Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

The city had not changed its configuration much in all that time. The secret of manufacturing vartham-the hard, transparent substance that made up the domes-had been lost with the great wizard and his sister. Rumors claimed that Gloroc was trying to rediscover the process. If so, he had failed, as Alemar spied no additions to the main enclosure.

The dome peaked less than two fathoms below the surface. Huge ventilation towers sprouted upward, reaching far above the waves. Next to the west, north, and south gates were massive watermakers capable of processing enough drinking water to supply the entire city. Despite the briny sea in every direction, the inhabitants of communities built by Alemar and Miranda never needed to worry about importing water. The younger Alemar shivered to think of the power his ancestor must have had to create such wonders.

Between their location and the perimeter of the city were broad tracts of cultivated sea bed, and small underwater outposts. The traffic between the city and the surrounding ocean was constant. There was no way to approach the walls without being seen. For a moment, Alemar worried that they might have to get closer, but Toren led them in a wide semi-circle that carried them farther away. They forsook the dolphins, hugged the bottom, and kept in the shadows of reefs and stands of kelp, keenly aware of the proximity of the city. They encountered no patrols, though once a spearfisherman passed by in the near distance. They successfully hid from him.

They arrived at a crevice in a reef. Barnacles and coral made the opening too small to accommodate the men. Toren began tearing loose the growth. The others tried to help, but the task required the strength of the gauntlets. Silt clouded the water. As currents carried it upward, Alemar grew worried that, like smoke on a horizon, it would reveal their position. But shortly thereafter, Toren pulled away the last piece.

The Vanihr removed his vest and supplies, except for the airmaker, and squeezed through the opening. Alemar followed, slipping down a cramped tunnel and into a manmade chamber lit by a dim, cerulean glow. Match, Ebben, and Tregay came next. Geim relayed down the cast-off gear and joined them. Once everyone was inside, Toren closed a hatch across the entryway and spun the lock wheel.

Three of the walls were featureless-fused, bare stone or coral. The fourth contained another hatch and spindle similar to that in the ceiling, but larger. Not far from it was a lever. Toren swam to the latter and yanked it downward.

Four small ports opened in the floor and began sucking the water out of the chamber. Another pair of ports appeared in the ceiling, out of which came air. Within a quarter of an hour the group stood with their heads and shoulders out of the water.

They peeled off their airmakers. The atmosphere was stale, but breathable.

"Obviously no one's been here for a very long time. That's a good sign," Toren told Alemar. "By the way, I had to neutralize a guard spell on the way in. Otherwise we would have been squeezed to death in the tunnel."

"That sounds like my ancestor's touch," Alemar said.

"Does it? Well, it's repairing itself. Keep that in mind on the way out."

The water receded to knee level, below the bottom of the hatch in the wall. They found a niche in a corner of the floor into which they placed their airmakers, suits, weights, and vests. Toren opened the side hatch, revealing a tile-walled tunnel. Geim reached in, rubbed his fingers across the smooth floor, and blew on them, producing a cloud of dust.

"Not exactly a well-travelled route," he commented. He lifted his foot as if to cross the threshold.

"Don't," Toren said firmly. He ducked, reached an arm's length into the tunnel, and pressed a tile that Geim might have stepped on had he entered.

A pair of crossbow bolts suddenly shot out of the walls to either side, whisking over Toren's head and impacting so hard they chipped the masonry.

Geim whistled. Ebben cursed.

"The Dragonslayer really didn't want strangers to use this route," Toren explained. "There's a booby trap like this at the other end. I'll have to lead, so I can trip it."

"Be my guest," Geim said.

The drains sucked up the last of the water with loud, indelicate sounds. The men sorted through their gear, selecting the bare essentials. In particular, they each broke into carefully wrapped, identical packages and withdrew long, tapered daggers. Each ceramic sheath was sealed with wax. They made sure the seals were intact. The blades were coated with fellit-dragonsbane-a substance which could kill a man with the slightest contact.

They ate a somber, quiet meal and set out down the tunnel.

THE TENDONS IN THE back of Toren's heels ached, unaccustomed, after so much swimming, to a normal, dry tread. He welcomed the discomfort; it proved he was a man, not a fish. But he did not like the low ceiling. His lower back rebelled from the constant stooping. Of all the party, only Alemar was able to walk upright.

Geim cursed as he bumped his head again. "Let me guess. The Dragonslayer was a short man, and this is his revenge on the rest of us."

"Is this tunnel ever going to end?" Tregay asked.

Toren felt sorry for his companions. To them, the dim illumination and featureless walls must have made them feel as if the tube were constantly squeezing in on them. It was not that way for him. As they had approached the city, and eventually passed under its foundations, he sensed more and finer details about the place they were breaching. He detected several routine magical spells in progress. He estimated that several dozen sorcerers lived in the city, including fourteen adepts worthy of a king's court. Three were as powerful as Omril. He felt one particularly potent miasma of power.

"The Dragon is in residence," he told Alemar. "I smell him."

"Good," the prince said flatly. Toren caught a certain ambivalence in his tone.

The palms of Toren's hands broke out in a sweat inside the gauntlets. Another league and his journey would be over. He tried to focus on the center of the energies, learn what he could about the exact strength of Gloroc's magic. His probing yielded unexpected results.

"Strange," he muttered.

"What?" Alemar inquired.

"The Dragon's emanations are diffused. I can't pinpoint them. What could be causing that? I can locate every other source of magic with complete clarity."

"I don't know. You'd think such a powerful nexus would stand out like a beacon."

"Yes." Distracted, Toren bumped his head again.

When his forehead stopped throbbing, he probed once more. The source refused to resolve itself sharper than a wide, vaguely defined sphere. He estimated the zone to be about a hundred feet in diameter. He would need greater precision than that once they reached the great hall and he tried to snare his prey.

The tunnel angled upward. Belly cramps plagued Toren as they climbed. He murmured prayers to his ancestors. What had he gotten himself into? Surely, if he was right for the gauntlets, he would be able to pinpoint his enemy. A bitter, adrenaline tang filled the back of his throat.

"Geim?" Toren called.

"Yes?" the other Vanihr called from the back of the group.

"I just want you to know that whatever happens to you up ahead, it's your own fault for capturing me back in the Wood."

"I've been thinking what a stupid thing that was to do," Geim replied dryly.

Toren tried to laugh, but he coughed instead. An image of his and Deena's farewell lovemaking took form, but the memory of her musk drowned in the stale sea reek of the passageway. Maybe he did not need to know if the gauntlets worked. If he hid well enough in the Wood, Gloroc might never find him until long after he had died of old age.