Paul Thompson - Dargonesti

“You! You have earned my displeasure! How dare you keep me waiting!” stormed the warlord.

Naxos’s face showed nothing. “I, sir? Kept you waiting? I have been waiting here for you for some time.”

“What?”

“I was told to come to you, Excellence. Where else would I go but to the royal residence? I did not suppose you would come to the city quay to meet me.”

This reasonable explanation cooled Coryphene’s rage. He put a hand to his temple. His gills were dry, and his head had begun to ache. Seeing his leader’s discomfort, Naxos went to the nearest pump and filled a shell with water. By the time Coryphene had splashed the water over his head and shoulders, his fury had abated. He savored the touch of the life-giving fluid on his gills. After several moments, he was able to speak in a calmer tone.

“Her Divine Majesty has a task for you and the sea brothers,” he said.

“What’s that, Excellence?”

“You are to go to the coast of Silvanesti and survey the area for us.”

Naxos’s green-blue eyebrows rose. “May I ask why?”

“It is enough that Her Divinity wishes it done. Go at once.”

The shapeshifter bowed with a flourish that bordered on mockery. He whirled and took four long strides away, but stopped and turned back. “Does this perhaps concern the Qualinesti we captured, Excellence?” he inquired.

“You ask too many questions. Our Queen has ordered it. That is all you need to know.”

“I obey her divine will,” Naxos said smoothly. “I was just wondering-forgive me, Excellence-why the coast of Silvanesti interested Her Majesty, and not the waters off Qualinesti.”

Coryphene smiled. “As we have visitors from Qualinesti, it is not surprising that we don’t need your help in learning more about that land.”

Naxos’s smile was mirthless. “Ah, thank you for enlightening me. I am grateful for any scraps of wisdom Your Excellence deigns to bestow. I go, with all speed.”

The shapeshifter departed. Coryphene found his hands clenched around his sword hilt and dagger pommel. He forced his fingers to relax. Damn Naxos anyway! His insolence was infuriating. Every time they met, there was a battle of words, and Coryphene always found himself somehow coming off the worse.

As he walked into the palace, the Protector consoled himself with the thought that it was only a matter of time before the arrogant shapeshifter’s wit got him in deep trouble. That was something Coryphene would enjoy. Wholeheartedly.

A strange thing happened on Vixa’s fourth day in Nissia Grotto. Morning arrived, what morning there was two hundred fathoms down, and no Dargonesti came to lead the captives to work. Men awoke and wiped their bloodshot eyes, yet no taskmasters broke out of the pool with airshells and brusque commands.

Hours passed, and still no one came.

“I don’t like it,” Harmanutis said. “Something’s amiss.”

“Obviously,” replied Armantaro. “But what?”

Gundabyr and Garnath returned from the depths of the cave, covered in all sorts of colored dust. Garnath announced they had the makings for a full hundredweight of gnomefire, but not enough pots and jars to hold it. Vixa had insisted the paste be divided into dozens and dozens of smaller containers, rather than concentrated in only a few larger ones. The dwarves and elves had scrounged up almost thirty pots. These lined the cave walls now, filled to their brims with sticky yellow goo.

Surveying the dusty twins, Armantaro asked, “Were you up all night? You must be exhausted.”

“I couldn’t sleep anyway. The quarrying kept me awake,” Gundabyr said. He looked around at the grotto. “Where are our morning visitors? Haven’t the Quoowahb come yet?”

“No, they haven’t,” Vanthanoris put in, yawning.

“You say the quarrying kept you awake-what quarrying?” Vixa wanted to know.

Garnath spoke. “The diggers working outside. I guess they found a new vein of limestone for the building blocks.”

The elves exchanged looks of surprise. “No one’s been working outside since yesterday,” Harmanutis said.

“What exactly did you hear?” Vixa asked.

Gundabyr tugged at his black beard. “I dunno, but they are still at it, I think.”

“Show us!”

They passed word to the other prisoners to cover for them should the Dargonesti appear. Then, pausing only to make a gnomefire lamp, the elves and the dwarf twins plunged into the deeper recesses of the cave. Twenty paces beyond the Qualinesti’s sleeping area, the tunnel was dark and dank, the floor irregular. Crystals glittered in the black lava walls. Thirty paces in, the passage opened into a high chamber where dew dripped from the ceiling in an unending shower. This was their main source of fresh water. To keep the other prisoners from meddling in their explorations, the dwarf twins had made it their practice to tend the many buckets and seashell basins kept here to collect the dew.

Garnath raised the lamp over his head. “Listen,” he hissed.

In the quiet, the elves heard a faint sound- tink, tink, tink -regular as a heartbeat. It sounded like sharp blows on rock, muffled by many feet of stone. Indeed, someone was digging on the mountain!

“The Dargonesti, do you think?” asked Vixa in a hushed voice.

“Why? They can come in through the pool anytime they want,” said Gundabyr.

“Yes, and if there was any kind of digging to be done, you can bet they’d have us doing it,” Vanthanoris commented.

Armantaro circled the large chamber. “It’s loudest here. What direction is that?” Harmanutis, Vanthanoris, and the dwarves had a brisk disagreement about this. Their voices rose.

“Quiet!” Vixa commanded. “That’s the direction of the Mortas Trench!”

The revelation hit them like a lightning bolt. No Dargonesti would dare stray into the trench. It was thoroughly infested by …

“The chilkit,” whispered Harmanutis.

“They’re digging through to flank Coryphene’s wall!” Vanthanoris exclaimed. In his shock, he backed away from the sound of digging and bumped into Gundabyr. The dwarf sat down hard in a deep puddle of water.

Vanthanoris apologized. Gundabyr started to complain loudly, but his remarks halted abruptly as he leaned down to sniff the puddle. Then he stuck a finger in the water.

“This isn’t dew,” he reported. “It’s seawater.”

The group ran back to the inhabited end of the grotto. Armantaro climbed up on an outcropping of rock and shouted for everyone’s attention.

“We’ve found signs that the chilkit are boring into this tunnel!” he reported. The prisoners erupted into terrified exclamations. Armantaro held up his hands for silence, but had to shout over the tumult. “Listen to me!” he cried. “We must throw up a barricade!”

“If they can dig through solid rock, how can we stop them with ships’ timbers and dunnage?” yelled a human.

“We need to buy time,” Vixa countered. “We’ll need airshells to get out of here. Someone will have to go out and tell the Dargonesti.”

“That’s suicide!”

“Better to drown than face the chilkit alone,” put in another slave.

“Who’s the best swimmer here?” Armantaro shouted. No one came forward. Finally, Vanthanoris stepped out of the crowd.

The old colonel regarded the youngest of the Qualinesti somberly. “You, Van?”

The elf shrugged. “Who else is there?”

“If the chilkit breach the mountain, this cave will probably flood,” Gundabyr warned.

Groans and lamentations filled the air.

Armantaro jumped down from his perch and led the prisoners in piling up all the wreckage they had-bolstered with rocks, gravel, even their meager bedrolls.