Troy Denning - The Crimson Legion

As Lyanius stepped toward the great doors, they swung open, revealing a magnificent chamber so large that the torches could not light it from one side to the other. Still, as the four wandered around the perimeter, the mul saw that it had once been a great feast hall. From the walls hung dozens of steel weapons of all sizes and sorts, interspersed with huge murals vibrant in color and stroke. These paintings depicted either scenes of romance between a handsome dwarven noble and his beautiful lady-love, or valiant struggles in which lone dwarven knights vanquished giants, four-headed serpents, and dozens of red-eyed man-beasts.

Lyanius led the way to the front of the room, then asked Rikus to stand before the great banquet table located there. The mul cast a dubious glance in Neeva’s direction, but did as the old dwarf wished. Lyanius handed his torch to his son and disappeared into the darkness.

For several moments, the aged dwarf rummaged around the perimeter of the room, banging shields and axes about. Finally he returned to the trio with a black belt slung over his shoulder and a steel sword in his arms. He laid the belt on the table, then faced Rikus with the long sword and slapped the mul’s left arm with the flat of the blade.

“In the name and presence of the one hundred and fifty kings of the ancient dwarven race, I acknowledge your bravery and skill in driving the Urikite invaders from the gates of Kemalok,” Lyanius said, giving Rikus a stern smile and slapping the mul’s other arm. “I name you a Knight of the Dwarven Kings, and present you with this weapon of magic, the Scourge of Rkard.”

As the old dwarf held the weapon out to him, Rikus’s jaw dropped open. “Won’t carrying a weapon in Kemalok anger Rkard?” he gasped. “Especially when it’s his?”

“This isn’t Rkard’s weapon,” Lyanius answered, the corners of his mouth turning down. “It’s the blade that inflicted his last wound, the one that killed him. As for Kemalok’s law-guest are forbidden to carry weapons, but you are no longer a guest. You are a knight of the city.”

As soon as Rikus’s hand touched the weapon’s hilt, his mind began to whirl in confusion. Suddenly he could hear his companions’ hearts pounding in his ears like the drums of a Gulgian war party, and their breathing sounded to him like a dust typhoon storming its way across the Sea of Silt. From behind Rikus came the harsh grate of huge claws scratching across stone. The mul instinctively leaped to his feet and spun around, only to discover the sound had been caused by a black beetle scurrying across the floor several yards away.

No sooner had he relaxed from this strange sound than he heard the throb of wrab wings beating the air outside the great hall. Shoving past Neeva and Caelum, he rushed to the chamber doors and pushed them shut. The creak of their hinges rang in his ears and ran down his spine like a lightning bolt. The deafening crack of the clicking latch nearly knocked him from his feet. An instant later, the wrab alighted on the outside of the door with a deep rumble. A series of terrific rasps echoed through the wood as it searched for a crack. Rikus shook his head and stumbled back from the doors, raising the Scourge of Rkard to defend himself.

As the gleaming blade came into view, the mul’s confused mind slowly began to make sense of the situation. The sword was magic, he realized. With it, he could hear any nearby sound as though it were made by a giant right next to his ear.

“Rikus, what’s wrong?”

Neeva’s concerned voice boomed through his head like a thunderclap, scattering the thoughts he had just managed to collect. The sharp pain that shot through his ear made him cry out. At last Rikus dropped the sword, then fell to his knees.

“What’s the matter with him?” Neeva demanded. Her words still pained the mul’s ears, though they no longer seemed as loud as they had a moment ago.

“Rikus, pick up the sword again,” ordered Lyanius. “I should have warned you about what to expect and told you how to control the magic.”

When Rikus did not reach for the sword, the old dwarf shuffled toward him.

“I don’t think I want that sword,” Rikus said, glancing fearfully at the blade.

Lyanius stopped next to him. “Pick up the sword,” the dwarf whispered. “Concentrate on one sound, and the others will fade. You will find that it is a useful thing to have.”

Reluctantly Rikus obeyed, focusing his thoughts on the old dwarf’s breathing. To his surprise, all of the other sounds faded to mere background noise. He remained aware of them, but they no longer reverberated through his head or hurt his ears. Unfortunately, the old dwarf’s breathing still sounded like the roar of the Dragon to him.

“Now, while concentrating on the sound you picked, speak in a normal tone of voice,” Lyanius said.

Keeping his attention fixed on the old dwarf’s breathing, Rikus answered, “Fine. What now?”

The rush of air into and out of the old dwarf’s lungs faded to the volume of his own voice, and Rikus found he could think again.

“Now come with me,” Lyanius said.

Rikus stood and followed the dwarf back to the banquet table. “Does the sword do anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Lyanius answered. “I’ve seen it mentioned in the Book of Kings , but I can’t read enough of the entry to know all the weapon’s possible powers.”

As Lyanius spoke, Rikus adjusted his magically augmented hearing by concentrating on the dwarf’s words. “Thank you for the blade. This is a great honor.”

“We’re not done yet,” said the old dwarf, taking the black belt off the table.

Lyanius held the belt out to Rikus, its stiff leather crackling like pebbles falling on cobblestones. The thing was so wide it was almost a girdle. The buckle was hidden by a field of red flames, with the skull of a fierce half-man in the center.

“This is the Belt of Rank,” Lyanius said, strapping the belt around the mul’s waist.

Rikus stepped away, asking, “What does it do?”

His question brought a chuckle to the old dwarfs lips. “There is no need to worry,” Lyanius said. “Its magic is not as intrusive as that of the Scourge of Rkard. For three thousand years, this belt was passed from one dwarven general to the next, a symbol of authority over all the armies of the dwarves.”

“Why are you giving it to me?” Rikus asked, allowing the old dwarf to fasten it about his waist.

“Because you are the only knight worthy of it.”

“In fact, you’re the only knight,” Caelum added. “There is no one else to wear it.”

Rikus was about to thank the old dwarf again when he heard an alarmed cry echo from the other side of the closed doors. Though he could not understand the words, he recognized the voice as that of the glass-eyed sculpture on the door where the Book of Kings was stored.

“The book!” he exclaimed, turning toward the doors.

“What about it?” gasped Caleum.

“The door just screamed,” he shouted, motioning for Lyanius to follow him.

Before he could explain further, the mul heard Maetan’s bitter voice cry out in surprise. A loud boom followed the mindbender’s yell.

When Rikus reached the doors to the hall, they opened of their own accord. The wrab that had been clinging to them took flight and swooped down on the mul, but he swatted the nasty little beast from the air before it came close to striking him.

Rikus turned down the corridor and heard the door scream again. There was another explosion, the sound ringing in the corridor and making everyone’s ears ache. The mul took off at a sprint, trusting to his companions to follow.

After the violent explosion, the keep fell ominously silent. To the mul, it seemed to take forever to retrace their steps. The corridor was much longer than he remembered, and his frustration was compounded by mistakenly turning into several alcoves that looked similar to the one where the book was safeguarded.