues off course.”

Vanthanoris smiled sardonically. “I know that fog,” he said, then went on to describe Evenstar ’s encounter with the mysterious wall of cloud.

“Sounds familiar,” Gundabyr agreed. “Well, next thing we knew, Sea Queen was aground on the biggest sandbar Reorx ever created. Me and Garnath took a work party ashore to try to dig a trench under the ship to refloat it, but the whole filthy sandbar sank under us.” A mighty frown creased his face. “Me and Garnath went down like anvils.”

“The kraken.” Harmanutis felt the heat of anger wash over him, despite the coolness of the cave. “It’s no coincidence then. These Quoowahb use the monster to sink ships!”

“Yep, they do.” Gundabyr finished his strip of cod. “Dolphins carried me and Garnath and a handful of other survivors down here. We’ve been in this hole for-” He looked up at the stone wall, on whose surface were drawn a number of white chalk lines. “-Um, forty-eight days.”

Harmanutis related the story of their own arrival in Urione, including the fact that Princess Vixa and Colonel Armantaro were getting “special treatment” in the city, at least as far as they knew. Gundabyr rubbed his hairy cheek when he heard that.

“Hmm. Wonder what they want with your lady and the colonel?”

“Ransom?” Vanthanoris suggested.

Harmanutis shook his head. “Not unless Her Highness reveals her true status. I’ll wager this Coryphene is questioning them about Qualinost, since we seem to be the first land elves they’ve captured.”

Vanthanoris paced between the piles of wreckage. He turned suddenly to the seated dwarf. “Slaves? We’re to be slaves , you say?” Gundabyr belched and nodded. “What sort of work are we supposed to do?”

“They’re building a wall,” explained the dwarf. “A very high wall across the Mortas Trench, from this mountain to the next.”

“Why?” asked Harmanutis, curious.

“To keep the chilkit out.”

Vanthanoris planted his fists on his hips. “And what, by Astra, are chilkit?”

“More like ‘who’ than ‘what.’ The chilkit are the mortal enemies of the Quoowahb. Now and then they come down the valley and attack the blueskins.”

Harmanutis’s blue eyes gleamed. “So the sea elves have enemies, do they? This may be our opening. Could we treat with these chilkit, Gundabyr? Would they help us get away from the blueskins?”

“Nope. The chilkit aren’t people at all. They’re monsters. Big, ugly crab-things. They eat any Quoowahb that they capture. We might be a different flavor, but they’d surely eat us too.”

“Nonetheless,” said the corporal, hanging on to hope, “our best chance may be to make our escape when the blueskins are distracted by their enemies. If we-”

The cave filled with the sound of churning water. “Work parties returning,” Gundabyr said quickly. “I hafta hide from the guards!” In a flash he was back in the barrel.

“Wait! Gundabyr?”

“Go away! Don’t let on I’m in here!”

Puzzled, the two Qualinesti left the dwarf and walked toward the pool. A troop of wet, semi-naked prisoners was rising from the water. Armed sea elves made a double line through which the captives passed. The last pair of Dargonesti held woven bags. As the prisoners went by, they deposited their used airshells in the bags.

The first slaves, emaciated humans with long beards, passed the Qualinesti without a second glance. There was more recognition from some dwarven captives-eye contact and slight nods. Then, to the elves’ astonishment, Gundabyr came marching out of the cavern pool at the rear of the line.

“Eh?” Vanthanoris said, looking back toward the flour barrel. “What’s this?”

Harmanutis jabbed him with an elbow. “His brother, remember? Must be his twin brother.”

In a flash the Qualinesti warriors understood the dwarves’ trick. Because they were twins, one of the brothers could hide from the Dargonesti guards, while the other went out to work. By alternating days off, the dwarves spared themselves half the work, along with half the jeopardy.

They followed Gundabyr’s twin, Garnath, as he trudged to the rear of the cave and flopped heavily onto the hard stone floor. Water trickled off him, pooling in the low places in the rock. He became aware that someone was standing over him and opened his eyes.

“Whaddya want?” Garnath rumbled.

After performing introductions, Harmanutis dropped hints of their meeting with Gundabyr.

“ I’m Gundabyr,” said the sodden dwarf. “My brother, Garnath, succumbed to an ague weeks ago.”

“Of course. My condolences,” Harmanutis murmured.